Cartoon Voices
Part 1
by Mark Evanier
ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED 12/10/99
Comics Buyer's Guide
Boy, I hope you people wanna hear about cartoon voices. If not, I'm going to bore you silly with this column and next week's sequel.
I know some of you are interested. 167 weeks ago, I did a piece on the cartoon voices, with emphasis on how one might beat the rather formidable odds against getting a job doing them. It is, to date, the POV most requested by those who either missed or mislaid it and want a copy.
Some requests have come from folks who aspire to become cartoon voice artists. Others are from actors established in that field, seeking something they can hand out so they don't have to explain it for the eight-zillionth time. (That should tip you off as to what the competition is like…)
I heard from a lot of cartoon fans who, like me, have always been fascinated about those speak for our favorite characters. I grew up loving the sounds and sensibilities of folks like Mel Blanc, Daws Butler, June Foray and Don Messick. I was very proud that I eventually got to know — and, God help us, direct — those people. Actually, I became a cartoon voice director for a simple reason, which I'll get to in some future installment. This time out, we have some history to wade through…
As we all know, the first commercially-released cartoon with sound was Steamboat Willie (1928) which starred Mickey Mouse. That made Walter Elias Disney, who supplied Mickey's squeaks, the first-ever cartoon voice actor. Other voices in other early sound 'toons were done by studio personnel. For a time, they were adequate. The fact that a cartoon talked at all was pretty impressive. Great acting was not requisite.
Walt continued to do Mickey until he got too busy but, eventually, the animation studios stopped shoving secretaries in front of microphones and began to employ actors — though not exclusively. Voices still occasionally emanated from the studio crew, an occasional tradition that continues to this day. (Two of the all-time great cartoon voice actors — Jack "Popeye" Mercer and Bill "Bullwinkle" Scott — started at their studios in the animation departments.)
Most of the early animation companies were affiliated with major motion picture producers and were often housed on the corresponding lot. Leon Schlesinger's cartoon studio, for instance, produced films that were released by Warner Brothers, and his operation was on the WB facility in Hollywood. Eventually, his operation became the WB cartoon studio.
It has been commonly reported that the early voice actors were studio contract players who were drafted into service. That did happen, but they more often drew from the large pool of radio actors around. A local station, KFWB, was also on the Warners lot…and several of the network radio programs were produced from facilities within walking distance.
An actor received less than $25 for a recording session that might last anywhere from thirty minutes to eight hours, though rarely ran half that. It was done, not in a sound facility, but on the same stages where the studios shot their movies. They would go onto some unoccupied soundstage and use the microphones and equipment that were used to record the on-camera performers as they emoted.
Mel Blanc used to tell of standing in a western barroom or elegant boudoir, delivering Porky Pig's lines into a boom-mike that was lowered to his level. (They dared not sit on a "hot set," meaning a set that was being used for a film in production. There was hell to pay if any of the furnishings were moved or damaged.) In the fifties, they began recording in recording studios, which made things a bit more comfortable.
Blanc was, of course, the first "superstar" voice actor — the first to treat the vocation as anything more than a way to pick up extra bucks between radio gigs. Still, that's all he figured it might be when, in the Summer of 1935, he began including the Leon Schlesinger Studios on his list of rounds.
Like most radio thespians, Blanc was always looking for work, trying to get producers to audition him, praying to get on a regular series but willing to settle for a one-shot role. He obviously had the talent but it was probably more important that he had a dogged determination. It took until just before Christmas of '36 for them to audition him. He was hired on the spot.
In so doing, they raised the bar for animation voice work. Before Blanc began enlivening soundtracks, not much was demanded or expected of the actors. Bob Clampett, who was then directing for Schlesinger once remarked, "Mel showed us what was possible." Once they had such talent at their beck 'n' call, the directors and storymen put an extra effort into making their cartoons sound funny, along with looking funny…and the other actors had to hover close to Blanc's standard.
Many did. Though Mel billed himself as "the man of a thousand voices," even he couldn't handle every role. Over the next quarter-century, he was joined at the microphones by some of the best: Stan Freberg, Daws Butler, Bea Benaderet, Arthur Q. Bryan, Dave Barry, June Foray, Dick Beals and many others.
Sometimes, he wasn't joined at the mike. Many of the tracks then were recorded in "splits," meaning each one actor would record all his lines, all by him or herself. Mel even worked in splits with himself: In a cartoon featuring Bugs Bunny and Yosemite Sam, he'd usually record all the Bugs lines in one session and then — or even on another day — do Sam's. Later, some film editor would splice it all together.
When studios began producing animation for television, recording in splits fell out of favor. TV cartoons generally involve more dialogue and therefore interchange between characters. Thus, it became the norm to record "gang" style. This means getting all the actors into a studio at the same time, each at his or her own mike, and recording the track like a radio play. The director will usually find natural breaks in the action and then have the actors perform the script in segments of 30 seconds to a minute or two at a time.
If the session is any good, the atmosphere in the room becomes electric. Voice acting is gonzo acting, often done fast and furious. Performers exchange energy and they react to one another in ways that are difficult-to-impossible to achieve when they're recorded in separate stints.
I honestly don't know anyone thinks it works better in splits but it still seems to be the norm for theatricals, especially at Disney. It has also crept back into TV animation for scheduling (not creative) reasons…
A current trend in cartoon voices is the casting of celebrities — i.e., people known more for their on-camera work. Before I trash this fad, let me say clearly that I think some so-called celebs are very good, holding their own against the top full-time voice actors. I believe, however, that we're now getting a lot of inferior voice work because of this practice.
