Search Results for: Frank Welker

Since Mel Blanc passed away, doesn't his son do the voice of Bugs Bunny and his other characters?  And if not, why not?

Mel was amazing.  To "replace" him, it's required a whole squadron of voice actors including Greg Burson, Jeff Bergman, Billy West, Joe Alaskey, Bob Bergen, Maurice LaMarche, Mindy Segal, Neil Ross, Frank Welker, Frank Gorshin, Bill Farmer and at least ten others.  Some of these gents are the frequent voices of certain characters — Porky Pig is usually done by Bergen, Daffy by Alaskey, etc. — but no one seems to have an absolute exclusive on any role.  This is partly because various folks at Warner Brothers disagree on which actor does the best Bugs, who sounds most like Foghorn, and so on.  It is also because, by always having a large talent pool from which to pick, it prevents any one voice actor from demanding massive sums of cash…as Mel often did in his last decade or two.

In interviews he gave late in life, Mel sometimes said that his son Noel would take over his roles some day…and Noel reportedly did some small parts even while Mel was still with us.  Noel Blanc has also done a few roles here and there in the years since, usually as Tweety or Porky.  However, he is quite successful in other lines of work and apparently uninterested in spending his days locked in a recording studio.  So, by mutual agreement, others usually do Bugs and Friends.

My Funeral

by Mark Evanier

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED 5/26/00
Comics Buyer's Guide

This is the twentieth of these columns to see print in the year 2000. So far, I have written eight obituaries for — in order of disappearance — Mark Hanerfeld, Pat Boyette, Gil Kane, Charles Schulz, Jim Varney, Nick Arnold, Stanley Ralph Ross and Alfredo Alcala.

Okay, that's plenty. No more dying until at least January of 2001, everybody!

I shouldn't have to say the following but, apparently, I do: When someone in or around our industry dies and I don't write an obit column on them, it does not mean I didn't care about them or didn't think they were important or anything of the sort. What it means is that I didn't feel I was the right man for the job.

You got that? Doesn't mean the dearly departed didn't achieve great things or wasn't a spiffy person. Just means I didn't feel I had anything to say about them that was worthy of publication.

I've attended five funerals or memorial services this year. As a result, I've compiled a brief list of rules that I insist be followed at my funeral, should I have one.

I have no idea if I will. On the one hand, I see the wisdom of those who believe them to be colossal wastes. A guy I knew had it decreed in his will that there would be no ceremony or public mourning of any kind. Instead, he wanted those who knew him to donate to the American Cancer Society, what otherwise would have been spent on a ceremony, transportation to get to it, wardrobe, flowers, etc. As a result, the charity received about $30,000, which strikes me as a much better place to put the money.

I might go for that if I didn't have such cheap friends.

On the other appendage, I have attended funerals that, while they (of course) didn't do a thing for the Guest of Honor, had some value to the mourners. The event gave them a sense of closure and release…and a chance to share memories with others of like depression.

So I can see both sides of the argument and I hope, before it becomes moot, I can make some sort of decision on what I want done with me. I'm also considering a third option: Having my corpse interred in a big Mylar Snug, brought to the San Diego Con, and laid out on a table in the Dealer's Room. I might go for that if I weren't afraid of turning up in the next Overstreet Guide under the heading of "Dead Pros with Little, If Any, Value."

Anyway, if there is a funeral for me, here are seven simple rules that I'd like to have followed. And I'm counting on every one of you to check and see that these are heeded, as I may not be in any position to…

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1. Talk About Me. If it's a funeral for me, I expect all eulogies to focus on me. I'm the dead guy, remember.

At the services for the noted TV writer and raconteur Stanley Ralph Ross, a semi-famous actor got up and launched into a rather long anecdote that, at least at first, seemed to have nothing to do with the late, great Mr. Ross. We were all sitting there and wondering, "Where's Stanley? When does Stanley come into this story?" On and on, the actor went, talking about himself and also about his career, which was deader than the guy in the box behind him.

Finally, at long last, Stanley made an appearance in the yarn, but it was a brief one, about the length of a Hitchcock cameo. It was like, "And — oh, by the way — Stanley was there when this happened…"

I understand the problem: You're at a funeral, you're expected to speak about the Dearly Departed, you want to express how much they meant to you and make it personal. So you're going to talk about your feelings about them and your experiences with them, which means you're a part of it.

Also, for most people, delivering a eulogy is a new experience…although I am getting way more practice than I'd like. And I also suspect that this TV star, facing an industry crowd with a lot of famous comedians in the house, felt some pressure to get laughs. He therefore chose a story he thought might do that and forgot that Stanley Ralph Ross had only the briefest walk-on in it.

All understood. It's easy to veer unintentionally away from the subject at hand. Still, if it's me in the coffin, I expect most of the attention.

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2. Watch your language. This one will especially apply if my funeral is held in a venue with any sort of religious décor or if any member of the clergy is on the premises.

I am a big believer in Freedom of Speech. I think it's ridiculous for a grown person to be upset by so-called "dirty words." Before the day these rules have to be invoked, I hope to see all of America wake up and end the pointless linguistic quarantine of a handful of words. They are, on balance, words that are quite useful for purposes of communication, especially when one hits one's thumb with one's hammer.

That said, there are places where certain language is inappropriate. I never told my grandmother the story about the two sailors and the nun. Matter of fact, I think I'd be embarrassed to tell Larry Flynt the story about the two sailors and the nun.

Stanley's funeral was in a big chapel decorated, albeit sparsely, with religious symbols, and a very eloquent rabbi led the house in assorted psalms. Then, a couple of the speakers got up and seemed to forget they weren't at an adults-only Friar's Roast.

I couldn't see the rabbi from where I was seated so I don't know if he flinched or laughed or just what his reaction was. But I know it discomfited a lot of those present to hear the "f"-word used repeatedly in front of a Man of God…and there were children present, as well. People at a funeral are uncomfy enough and don't require any additional rattling.

Actually, I'd just as soon my funeral be devoid of any religious trappings and that no Person of the Cloth be in attendance. My spiritual beliefs are complex and in a constant state of flux…and I figure, by the time I go, it'll be too late for anything a rabbi might say to make much of a difference.

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3. No impressions of the deceased. You can tell stories about me but, when it comes to the part where you quote something I said, say it in your own voice. No one wants to hear your lousy imitation of me. (Well, actually, I don't, and I put this one in just in case it turns out that I can hear. You never know.)

This rule does not apply to Frank Welker.

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4. No "celebrations of life." Here's an important rule. Anyone who gets up and uses any permutation of the cliché, "celebration of his life" will be fined and will have to pay five dollars to every other mourner in the hall.

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5. Call the roll. I've attended many funerals for folks in The Arts — TV, movies, comic books, animation, etc. — and at each, everyone wants to know, "Who else is here?" All through the observance, you see folks craning their necks, glancing about, whispering to one another that So-and-So is seated two rows back…

Let's get it out in the open. At the beginning of the service, someone should get up in front and read a list of everyone who's present. Each person could perhaps stand or wave or yell, "Yo."

But no applause. Remember: It's about me.

So call the roll, and introduce any latecomers as they arrive. Then everyone can stop wondering who else showed up and they can enjoy — if that's the proper word for it — the memorial. This ties in with #7, below.

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6. The "When it's over" rule. Throughout every funeral or remembrance service I've been to where more than a few folks spoke, eulogists started referencing those who have gone before them at the podium. Someone would say, "As Henry just said…" and then he'd repeat what Henry just said, as if everyone present didn't hear or understand what Henry just said.

This is why we need the "When it's over" rule. The third time someone says, "As So-and-so just said…", it's over. Everything's been said and it's time to adjourn. This, in turn, brings us to…

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7. Say good-bye and then see your friends. Yes, I expect the event to be about me but once it's over, so am I. Everyone should start mingling with all those people who were introduced when the roll was called. (This is, of course, assuming anyone shows up. I'm thinking of arranging for a door prize and 99-cent shrimp cocktails…)

After a friend dies, there's a moment that I once heard Hugh Downs describe as the "Have you had lunch yet?" moment. He said that if he got killed in a plane crash — and this applies to you or me or anyone, but he used himself in the example — the following would happen. The next day, someone would say to someone else, "Isn't it too bad about Hugh? Say, have you had lunch yet?"

As we exit the service, people begin to mill and chat up their acquaintances and say, "So what are you up to, these days?" You invariably hear someone say to someone they haven't seen since another funeral, "We have to stop meeting like this." The topic of the person whose death has brought us all together that day fades, and the occasion becomes largely social.

This is not a bad moment. It can be awkward, true, but it's not a bad moment. It can even be a very good moment. At some point, the living have to get on with their lives. I sure hope that when I go, people miss me…but not so much that it causes them pain. I hope they mention it and then go to lunch.

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A few years back, I went through a period wherein, in a too-short span of time, I had to endure the death of a number of folks who were very close to me, including my father. A few were in that blindsiding category, meaning that the Loved One was not very old and/or very ill. In at least one case, I made the mistake of thinking that I was under some emotional obligation to make myself miserable for an extended period.

Wrong. Very wrong.

The operative phrase is: He (or she) wouldn't have wanted it like that.

Remember those words, next time someone you care about leaves this mortal coil. We always scurry about, arranging things and taking care of unfinished business and, when there's a decision to make, we usually apply that criteria: "What would he (or she) have wanted?"

Well, I finally realized, the person I was mourning wouldn't have wanted me to be depressed or functionally paralyzed or to sit around for days, missing them. She would have wanted me to, at most, grieve for an hour or two — about the duration of most funerals — and then to turn loose of it all. She would have wanted me to be happy and productive and healthy.

That's true of all my friends and family members and, probably, all of yours as well. And if it isn't true of someone, they're not worth mourning.

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You may be wondering why, of all the things I could have written about this week, I chose such a morose area. I'm kinda wondering that, myself.

I think it has something to do with the all the deaths we've been having in our industry, lately. It also probably has something to do with the number we'll probably have before this year is out. Despite my earlier request, there will be some. maybe more than "some."

And as we are all drawn together by a love of comics, we are united in the sense of loss when we hear that a Gil Kane died or a Pat Boyette or any of them. I was amazed at the outbreak of "shared suffering" among those who were otherwise strangers after Jack Kirby died. And it hasn't just been Kirby; to some extent, it's everyone in comics.

I suppose I decided to write this because of an e-mail I received the other day, responding to my obit on Alfredo Alcala. It came from someone who never met Alfredo — not even at a convention, not even to say, "I've always enjoyed your work." This person very much regrets that he never had the opportunity…but here's the thing I find especially fascinating…

Alfredo was your basic full-service comic book creator. He could write, he could pencil, he could ink, he could letter, he could color. He did some wonderful stories on Strathmore that was touched by no hand but his.

But the fellow who e-mailed to tell me how saddened he was to hear of Alfredo's death had never seen any of them. The only work of Alfredo's he'd ever seen, he told me, was the work Alfredo did inking Conan the Barbarian for several years. I think that's terrific.

I don't mean it's terrific he didn't know Alfredo's more important, personal work. (He says he'll start seeking it out.) And I certainly don't mean it's terrific that he's saddened by Alfredo's death. I think it's terrific that Alfredo's brushwork had that much of an impact on someone.

So I apologize if this all seems glum or rambling. It's what's been on my mind lately…this need some of us have to find the proper balance between missing those we lose and going on with our ongoing existences. From my mail, I'd say this has been on a lot of your minds, as well. We need to take these passings seriously…but not too seriously.

And by the way, don't take those seven rules too seriously, either. For one thing, I ain't going anywhere…not until I catch up on deadlines. At my current rate, this means I'll outlive your average Galapagos Tortoise…or Milton Berle, whichever goes second. My money's on Uncle Miltie…

Moose and Squirrel

by Mark Evanier

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED 6/23/00
Comics Buyer's Guide

Set the dials on the Waybac Machine, Sherman…

The date? November 19, 1959.

The place? Right in front of a very bad Packard-Bell TV set in Mark Evanier's parents' living room.

The Wayback Machine performs flawlessly, as it always does. Within seconds, we're standing in a modest dwelling in West Los Angeles, watching as a budding 7-year-old comedy/cartoon writer takes in the first episode of a brand-new animated television series. Its name? Rocky and His Friends. Each half-hour consists of two episodes of Rocky and Bullwinkle, and one apiece of Fractured Fairy Tales and Peabody's Improbable History.

