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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

At this time, Charles Hedinger and Irving Tripp did the bulk of the artwork for this series. It was a transitional period for the feature. The awkwardly designed characters wouldn't really look right 'til Irving Tripp took a more prominent role, circa 1950.

Stanley's hand, from his pencil rough "script," emerges when the characters themselves are agitated. Flashes of his 1960s work can be glimpsed through the cracks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

From OGC #49:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Here's the cover...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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