Forgotten Movie Songs #25: "Little April Shower" from BAMBI

Walt Disney's Bambi is, officially, the only movie I ever saw alone with my father. It must have been re-released the theaters when I was ten or eleven. Even though my parents had been taking me to adult movies--rated PG, or M, or R--for years, I found myself drawn to the G-rated Bambi, probably due to TV commercials for the re-release. Back then, my family used to go to the drive-in a lot. We always went as a team--my mother, my father and I. And I, at least, ALWAYS had a good time.

I remember begging to go see Bambi back then, but somehow we missed the weekend it was playing at the Northeast Expressway Drive-In. Going to the drive-in was a strictly Friday/Saturday thing for my parents and I. So it looked like I was going to miss seeing Bambi. And--I clearly remember this--I cried. I cried about not seeing Bambi at the drive-in. So to calm me down, my father--on a Thursday night--took me, on his own, to go see it.

Absolutely starstruck, I was, by the film, from beginning to end. I believe that, though it was an imposition on his time, my father was glad we saw it together, and I like to think the memory of seeing this film together stayed with him until he passed away. As a result of the film's powerful intrinsic quality, and of my very personal relationship with it, I still that it is, nearly 70 years after its release, the single best animated feature that has ever been made, and probably the best that will ever BE made.

I base this conclusion on the quality of its animation, surely. But, most of all, I base it on the intense emotional reactions Bambi engenders in everyone who sees it. No other film in history has dramatized the beauties and harshness of the wild, and the life within it, better than this one.

It was released in 1942, and was based on the book Bambi, A Life in the Woods by Austrian author Felix Salten. It's biography at its most exacting: it tells the story of a doe, Bambi, who is born into royalty as the Great Prince of The Forest. His father is a majestic, many-horned buck--the King of the Forest--and his mother is a tender, nurturing queen. The film follows him from his birth to his ascendance to his father's mantle.

The film is an astonishingly short 70 minutes long, but it packs an amazing punch. Bambi's childhood days, with his exuberant best friend, the rabbit Thumper (memorably voiced by the uncredited Peter Behn) and the shy skunk Flower, are vividly dramatized; we get Bambi's first steps, his first words, and his first friendships. And, in the film's greatest sequence, the "Little April Showers" number, his introduction to the more benign, but nonetheless scary, cruelties of nature.

Upon this opening sequence's emotional climax--of which scads of humans have confessed is their most scarring moviegoing experience (and of which, for the benefit of the many whom I'm sure haven't seen it, I won't talk about now, except to say that it is devastating enough to have proven a problem for Disney, in the 1930s, to ever get made)--we jump to Bambi's adulthood. This part of the film is a bit less charming but, in its portrayal of "the circle of life," is ultimately as moving and makes the story blossom into one that acts a perfect template for another, arguably more popular Disney animated epic called The Lion King (which owes a ridiculous debt to Bambi). Just to keep the record straight, the supervising director was David Hand, and he had six other sequence directors, as well as Disney himself, to help; this puts it on an even plane with the largely more ambitious Fantasia, which had eleven animators working as directors. But it remains that Bambi is the more resplendent picture.

I can still recall experiencing the "Little April Shower" sequence for the first time. I remember thinking that it reminded me of being at the drive-in when the rain begins to fall, so I immediately experienced a soul-deep connection to it. Now when I watch it again, it astonishes me on so many levels. The animation of the droplets' movements, in all their infinite permutations, hits me first. Then the lyrics, vocal and instrumental arrangement, and music for the sequence--scored by Frank Churchill and worded by Larry Morey--takes me aback me with its gorgeous power. Finally, I am hit on a subliminal level with a wave of empathy for animals of all species, who are forced to endure the callousness of nature and yet almost always emerge ready to face the challenges of a new day of life. I have always been an animal lover, but Bambi made me into more of one, I think, and chiefly because of "Little April Shower." Bookended by cheekily austere clarinet solos, the sequence steps up into, at first, a sweet look at the cooling benefits of a nice rain. But then, in its middle, it balloons into a genuinely frightening examination of a storm, and how it affects life in the forest, and how it traumatizes Bambi in particular, and strengthens his bond with his brave mother--an issue that comes into desperate play later in this extraordinary film.