And so it began…not just for me, but for a lot of us — our introduction to the wonderful world of Jay Ward (and Bill Scott and all the other splendid folks who conspired to create Jay Ward cartoons…)

Rocky was not the first TV cartoon with which the inventive Mr. Ward had been involved. I had been a big fan of Crusader Rabbit and even, at age seven, noted certain similarities between the series…

Both offered us serialized stories, told by a stentorian narrator.

Both starred a small, fur-covered hero who roamed the world with his big, dumb pal. Crusader's was Ragland T. Tiger; Rocky's was Bullwinkle J. Moose.

Both featured a recurring villain who popped up almost everywhere they want. Crusader and Rags kept running into Dudley Nightshade; Rocky and Bullwinkle battled Boris Badenov.

And both shows had slightly-askew senses of humor. The key difference was that Crusader Rabbit was funny, whereas Rocky and His Friends was FUNNY. Not only that but it was FUNNY in a very hip manner, never condescending to the viewers, never taking the easy route to something that kinda resembled a gag. As such, the shows would stand up to repeated viewings…and the more you saw them, the more jokes you'd get.

So it didn't matter much that, like all the early TV cartoons, the animation looked like it was done in the back room at Pic-and-Save. It never got much better, not even when the festivities trucked over to NBC and were aired in prime-time as The Bullwinkle Show.

The graphics were clever, the characters and scripts were brilliant and the voice acting was first-rate…maybe the best cast ever assembled for a cartoon show — June Foray, Bill Scott, Paul Frees, Daws Butler and William Conrad, with Edward Everett Horton as the Narrator of the Fractured Fairy Tales and Charlie Ruggles as Aesop, narrator of the Aesop and Son cartoons that were added later. (The Bullwinkle Show also introduced Dudley Do-Right, with Scott, Foray, Frees, occasionally Conrad and, in every installment, the glorious Hans Conried stealing the show as Snidely Whiplash.)

Of those folks, only June Foray is still with us. Matter of fact, we lost most of the men in a very short span of time: Hans Conried died in '82, Bill Scott in '85, Paul Frees in '86, Daws Butler in '88, Jay Ward in '89 and Bill Conrad in '94. The last time I saw some of these folks was at a funeral for another of these folks.

Happily though, June is around to reap the honors. On July 7, she will be honored when a star bearing her name is unveiled on the Hollywood Walk of Fame. And it's about damned time.

She'll also be getting loads of well-deserved attention as a new motion picture opens around then — Rocky and Bullwinkle, starring Robert DeNiro, Jason Alexander and Rene Russo. But of course, in this film, they're nobodies. The real star will be June Foray, performing the role of the animated Rocky the Flying Squirrel.

So, you may be wondering: Who's doing Bullwinkle's voice? The answer is that they found the perfect person, even though they had to go halfway around the world for him. His name is Keith Scott.

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First off: Keith is not related in any way to Bill Scott. Bill was the original voice of Bullwinkle, Dudley Do-Right, Mr. Peabody, George of the Jungle and many others. He was also the show's head writer and co-producer and a very funny, brilliant gent.

Keith lives and works in Australia. American cartoons and radio shows were imported into his country and, at an early age, he fell in love with both and set his sights on a career in vocal acting. Around age 17, he wrote to Daws Butler in America. Daws was not only one of the best voice actors of all time but a steadfast encourager of new talent. He and Keith developed a back-and-forth tutor/protégé relationship, shipping letters and tapes between continents. Keith finally came to Los Angeles and not only met all the great voice artists but began to indulge a passion for research. His two main areas of interest were…

1. Cartoon Voice History. Only a tiny percentage of the actors in theatrical animation received credit, and most of them were Mel Blanc. While some of the other voices are easily identifiable, many are not…or weren't, until a number of animation buffs put their minds to it. Keith is one of us — and an especially valuable scholar, owing to his huge collection of (and knowledge of) old radio shows.

2. The Jay Ward Studio. Daws referred Keith to Bill Scott which, in turn, led to Keith interviewing darn near everyone who worked on the premises, as well as gaining access to old scripts, tapes, files…the works. He quickly became the world's foremost authority on the place and…well, let's cut directly to the plug:

Keith has spent years compiling a book that comes out any day now from St. Martin's Press. It's called The Moose That Roared: The Story of Jay Ward and Bill Scott. If you have even the slightest interest in its subject, you absolutely have to have it. And if you don't have even the slightest interest in its subject, you should.

Can I make myself any clearer?

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Over the years, Keith honed his skills and became one of the most in-demand announcers and performers of character voices in Sydney, Australia. He has joined a select group that some call "second generation" voice actors, meaning that they replicate the sound of a classic character, once the original performer is deceased or otherwise unavailable.

In the U.S., we have reached the point where the majority of great animated characters are in such custody. Since Mel Blanc passed away, for instance, his menagerie of voices has been simulated by, among others, Joe Alaskey, Billy West, Greg Burson, Maurice LaMarche, Jeff Bergman, Neil Ross, Frank Welker, Mindy Segal, Bob Bergen, Frank Gorshin, Jim Cummings, Bill Farmer and (occasionally) Mel's son, Noel Blanc. By my count, six of those gents have spoken for Bugs at varying times, five for Foghorn Leghorn and so on.

This is not easy to do. A voice must not only be imitated but sustained. A lot of folks can sound like Bugs for a line or two, especially if repeating dialogue that Mel performed in a cartoon. It's a whole 'nother thing to sound like Bugs throughout a 4-hour recording session, running a full gamut of emotions, often with no identical Blanc example to use as a template.

(Another problem: No two employees of Time-Warner seem to agree on exactly what Bugs sounds like, since Mel changed over the years. So if you please one department head, you displease another.)

As you can see, a whole squadron has stepped into Mel's shoes, at least for cartoons recorded in Southern California. Down under, Keith pretty much has the hemisphere to himself. He does most of the recordings of Mel's characters — and Daws's and others — when they have to be recorded locally. I don't know if there have been any recordings of the Tasmanian Devil for Tasmania…but if there have been, Keith probably did them.

You've heard him up here, as well. Sometimes, they do it via what's called a phone patch…which means that Keith is in a studio in Australia, working for someone here in the states. On bigger jobs, they fly him in. We had lunch one day here in Hollywood when he'd just come from recording Popeye and Bluto for a ride at the Universal theme park in Florida.

And of course, they've flown him in several times to record the role of Bullwinkle (and also the Narrator) for the new Rocky and Bullwinkle feature. All the time he was studying the history of the studio, he was practicing its voices, honing his Moose Sound-alike. June Foray told me, "There are times with Keith when, if I just heard a recording without knowing who'd done it, I'd have sworn it was Bill." Can't imagine a better endorsement than that. (Keith, by the way, also did the Narrator in the George of the Jungle movie.)

When he's in L.A. and not recording, we get together and swap info on voice actors. He's been working with the U.S. expert on the topic, Hames Ware, and with the British authority, Graham Webb. (Graham, by the way, also has a fine book out, well worth your attention — The Animated Film Encyclopedia, published by McFarland.) They all hope someday to publish a reference volume that will identify as many voices as possible from American cartoons made for theatrical exhibition. I'm going to close this piece with some nuggets of info I jotted down after the last time Keith and I got together. Many of these were things I hadn't known 'til he told me…

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Mel Blanc always recalled that his first WB cartoon job was as a drunken bull in Picador Porky. Not so. His first role was as a drunken tramp in that film. His first "star" role came about in Porky's Duck Hunt when he took over from Joe Dougherty as Porky's voice.

Blanc did Bugs from the start, all through the various prototype versions. One brief exception is Bugs' line, "Of course you know, this means war" in Porky's Hare Hunt. That one line was done by director-storyman Ben "Bugs" Hardaway. Hardaway later replaced Blanc as the voice of Woody Woodpecker.

Daws Butler's first cartoon was Little Rural Riding Hood, which was directed by Tex Avery for MGM in 1949. Daws did the George Sanders impression as the voice of the City Wolf while the Country Wolf was played by Pinto Colvig, who was best known as the original voices of Goofy (for Disney) and Bozo the Clown (on Capitol Records). The gangly Country Red was voiced by Colleen Collins who, among many other credits, played Queen Isabella on the classic comedy record, Stan Freberg Presents the United States of America.

In that cartoon and many of Tex's, the singing voice of the attractive Red Riding Hood was Imogene Lynn, a popular radio singer. Her voice track in Little Rural Riding Hood was a re-use from Swing Shift Cinderella.

Daws Butler's first WB cartoon was a 1952 Tweety and Sylvester film, Gift Wrapped.

Stan Freberg did his first voice recording for WB doing a Franklin Delano Roosevelt impression for a cartoon that was to be called For He's a Jolly Good Fala. (Fala was the name of F.D.R.'s dog.) The film was written and recorded but then the President passed away and the project was abandoned.

Freberg's first completed cartoon was the role of Junior Bear in Bugs Bunny Meets the Three Bears (1944). Mel Blanc did the Father Bear and Bea Benaderet played Mama Bear. Years later, when the Three Bears were revived for a series of cartoons, Billy Bletcher took over the role of the Father Bear.

In the first Hubie and Bertie cartoon, The Aristo-Cat, their voices were done by storymen Tedd Pierce and Michael Maltese. For the second, Trap-Happy Porky, Maltese was replaced by Freberg. In the third, Roughly Squeaking, Dick Nelson and Freberg did the honors. Eventually, Blanc and Freberg played Hubie and Bertie, though both sometimes did pick-up lines in the other's role.

All of the Goofy Gopher cartoons apparently feature Blanc and Freberg as Mac and Tosh. When Hubie, Bertie, Mac and Tosh turned up for brief interstitial segments on the 60's Bugs Bunny TV show, Blanc apparently did all the parts.

Storyman Tedd Pierce did the Bud Abbott imitation in A Tale of Two Kitties with Blanc providing the Lou Costello clone. Pierce was also the voice of the father in Quentin Quail, imitating the character of Daddy Snooks from the Baby Snooks radio show. Sara Berner played his daughter, an imitation of Fanny Brice in the Baby Snooks role.

Pierce provided the narration for Uncle Tom's Bungalow and was one of the two French chefs in French Rarebit. Blanc was the other.

John McLeish (aka John Ployardt) narrated Chuck Jones's The Dover Boys. Blanc and Pierce did the voices of the Dover Boys, and the glee club's singing was by the vocal group, The Sportsmen.

McLeish narrated The Ducktators, which features Michael Maltese as Mussolini and Blanc as both Hitler and Hirohito.

Animator Dick Bickenbach did the Bing Crosby imitation in Swooner Crooner. ("Bic," as everyone called him, later drew many of the Flintstones and Yogi Bear comic books of the 70's.)

Tex Avery turns up in bit parts in many of his cartoons and occasionally in those of other directors. Tex's biggest part was the Laughing Hippo in Hamateur Night.

The spider character in Meatless Flyday was inspired by an Avery voice and he often said that he'd done the part, even though he had left WB by the time this cartoon was recorded. He may have recorded the role but the voice in the finished cartoon is that of Cy Kendall.

Several published reports have fingered singer Terrence Monck as the voice of the frog in Chuck Jones's One Froggy Evening. This was apparently someone's deduction based on the job Monck did many years later for Jones on an MGM cartoon. It was actually Bill Roberts, a studio singer of the day. Monck also has been wrongly credited as the opera singer who keeps Bugs awake in Long-Haired Hare. That was actually Nicolai Shutorov. (And while we're at it, Carlos Ramirez was the opera singer in Tex Avery's Magical Maestro for MGM.)

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Okay, that's all I have room for this week, so let me summarize your assignments…

1. Pick up Keith's book, The Moose That Roared: The Story of Jay Ward and Bill Scott.

2. When you go see the Rocky and Bullwinkle movie, listen especially to June Foray as Rocky and Keith Scott as Bullwinkle.

3. Be here next week when I hope to provide a preview of some splendid panels that will take place at this year's Comic-Con International in San Diego.

That is all.

