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Caryl Chessman was what they used to call “a nasty piece of work.” Born in 1921, by the time he was 20 he had spent time in three reform schools and three prisons, including San Quentin, Chino and Folsom. He stole his first car at 16 and by the time he was caught, for the umpteenth time, in 1947, he had robbed liquor stores, burgled homes, stolen cars and, finally, led police on a bullet-riddled 10 mile high speed car chase through Los Angeles. When he was stopped, he ran from the car into the neighborhood, chased on foot by the cops until he was tripped up and handcuffed. 

Or, as Chessman himself put it, “I am not generally regarded as a pleasant or socially minded fellow.”

He would have been just another petty criminal with a lifetime of serial prison terms but for a series of sensational crimes, which ended in that car chase and capture. 

In late 1947 and early 1948, there were a series of robberies in Los Angeles in which a man in a gray Ford coupe with a red police light would flag down drivers, point a gun in their face and rob them of what cash they had. He became known in the papers as the “Red Light Bandit.” A special police task force was created to track him down. 

On Jan. 19, the red light bandit stopped a car with a couple in it, robbed the man and then dragged the woman out of the car and forced her to perform fellatio on him. Three days later, he stopped a man and the man’s 17-year-old neighbor, robbed him and took the girl into his car, drove several miles, stopped and attempted to rape her. Failing in that, attempted anal rape, and failing in that, forced her to perform oral sex on him. He then drove her to her neighborhood and left her on the side of the road. 

The next day, police spotted the Ford coupe, implicated in the crimes, and gave chase, gunfire and all. And when they caught Chessman (and his accomplice, who was later convicted of several of the robberies he had pulled off with Chessman), the young rape victim identified Chessman as her assailant. Later, the first victim also identified him. Evidence was found in the coupe, including a red ribbon the young girl had lost in the attack. 

A three-day trial ended with Chessman convicted of 17 counts of robbery, rape, attempted rape and kidnapping. Chessman had chosen to act as his own attorney. The judge tried his best to dissuade him, but Chessman persisted, and defended himself incompetently. 

The problem that brought Chessman to national and international attention was that he was convicted, in part, under a 1933 California law, called a “baby Lindbergh law,” which offered the death penalty in cases where kidnapping was accompanied by another crime and led to “bodily harm.” Chessman’s crime ticked all the boxes. No one had been killed, though, and for many, including California’s governor Pat Brown, the death penalty in such cases was too extreme. Brown was a vocal opponent of the death penalty. 

Chessman, protesting his innocence and claiming to know who the “real” red light bandit was, filed appeal on appeal, getting nowhere. Various judges and judicial panels put stays on the execution order and Chessman was on the edge of his death eight times, always getting a last-minute stay of execution. This went on for nearly 12 years, becoming an international cause célèbre, and a rallying point for the anti-death-penalty movement. 

“A cat, I am told, has nine lives,” wrote Chessman. “If that is true, I know how a cat feels.”

He wrote three books while on death row. As he put it in one of them, The Face of Justice, “I won the dubious distinction of having existed longer under death sentence than any other condemned man in the nation’s then 179-year history. Day after day, I would go on breaking my own record.”

Chessman’s case was covered widely in the news, especially in the last year. He was featured on the covers of Time magazine and Germany’s Der Spiegel. Rallies were held worldwide. Folk singers wrote ballads. 

I was in seventh grade at the time, and remember quite well how much Chessman was in the news. It was the first time I was ever fully thoughtful about the death penalty. 

In the years Chessman waited for his date with the gas chamber, the baby Lindbergh law was repealed, although not retroactively. The anti-death penalty movement gained traction, and Gov. Brown found himself unable to commute Chessman’s sentence because California law required that the state supreme court concur to the commutation, which they refused to do. 

And so, on May 2, 1960, Chessman was led to the gas chamber at San Quentin Prison. 

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“I guess I’ll just have to practice holding my breath.”

— Caryl Chessman

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It is called “capital punishment,” because “capital” (“of the head,” derived via the Latin capitalis from caput, “head”) refers to execution by beheading, one of the older, and historically quite popular, forms of criminal execution. 

The gas chamber was originally considered an improvement on earlier methods, and thought less cruel than hanging, electrocution, beheading or being shot by a firing squad. Just how “painless” death by cyanide gas is is up for discussion. At best, it is not a pretty sight. 