The song is called "Little April Shower." The music is by Frank Churchill (who composed the film's exuberant score--one of the best in film history), and the lyrics are by Larry Morey. These two artists were nominated for Oscars in 1942, but for another excellent Bambi number, called "Love is a Song." But, still, when I think of Bambi, I think of this sequence, and this song, primarily.



Drip, drip, drop
Little April shower
Beating a tune
As you fall all around

Drip, drip, drop
Little April shower
What can compare
To your beautiful sound
Beautiful sound, beautiful sound
Drip, drop, drip, drop

Drip, drip, drop
When the sky is cloudy
Your pretty music
Will brighten the day

Drip, drip, drop
When the sky is cloudy
You'll come along
With a song right away

Come with your beautiful music

Drip, drip drop
Little April shower
Beating a tune
As you fall all around

Drip, drip, drop
Little April shower
What can compare
To the beautiful sound

Drip, drip, drop
When the sky is cloudy
You come along
Come along with your pretty little song
Drip, drip, drop
When the sky is cloudy
You come along
Come along with your pretty little song

Gay little roundelay
Gay little roundelay
Song of the rainy day
Song of the rainy day
How I love to hear your patter
Pretty little pitter patter
Helter skelter when you pelter
Troubles always seem to scatter

Drip, drip drop
Little April shower
Beating a tune
As you fall all around

Drip, drip, drop
Little April shower
What can compare
To the beautiful sound

(Break)

Drip, drip drop
Little April shower
Beating a tune
As you fall all around

Drip, drip, drop
Little April shower
What can compare
To the beautiful sound
Beautiful sound

Film #137: Marcel The Shell With Shoes On

When I hear about something like Marcel The Shell With Shoes On (what a fantastic title), as I just have today, I feel both behind and in front of the times. Behind because this has become an "internet sensation" with nearly 1.5 million hits on You Tube. In front of, because I think it deserves many more hits, and it doesn't even have an entry on IMDB. It's directed and co-written by Dean Fleischer-Camp, and co-written and voiced by whom I suspect is an autuer of equal import, the recently ousted (and unbelievably cute) new/old Saturday Night Live appointee Jenny Slate (she quite understandably let a "fuckin'" slip out in a "frickin'" routine, but that didn't stop her from cruelly being cut from the cast--get a grip, NBC and FCC).

This uncommonly simple, utterly unique little (VERY little) movie is, I'm sure, the beginning of something larger. It charmed so many at the recent American Film Institute Festival that it won the Audience Award for Best Animated Short, instantly putting in qualification for the Best Animated Short Film award at the upcoming Oscars. I'd love to see it nominated. Sometimes, animation is not about the pyrotechnics involved in the movie's making, but about the feeling the results evoke (the editing and sound are magnificent, if you pay attention). This film conjures a powerful adoration for its feisty, diminutive subject, voiced without enhancement by Jenny Slate (who I imagine, at least, has this character in her mind for some time; either that, or it was thought of instantaneously, I imagine, in a very happy moment for Slate). The direction is superb (I really like Marcel's relationship with the interviewer), and the laughs are absolutely well earned; in fact, no feature this year has more joyful moments than you'll experience in Marcel The Shell With Shoes On. I want to see much more of Marcel, and so many others out there obviously want to as well. Wallace and Grommit won three Oscars for just the same reason. Mark my words: this isn't the last of this brave, lovely bit-player. By the way: I defy you to watch this film only once.

Film #134: What On Earth!

I first remember seeing What On Earth! as a between-features offering on HBO in the early 1980s. May I say, what a great time for that channel it was; you could see all manner of short movies on it then--everything from the latest "videos" (on a feature they called Video Jukebox) to things like 1978's Special Delivery or Jim Henson's 1966 curio Timepiece. This was about 15 years after What on Earth! had been nominated for the 1967 Best Animated Short Academy Award. As one who's always been suspect of the car culture, this piece's cynical, smiling creepiness has always stuck hardily with me. Trolling around the fantastic National Film Board of Canada website, I thankfully rediscovered its abundant charms and thought I'd share the film with readers. It was produced by Wolf Koenig (a longtime NFBC fixture, also Oscar-nominated for 1966's The Drag and 1968's The House That Jack Built) and Robert Verrall (who also co-produced The Drag, and who, in 1967, was just beginning his career with the esteemed NFBC). What on Earth! was designed and directed, quite humorously, by Kaj Pindal and Les Drew. Note the terrific music by Don Douglas as you watch!