Another Column About Daws Butler

by Mark Evanier

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED 3/23/01
Comics Buyer's Guide

A few weeks ago, I started to write of the great cartoon voice actor, Daws Butler, who gave vocal life to Yogi Bear and most of the early Hanna-Barbera stars. A brief, one-part remembrance quickly turned into two and then three parts, and I wasn't even finished then. Consider this a personal postscript…and one that I briefly considered not running at all. The last time I told it in print, one friend thought I came off as the hero of the piece, while another thought I was something of a loony.

I know the first perception was wrong. As you'll see, Daws was the hero, and all his friends and admirers were the heroes. I was, at best, the Point Man, doing the legwork in a short but emotional skirmish.

And I'd like to think the other sentiment was wrong, though I know it's closer to the mark. I've decided I can live with that, since the story demonstrates the love and respect that so many of us had for him.

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Daws was, as we discussed earlier, a superb thespian — and, for a time, one of the busiest ones in town, at least throughout the fifties and sixties. He worked somewhat less in the seventies, but he was still doing voices for cartoons and teaching his classes. Then, in the eighties, a stroke forced him to suspend both for a time.

As strokes go, it was a tiny one but it thickened his speech a bit and took away the outer fringes of his peripheral vision. He could still see, but he could no longer easily glance at the end of a speech while reading the beginning. That would not have mattered to some actors, but it mattered to him.

He practiced and practiced for hours in his little studio. His performance level was good enough to work, but it wasn't good enough for Daws. When he finally felt ready to return to the mike, it was on a show that I wrote in, unfortunately, about two days.

It began one July afternoon when Joe Barbera (of Hanna and…) called me in to ask if I could or would write a Yogi Bear special to run in prime-time on CBS, come Christmas. I remember saying, "This Christmas?" Yes, it was for this Christmas — or, rather, that Christmas.

Why we had such a paucity of time was that months had been frittered away on various drafts by various writers. With everyone aware that a Christmas Special finished on December 26 ain't much good to anyone, I was chosen. I was known for being fast, I was "network-acceptable" and I knew the characters.

"Fast" was the most important. To get a half-hour written, storyboarded, recorded, animated, edited and set to music in a little over five months is pert near impossible. To complicate matters further, the Animation Union was probably going on strike on July 31. That meant that the parts of the process that had to be done locally — that couldn't be shipped off to a foreign studio — had to be completed in less than three weeks.

"We need a finished script in a couple of days," Mr. Barbera said. This cannot be done.

But, hey, I'm stupid. I said yes and rushed home to my typewriter, wishing that someone would hurry up and invent the Word Processor.

When I got home, Daws called. H-B had called his agent to open negotiations for his services and had mentioned that I was involved. He asked if I could get him a script in advance so that he could rehearse. He was concerned that, since the stroke, he would not be able to do all that he once did. I told him I'd have to write it first, but I would help him in any way I could.

That all transpired on a Tuesday. By close of business Friday, we had a script that had been approved by everyone who had to approve it, and it wasn't a bad script, given the circumstances. (The fact that my pride in everything I did for H-B had to be qualified with phrases like "given the circumstances," along with my discomfort at arguing with Mr. Barbera will all be featured prominently some day in article entitled, "Why I Stopped Working For Hanna-Barbera.")

Artists feverishly began to prep the script, while I got the okay to deliver a copy to Daws. You have no idea how weird it is to come home and find a message on your answering machine from Yogi Bear, telling you he liked the part you wrote for him.

Daws began rehearsing, and sometimes I'd go over to read the parts of Boo Boo, the Ranger and other co-stars. I thought he sounded fine but he didn't think he sounded fine. He was frustrated that it sometimes took him two or three "reads" to do a line the way he wanted.

Now, understand this: Two or three tries is not at all uncommon or incompetent. Some very fine voice actors routinely do a line five or ten times before they get it to where they want it. But Daws had set high standards for himself and he wasn't about to fall short of them. He wanted to be good the first time he read something and to only get better after that.

---

During all of this, his agent had been attempting to negotiate his fee with the Business Affairs department of Hanna-Barbera. Therein, alas, was then employed a gent who thought he would be doing the company a wonderful service by holding down the fees paid to talent.

What the agent was asking for was most reasonable, considering that it was a major, prime-time project and that Daws would be doing not just the starring role of Yogi Bear but, also, Huckleberry Hound, Quick Draw McGraw, Mr. Jinks, Wally Gator, Hokey Wolf, Dixie, Snooper, Blabber, Augie Doggie and others. Despite this, Mr. Business Affairs offered a "take it/leave it" offer and, when Daws' agent left it, the order was given to recast all those roles.

Which was insane. Leaving aside the human reasons (all Daws meant to the studio), leaving aside symbolic reasons (Daws was Yogi, et al, to a few generations)…even leaving aside the fact that all the good voice people would refuse, for reasons of ethics and personal affection, to imitate Daws voices…it was insane.

We were three days from when we had to record and you couldn't replace that many voices that fast. Years later, when Daws passed away, it took months of auditions to select acceptable sound-alikes. And the man picked for Yogi was a Daws student-protégé who would never have taken the role if it had mean scabbing on his mentor.

Oh, yeah — and there was another reason it was insane: If we'd had ten years to work, we'd never have found anyone as good as Daws.

I will never forget the morning it all broke loose. Walking down the halls at Hanna-Barbera, I ran into the lady who was in charge of casting. She was crying such that I assumed someone had died.

"It's terrible," she sobbed. "They just ordered me to replace Daws."

Now, I get mad about once a year, and it rarely lasts more than five minutes…ten, tops. I operate on the theory that if you raise your voice fifty times in the course of a year, you are probably the one who's wrong in at least 48 of those instances. I honestly believe that.

Nevertheless, this was a day when I really lost it. I cannot recall a time I was angrier than I was then…maybe the time a close friend was killed by a drunk driver. That was surely a greater injustice but that anger was mitigated by the knowledge that there was nothing I could do about that.

The matter of Daws being replaced was of another stock and, fortunately, I was not alone in my ire. The casting lady and I were standing outside the recording studio as a Smurfs session was just letting out. The Smurfs had such a large cast that half the voice business, it seemed, was exiting.

First one out was Chuck McCann who asked what was wrong. We told him and he instantly announced, "No one will replace Daws. No one else will do those voices." He turned to the next person coming through the door, who was Frank Welker, perhaps the most in-demand voice actor in the field. "They're going to have auditions to replace Daws as Yogi because they don't want to meet his price," Chuck told him.

Immediately, Frank said, "I'm not auditioning for that."

Frank then turned to Don Messick, told him and Don said, "Well, they'd better not ask me to do any of Daws's characters." (Don was the voice of Boo Boo and the Ranger.)

It was one of the most amazing outpourings of principled outrage I can recall witnessing. At least a dozen top voice actors were there — the people you'd call first if you needed someone to imitate a voice. Without the slightest pause, all said they would never, under any circumstances, accept such work. Paul Winchell was talking of setting up picket lines and June Foray wanted to start phoning other actors to tell them what was happening.

Ten minutes later, I found myself in the Business Affairs guy's office, and we spent the next twenty screaming at each other. His position was that, first of all, it was none of my damn business. Second of all — and this is a quote — "This studio cannot be held hostage by the talent."

I argued back: "You're talking about recasting not only this studio's biggest star for his first prime-time appearance in years, but a dozen other characters, as well. You couldn't do that properly in two weeks, let alone two days, especially since all the good actors will boycott."

"Actors will do anything for a job," he said. "Someone will take the money."

"No one good," I said. "How much money will you be saving by destroying a dozen of this studio's most valuable properties?"

I don't recall precisely what he said in response but it was a sentence that started, "It isn't the thousand dollars…"

I interrupted: "A thousand dollars? You and Daws's agent are only a thousand dollars apart?" For a project of this importance, that was chump change.

"Yes," he yelled. "And we have to hold the line!"

It has been said that, in any company, there is nothing more expensive than someone trying to save money. Everywhere I've ever worked, I've seen some exec think he was doing something to save his employer a few bucks and wind up doing vast damage and costing the firm some staggering amount of cash. Here was a perfect example.

Four minutes later, I barged past Joe Barbera's secretary and into his office, unleashing a tirade that, in hindsight, was over-emotional by at least three notches. It ended with me proclaiming, "If nobody else here cares about doing this show right, at least I do." I pulled out my checkbook, scribbled a check to Hanna-Barbera for a thousand dollars and threw it down on Mr. Barbera's desk.

(It felt very heroic and principled at that moment. Still, I suspect that if we had film of it today, I'd look like I was declaring a grudge match at an upcoming Wrestlemania.)

Joe remained calm, if a bit taken aback. He said, "A thousand dollars? They told me Daws's guy was holding us up for a fortune."

"It's a thousand dollars," I said. "Or about what you spend in one week on cannelloni."

Joe Barbera — and I will always admire him for this — picked up the phone and called the Business Affairs Guy. His end of the conversation went like this:

"I have Mark Evanier in my office and he tells me we're only a thousand dollars apart on Daws…"

[Tirade heard from other end of call.]

"Pay Daws the money."

[More tirade.]

"Hey, I'm the one whose name is on the building. Give Daws what he's asking for."

Joe hung up, handed me back my check and said, "Bill and I should never have sold the company."

---

Daws got his money and the show was recorded. At his request, he worked alone, without the other actors present. He was afraid of being embarrassed if it took him a zillion takes to get each line. It didn't.

The fellow in Business Affairs got his revenge by messing up my screen credit…though I will say this for him: When I later encountered him at another studio, he apologized convincingly for the entire incident. In fact, he turned out to be a pretty decent guy.

December twenty-something, the show aired, completed at the last possible moment. The animation was passable, several of my favorite jokes were missing and, for some reason, the word "Hanukkah," spoken once by Snagglepuss, was bleeped.

I'm not kidding. I'd had Snagglepuss say, "Merry Christmas! Happy New Year! Happy Hanukkah, even" and they bleeped "Hanukkah," like it's a dirty word or something. (Still don't believe me? The show's out on VHS and Lasersdisc — Yogi Bear's All-Star Christmas Caper — and it's bleeped on the tape, too. I could never find out who was responsible. Hanna-Barbera said CBS did it and CBS blamed Hanna-Barbera.)

Not the best show, but I didn't care: Daws Butler was back.

Right after it aired, he phoned me, all agiggle. "Messick just phoned," he beamed, referring to his long-time co-star. "He said that I sounded like my old self. And Paul [Frees] called before."

While we were talking, Call Waiting intervened and Daws left and came back to report that Bill Scott (the voice of Bullwinkle) had phoned. "Bill said he wasn't sure that it wasn't a rerun of a show from the sixties." Daws was jubilant to find that, the thing he did best, he could still do.

Daws did it for six more years before he died, working steadily, doing what he loved and adding to a body of work that will be heard and enjoyed forever. I tried to phone or visit him every month or three, just to keep in touch, just to find new ways of letting him know how much he meant of me. I must have said it a dozen different ways but it wasn't enough.

This, you learn the hard way. No matter how many times you say it…after they're gone, it was never enough. God, I miss that man.

Cartoon Voices
Part 3

by Mark Evanier

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED 12/14/99
Comics Buyer's Guide

Okay…third and final in this batch of columns about Cartoon Voices. Before we plunge back in, let's compile a brief glossary of some terms we introduced last time…

Session: The time period in which one cartoon's voice track is recorded. An actor is paid one fee — usually union scale plus 10% for his agent — for each session in which that actor performs. If he does four cartoons in one afternoon, that's four sessions, meaning the actor receives the current fee times four.

One-Voicer: An actor who is hired for one voice, usually a spectacular one. Most one-voicers cannot "double," meaning that they can really only play one role. (e.g., Lorenzo Music, Sterling Holloway, Gary Owens, most celebrities.)

Multi-Voicer: An actor who can sound like dozens of different people and who can fill a multiplicity of roles. (e.g., June Foray, Frank Welker, Daws Butler, Mel Blanc.)

Incidental: A non-recurring character. Every show has a certain number of regular characters and then the one-shot characters and bit parts are referred to as incidentals. If the actors cast to play the regulars are able to do multiple voices, they will generally do as many of the incidental roles as possible. Sometimes, additional actors have to be hired so that all the incidental roles are filled.