The death of Caryl Chessman in San Quentin’s gas chamber on May 2, 1960, was described by several reporters. He was brought to the large metal capsule with two chairs, side by side. He was placed in one and straps attached to his arms, legs and torso. A doctor attaches a long stethoscope tube to the condemned’s chest. 

Chessman; San Quentin gas chamber; wax exhibit of Chessman at Mme. Tussaud’s

One reporter wrote, “The doctor of the prison walks up and utters the victim’s full name — you know, like “Richard Allen McVictim” — the full legal name you only hear when you are in trouble.”

“After they strap the soon-deceased into the metal chair, one of the guards, usually at 10:02 a.m. is wont to tell the victim something like, ‘Take a deep breath as soon as you smell the gas — it will make it easier for you (“how the fuck would you know” is what Barbara Graham is legended to have replied) [when she was executed in 1955].”

Continuing from another reporter, “The execution squad left the chamber and quickly closed and sealed the big airtight door. At 10:03 a.m., Warden Dickson nodded to Max Brice, the state executioner, a tall man in a dark business suit, who stood next to him. Brice moved a lever and a dozen egg-shaped Dupont cyanide pellets in a cheesecloth bag were lowered into a vat of sulphuric acid under the death chair. Almost instantly, deadly invisible fumes began to rise in the chamber. Chessman took a deep breath and held it, warding off unconsciousness for as long as possible. But the fumes must have reached him very quickly because witnesses saw his nose twitch, then he expelled the breath he was holding and breathed in. He looked over at Eleanor Black once again and smiled a sad, half-smile just before his head fell forward. Seconds later, foamy saliva began to drool from his open mouth.”

Further on, “In the chamber, Caryl Chessman’s body began to react to the death that was seizing it. He vomited up part of his breakfast; his bladder and bowels emptied inside his clothes. Then his heart stopped beating. At 10:12 the physician listening through the stethoscope advised Warden Dickson that Chessman was dead. Dickson turned to one of the execution squad officers. ‘Start the blowers.’ The officer threw a switch and a fan high above the chamber began to suck out the fumes and the stench.”

Public hanging; Ruth Snyder in the electric chair, 1929; Weegee photo of gas chamber execution

Finally, from another account, “Reporters one has interviewed who have witnessed executions say that there are screams, coughing, hacking, wild facial grimaces and drool. The murdered human loses control over his system, drooling…  The body slumps. After 8 to 10 minutes, the heart stops. The gas is sucked out of the chamber, the puke and defecation is hosed from the metal, the body is hauled away.”

Death by cyanide gas was first introduced in 1924 with the execution of Tong gang murderer Gee Jon in Carson City, Nev. The state supreme court ruled that gas was not “cruel and unusual punishment, but should be considered as “inflicting the death penalty in the most humane manner known to modern science.”

The desire to kill offenders humanely drove justice systems and penologists from the late 1700s onward. The most famous of “humane” methods was proposed by Joseph-Ignace Guillotin to the French National Assembly in 1789 in the form of decapitation “by means of a simple mechanism.” Although that mechanism had been around in various forms for centuries, it took on Guillotin’s name: a tall wooden frame holding a heavy angled blade that would drop from a height and sever head from body more cleanly and with less fuss than the older, more traditional sword or ax decapitations, which were sometimes rather gruesome and could take several whacks to get it right. 

Last public execution by guillotine in France, 1939

The guillotine — aka the “National Razor” — was last used in France for public execution in 1939, and last used at all in 1977 and outlawed in 1981. In use in the 20th century, the process could be quite efficient, as seen in a moment of Gilles Pontecorvo’s 1966 hyper-realistic film, The Battle of Algiers. A prisoner is marched to an inner courtyard of the prison where he is strapped to a vertical board which pivots down under the blade, which falls and severs the head — a process that took all of two or three seconds from start to finish. No ritual, no ceremony. If you are thinking of scenes of Louis XVI or Marie Antoinette on the scaffold making noble speeches, forget it. Pivot, slice, bounce. Quick as that. The headless body is then rolled over onto a gurney and with the head thrown in, wheeled away. 

Each new version of “humane” execution has been followed by another attempt as the previous became recognized as barbaric. And so, in the U.S., the gas chamber and electrocution, followed by lethal injection and most recently, by nitrogen asphyxiation. 

The barbarity of earlier methods is to modern moralities appalling.  Before the Age of Enlightenment and before jails and prisons became widespread in the 19th century, the primary punishments were public humiliation (such as the stocks), fines, torture, and death. These were pretty much the gamut. Death was meted out for even petty crimes. 