Film #116: Begone Dull Care and Film #117: Neighbours

"I was inspired to make Neighbours by a stay of almost a year in the People's Republic of China. Although I only saw the beginnings of Mao's revolution, my faith in human nature was reinvigorated by it. Then I came back to Quebec and the Korean War began. (...) I decided to make a really strong film about anti-militarism and against war." --Norman McLaren

The Scottish-born McLaren had been making films for almost twenty years when he hit upon Neighbours, the groundbreaking animated war parable which he produced for the estimable National Film Board of Canada in 1952. He began his film career in the 1930s, sans camera, by painting directly on film stock (making him a precursor to the now-more famous expreimental-filmmaker extraordinaire Stan Brakhage). Begone Dull Care, made with Evylyn Lampart, utilizes a snappy jazz soundtrack from the Oscar Peterson Trio and, with it, is a vibrant masterpiece. No words can adequately describe it.



McLaren made deeper inroads into internationally-renowned territory with Neighbours, which won him, incredibly, the Oscar in 1952 for Best Documentary Short Subject. This, to me, is a amazingly wonderful outrage that COULD NOT HAPPEN TODAY. Neighbours is for sure an animated piece (via pixillation) and very much NOT a documentary--at least, in a traditional sense (it's, also, the only non-Disney short-subject ever to get TWO nominations--it was also cited for Best One-Reel Short Subject that same year, but lost to the now-forgotten Light in the Window: The Art of Vermeer).

Along with David Cronenberg, McLaren is Canada's most influential filmmaker; as proof, there's a whole wing of the NFBC named for him. McLaren served as artist and public servant for the National Film Board of Canada from 1941 to 1983. He is, thus, the one filmmaker most notable for bringing the National Film Board of Canada into full flower. And if you've ever taken a look at any NFBC animated or live-action shorts (like the one you're about to see, or like The Cat Came Back, Special Delivery, or scads of other well-loved Canadian shorts), you begin to realize how much McLaren did to steer the entire idea of what constitutes a good short towards new directions. Pre-McLaren, we had Disney and Warner Brothers, MGM and maybe UPA providing us with animated pieces; after the Canadians came in, the revolution was won, the genre was opened up for the world, and the indies have controlled the shorts market ever since (and I think the market for shorts is going way up, what with the Internet and everything). After Neighbours, McLaren garnered acclaim for 1957's A Chairy Tale (once spoofed brilliantly on SCTV's Canadian episode) and for Pas De Deux for which he won a BAFTA Award and the Palmes D'Or at Cannes in 1968. Also, 1984's Narcissus made a big splash at the festivals that year. But it was Neighbours that I and probably millions of others saw all throughout the early 80s as "filler" in between movies on HBO (HBO really showcased a lot of cool shorts in between movies in the late 70s/early 80s--things like Frank Film, Timepiece, Quasi at the Quackadero, Solly's Diner, and tons of neat early music videos).

Anyway, take a look at Neighbours. Even though I marveled at how the film won an Oscar as a documentary, I DO have to say this: this is a perfect representation of how wars begin and escalate, so as to it winning the documentary award--hell, why not? By the way, this is a surprisingly violent film; the scenes where the (SPOILER) two men, fighting over this dancing flower on this tiny plot of land, eventually kill each other's wives and children were initially excised from US prints of the movie; here they've been restored (although via a print of lesser quality). Note: apart from the early electronic score, the soundtrack was enhanced by McLaren's scratchings on the edge of the celluloid, read by the projector as sound; thus, even the SOUNDTRACK temporarily becomes animation. An unparalleled film from a real visionary.