Cheap: Determined to spend as little as possible on actors. (e.g., Hanna-Barbera, Filmation, DePatie-Freleng, any other animation studio) Syn: Frugal, parsimonious, stingy, miserly, "like a comic book fan."

---

As noted last week, prior to 1967, the Screen Actors Guild contract for voiceovers decreed that in a session for a cartoon of under ten minutes, an actor could do as many voices as the producer requested. If the cartoon was over ten minutes, the actor would be paid one session fee for up to three voices. Then, if he did a fourth voice, he'd receive another session fee, which would also cover voice #5 and #6. Then a seventh voice would kick in yet another session fee…and so on.

This led to most studios sticking with short cartoons and with actors who could do an unlimited number of parts. To illustrate, let's look at Hanna-Barbera's Secret Squirrel show, which went on the air in 1965. Each episode consisted of three 6-minute cartoons…

Secret Squirrel (all voices by Mel Blanc and Paul Frees)

Squiddly Diddly (all voices by Paul Frees and John Stephenson)

Winsome Witch (all voices by Jean Vander Pyl and one male guest artist per episode, usually Don Messick)

Once in a rare while, a third voice was deemed necessary for one cartoon. But for the most part, this format and casting pretty much ensured that H-B could get by with paying only six session fees per half-hour of Secret Squirrel. No matter how many incidental speaking parts might have turned up a Squiddly Diddly episode, Frees and Stephenson did them all for one session fee apiece.

And you may also note that, with one or two exceptions, there are no female characters in the Secret Squirrel and Squiddly Diddly cartoons. They wrote them that way so they wouldn't have to spring for too many session fees for actresses.

I picked this series as an example because Winsome Witch was Hanna-Barbera's first female lead character. Perhaps someone woke up and realized how overwhelmingly male their films had been. The exceptions were almost all supporting characters — Wilma Flintstone, Betty Rubble, Jane and Judy Jetson — on prime-time shows.

The prime-time shows, which purportedly targeted a slightly-older audience, seemed to demand episodes that ran the full half-hour…so the "under ten minutes" rule could not apply. And as The Flintstones and The Jetsons were conceived as family situation comedies, they required female characters.

They also seemed to need actors who evoked the image and style of those starring then in live-action sitcoms. George O'Hanlon and Penny Singleton — who voiced George and Jane Jetson, respectively, were in that category and were also "one-voicers."

As a result, an episode of one might require — shudder! — 8-10 session fees. But as these shows had over-all higher budgets, I doubt that Mr. Hanna or Mr. Barbera were too upset. They still, however, kept their daytime shows to cartoons of under ten minutes, each voiced by two actors.

Then things changed.

---

On November 13, 1967, the Screen Actors Guild signed a new Television Animation Agreement with the companies then producing cartoons. At the time, that roster consisted of Warner Bros.-Seven Arts, Inc.; Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer, Inc.; Walt Disney Productions, Walter Lantz Television, Inc.; UPA Pictures, Inc.; DePatie-Freleng Enterprises, Inc.; Hanna-Barbera Productions, Format Films, Inc.; FilmFair, and Grantray-Lawrence Animation, Inc..

The dollar amount of a session fee went up to cover cost-of-living increases. The big revolution, however, was to do away with the notion of unlimited voices for one price.

On a cartoon of ten minutes or less, the actor would thereafter receive a session fee for doing up to three voices. For each voice over three, he would receive one-third of the amount for a session. (For cartoons over ten minutes, the counting method did not change, though the session fee also went up.)

In other words, before the change, if Daws Butler did nine roles in a short, he received one session fee. After the change, he got three session fees.

Better example: Last week, I made mention of a Rocky & Bullwinkle episode I'd clocked in which William Conrad narrated, June Foray did six roles, Bill Scott did seven parts and Paul Frees spoke for nine characters. Under the pre-'67 pay scales, the whole cartoon was done for four session fees.

Had it been done after the '67 contract…well, William Conrad was the Narrator. For that, he would get one session fee. June would receive two and Paul would receive three.

Bill Scott would technically be entitled to two plus one-third but, in reality and because he was also a producer, they'd probably look the other way and pay him for two. Or they'd cut him to six and give the seventh role to Conrad, who could do it without any pay increase.

Either way, we're talking about a leap from four session fees to eight…and that's just for one cartoon in the half-hour. There were four shorts in an episode of Rocky and His Friends (aka The Bullwinkle Show). So for the whole 30 minutes, we might be moving from 14 session fees to 30 or so.

But, delving even further into reality, this situation would not likely take place after '67. An animation producer — even a generous one like Jay Ward — would not pay eight session fees (8 times scale) for a five minute cartoon. He would instead tell the storyfolks, "Write fewer speaking parts."

Which is what they did. Most of us who write cartoons have, at some point, been told, "Too many characters…take some out." On some shows, we have to be cautious about adding a character who has one line. So it changes, at least a little, the way the shows are written.

And the 1967 change had a few other effects. Previously, it had been cheaper (usually) to fill a half-hour with three cartoons. Since then, it's generally cheaper to fill the time with one cartoon, which has become the trend. Most Hanna-Barbera shows produced before that year featured three shorts. Most after that featured one long episode. Scooby Doo, whose original mystery format necessitated the longer form, started in '69.

It also became rare to do a cartoon — even a shorty — with two actors. That has meant more opportunity for the "one-voicers."

And since most shows wind up hiring 5-10 actors for a half-hour cartoon, it's more likely that the cast will include some women. Given societal evolution and advertiser trends, we might have seen more feminine characters anyway…but the '67 SAG contract eliminated a financial consideration that was keeping some ladies out.

---

During the seventies, the session fee was adjusted slightly upwards but the "three voice" rule went unchanged. Then, in the 1986 contract, that was altered. There was a strike that year — one which most news coverage treated as a humorous filler item, suggesting The Smurfs were walking the picket line. For the actors, it was dead serious, of course. A strike always is.

They didn't get all they wanted — few unions ever do — but they settled on several demands, one of which dealt with multiple voices. Effective with shows produced for the 1988/1989 broadcast season, an actor in a cartoon of over ten minutes received a 10% bonus for performing a third voice. So it worked like this…

1 or 2 voices — one session fee

3 voices — one session fee + 10%

4 or 5 voices — the 3 voice compensation + an additional session fee

6 voices — two session fees + 10%

…and so on. On the cartoons of under ten minutes, the earlier rule applied: A session fee entitled the producer to three voices and then each additional voice paid one-third more, so actors were being paid per voice. No actor was doing unlimited voices for one fee.

Insofar as I can tell, the main impact the new 10% bonus had on the cartoons themselves was to make producers even more wary of having someone do four voices. A show pretty much had to be cast in multiples of three. Given the talents of the actors at your disposal, you might otherwise have cast a show like this…

Actor #1: Joe, Fred, Cop, Fireman

Actor #2: Pete, Mike

And if you did, some Associate Producer or someone would come running in and say, "No, no! You must switch one of Actor #1's roles to Actor #2 so we don't have to pay Actor #1 two session fees!" I have even seen scripts rewritten — to change a character from male to female or vice-versa — to achieve this.

---

The most important change made in the '86 contract had to do with the length of a session. Previously, it had been defined as up to eight hours. If a studio engaged a voice artist for a cartoon, they could keep him for that long, but almost no one did. Most directors managed to record a half-hour cartoon in 2-4 hours, and shorter ones could be done in much less. When I was voice-directing Garfield and Friends, we usually did a 6-and-a-half minute episode in 20-30 minutes.

This led to most of your top voice actors booking several different sessions in a day. For instance, an in-demand guy — a Frank Welker, a Lennie Weinrib — might accept an engagement to do a cartoon at 9 AM for Hanna-Barbera. Then the actor would be booked for a 1 PM session at Marvel and maybe even a 5 PM session at Filmation. Sometimes, to get the best people, a voice director might promise the agent, "I'll get him in and out in an hour."

(Welker, it is said, once went to six different studios in one day…and at some stops, he did multiple sessions.)

Doubling, tripling or even quadrupling-up one's workday became quite customary. A session may have technically been eight hours but everyone understood that it would actually run no longer than four…everyone, that is, but for a few directors who simply couldn't — or wouldn't — complete a single cartoon in eight hours.

One fellow in particular was notably unable to do it in less, partly due to incompetence, partly because he liked to play power games in his sessions. He would order actors around, forcing them to read one line 30 times, treating them like vassals. In fact, Hour Eight would sometimes come and go without him finishing and he'd try to keep the performers longer than that.

Such behavior complicated many lives. He directed for several studios and an actor engaged for a morning session never knew: Was it safe to presume he'd be out in four hours or less? Or should he turn down any afternoon jobs, just in case Captain Bligh was in command? One could easily halve ones income, playing it safe.

So when voice actors went on strike in 1986, this was a key issue, and they won on it. Thereafter, a session was four hours, and a rate was established for automatic overtime pay if actors were kept after. (There are a few exceptions. For instance, the session for the first episode of a new series can be eight hours, since everyone's getting acquainted and key decisions are being made.)

And yes, when the new rule came in, the directors who previously needed 8+ hours to direct a cartoon suddenly, miraculously, became able to do it in four. But just barely…

---

That's how it is today. Most shows cast what they think are the best people, regardless of whether they can double in other roles. If they can, great. But only the utterly cheapest of studios take that into consideration. There are also roles for women.

And when the decision is made as to whether a given show should be comprised of shorts or one episode per half-hour, it's made based on what's best for the program. There is no more real financial advantage either way, at least with regard to the voice budget.

This may all seem like trivia…and unless you have a vast interest in animation voicework, you're probably feeling like you're loopy on NyQuil about now. My apologies…but insofar as I'm aware, this has never been discussed anywhere, in any article about animation.

Next time I write about cartoon voices, which will be in a month or three, I'll be itemizing some of the less-well-known credits. For instance, you all know who Mel Blanc was. How many of you know the name of Dave Barry? This is Dave Barry, the impressionist and stand-up comedian — a frequent performer on The Ed Sullivan Show — not the current syndicated columnist of the same name.

Well, Mr. Barry, who is still (happily) with us and still performing, was all through the Warner Brothers cartoons of the 40's and 50's. He's the guy who did Humphrey Bogart almost any time Bogey encountered Bugs Bunny, and he did dozens of other impressions and characters. He was Elmer Fudd briefly after Arthur Q. Bryan passed away and he even played Bluto in some of the Max Fleischer Popeye cartoons.

We'll spotlight Dave Barry and other unsung voice performers…and I'll introduce you to a brilliant gent named Keith Scott, who's playing Bullwinkle in the forthcoming Rocky & Bullwinkle movie.

That's all coming up in the future. Next week, we discuss the difference between a comic book and a McDonald's hamburger. And no, it isn't because the comic tastes better…

Cartoon Voices
Part 2

by Mark Evanier

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED 12/17/99
Comics Buyer's Guide

The subject again this week (and next) is Cartoon Voices. And if you think what I had to say about them previously was trivial, these next installments make last week's look like Must See TV.

But to my knowledge — what little I have — the stuff I'm going to cover has never been discussed anywhere in any book or article about cartoons, and maybe 5% of you will find it a revelation. That's way ahead of my usual average.

Before I can go into it, I have to make sure you know four things. One is what a "session" is. That's the time period you have an actor for the purposes of recording…but it's a unit of measure that stretches in different ways. As you'll see, one actor can do ten sessions in the same number of hours in which another actor is doing one session. An actor can even do several sessions simultaneously.

In any case, most actors are paid by the session and, in most cases, what they receive is union scale. There are a few "stars" who get more than scale but most don't. So if union scale is X and an actor does three sessions in an afternoon, his pay for the day is three times X. This will all make sense before we're through.

The second thing you need to know is what an "incidental" is. In any cartoon series, there are recurring characters who appear in all or most episodes. There are also one-shot characters who appear only in that one story. These one-shot characters are called "incidentals."

Thirdly, you should know that not all cartoon voice actors are equally versatile. Some are able to do a seemingly-endless number of voices. Mel Blanc could play a dozen different roles in each film. So could Daws Butler, so could Paul Frees, so can June Foray.