In Medieval England, you could be executed for: theft; cattle rustling; blasphemy; sodomy; incest; adultery; fraud; insult to the king; failure to pay taxes; extortion; kidnapping; being Roman Catholic (at one point); being Protestant (at another point) — and the list goes on. It is estimated that some 72,000 people were executed under the reign of Henry VIII alone. 

As late as 1820, in the British era of the so-called “Bloody Laws,” you could be executed for shoplifting, insurance fraud, or cutting down a cherry tree in an orchard. 

And we haven’t even mentioned the sin of being the wrong ethnicity. Millions upon millions have been murdered under official sanction for that, not only in Nazi Germany, but in the Ottoman Empire, in China, or Burma, or Rwanda. Genocide is a new word, but for an ancient practice. 

And historically, the methods could be grizzly. Torture on the wheel, for one, where you would be tied to a wheel, perhaps held up in the air, to die over a period of days from hunger and thirst, or from the broken bones and ruptured organs caused by the process. 

There was the gibbet, where the condemned was hung in a cage in public, again to die of hunger and thirst over days exposed to the elements.

One of the oldest methods was stoning, popular in the Old Testament and in modern fundamentalist Islam. It is a punishment still in use in some Islamic countries. 

 

As is beheading, the official execution method of Saudi Arabia. 

Other methods used in the past include: burning at the stake; boiling in oil or water; crushing by an elephant; fed to the lions or other animals; trampling by horses; being buried alive; crucifixion; disembowelment; dismemberment (as in being drawn and quartered); drowning; being pushed off a cliff; being flayed alive; garrotting; being walled up (immurement); being crushed under weights; impalement; having molten metal poured down the gullet; being tied in sack with wild animals and thrown into a river; poisoning; methodically slicing off body pieces until death; suffocation in ash. 

And there’s always tying the condemned to the mouth of a cannon and firing it, blowing the victim to pieces. And to prevent the spilling of blood, ancient Mongolians would execute prisoners by breaking their backs.  Then, there’s the Brazen Bull, a hollow bronze effigy of a bull wherein the condemned was encased and cooked inside as a fire was burned underneath. The Soviet method was to simply shoot the prisoner quickly in the back of the head, often without warning. And the Viking “Blood Eagle,” in which the condemned was put face down and his ribs cut from his backbone on both sides, spread open and the lungs pulled out and laid out as “wings.” 

The methods seemed to elicit the most sadistic tendencies of the human race. Death by torture was common. 

Western cultures have slowly weaned themselves of capital punishment over the past two centuries, albeit in fits and starts. It is uncommon in the developed world, but still practiced in much of the rest of the world. The U.S. remains largely squirmy at the idea, but, state-by-state, has either outlawed the death penalty or reveled in it (I’m looking at you, Texas). 

The arguments for and against continue to be made. Is it retribution; is it meant to discourage crime; or is it a hygienic process to eliminate unwanted criminal elements from society? With so many convictions being overturned by newer evidence, especially DNA evidence, can it still be justified? 

As Moses Maimonides said in the 12th century, “It is better and more satisfactory to acquit a thousand guilty persons than to put a single innocent one to death.”

San Quentin lethal injection room 

Currently, there are just under 2,500 inmates in the U.S. waiting execution. The average time between sentencing and execution is now 20 years, far exceeding Chessman’s 11 years and 10 months. Forty-two percent are White; 42 percent are Black; 14 percent are Hispanic. Just under 98 percent are male and more than two-thirds have not got even a high-school education. Since 1972, 1.6 percent have been formally exonerated and released. 

There were a lot of pleasures to working for a newspaper before the imposition of austerity that followed corporate buy-outs. The earlier parts of my career in the Features Department with The Arizona Republic in Phoenix, Ariz., came with great joys. 

Before being eaten up by Gannett, The Republic was almost a kind of loony bin of great eccentrics, not all of whom were constitutionally suited to journalism. Those days, it was fun to come to work. When Gannett took over, it imposed greater professionalism in the staff, but the paper lost a good deal of personality. Those who went through those years with me will know who I’m talking about, even without my naming names. But there was a TV writer who tried to build himself a “private sanctum” in the open office space, made out of a wall of bricks of old VHS review tapes. There was a society columnist who refused to double-check the spelling of names in his copy. A movie critic who could write a sentence as long as a city bus without ever using an actual verb. She was also famous for not wearing underwear. 