Film #107: Feed The Kitty

Of course, as a cat lover first and a dog lover second, I have to adore Chuck Jones' 1952 Warner Brothers cartoon Feed the Kitty. With only three characters, minimal dialogue, and the barest of plots--bulldog Marc Anthony absurdly tries to hide the teeny kitten he's adopted from the lady of the house--Jones' film is absolute animation mastery. The director once described himself as "an actor with a pencil," and Feed the Kitty is proof of this thesis. Marc Anthony's catalogue of hilarious facial expressions are a delight. He's at turns ferocious, smitten, sweaty, red-eyed with tears, horrified, sickened, coquettish, crushed, desperate, scolding, and protective.

And, of course, this big-eyed kitten he's taken in represents exactly what us cat lovers adore about felines. We all can relate to the "oooch ouch oooch eep" feelings Marc Anthony goes through as his kitten "makes biscuits" on his back, and then to the warm sensation he feels as kitty finally curls up to sleep. Of course, the cartoon's funniest bits are the ones in which Marc Anthony tries to hide the kitten from the lady (who's pretty funny in her own right, even if only her two legs are seen). I particularly love the moments where the kitty instantly stiffens up as the dog pretends it's only a wind-up toy; where Carl Stallings' sweet, speeded-up version of "Oh You Beautiful Doll" scores a moment in which Marc Anthony humorously disguises his new pet as a powerpuff; and the famous scene where, while peering through the kitchen window, the bulldog witnesses what he thinks is the mixing-bowl death of his kitty, and faints uproariously (this is homaged in Pixar's great 2001 film Monsters, Inc.).

The voices here are provided by WB's own Mel Blanc, of course, and Bea Benaderet, both of whom would be reunited as Betty and Barney Rubble on TV's The Flintstones. Marc Anthony and Pussyfoot (as the cat has come to be called) would reteam in 1953's Kiss Me Cat (where the dog tries to teach Pussyfoot how to catch mice) and in 1958's Cat Feud (a variation on traditional cat-and-dog acrimony with Marc Anthony protecting Pussyfoot from a scuzzy alley cat). However, neither of these still-amusing cartoons approach the subversive mixture of sentimentality and laughs on display in Feed the Kitty.

Film #96: Oh How I Hate To Get Up In The Morning!

Max and Dave Fleischer were sibling animators who made film history with their long series of Betty Boop, Popeye, and Superman cartoons, and with their groundbreaking full-length 1939 movie Gulliver's Travels (the first non-Disney animated feature and the first film to use a process of animation called rotoscoping, based on tracings of live action images, later popularized further by 70s/80s-era animator Ralph Bakshi). In 1932, the Fleischers also unwittingly helped pioneer the art form of the music video with Oh How I Hate To Get Up In The Morning, a promotional clip for Irving Berlin's song, here spiritedly sung on-screen and off by those powder-faced "Wandering Minstrels" Les Reis and Artie Dunn. After a chorus or two, Reis & Dunn's early-Gramophone-flavored harmonies act as score for the Fleichers' playful illustrations in which absolutely everything--even the morning bell--is waking up before the army grunts at a sluggish boot camp.

There's no plot at all to this piece--it really does resemble a "Wandering Minstrels" video, with the Fleichers generously throwing in a Betty Boop cameo, a bouncing-ball sing-a-long segment, and a clever blend of animation and live-action. I saw this short once on AMC, back when the network was still cool and commercial-free, and somehow I've always remembered it--maybe because the song itself is so catchy. It IS an Irving Berlin creation, after all (it was performed by Berlin, George Murphy, and Charles Butterworth in Michael Curtiz's 1943 film of the songwriter's wartime stage revue This Is The Army). I, personally, do despise getting up in the morning, so it's the kind of ditty that's fun for me to hum sometimes, y'know...to help get me through the dreaded A.Ms. Anyway, there's a mother lode of teeny, delightful animated moments here--some surprising in their surrealism, others in their charming obviousness. As usual with the Fleichers' work, Oh How I Hate To Get Up In The Morning fleetly chugs along, with its simple construction from a plotless string of visual gags being a pro rather than con. And, hey, dig that 30s-era pop music sound--talk about a window into another era! How can ya not love it?