The term that is sometimes used for such a thespian is a "multi-voicer" and it doesn't mean they can do 2 or 3 different voices. It's more like 20 and up. The top multi-voicers of today would include June, Frank Welker, Maurice La Marche, Tress MacNeille, Jess Harnell, Joe Alaskey, Gregg Berger, Greg Berg, Greg Burson, Jeff Bennett, Corey Burton, Neil Ross, Charlie Adler, Billy West, Bill Farmer, Kath Souci and many others.

There are, however, actors who only have one voice. They can occasionally "double" and contribute a few lines as Man #2 but they are hired for that one great voice. They're sometimes called "one-voicers" and it's not an insult at all because that one voice is usually very special.

The superb Hans Conried — who played Captain Hook in the Disney Peter Pan and Snidely Whiplash on Dudley Do-Right — basically had one voice. Gary Owens brought pretty much the same wonderful voice to Space Ghost, Roger Ramjet, The Blue Falcon (on the Dynomutt show) and Powdered-Toast Man (on Ren & Stimpy). Lorenzo Music lends his one voice to Garfield. Most celebrities who get hired for animation jobs are one-voicers.

And the last thing you have to know is this: The companies that produce animated cartoons are incredibly cheap. They're not quite as cheap as comic fans but they're really, really cheap.

In many…make that most cases, they are penny-wise and ton-foolish, trying to save nickels on the important elements of the show — the script, the voices and the artwork. (And there's an almost inviolate rule of thumb here: The producer who hurts the show to shave $50 off the budget for one of those three things will, 9 times outta 10, turn around and make a $25,000 mistake by mis-scheduling the sound effects recording or something of the sort.)

I don't know why they're willing to skimp on the voices. The voice work on a TV cartoon is of vital importance; can't have a good show with poor voice work. But skimp they do.

In the early days of TV animation, virtually all cartoons that were not produced for prime-time were 10 minutes in length or less. An episode of The Huckleberry Hound Show, for instance, consisted of three 6-minute cartoons and a batch of interstitial wrap-around segments. A half-hour of Rocky and His Friends consisted of two Rocky & Bullwinkle cartoons, one Mr. Peabody, a Fractured Fairy Tale, a Bullwinkle's Corner and maybe one or two other quickies — each clocking in well under ten minutes.

You'd assume this was because of some theory involving the attention span of the tiny tots watching out there…and that may have been a factor. But a more significant reason probably was the SAG contract.

Cartoon voiceover work comes under the jurisdiction of the Screen Actors Guild and is paid according to their agreed-upon pay scales. Prior to 1967, a producer could save a few bucks (but only a few) by keeping cartoons short.

Under the contract then in force, an actor in a cartoon of ten minutes or less could be required to do an unlimited number of voices for one session fee. If however, the cartoon was more then ten minutes, then the actor received one session fee for every three characters he or she voiced.

What this meant was that most cartoons were cast with their regulars — usually no more than 2 or 3 actors — and then those folks did every other voice that came along…all the incidentals.

For example, the first show produced for TV by Bill Hanna and Joe Barbera was Ruff 'n' Reddy. Daws Butler did the voice of Reddy, Don Messick was Ruff…and the two of them (two of the all-time great multi-voicers) did all the incidentals.

Their second show was Huckleberry Hound. In the title character's cartoons, Daws was Huck…and often, he did every single role in the episode. If there were a number of them, they might bring in Messick or one other person.

In the Pixie & Dixie cartoons, Messick played Pixie, Daws played Dixie and their eternal nemesis, Mr. Jinks…and they divided up all the other roles. For the Yogi Bear films, Daws was Yogi, Don was Boo Boo and the Ranger…but there were also some that had just Daws.

The Quick Draw McGraw cartoons had Mr. Butler playing both Quick Draw and his sidekick Baba Looey. If the cartoon had a lot of incidentals, they might bring in Messick or Hal Smith for the session…but even if the script called for 18 speaking parts, they didn't hire six actors. (Today, as you'll see, they would.)

The Snooper & Blabber cartoons had Daws in both title roles. Again, if there were a lot of other parts, they might hire Messick or Smith. The Augie Doggie cartoons had Daws as Augie and Doug Young as his dear ol' Doggie Daddy. There are a few where they needed a trick voice — a baby duck — that neither Daws nor Doug could supply so Jimmy Weldon was hired for that one part.

Later on, they didn't rely as heavily on Daws. The Magilla Gorilla shorts were voiced by Allan Melvin and Howard Morris. The Squiddly Diddly cartoons had Paul Frees and John Stephenson. The Secret Squirrel cartoons featured Frees with Mel Blanc…and so on.

What this meant to the cartoons was this: No matter what kind of villain the writers came up with for a Secret Squirrel cartoon, his voice would be done by Mel or Paul. That was the extent of casting.

It also meant something else: Almost no females. The writers were told that, unless one of the regular characters was being voiced by a lady, the incidentals all had to be male. Oh, once in a while you can hear Howie Morris or Don Messick doing a line or two as an old lady. And every so often, Bill and Joe would break down and spend the bucks to bring in Jean Vander Pyl or Janet Waldo or Julie Bennett to play a female but that was rare.

Some guy with a calculator once claimed that, in the first ten years of Hanna-Barbera, 92% of the speaking parts were male. I can't guarantee that statistic but it was probably in the ballpark. The reason was that the recurring characters were almost all male and the studio didn't want to hire more than two actors if they could avoid it.

(One other exception: There's a gentleman named Dick Beals who has done countless cartoons, almost always playing a very young boy. I have no idea how old Dick is…but he's been playing ten-year-olds for something like half a century. He's so good at it that, once in a rare while, even H-B would spring for his services when a script called for a little kid.)

The situation was the same at other studios, as well. In 1958, Larry Harmon Productions began production on 156 five-minute Bozo the Clown cartoons. The voice cast consisted of Larry Harmon, Paul Frees and almost no one else.

In 1960, King Features commissioned 210 five-minute made-for-TV Popeye cartoons. The voice cast consisted of Jack Mercer, Mae Questel, Jackson Beck and almost no one else. Since the show's mythos required the presence of Olive Oyl, an actress was engaged — and Ms. Questel also played Swee'Pea and Alice the Goon, a few other ladies and even an occasional male. Again though, the idea was to issue the fewest number of checks possible, so a tiny group of actors had to play everybody.

Some studios were really, really, really cheap: In 1960, Trans-Lux Productions produced 260 five-minute Felix the Cat cartoons. The voice cast was Jack Mercer. Just Jack Mercer. Meanwhile, a fellow named Lionel Wilson did every single voice in Terrytoons' Tom Terrific cartoons.

Over at Jay Ward's operation, the Rocky & Bullwinkle cartoons were narrated by William Conrad. Yes, this is the same William Conrad who starred on the TV show Cannon and later had the title role on Nero Wolfe and the wider of the two title roles on Jake and the Fatman. Before that, he was an actor and announcer, best known for having played Matt Dillon on the radio version of Gunsmoke.

Rocky's voice was done by June Foray, who also did Natasha. Bullwinkle's came outta Bill Scott, who also did Fearless Leader. Paul Frees played Boris Badenov. Frees and Scott switched off playing Cap'n Peter "Wrongway" Peachfuzz.

That was the whole cast. No matter what other character came along, that character's voice was done by Foray, Scott or Frees.

Mr. Ward, as you can see, was a comparative spendthrift among cartoon moguls. Look at it: Four whole actors to do a five-minute cartoon! And he even hired a woman! (There isn't a single Hanna-Barbera short of the period with more than three actors and 95% of them had but two.)

Some of those Rocky & Bullwinkle cartoons are loaded with one and two-line incidental parts, all well-juggled by the stock company. I tallied one in which June played six roles, Bill played seven and Paul played nine.

Bill Conrad usually supplied only his one, marvelous voice. It occasionally frustrated him that Jay Ward, who directed the sessions, didn't think he was capable of contributing more. One day, he told Jay, "Hey, I can double."

Jay was skeptical but he decided to give it a try. He assigned Conrad a bit part in an episode set on a tropical island. The role was a native named Sam who had only one or two very short speeches. When the proper moment came, Conrad screwed up his mouth, pitched his chords high and spoke in a voice he was sure did not sound like the Narrator.

"Cut," Jay said. "Bill, that sounds too much like the Narrator."

So they did another take. Conrad strained, tightened his larynx and performed the brief dialogue in a voice he thought sounded nothing like the Narrator.

"Cut," Jay yelled. "Too much like the Narrator. Try it again."

So Conrad tried it again and again and again. Ordinarily, actors in Jay Ward cartoons got it on the first take or, at worst, the second. That day, William Conrad set the house record.

Just how many attempts it took, no one is certain. Bill Scott used to change the number every time he told the story. Sometimes, it was eight. Sometimes, ten. Whatever, by the time Jay Ward was satisfied, Bill Conrad was hoarse and drenched in perspiration.

Jay, however, felt the situation was too humorous not to make worse. He called his publicist — a fellow named Howard Brandy, who was properly in tune with the Ward sense o' humor. The next day, Variety and Hollywood Reporter announced that Jay Ward Studios would soon commence production on a new series, spun off from the Bullwinkle series. It was called Sam the Native and the press release proclaimed it would star William Conrad as the voice of the title character.

Conrad knew it was a joke but none of his friends did. For weeks, people stopped him and asked, "Hey, congrats on Sam the Native. What does his voice sound like?" The one time I met him, it was twenty years later and I immediately told him I was still looking forward to the Sam the Native show.

Mr. Conrad's reply cannot be repeated here, this paper having certain standards relating to profanity. I can tell you though that he sounded just like the Narrator.

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As I mentioned, it is really no shame for a voice artist to have but one voice, as long as it's a good one. In fact, it is not unusual for a one-voicer to be envious of the multi-voicers — as Bill Conrad probably was — while the multi-voicers are saying, of the one-voicer, "I'd trade all of mine for his."

And these days, the one-voicers are not even at much of a disadvantage, vis-à-vis the more versatile folks. Union rules and trends have changed.

Remember that five minute Rocky & Bullwinkle cartoon I just mentioned which required 23 roles? Back then, Jay Ward had to pay four sessions fees — one each to the four actors. Today, SAG rules would require a minimum of eight actors, more likely ten or so, each doing 2-3 characters. Or they could do it with four actors, each doing six or so…but that would cost the same as eight actors.

(In actuality, the situation would never come up. Today, if you wrote a five-minute cartoon with that many speaking parts, you'd be fired or told to rewrite it. But before '67, they'd let you do it because then, it didn't mean they'd have to hire ten actors.)

Next week in this spot, we're going to go over the Screen Actors Guild contracts since then and see what else has changed.

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Mel Blanc

by Mark Evanier

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED 4/25/97
Comics Buyer's Guide

When Mel Blanc passed away, the folks at Warner Brothers ran a touching double-truck color ad showing Bugs Bunny, Daffy Duck, Porky Pig, Foghorn Leghorn, Tweety, Sylvester, Yosemite Sam and a few others, all with heads bowed and voices stilled. They, along with the Flintstones' Barney Rubble, were the most famous of his much publicized "thousand voices."

In truth, Mel probably didn't have a thousand voices or even a hundred. But he had plenty and an amazing percentage of them gave breath to classic cartoon characters in very funny films. The great skill of Mel Blanc was as an actor: It is one thing to affect a funny voice — quite another to mold a coherent, believable characterization with it and to wring every drop of humor out of every line.

He had to be good. When he wasn't doing cartoons, he was dashing from mike to mike in the studios that broadcast the top network comedy radio programs. Appearing on The Jack Benny Program, as Mel did for a couple of decades, was like playing second for the Yankees at their prime.

Mel was the first great cartoon voice actor and, in many ways, the best. Daws Butler perhaps had superior technique, and Paul Frees may have been more versatile — but Mel was the guy who made it an art. He showed everyone how it should be done, back when nobody knew how it should be done. There are around fifty good reasons why those classic WB cartoons will live forever, and Mel Blanc is at least a dozen of those reasons.

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Over the years, I met him several times, never for a longer time than it takes to tell someone you've always loved their work. Finally though, in 1984, I needed to hire and (gulp!) direct him for a TV special I was producing.

The show included inserts of Bugs Bunny cartoon clips, redubbed with new dialogue to fit our storyline. The folks at Warners gave us the clips, the phone number to call to hire Mel Blanc for the redubbing…and a warning that he didn't come cheap. Mel was, after all, a star — and stars cost.