I could go on. There was the travel writer who once wrote that in Mexico City there had been a politician “assassinated next to the statue commemorating the event.” And a naive advice columnist whose world-view could make a Hallmark card seem cynical. The book editor seemed to hate the world. The history columnist was famous for tall-tales. 

And let’s not forget the copy editor who robbed a bank and tried to escape on a bicycle. 

There were quite a few solid, hardworking reporters. Not everyone was quite so out-there. But let’s just say that there was a tolerance for idiosyncrasy, without which I would never have been hired. 

The newspaper had a private park, called the “Ranch,” where employees could go for picnics and Fourth-of-July fireworks. The managing editor was best known for stopping by your desk on your birthday to offer greetings.  

What can I say? Just a few months before I was hired, the publisher of the paper resigned in disgrace when it was revealed that his fabulous military career as a Korean War pilot (he was often photographed in uniform with his medals) was, in fact, fabulous. It was a fable he made up. 

And so, this was an environment in which I could thrive. And for 25 years, I did, even through corporate de-flavorization and a raft of changing publishers, executive editors, editors-in-chief and various industry hot-shots brought in to spiffy up the joint. I was providentially lucky in always having an excellent editor immediately in charge of me, who nurtured me and helped my copy whenever it needed it. 

(It has been my experience that in almost any institution, the higher in management you climb, the less in touch you are with the actual process of your business. The mid-level people keep things functioning, while upper management keeps coming up with “great ideas” that only bollix things up. Very like the difference between sergeants and colonels.)

The staff I first worked with, with all their wonderful weirdnesses, slowly left the business, replaced with better-trained, but less colorful staffers, still interesting, still unusual by civilian standards, but not certifiable. The paper became better and more professional. And then, it became corporate. When The Republic, and the afternoon Phoenix Gazette, were family-owned by the Pulliams, we heard often of our “responsibility to our readers.” When Gannett bought the paper out, we heard instead of our “responsibility to our shareholders.” Everything changed. 

And this was before the internet killed newspapers everywhere. Now things are much worse. When I first worked for The Republic, there was a staff of more than 500. Now, 10 years after my retirement and decimated by corporate restructuring and vain attempts to figure out digital journalism, the staff is under 150. I retired just in time. 

Looking back, though, I realize that every job I’ve ever had has had its share of oddballs. 

The first job I had, in my senior year at college, was on the groundskeeping team at school. It was full of eccentrics, mostly Quakers fulfilling their alternative service as conscientious objectors during the Vietnam war. One day, Bruce Piephoff and I were trimming the hedges at the front gate and he lit up a joint and offered me one. Traffic streamed in front of us, but he didn’t seem to mind. A few years later, Piephoff robbed a restaurant, grabbing everything he could from the till and then walking up the street throwing the cash at anyone he passed. He seems to have done well since then, now a singer and recording artist. 

Later, I worked at a camera store. My manager was Bill Stanley, who looked rather like Groucho in his You Bet Your Life days. Stanley chewed on a cigar all day, turning it into a spatulate goo. He had an improvisatory relation with the English language. When an obnoxious customer began spouting stupid opinions, Stanley yelled at him, “You talk like a man with a paper asshole.” When someone asked about the big boss, Stanley told her, “He came through here like a breeze out of bats.” Every day there were new words in new orders. 

When I worked at the Black weekly newspaper, the editor was a drunk named Mike Feeney, who had once worked at the New York Times and I would see him daily sitting at his desk surrounded by a dozen half-finished paper cups of coffee, some growing mold, and he would be filling out the Times crossword puzzle, in ink! And he would finish it before ever getting to the “down” clues. He gave me my first lessons as a reporter. “What reporting is,” he said, “is that you call up the widow and you say, ‘My condolences, I’m sorry that your husband has died, but why did you shoot him?’” 

The zoo in Seattle was also full of crazies. There was Bike Lady, Wolf Man, Gorilla Lady. And the kindly old relief keeper, Bill Cowell. One day, the place was full of kids running around screaming, spilling soda pop and popcorn, and Bill leaned over to me, “Don’tcha just wanna run them over?” 