The casting of "names" is generally based on three premises, one of which is utterly ridiculous, one of which has some merit to it, and the third of which is just plain a lousy reason…
1. The on-camera actors, having made something of themselves in another venue, are probably just better actors. This is what some seem to believe and it's the reason I think is utterly ridiculous.
2. The on-camera actors add some "marquee" value, making a project seem more important, perhaps drawing some audience on their names. This may be true in some cases. Woody Allen probably caused a few ticket-buyers to see Antz and there are other examples. Certainly, no one ever decided not to see a movie because they'd heard of everyone in it.
3. Animation is a lower form. Some animation producers have an inferiority complex about being animation producers. Real Hollywood (there's an oxymoron) is about real actors and stars and famous people — or so they think. The theory here is that working with celebrities moves you up in the caste system and, of course, there are all those great name-drops: "Yeah, I was directing Ed Asner today…"
Something is amiss when actors are hired for their names first and their performances, second. No, it's not the least bit unprecedented for someone in Hollywood to get a job for the wrong reason. Still, it's sad to think that, if Bugs Bunny were created today at some studios, they'd decide Mel Blanc wasn't well enough known and cast Pauly Shore.
Another downside to the casting of celebrities is that they're not as readily available as full-time voice actors, forcing many shows to record in splits. Most episodes of Duckman, for example, were done that way because Jason Alexander had the title role. When he was free, he'd scurry in, record all Duckman's lines for a few episodes, and hurry back to his day job on Seinfeld. The other actors would record at other times. While the results on that program were pretty good, they aren't on every series…and might have been even better on Duckman, had the actors been able to read together.
Celebrities also go on location to shoot a movie or series or appear somehwere, and must literally "phone it in." In the past, an actor could be in a studio in Florida and be directed over the phone by a director in Los Angeles. The Florida studio would record the lines, then FedEx the tape to L.A. to be edited into the track. More recently, thanks to digital phone lines, the actor can be in Sri Lanka and the recording (on computer, not tape) can be done on this end.
This is great, but it's still better to have the performers in the same room.
It's fascinating to watch good voice actors at work. There is a magic in creation, especially when it happens, as it happens in voice recording, so quickly and organically.
One of my favorite actors (and human beings) is the amazing Howard Morris, known to vintage TV fans as Sid Caesar's sidekick, to Andy Griffith Show fans as Ernest T. Bass, and to Hollywood as an Emmy-winning comedy director and actor. We cartoon buffs care about none of that. To us, he is Atom Ant, Jughead (on the Filmation Archie show), Wade Duck (on Garfield and Friends), Gopher (in the Winnie the Pooh theatricals), Flem (on Cow and Chicken) and many more.
To anyone reading this who may someday have the pleasure (it is one) of directing Howie Morris, I offer the following advice: Never let him know what he's reading.
I learned this around our third season on Garfield. We stick a script in Howie's mitts, shove him in front of a mike, roll tape and make him read without the smoggiest notion what it all means. He is such a natural actor and comedian that what comes out is sometimes brilliant.
Of course, through zero fault of his, it might also be unusable — but that's okay. We have plenty of tape or digital storage for a second, third or nineteenth take. We can always tell him what he's reading later, and sometimes we have to…but he can only do a totally "naïve" performance once.
Usually though, the actors do know what they're saying before they see-and-say the lines. Since most are playing multiple roles and the recording needs to go at a fast clip, they pre-mark their scripts to indicate which voices go with which lines. Some bring colored markets to highlight their parts.
The late Don Messick was the Gold Medal Kid with the Heavyweight Crown when it came to playing multiple roles, holding down five-part conversations with himself. Don played Scooby Doo, Boo Boo Bear, Ranger Smith, The Jetsons' Astro, Papa Smurf and incalculable others…but he also filled anywhere from two to twenty other roles in each of their cartoons.
The oft-told tale about Messick — I've told this before but it fits in perfect here — has to do with overlapping. That means two actors talking at the same time, which drives the sound editors crazy. And the way the story goes is that a director would have to halt a session and tell the actors, "The actor playing Pete and the actor playing Sam keep overlapping."
And there would be a pause before Don Messick said, "I'm playing both those parts."
Other performers used to press Don for tips of rapid voice-changing. He'd claim, about one-quarter seriously, that his secret was a pen he had that wrote in six colors — red, black, green, purple, dark blue and light blue. He would mark each character in a different color.
I once asked him what he did when he was called upon to perform a seventh role in one script. Don just smiled, fished into his pocket and pulled out a pen filled with orange ink.
Sometimes, in addition to marking their lines, they indicate certain syllables and phrases — where to pause, where to take a breath, where to commence a "build" in a character's anger or anxiety level.
Everyone has their own codes. And while voice artists are easily the most generous, sharing folks in all of show biz over everything else, they zealously guard their little hieroglyphics. You could jam bamboo shoots 'neath a voice actor's cuticles and he wouldn't explain his script-notation language. In fact, he'd probably refuse in three or four different voices.
When I started directing and conducting auditions, I was sometimes foolishly flattered by something. Actors would read for a part and then, on their way out, they'd say, "Hey, this is great copy. Mind if I take it along? I'd like to use it in my acting class." Since I had usually written the audition material, I'd say sure and feel complimented.
Took me a while but I finally realized they didn't want to take the script along because they liked what I'd written. They wanted to take it along so no one else would see their markings. (And, of course, it never hurts one's chances of getting a part to butter up the director…)
So the recording of cartoon voices has changed over the years for technological reasons. It has changed also for casting trends, like the current love of celebrities.
But it has probably changed the most for a reason that no one ever talks about. Next week in this spot, we're going to study the various Screen Actors Guild contracts and how they've impacted how it's done and who does it.