Our business folks went through a week of haggling, politely talking Mel's representative down from an initially ridiculous opening demand to a price that our budget could (barely) afford. The deal was finally made and I was informed that Mel was doing a Heathcliff recording session the next day, expected to wrap at around 2:00. To save him driving someplace just to record our few lines, we booked that studio for fifteen minutes after Mel's other session. I got there at 1:30, waited until the other actors left, and took over.

The studio was a tiny rathole on a side street in Hollywood. Half was a cramped audio-recording set-up; the other side was a rehearsal hall. I remember thinking, as I waited for "Heathcliff" to wrap, that if I were picking a place to record, I'd never ask the great Mel Blanc to work in a dump like this.

I introduced myself again to Mel and handed him the copy we were going to record. His eye fell on the first line: "Ehhh…What's up, doc?"

I said, "You want to rehearse it for about an hour?"

He chuckled. "I think I know the part."

He went into the studio and I took my place as director, next to the engineer. Over the speakers came the voice of Bugs Bunny, getting into character. That was when the thought hit me: This is Mel "Bugs Bunny" Blanc and I'm directing him.

Quick mental flashback:

There I was, sprawled on the living room floor before our 17" Packard Bell console, bringing me Sheriff John's Lunch Brigade on channel 11 in glorious black-and-white. I was seven, wolfing down a lunch of tuna salad that I hoped to have completely digested by the time I was eight. Sheriff John hawked Maggio-brand carrots, Fizzies tablets, Flav-R straws, Nestle's Quik and the latest in Remco toys, all equally edible. I could stir for an hour and not get the Quik to dissolve in my milk.

The Good Sheriff had a whole mess of old Warner Brothers cartoons — those not shown, ad nauseam, by Skipper Frank over on channel 5 — which he ran, over and over and over again. One, which I now know to have the title of "Slightly Daffy" was darn near a daily event.

I would lie there, scribble pad at the ready, shattering Crayolas as I raced to draw what I saw on the screen, whether I understood it or not. Most of these were wartime-issue cartoons, filled with caricatures of Hitler, and I once innocently doodled out some Nazi soldiers, complete with swastikas, and displayed them proudly to my parents. This does not go over big in a Jewish household.

And then, an eyeblink later, there I was in a state-of-the-art Roach Motel, telling Mel Blanc we were ready to roll. It was one of these moments when my entire life seems to have transpired in about eleven minutes.

Tape rolled and Mel did the lines. We didn't have the cartoon clip we were redubbing here but I'd seen it enough to know that Mel was doing "What's up, doc?" way too fast to fit. I hit the talkback switch so I could be heard in the studio.

"Mel," I said, momentarily wondering if I should have said Mr. Blanc. "The first line is going over a clip and needs to be a bit slower."

There have been many moments when I have felt like the biggest jerk who walks the planet. And by no means the worst but certainly among them was when I realized that I was telling Mel Blanc how to deliver the line, "What's up, doc?" (What's next, Evanier? Giving Arnold Palmer advice on how to putt?)

But Blanc didn't object, not a peep. He did it again and then the other lines. I looked up at the studio clock. We had thirteen minutes left. Since he seemed so cooperative, I asked him to run the lines again a few times.

In the adjoining rehearsal hall, some sort of dance practice was in progress. A young woman in perspiration-soaked dancer garb was passing our door and she heard a voice she'd known all her life. Within seconds, she was waving to co-workers to come hear who was recording.

As I finished with Mel, I heard bodies massing behind me. I turned and it looked like the road company of A Chorus Line, except they all had glazed expressions — like they'd just seen Glinda the Good-Witch descend in a shimmering light.

A young man of about nineteen gasped, "Is that…Bugs Bunny?"

"That's Mel Blanc," I said.

The young man began jumping up and down, excitedly. "That's Bugs Bunny! That's Bugs Bunny!"

I hit the talkback: "Mel, you seem to have a fan club gathering out here." Mel looked through the glass and I'm sure it wasn't the first time he'd seen those expressions. He turned back to his microphone and launched into a dialogue of Porky and Yosemite Sam having an argument. Then came Sylvester announcing he was going to eat Tweety, then Tweety saying he tawt he taw a puddy tat, then Daffy, then Foghorn….

As he wound up a three-minute impromptu concert, the spectators broke into wild, loving applause. Mel came out of the booth with a fistful of color photo handouts of himself and signed one for each of them. As each dancer said his or her name, "Mel greeted them in the voice of Porky or Daffy, while scribbling out, "To [name], Best wishes, Mel Blanc" on a picture. The dancers scampered back to their rehearsal with their treasures and I walked Mel out to his car.

Out in the parking lot, we got to talking about the problems of doing cartoons the way they now did them. After a few minutes, I glanced down at his cane and suddenly remember that this man was almost eighty. And I remembered something else:

It was 1961. I was nine but I knew who Mel Blanc was. So when they announced on the news that he was near death, I knew what that meant: No more Bugs Bunny.

Mel had been driving up on Sunset Boulevard, not far from where we lived, when a car crossed the center divider and hit him head-on, breaking every bone in his body.

I watched the news reports, sitting there with my little glass of milk, into which my Quik was still refusing to dissolve. They carefully avoided saying he was certain to die, but, even at age nine, I knew that was what they meant. Fortunately, by then, I also knew that grown-ups are often wrong.

Mel was then the voice of Barney Rubble on The Flintstones, Friday nights on ABC. The official story was that Mel never missed an episode; that recording equipment was hauled into the room where he lay in a full-body cast and he recorded the role of Barney from that position. In truth, Mel missed five episodes, his part played instead by Daws Butler. Daws did a reasonable simulation but I could tell the difference.

And I remember the day when finally I heard a new Flintstones episode in which Barney was unmistakably performed again by Mel Blanc. That was how I knew he was going to make it. (He never missed a Bugs Bunny cartoon, either. Another great voice magician, Paul Frees, recorded the track for one short when it was believed Mel would never work again. When that proved happily not to be the case, Frees's imitation was discarded.)

Now, standing in that parking lot, talking cartoons and old radio shows, I kept saying to Mr. Blanc, "Well, I've taken up enough of your time…" I wanted to keep on chatting with him, of course, but I didn't want to make him stand there in the hot sun. Not after all he'd been through.

He wouldn't let me take him someplace for a beverage, either. For at least an hour, maybe longer, we stood there and talked about his work and my work and about our mutual friend, Daws, the only man (Mel said) he regarded as "competition."

Boy, do I wish I'd had a tape recorder running that day. I'd especially enjoy rehearing the story about Jack Benny and the Pussycat Theater. Benny, at age eighty-something, wanted to go see the XXX-rated Deep Throat but he didn't want to be spotted doing so. His manager, the legendary Irving Fein, arranged an outing with unparalleled secrecy. The president's advance men do not do such elaborate planning of split-second entrances and exits via rear alleys and side doors.

As Benny arrived, wearing a coat with turned-up lapels to conceal his identity, he had to wait for the previous screening to let out. He paused, turning away from the departing filmgoers, confident that he was going unrecognized. Just then Mel, who was among those exiting, yelled out, "Hi, Jack! You'll love it!" And Benny instantly found himself surrounded by adoring fans with autograph books. "Jack turned beet red," Blanc recalled. "He was thoroughly embarrassed but, at the same time, he was a comedian and he realized what a perfect punch line it was."

Mel summoned up anecdote after anecdote. Finally, around the eighth time I tried to suggest he stop talking to me and get off his feet, he grabbed me by the wrist and said, "You don't understand. I am so damn thrilled that there are young kids like you" — I was 34 at the time — "who got inspired by what I did, who got in the business because of it…this is an honor for me."

And I dissolved…just like Nestle's Quik, only faster.

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In Mel's last decade, the story was that he had trained his son Noel to take over voicing his many characters. Noel is a smart fellow, and he can sound amazingly like his father, but he prefers not to make his living as a voice actor. Once in a while, he'll do a voice — for a short spot but instead, a number of others have been called upon to replicate Mel. Their ranks include Greg Burson, Jeff Bergman, Joe Alaskey, Billy West, Bill Farmer, Frank Welker, Neil Ross, Mindy Segal, Bob Bergen, Jim Cummings, Maurice LaMarche and Frank Gorshin.

(Briefly: Burson most often does Bugs these days, although West did him in Space Jam and Segal does most of the singing jobs. Alaskey usually speaks for Daffy, and that's him doing both Tweety and the Puddy Tat on The Sylvester and Tweety Mysteries on the WB network, although Farmer did Sylvester in Space Jam. Bergen most often does Porky, Cummings usually does the Tasmanian Devil, and Yosemite Sam has been voiced by Burson, Alaskey, LaMarche, Gorshin, and Bergman. Burson does most Foghorn Leghorn jobs, but Gorshin speaks for the rooster in a newly-released cartoon short. The voice of Barney Rubble is usually done by Bergman in commercials, and Welker on programs.)

These men are all very talented. When given good dialogue and direction — most can sound incredibly like Mel Blanc, to the point where experts have been fooled.

However, with due respect to my friends with the amazing vocal chords, none of them is Mel Blanc. Even collectively, they are not Mel Blanc.

These days, no one is. Sadly.

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P.S. Since this was published, Greg Burson and Frank Gorshin have passed away. As I write this, most assignments to voice Bugs Bunny seem to go to Jeff Bergman or Eric Bauza.

Cartoon Voices

by Mark Evanier

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED 9/27/96
Comics Buyer's Guide

In the last four days, I've received three letters and two phone calls from people who want to get into the field of doing cartoon voices. One of the calls almost stunned me with its nonchalant assumption that this is an easy-entrance business.  This lady seemed to think it was like signing up to earn frequent-flyer mileage. I imagine her deciding she wants to be in the movies, then calling up Martin Scorsese and saying, "Hi. I'm a clerk-typist here in Dayton, Ohio. Is it okay if I star opposite Robert DeNiro in your next movie?"

It would be wrong to tell these aspiring voice artists that what they want is impossible. In show business, nothing is impossible, except an honest accounting of profits. Not all that long ago, Conan O'Brien was a writer and bit-part performer. If he'd told me he wanted to take over for David Letterman on NBC, I'd have gone, "Uh-huh, well, I wouldn't bet on that ever happening."

Still, when folks ask me about something like getting into cartoon-voicing, I feel I'd be doing them a disservice not to clue them in that it might not be all that easy to attain. Is it possible? Of course. But then so is winning the lottery.

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The first cartoon voice artist was probably Walt Disney. He made the first sound cartoons and he cast himself, altogether appropriately, as Mickey Mouse. Many of the early makers of animated talkies looked no further than their own staffs, conscripting artists and secretaries to stand, often trembling, before the microphones.

Which is not to say they were all bad. Walt was fine as Mickey — a task he kept for himself until he became too busy with studio matters. Jack Mercer, the long-time voice of Popeye and other characters, was discovered in the Fleischer Studios art department. And one of the all-time great voice artists, Bill Scott (voice of Bullwinkle, Dudley Do-Right and umpteen others) was first and foremost a writer and producer.

The first actor to make a living primarily doing cartoon voices was probably Clarence "Ducky" Nash, voice of Donald Duck. Disney heard him on a radio show in 1934 and quickly signed him to what turned out to be a lifetime gig. When "Ducky" wasn't speaking for The Duck, he was the studio's goodwill ambassador, making personal appearances with a ventriloquist figure of Donald.

Then in 1936, Warner Brothers gave a shot to a beginning radio actor named Mel Blanc. Smart move.

Blanc billed himself as the Man of a Thousand Voices — good p.r. but probably not an accurate count and certainly a misassessment of his talent. It wasn't quantity that made Mel great, it was quality. His "voice characterizations," as the credits called them, were rounded, fully-developed personalities — with comic timing and delivery as skilled as the best radio comics of the day. The cartoon acting field had found its Olivier.

Soon, a few other masters happened along, including Daws Butler, Stan Freberg, Paul Frees and, in a class by herself, the incredible June Foray. Butler — the man Blanc himself called "my only rival" — would later voice Yogi Bear, Huckleberry Hound and most of the early Hanna-Barbera characters.