And I finally got to be a teacher, in the art department of a two-year college. The art staff was especially close, and we had dinner together about once a week. There were some great parties. A Thanksgiving with a contest to make sculpture out of food. The winner was an outhouse made from cornbread, with a graham cracker door and a half a hard-boiled egg as a privy seat. I made a roast chicken in the form of Jackie Gleason, with a pear attached as his head. Another time the drawing teacher, Steve Wolf helped us put on a shadow-puppet show. He had us falling on the floor with the most obscene performance he called, “The Ballerina and the Dog.” 

And so, I suppose I have always worked with a class of people outside the normal order. So, when I was hired by the Features editor at The Republic and he was wearing Japanese sandals, it hardly registered with me. Mike McKay gave me my first real job in newspapers. 

 But, oh, how I loved my years there. Newspapers everywhere were profit-rich and the paper was willing to send reporters all over to cover stories. I benefited by getting to travel across the country, and even the world. 

I was primarily an art critic — and ran immediately afoul of the local cowboy artist fans when I reviewed the annual Cowboy Artists of America exhibition and sale at the Phoenix Art Museum. It was one of the major events on the social calendar, when all the Texas oil millionaires would descend on Phoenix to buy up pictures of cowboys and Indians. 

The event was an institution in the city, but I wasn’t having any of it. I wrote a fairly unfriendly review of the art and got instant pushback. I wrote, among other things, “It’s time, Phoenix, to hang up your cap pistols. It’s time to grow up and leave behind these adolescent fantasies.” And, “their work is just, well, maybe a few steps above black velvet Elvis paintings.” I was hanged in effigy by Western Horseman magazine. It was great fun. 

But my portfolio expanded, and by the end of my sojourn in the desert, I was also dance critic, classical music critic and architecture critic — one of the last things I did was complete a 40,000 word history of Phoenix architecture. I also became back-up critic for theater and film. And I wrote hundreds of travel stories. 

The paper sent me to Boston, New York, Chicago, Miami, San Francisco, Reno, and almost once a year, to Los Angeles. I covered major art exhibits by Van Gogh, Cezanne, Audubon, Jackson Pollock, among others. 

Because Frank Lloyd Wright had a Scottsdale connection, I wrote about him often and got to travel to and write about many of his most famous buildings, including Taliesin in Wisconsin and Falling Water in Pennsylvania. 

Pacific Coast Highway

But the best were the travel stories, as when they let me take 10 days to drive up the Pacific Coast Highway from Tijuana to Vancouver, or another time when I also drove from Mexico to Canada, but along the Hundredth Meridian in the center of the continent — and then down the Mississippi River from Lake Itasca in Minnesota to the Gulf of Mexico. Over several different trips, I cobbled together a series of stories about the Appalachian Mountains from Alabama to the Gaspé Peninsula. 

Mississippi River near Cairo, Ill. 

I had assignments that let me cover all the national parks in Utah, and several excursions to every corner of Arizona. In 1988, I went to South Africa for the paper. 

Indian Ocean, Durban, South Africa

Of course, when Gannett took over, the travel miles shrunk to near zero. They didn’t want to pay for anything they didn’t absolutely have to. 

I left in 2012. The handwriting was on the wall. Thoughtful pieces about art and culture were no longer wanted. We were asked to provide “listicles,” such as “Top 5 things to this weekend.” After I left, I heard from former colleagues how the photography staff was let go, the copy editors were fired — how can you run a newspaper with no copy editors? They are the heart of a newspaper. They saved my butt I don’t know how many times. But no, they are all gone. 

It was a sweet spot I was lucky to have landed on, to be able to observe the old “Front Page” days in their waning glory, and leave when everything was drowning in corporatism. I have often said that if Gannett thought they could make more money running parking garages, they would turn The Republic building into one. 

When I left, a group of colleagues bought and gave me a blog site. I’ve been writing on it ever since — now just under 700 entries — and it proves what I have always said, writers never really retire, they just stop getting paid for it.

In the 1920s, the world of animated cartoons was the Wild West. The same group of animators all worked for each other, began their own studios, worked for other studios, went bankrupt and built new studios. There were Bray Productions, Van Beuren Studios, Terry Toons, Barré Studios. All populated by a circulating cast of the pioneers of movie cartoons: Paul Terry, Walter Lantz, John Bray, Amadee Van Beuren, Pat Sullivan, Ub Iwerks, Vernon Stallings, Earl Hurd, Grim Natwick. And, of course, Max and Dave Fleischer, and Walt Disney. 