Film #91: The Dover Boys at Pimento University, or: The Rivals at Roquefort Hall

Warner Brothers animator extraordinaire Chuck Jones says that, after he and head animator Robert (Bobe) Cannon produced the groundbreaking 1942 cartoon The Dover Boys, he almost got fired from WB's Termite Terrace (the name for the WB animation house which included Frank Tashlin, Friz Freling, Bob Clampett, Robert McKimson and other WB-contracted animators). The wacked-out style of "smeared" cartooning he and Cannon pioneered with this 9-minute masterpiece was so ahead of its time it raised the ire of his bosses who didn't cotton to any of this new stuff. And despite being in the running for the funniest animated piece of its era, The Dover Boys' foray into a new animation form would not be properly capitalized upon for a decade or so. Even still, today, it remains a total original.

It follows a turn-of-the-century team (a spoof of dime-store novel heroes The Rover Boys) mawkishly named Tom, Dick, and Larry (given the reference of three cheeses in the film--pimento, Roquefort, and cheddar--they could each be renamed, which makes the film even funnier, in a subtle way). In their intro, we see them each jauntily yet extra-stoically vogueing on a different cornball period bi-cycle, on their way to Miss Cheddar's Home for Girls. Their scenic afternoon out playing hide-and-seek with their collective finance'--the impossibly graceful and deceptively powerful Dainty Dora Standpipe--gets cruelly interrupted by the green-skinned Dan Backslide, determined to bust up a perfectly good date. Commandeering a "run-about," he kidnaps Dora and escapes with her to his mountain lair, so it's up to the chivalrous Dover Boys to bring her back home.

You'll notice that the animation here is kept down to the very barest minimum. Much of this cartoon's beauty lies in Jones' justly excessive use of softly-airbrushed backgrounds to convey a stillness that clashes brightly with the movement of his cast. And what pixilated movements they are. Part of The Dover Boys freshness comes from the extremely fleet form of "smeared" animation that Jones and Cannon appropriated to give these characters a wild panache. Watch this frame-by-frame (as you can above) and notice the unpredictable transitions from movement to movement that, with those abnormally stretched heads and bodies, pave the way for the belly laughs the film provides.

However, it's just this wry innovation which made the brass at Warner Brothers angry with Jones--so much so that this likable cartoon trio was never seen on screen again, and that smeared animation technique has still to this day been little used (though I have seen tried humorously with Bart on a few 1st season episodes of The Simpsons). Maybe Warner Brothers didn't think much more could be done with The Dover Boys. But I would've liked to have seen Chuck Jones and Bobe Cannon give it another try, 'cuz this frenzied cartoon is an absolute hoot. Hooray for good ol' P.U.!! Enjoy!

Film #54: The Secret of NIMH

Former Disney animator Don Bluth was so fed up with how the pre-Little Mermaid animation department was going that he broke away and formed his own animation studio, with The Secret of NIMH being their first offering. At a time when Disney animation seemed dead--the early 80s--Bluth's first solo effort was an extremely welcome pleasure that trumpeted a new force in the animation field.

But, while Bluth went on to bigger box-office success with The Land Before Time, his subsequent films largely failed to match the appeal of this wonderful adaptation of Mrs. Brisby and the Rats of NIMH, Robert C. O'Brien's children's novel about a band of ultra-intelligent rodents scrambling to relocate before a farmer plows over their turf. Elizabeth Hartman (A Patch of Blue, The Beguiled) provides the voice of Mrs. Brisby, a desperate mother mouse trying to locate an antedote to cure her dying son, and Dom Deluise does stand-out work as the voice of Jeremy, the clumsy black crow who comes to the family's aid. Peter Strauss and Derek Jacobi provide the voices of two opposing elder statesmen in the rat council, John Carridine assays the role of a wise old owl, and two notable child actors--Shannon Dougherty and Wil Wheaton--play Mrs. Brisby's older children. One very refreshing aspect of this movie: no clunky songs to get in the way. But the Jerry Goldsmith score is still very nice. Gather the kids and check it out.