Between 1950 and 1970 (all dates approximate), a relatively small talent pool supplied most of the cartoon voices in Hollywood. Butler, Blanc, Foray, Frees, Hans Conreid, Don Messick, Allan Melvin, Howie Morris, Janet Waldo, Joanie Gerber, Hal Smith, Dick Beals, Walker Edmiston, Julie Bennett, Lennie Weinrib, Shep Menken, John Stephenson and a few others probably handled about 75% of the work. In 1969, a young impressionist named Frank Welker began doing voices and quickly became ubiquitous. If anyone were to ever tally who since then has logged the most hours making silly sounds before microphones, Frank would be the easy victor.

Since about '70, there seems to have been a rush of new voice performers. Some hail from the comedy circuit and from various improv troupes. Others come out of disc-jockeying or on-camera acting. Most grew up on cartoons, dreaming of someday being Mel Blanc or Daws Butler.

Between 1970 and 1990, the field became flooded with new performers and, since then, it's only gotten more crowded. As a result of Disney features, The Simpsons and a general depression in Screen Actors Guild employment, it is no longer unfashionable for on-camera actors to do cartoon voice work. Many animated shows have rushed to cast actors who are best known for their work on live-action TV series on the questionable (I think) premise that employing these folks elevates the cartoon to some higher level.

Some of these TV stars are as good as the full-time voice actors, many are not, and at least one producer has openly admitted that he doesn't care. For reasons of promotion and prestige, he'd rather have a "name actor" delivering a mediocre performance than a good job by a professional voice artist whose name most folks wouldn't recognize. (Most of them are working for S.A.G, scale, so the celebrities don't cost any more.)

The end result of all this, of course, is that the field keeps getting more and more overrun with talent. Like all forms of professional acting that have ever existed on this planet, the number of folks who want to perform will always greatly exceed the number of roles that could possibly exist.

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Cartoon voices are almost always done before the pictures. The animation is done to the voice track. (One exception was at the Fleischer Studios where they usually animated first and voiced after. This order of business is what led to Jack Mercer doing all those wonderful under-his-breath mutterings as Popeye.)

For theatrical cartoons, it has usually been the practice to record the dialogue a line at a time. The actor does multiple takes of each speech, doing it over and over until the director is satisfied. Often, when two or more actors are involved, they're recorded at separate times…or, when one actor does multiple roles, they record one character at a time. Mel Blanc would sometimes perform Tweety one day and Sylvester, the next.

Television cartoons are almost always recorded like a radio play, with the entire cast gathered together in one room, everyone doing his or her lines in sequence. The few instances wherein the actors aren't all together, it's usually because someone wasn't available, not because the producers wanted it that way. Usually, the actors all record together and when they can, the procedure goes something like this…

1. The first thing that happens, of course, is the casting. On a new series, they usually have auditions for the recurring roles. Actor after actor is brought in and recorded reading a few lines of copy, then the producers (or network folks or whoever) whittle down the pile and make their selections.

Each episode also has non-recurring roles — one-time characters who are usually cast by the voice director without an audition. Whenever possible, to save money, they'll try to have the regular actors double. The Screen Actors Guild contract says that, for the basic session fee, an actor can do two roles, plus he or she can do a third for a small increase. If an actor does four roles, the "count" starts over and they get paid the basic session fee again.

Not all actors can double. Some are hired for their one wonderful voice and can't really do a few lines as Man #1 or the Policeman in Scene 22. But to the extent possible, the voice director will have the show's regulars cover other roles, then hire as many other actors as necessary to fill out the cast.

After the actors are booked, everyone gathers at the specified time at a recording studio and the real work begins.

2. Voice actors work from scripts that contain all of the dialogue but little, if any, description of the visuals. Each line is numbered. Sometimes, they may be shown a storyboard or other artwork, especially if the episode contains a new character whose voice must be invented.

The director assigns roles and explains the action. He tells the actors what their characters are doing when they go, "Yow" or whatever. He takes them through the script and may have them read it aloud once or twice. (On certain shows with certain actors, there is a value to not doing this. You let them read it the first time with tape rolling, just in case magic happens. Actors have been known to do things on a first read that they cannot replicate once they know what they're doing.)

Actors will usually mark their scripts as the director explains things. They all have their own mysterious codes and symbols. Don Messick, who is unparalleled at switching voices and playing nine people talking to each other, carries an array of colored markers. He'll highlight one character's lines in yellow, another's in green and so on.

3. The actors are placed at individual microphones in a studio. Each has a few pages of script spread out on a music stand before them. It's not a good idea to have the actors turning pages during a recording.  Good takes have been ruined by the sound of paper rustling.

4. The director, who sits outside the booth at a console by the engineer, will designate a sequence to be recorded. He'll say, for instance, "Let's do lines 1 through 20 this take." The engineer will roll tape and then slate, meaning that he'll record some information to identify the sequence. He might say, "This is [Name of episode], take one, lines 1 through 20." This will help him locate the proper takes when it comes time to edit.

5. The actors will perform their lines in sequence. If someone makes a mistake, the director will stop them and either start over or try to find a natural place in the dialogue to restart.

6. Once the take is done, the director may give them comments and do it again several times. Then he may do pick-ups of individual lines. Once he's satisfied he has at least one good take of every line, he will designate which ones to use. He might tell an assistant, "Let's use 1 through 10 from the second take and 11 through 20 from take three, except that I want to edit in the pick-up of line 15 from take four." Later, the editor — sometimes working with the director, sometimes off the notes — will assemble all this accordingly.

(Some directors will also do what is called a "protection take," meaning that they get what they need, then they record another copy in case there proves to be a technical defect with the first version. As the technology improves, this is becoming increasingly unnecessary and many shows are dispensing with it. On Garfield and Friends, we never bothered — and, in 121 half-hour shows, only once did we have to go back and redo lines later because we didn't have a protection take.)

And that's pretty much it. The "gang" method is generally preferred to the system where the actors are recorded separately. Actors like working with other actors. They draw energy and inspiration from one another and the result is usually a more natural flow. Also, this way, the actors have a bit more control over the timing of the dialogue and the pauses between speeches (although even then, the editors may later shorten or lengthen these pauses to suit the animation).

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Which brings us back to that original query of how one goes about getting into the field of cartoon voices. The first thing that should be explained is that the competition is fierce and that you must be very, very good. Just being able to do one silly voice around the dinner table is not enough.

Another must: You must be where the work is. About 5% is in New York, maybe 20% is in Toronto or Vancouver, and the rest is in Los Angeles. (I'm talking here just about cartoon jobs. In actuality, no one functions as a full-time cartoon voice actor.  They all do other things like commercial voiceovers, announcing, dubbing of movies, narration, etc. But the point is that you have to be where the work is. It won't come to you.)

Those who think they don't need acting lessons are almost always wrong. Even many working voice actors find it helpful to take classes.

There are teachers who specialize in voiceovers. They're usually located in the same cities as the work but any kind of acting coach is better than none. I'd especially look into classes on improvisational comedy and on cold readings. (A cold reading is when you're handed a script and have to perform with zero time to think through the role and rehearse.) If you can find a good tutor of dialects, sign up immediately.

Then you must have a demo of your work — an audio cassette of 2-3 minutes, demonstrating versatility and professionalism. In most cases, you edit up a little montage of scenes and speeches. Excerpts from actual jobs, if any, are more impressive than homemade stuff but, in either case, it ought to be professionally recorded and edited — in a studio, not on your friend's deck from Radio Shack.

In each city where the work is, there are agents who specialize in voiceover performers. The local actors' union/guild should be able to give you a list of them. You would submit a copy of your demo tape to each and then cross every part of your body that can be crossed, hoping that yours would arouse some interest. The odds are steep: Last year, one of the top voice agents received in excess of 2,000 submissions from novices and accepted a grand total of two as new clients.

If the agent takes you on, he or she will send you to a few auditions to see how you fare. If you audition and the director thinks you're better for the role than Charlie Adler, Frank Welker, Rob Paulsen, Joe Alaskey, Greg Burson, Gregg Berger, Don Messick, Hal Rayle, Jeff Bennett, Maurice La Marche, Corey Burton, Howie Morris, Jeff Bergman, Greg Berg, Neil Ross, Billy West, Brian Cummings, Jim Cummings, Bob Bergen, Bill Farmer, Hamilton Camp, Michael Bell, Nick Jameson, Dan Castellaneta and about ninety other guys, you'll get the job.

Good luck. You'll need it.

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P.S. Please don't send your tapes to me and don't write for further advice. Everything I have to offer is in this article. I thank you.

I want to do voices and everyone tells me I really have a flair for it. Can I make a living as an actor/actress living in Los Angeles and doing voices for animated cartoons?

Almost certainly not — and almost no one ever does. The job you covet is really that of Voice Actor or Voiceover Performer. It encompasses animation voice work, announcing, film dubbing, video games, radio commercials, voiceovers for TV commercials, etc. Work in these areas is infinitely more plentiful and often more lucrative so no one limits themselves exclusively to cartoon voice work.  This sometimes comes as a shock to someone who idolizes Mel Blanc or Daws Butler and dreams of following in their footsteps…but only envisions voicing animated cartoons. The fact is that Mel and Daws did other things and the other things were often more rewarding. (When Mel was voicing the classic Warner Brothers cartoons, animation work never accounted for more than 10% of his income.) Cartoon voicing can pay very decently if one lands steady work but no one limits themselves to just that.  In fact, if you walked into an agent's office and told him you were only interested in cartoon voicing or only showed interest in that, he'd probably turn you down then and there.

Okay…so let's say I want to do all those things?  Can I make money doing voiceover work?

Maybe. The odds are against you but it's certainly possible.

The first thing you have to keep in mind though it's that it's a very competitive business.  Regardless of your talent, there is a simple mathematical limitation: There are not enough jobs to satisfy all the folks who want those jobs.  It isn't even close.  If you were just to look at the people who already have significant credits in the business, there aren't enough jobs to satisfy just them, never mind all the wanna-bes around.

That said, new people do break in.  Casting folks like experienced professionals but they also like finding someone new.  Not everyone who wants to break in can make it.  There aren't enough openings and to be honest, some of those who try for those careers simply aren't good enough.  But it can happen and does.

Keep in mind though that the people you'll be competing against are, with few exceptions, pursuing work full-time and often with a powerhouse agent clearing the trail for them. So if you think you're going to devote an hour or so a week to it and take jobs away from them, you're probably way off-base.

I am not suggesting you quit your day job and put every waking minute into it. Do not under any circumstances put yourself in a position of financial mercy, whereby you have to begin making a living in voice work in X months or you won't be able to pay rent. As with any kind of acting, the trick is to maintain some kind of base income as you segue into the new field. Beyond that, you have to remember that even a lot of people who do get decent voice jobs do not get them consistently and can have large gaps in their income.

So how do I break into the field without starving to death?

Well, the first thing you should do is look around at the small, available jobs. This is especially important if you're living outside a major marketplace like Los Angeles, New York or Chicago. Your city has radio stations. It has advertising agencies that produce commercials. It may well have small film companies that make productions that need narration. A top L.A. voiceover agent once remarked, "When someone comes in who says they just moved here from Kansas, my first question to them is, 'How much voice work were you getting in Kansas?' Because if you couldn't make it there, you won't be able to make it here. And if you didn't bother to look there, you don't have the right attitude to make it here."

If you are in a major marketplace, you should still look for the small jobs. There are a lot of them and they give you experience and a financial base.

Doing small jobs for small companies is not an embarrassment for a beginner. Later on, it can be. But everyone has to start someplace and an agent or producer is going to be more impressed with a person who has earned money doing voice work — even a little — than they are with someone who was waiting tables at a comparable period in their lives.  The trick though is to not do small, non-union jobs to the extent they disqualify you for large, union jobs.

Do I need to study?

Yes. In fact, an enormous tip-off to some casting directors and agents that a person is not serious is that they think they can get by without lessons. It's like the old maxim about basketball players: Every time you're not practicing, some other guy is — and someday, you'll be facing that guy on the court. There are people who work steadily in the field of voiceovers but still find it valuable to take classes once or twice a week. They feel that just working and going to auditions does not sufficiently flex all their muscles and give them a chance to grow.  It's easy to get "typed" and only called in for one kind of job.  If you could do others, you need to not neglect those other areas.