Among them, they created a whole series of popular cartoon characters that populated the silent era of animation: Bobby Bumps, Colonel Heeza Liar, Felix the Cat, Oswald Rabbit, Ko-Ko the Clown, Milton the Mouse, Krazy Kat, Farmer Al Falfa, Mutt and Jeff, and an early, non-cat-and-mouse version of Tom and Jerry. 

There were popular series, such as the Aesop’s Fable animal cartoons and Disney’s early Alice cartoons. 

I watched tons of these old, silent cartoons as a kid when they were licensed to TV syndication. In those early years, television was desperate for content and these cartoon mice and cats filled up the after-school hours. They were part of the cultural landscape for early Boomers; they are now largely lost to prehistory and archivists. Some may be found, usually in fuzzy, bad prints, on YouTube. 

By the end of the 1920s, two studios stood on top of the pile. On the West Coast, via Missouri, there was Disney; in New York, there were the Fleischer brothers. 

The two studios were poles apart. Disney was bland and inoffensive; the Fleischers were urban, surreal and ballsy. Disney came up with Mickey Mouse, who, while visually identifiable, is about the most innocuous character in the history of animation. What is Mickey’s character? Well? He has none. 

But in New York, the Fleischers created the “Out of the Inkwell” series, combining live action and animation. In most of these short cartoons, the dominant brother, Max, would open a bottle of ink and out would pop his characters, or he would draw them and they would come to life. His chief character was Ko-Ko the Clown (later, just Koko). 

Max Fleischer was an energetic inventor and came up with many of the techniques since common in animation. He held some 200 patents. Fleischer was an artist and could draw fluently. Disney, by contrast was an indifferent draftsman, but, in contrast with the hapless Fleischers, he was a world-class businessman who went on to found an empire of cartoons, films, TV shows and amusement parks. Disney made his cartoons for a researched audience; the Fleischers made their animations for themselves. By the end of World War II, they could no longer compete. 

But what a run they had, beginning with Koko, followed by Bimbo the dog and then, paydirt — Betty Boop was born. She arrived in this world at the same time as talkies. It is impossible to imagine Betty without her voice. 

Disney often claimed to have made the first animated cartoon with sound, in the 1928 short, Steamboat Willie, with Mickey Mouse. But by then, the Fleischers had been running cartoons with sound for four years. They pioneered the “bouncing ball” sing-along cartoons. And for that, Steamboat Willie is hardly a “talkie” — there is no dialog in it, only sound effects. And compared with Disney’s later slickness, it is a surprisingly crude cartoon. The Fleischers were miles ahead of Disney technically. 

Betty first appeared in the 1930 cartoon Dizzy Dishes. Fleischer asked one of his animators, Grim Natwick, to come up with a girlfriend for their established character, Bimbo, and Natwick whipped up a sexy poodle. She has only a bit part in Dizzy Dishes, singing onstage, while the hero, Bimbo, sees her and falls in love. Betty has long doggy ears and a dark, wet doggy nose. 

Later, Betty evolved into a Jazz-Age flapper with human ears and nose, and a sexy bareback dress, short enough to show off her garter. 

Betty got her own series of cartoons, and from 1930 to 1939, she starred in 90 releases. Her career spanned two eras in early film history — the pre-Code days until 1934, and then the clamp-down by the Catholic Legion of Decency and the Hollywood Hays Code, which put quite a crimp in Betty’s style. 

After her first 30 films, the Code kicked in. In her final pre-Code short, Betty Boop’s Trial (June, 1934), Betty turns her back on the camera, flips up her tiny skirt to show off her panties and bottom. 

It’s hard now to recognize just how shocking and adult the Betty Boop cartoons could be. The Fleischer cartoons were made for grown-up audiences, not just kids. There were sex, violence, gritty urban scenes and even a recognition of the Great Depression. She was, after all, a Jazz-Age independent woman. 

And despite some unfortunate blackface scenes, Fleischer films were surprisingly integrated. African-American musicians Louis Armstrong and Cab Calloway star in several Boop-toons. I don’t want to make too much of this, there are still some horrid African cannibal stereotypes  and some blackface in several of the cartoons. But the Fleischers seem to have been fairly progressive for their time. Some of their cartoons were refused showing in the South. 

And Betty was a Jazz Age Modern Woman — at least before 1934. Racy and risque, she dances a topless hula in Betty Boop’s Bamboo Isle (1932); prances before the fires of hell in a see-through nightie in Red Hot Mamma (1934); has her dress lifted up to show her underwear in Chess-Nuts (1932). 

Betty’s virtue is frequently besieged and there is little subtlety over what her signature phrase means in 1932’s Boop-Oop-A-Doop. Betty is a circus performer and the giant beast of a ringmaster lusts after her. In a creepy Harvey Weinstein move, the ringmaster paws all over Betty and implies that if she doesn’t do what he wants, she will lose her job. Betty sings “Don’t take my boop-oop-a-doop away.” 

By the end, she is saved by Koko the clown and her virginity is safe. “No! He couldn’t take my boop-oop-a-doop away!” 

 In the 1933 Betty Boop cartoon, Popeye the Sailor, she only appears briefly, doing the topless hootchie-coochie dance she did in Bamboo Isle, joined by Popeye onstage, also wearing a grass skirt. The short introduced Popeye in his first appearance in an animated short. 

As Betty became tamed and dowdy after 1934, her popularity waned just as Popeye’s grew, eventually overtaking her as the Fleischer’s prime property. 

By the end, in 1939, Betty had turned into a swing-music figure. Her head-to-body ratio had subsided. Her skirts lengthened and her neckline rose. Then she disappeared.

The Fleischers continued making Popeye cartoons, lost their company to Paramount Pictures, who then fired the brothers. Their last project with Paramount was the stylish Art-Deco inspired Superman cartoons. 

Betty had a resurgence, not as a cartoon star, but as a pop-culture star and even a feminist icon, in the 1980s, with a merchandising boom. She then appealed to a generation that may not even have known she had been an animated cartoon star. 

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“Don’t take my boop-oop-a-doop away!”

— “Boop-Oop-A-Doop,” 1932

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When Betty Boop was introduced in 1930, Fleischer animator Grim Natwick based her look and sound on popular singer Helen Kane, who had a baby-voice and scatted as she sang. In 1932, Kane sued the Fleischers over their use of her image. It came to trial in 1934. 

“Your honor,” said Kane’s lawyer to Justice Edward J. McGoldrick, “we contend this character [Betty Boop] has Miss Kane’s personality her mannerisms her plumpness, her curls, her eyes, and that she sings the songs Miss Kane made famous.” A style Kane called the “baby vamp.” 

Kane (1904-1966) was born in New York and by age 15 was performing professionally. She achieved popularity in the 1920s on stage in vaudeville and on Broadway. She recorded 22 songs and made seven films in Hollywood. Her trademark was a squeaky baby voice and scat singing. But her style of singing was going out of fashion by the early 1930s, although she continued to find work onstage. When Betty Boop came out, she sued the Fleischers for $250,000 (equivalent to about $5 million today). The trial lasted two weeks and filled the newspapers with juicy stories. 

Betty Boop was described in the court case as “combin[ing] in appearance the childish with the sophisticated — a large round baby face with big eyes and a nose like a button, framed in a somewhat careful coiffure, with a very small body of which perhaps the leading characteristic is the most self-confident little bust imaginable.”

Kane’s lawyers made a tactical mistake by basing their claim on the fact that she uses scat syllables in her singing, including the famous “Boop-oop-a-doop.” Kane claimed to have invented the practice of singing nonsense words to music, a claim too easily disproven. 

The Fleischers’ lawyer demonstrated that Kane had seen a juvenile Black performer, Baby Esther Jones, who shared a manager with Kane, and that Baby Esther (also sometimes called L’il Esther) used the same scat singing and baby voice before her. 

Kane caricature and Sweet Betty

Trial transcripts can be quite a kick in the pants to judicial dignity. Asked what Baby Esther did on stage, the manager said, “She sang the chorus and during her choruses, we had four bars omitted, which we called the break, of so-called ‘hot licks.’” Question: “During those breaks or ‘hot licks,’ what did Baby Esther do?” Answer: “A funny expression in her face and a meaningless sound.” Q: Will you tell us what those sounds were?” A: “At various times they differed, they sound like ‘boop-boop-a-doop,’ and sometimes…” Kane’s lawyer then objects. So Fleischer’s lawyer rephrases:

“Give us as nearly as you can how they sounded?” A: “I could do it better if I had rhythm with it.” Q: “Give us the sounds.” A: “Boo-did-do-doo.” Q: “Where there other sounds besides the one that you have just mentioned?” A: “Yes, quite a few.” Q: “Will you give us as many as you can remember?” A: “Whad-da-da-da” Q: “Others.” A: “There are quite a few — ‘Lo-di-de-do’” Q: Any others that you recall?” A: “Sounds like a time she would make a sound like sort of a moaning sound, finished off with ‘de-do’” 

According to one newspaper account, “That’s when the court stenographer threw up the sponge and admitted he couldn’t spell such things.” 