Any city that has voice jobs probably has voice teachers. Even acting classes that don't specialize in the voice can be very valuable, especially those that focus on improv comedy, dialects or cold reading. The main value though is that you have someone challenging you and giving you feedback. George C. Scott once said that the only way to improve as an actor was to read opposite other actors, and this is something you can't do alone.

I'm worried about getting ripped-off by acting teachers and agents. Should I be concerned?

Absolutely. A lot of teachers and agents and other services that promise to help you get work are shameless con games, while others are basically honest but just aren't very good.

Rule of thumb for aspiring actors of all kinds: There are very few legitimate cases where you should pay money to someone to help you with your career.

You can and should pay for lessons and workshops but like anything else in this world, you have to shop intelligently. Look at what others are charging and look at what other customers have had to say. Some people teach acting because they don't know enough about it to actually do it or no one wants to hire them.  At this moment, the best teachers I see around are people who are also currently doing a fair amount of acting or even directing work.

You can and may have to pay modest, reasonable fees for someone to record and edit your demo.  It used to be that a demo made at home sounded like a demo made at home and therefore amateurish.  Lately though, computer software and hardware is advancing to the point that it is possible to record, edit and sweeten a professional-sounding demo on a home PC or Mac if the operator knows what he or she is doing.  You might also, if you're serious about voiceover work, consider investing in whatever you need to have a little home studio and to learn how to record yourself, edit and add music and effects.  It can be done with a decent microphone, less than $200 worth of software and the willingness to learn that software well.

And if you need a good headshot photo, which some voiceover agents consider a necessity, you need to pay for that, too. A little investigation will show you that there are huge variations in what some folks will charge you for this.

You can and should pay for things like books on acting and instructional CDs. There are some good CDs out that will coach you on accents if you're going to do that kind of work.

And that's about it. Do not ever pay someone who claims to be an agent or to be able to help you get an agent.  Agents take 10% from those who wish to hire you.  Do not accept any other sort of arrangement.

Be wary of someone who claims to be a manager. A manager is not an agent and while some perform the same functions, they're not supposed to.  Lately, a lot of people who call themselves "managers" seem to be unlicensed entrepreneurs who want to become producers.  Instead of working on their clients' careers, they're putting together their own projects to sell and trying to fold their clients into them…so you don't get paid unless your manager sells his or her project.  That's probably not what you want.

Do not pay for "access."  Do not pay someone who claims they can get you into a showcase where agents or casting directors will see and hear you.  Do not pay for classes with someone because you think that person will hire you.  Be very wary of someone who wants to charge you to "evaluate" your demo.

How can I tell a good voice coach from a bad one?

Generally speaking, the best voice coaches are the ones who are currently or recently working in the field either as actors or directors. The bad voice coaches are the ones who never made it as either and are now coaching to make money and retain some peripheral attachment to the business. There are exceptions to this but not many.

There may be no way for you to determine this but (again, generally speaking) the good voice coaches are the ones who sometimes turn down a student who has money. The bad ones may act like they're being selective and that you need to convince them you have potential before they'll take you on. But really, they'll take anyone who can pay and even if you're lousy, they'll promise they can shape you into the next Frank Welker or Rob Paulsen.

As for how you find the good ones: The easiest way is to attend a comic convention or other gathering where star voice artists appear and sign autographs. Go up to one who works a lot, buy a signed photo and ask them to recommend a good teacher. Everyone in the business gets this question so just about everyone has an answer. Just don't expect them to know a great teacher in Billings, Montana or someplace outside of their home area. If you can't get to a convention, you can perhaps find an e-mail contact on the Internet, maybe on Facebook or Twitter.

I live in Jerkwater, Alabama and I have access to a real good recording studio and digital phone lines. I've heard that there are people who live outside Los Angeles and New York who manage to have thriving voice careers by phone. So I can do this, can't I?

Not that long ago, the answer to this would have been, "Absolutely not." Today, due to technological advances, the answer is more along the lines of: "It's possible to get work in the major markets from out of town though you're certainly putting yourself at an enormous competitive disadvantage." There are some experienced actors who, having proven their worth and established themselves as the voices of certain characters or ad campaigns, have managed to relocate outside of L.A. or N.Y. and continued working, though not as often.

There are also occasional newcomer exceptions and in the future, working with out-of-town voice talent will become more feasible but at the moment, such cases are the exception. Remember, you have to convince them not only that you're better than the 3,000+ actors in the L.A. area who are actively seeking voice work, but that you're so much better that it's worth the inconvenience of working with someone who can't come in at a moment's notice. Generally speaking, the kind of L.A. and N.Y. jobs you can phone in are the non-union ones that pay very little.  On the other hand, you may be able to service non-major markets.  There are some good, lucrative jobs not in New York and Los Angeles with less local-based competition.

I'm about to prepare my voice demo. How long should it be?

Shorter than you'll probably make it. A top voice agent recently told me, "It's getting so that if I don't hear something fabulous in the first 20 seconds, I turn it off and throw it in the reject pile." That is probably not uncommon, given how many thousands of demos get submitted to agents and casting directors. You need to be absolutely ruthless in omitting all but your absolute best work. Lead with those one or two unique voices you may have and then keep the whole thing down to three minutes. Two is better…and if that seems impossible, remember that they'll probably make up their minds about you in the first minute.

Agents and casting directors are sick of hearing men imitating Joe Cipriano, Beau Weaver and Don LaFontaine. Women seeking character work all seem to imitate June Foray's witch voice, Gail Matthius's valley girl voice and Nancy Cartwright's Bart Simpson voice. Replicating those does not prove you're as good as those actresses. It demonstrates that you have nothing to offer that many others can't do…including June, Gail and Nancy, all of whom are still around and available to be hired.

But I do so many different voices! All my friends tell me I can sound like a hundred different movie stars…and I have three hundred of my own character voices. Shouldn't I put them all on my demo so the agents and casting directors can hear everything that I can do?

First off, your friends are holding to you a different standard than is employed by professional agents and casting directors…who, by the way, are never going to listen to a demo with 50 voices on it, let alone 300.

The truth is that few voice actors are as versatile as they think they are, and a casting director doesn't need someone who can do 300 voices. He or she needs someone who can do the one or two specific voices they need to cast…so show them only your best work. (Also, there's this: To emphasize quantity over quality is generally a sign of amateurism. Most agents, when they hear someone say, "I can do 300 voices" automatically assume they're in the presence of a pushy neophyte.)

One other point: Beginners often tout their talents by saying things like, "I can do a great Homer Simpson and a terrific SpongeBob SquarePants." What they don't get is that there's a very limited market for those who can imitate classic voices and virtually none when the original voice actor is still around. The guys who do Homer and SpongeBob are alive and well and there is no need for anyone to imitate them. When a voice actor dies or becomes otherwise unavailable, there are often jobs for "sound-alikes" but most of these go to folks who are already at the top of the profession. In any case, casting agents are always much more impressed by a good original voice than by your ability to mimic someone else's creation.

I want to break into voice work but I know that there's an "inner circle" of people who hire their friends and keep outsiders out. Is there any way I can break into that clique?

Not with that attitude. First off, those who get work are hired because the folks doing the hiring believe that these are the people who can give them what they want. Yes, they often hire the same people over and over. That's how it is in every business. If you employ someone and find they're good at what they do, you hire them again, or at least give them preference over utter strangers. That's not favoritism; that's experience. One of the skills that casting directors and voice directors are supposed to bring to the job is to know good people and to be able to cast quickly and without doing hundreds of auditions. The notion that there's any sort of clique or inner circle is just "sore loser" talk by folks whose work, rightly or wrongly, failed to click with those who do the hiring.

Do I have to belong to the union to get work doing voice work? Once I join, will the union get me work? Do I have to have an agent?

You don't have to belong to the Screen Actors Guild to get your first job. You will have to join when you qualify for membership, which usually occurs with your second. But I've never heard of a casting person saying, "I won't hire that person because he isn't in the union." (Of course, those who cast non-union projects like it if you're not in the union. Having seen a number of performers get exploited and cheated on non-union films, I am of the opinion that it is foolish to venture too near them. It can also make you look a lot less desirable for the decent-paying union gigs.)

The union does not get you work. They have nothing to do with that end of the process except to stop its more abusive practices.

The problem with not having an agent is that it's difficult to let the casting folks know you exist if you don't have an agent. They get so many submissions from accredited, known agents that they can barely deal with them, let alone the unagented actors. As a result, they tend to view voiceover agencies as a kind of pre-screening process, assuming that if someone doesn't have an agent, they probably aren't worth considering. That is not necessarily an unfair assumption. Most of the submissions that come from non-agented performers are pretty awful and even if yours is an exception, it's likely to get lost among the chaff.

So: No, having an agent is not an absolute necessity. But it sure makes the odds against you a little more tolerable.

Is it possible these days to have a career as an on-camera actor and as a voiceover performer? I see all these celebrities doing cartoon voices lately…

Yeah…and those particular people would probably not be considered for those jobs if not for their on-camera credits. With some exceptions, they're being hired for their celebrity by a production that feels, for either marketing or personal reasons, they want to work with "name" actors.

Most of the current voiceover performers who are working steadily are ones who have made a conscious decision to subordinate on-camerawork to voice work. There is, in fact, an agent who says to potential new clients, "If you had a chance tomorrow to audition for a regular part on a sitcom that might be the next Seinfeld or a regular part on a cartoon series, and you couldn't go to both, which would you choose?" The actor who'd pick the sitcom is, to the agent, much less appealing for representation.

I hear about this thing called "Financial Core" and it sounds to me like a great deal. It enables me to not be a member of the union, to pay reduced dues and to accept non-union work? Why shouldn't I take advantage of this?

There are a number of reasons. "Financial Core" (sometimes called "Fiscal Core") is a special category that enables one to opt out of a union but still work in its area of jurisdiction. The person must pay the portion of union dues that go to actual enforcement of the union's contract but is under no legal obligation to obey certain of its rules, including the usual prohibition of working for non-union shops.

You might not want to do this for moral reasons. Mainly though, Core status is probably a bad idea just as a career move if you want to work in the majors. It's tantamount to announcing to the industry that you're desperate…and the only folks who want to hire desperate actors are those who are looking for talent that will work cheap and not complain if the check bounces.

Okay, I've read all the questions and answers. I want to do cartoon voices. Can you just give me a straight answer as to what I have to do to get that job? And please be honest with me.

Okay, here it is: On each project, the decision as to who does the voice(s) is done by a small group of people — usually a casting director and a voice director (often, those are the same person) and a boss or two. On a commercial, the boss may be the client — i.e., the maker of the product — or it may be the advertising agency. On a cartoon show, it may be a producer and maybe a studio head or two. Once in a while, writers and directors can effectively recommend someone. So what you have to do is to get those people to decide you're the right person for a given role.

If you already have a personal relationship with one of these people, they might consider you. That doesn't mean they'll hire you but they might give you a real consideration. It is rare that one person can make a casting decision for regular roles. Even if your uncle is the casting director and he decides you're the best-possible choice for a certain part, he still has to convince his co-workers. On a cartoon show, a network may also have approval rights and there may also be merchandising people and folks who have ownership rights in the property who have to sign off on major casting decisions. Sometimes though, one person can cast a minor, non-recurring role.

If you don't have a personal relationship with one of these people and you approach them directly, you will almost surely do yourself more harm than good, and could really anger them. They get bombarded by a lot of amateurs and expect the agent system to protect them from that, and to weed out the new people with talent.

Getting an agent is difficult but the process is pretty straightforward.  You work up a demo recording of your work and you submit it to the various agencies. Submissions used to be done by mailing them tapes and then CDs.  Now, it's more likely done online.  If they all turn you down, your only real option is to keep submitting samples of your talent to them. There really is no other route.

I'm sorry I can't give you any magic shortcut and I'm sorry that this may not sound fair to you, or that 98% of all those who want to do voice work will never get the opportunity. But that's the way it works.

For reasons you can probably guess, it has become necessary to institute the following policy: Please do not send me voice demos or requests to hear your samples or to hire you or to refer you to an agent. I get way too much of this and have had to vow never to hire or refer anyone who approaches me this way. If you saw my e-mailbox, you'd understand.