At one point, film of Betty Boop and film of Helen Kane were shown, without sound, to compare their styles. 

Another newspaper account reported “Except for the occasional throat-clearings of a roomful of attorneys, it was strictly a silent performance, the court having ruled agains any audible ‘booping.’

“Miss Kane’s attorneys strove vainly to have the sound tracks included, saying they wished to show how Betty Boop has ‘simulated our voice and our style of singing,’ but Justice McGoldrick ruled that any ‘booping’ would be incompetent, immaterial and irrelevant.”

Kane with three women who voiced Betty Boop in the cartoons

The fact that Betty Boop was clearly based on Kane (later readily admitted by Boop designer Grim Natwick) hardly mattered. The judge ruled that the sound of a voice cannot be copyrighted, and that the nonsense syllable singing was quite common beyond its use by Kane and found for the Fleischers. 

Three of the women who voiced Betty Boop in the Fleischer cartoons had all been participants earlier in a Helen Kane imitation contest. They had all performed, outside the Boop-toons as Kane knock-offs. 

The knowledge that Betty Boop imitated the White Kane who imitated the Black Baby Esther has recently raised the specter of “cultural appropriation” — a concept that has now become something of an ethical fad. I know of few things sillier or more pointless. 

After all, Baby Esther was known as a “Little Florence Mills,” imitating that singer. The actual Mills took over on Broadway from Gertrude Saunders in the 1921 hit, Shuffle Along. Each performer borrowing from the previous. 

In the Fleischer trial, the famous pianist and composer, Clarence Williams testified that he’d been using the scat technique since 1915. Very few things have virgin birth; most things are developments of other things. We could make the claim that scat began with Stephen Foster and Camptown Races and its “doo-dah, doo-dah” or trace it back to the 16th century and Josquin de Prez’s frotolla El Grillo, where the singer imitates the sound of a cricket. 

As the Fleischer trial judge ruled, “the vocables ‘boop-boop-a-doop’ and similar sounds had been used by other performers prior to the plaintiff.” 

The whole issue of cultural appropriation is bothersome, to say the least. I am not talking here about cases such as when an Anglo artist sells his work as Indian art, pretending to be Native American. That isn’t cultural appropriation, it is simply fraud. But when an artist finds something from another culture that piques his interest and creativity, well, that’s just normal. Everybody is always borrowing from everybody else. It is how culture moves forward. 

Is spaghetti cultural appropriation because the tomato came from indigenous cultures in the New World? 

Mexican Japanese and Filipino spaghetti

How about when spaghetti makes the journey back to the Americas and becomes Mexican chipotle spaghetti. Or further travels to Japan with added daikon, or to the Philippines, where they add hot dogs (pace Sheldon Cooper)? 

In the Columbian Exchange, the New World gave the Old not only tomatoes, but corn (maiz), cacao, vanilla, potatoes and tobacco. 

The Old gave back to the New grapes, onions, apples, wheat, to say nothing of swine, cattle, horses and honey bees. 

So, today, there is nothing more typically Navajo than satellite dishes and pickup trucks. 

It’s all a great mix, and to forbid such churn is to stall human progress. Culture is never static but always on the move. “Traditional” is always a museum-piece. 

I’m not making a case here for blackface minstrelsy — such things are rightfully seen as appalling. But should that mean that Vanilla Ice should not rap? Or that Jessye Norman shouldn’t sing opera? That we should all be stuck in our particular silos and never learn from others? 

George Harrison should never have learned the sitar? That Sergio Leone should have left the plot of A Fistful of Dollars to Akira Kurosawa? 

That Cubism should be trashed because Picasso became fascinated by African masks? 

This isn’t to say there aren’t egregious examples, but they mostly concern stereotyping —  which is to say, ignorance, a failure to see what is actually going on in the other culture. finding something good and useful in another culture and adapting it is rather different, even if you take the original completely out of context. 

Cross-fertilization is not only one of the pleasures of culture, but one of its essentials. Culture is a group enterprise, not an individual one, and it lives through free exchange. 

The current blather about cultural appropriation reminds me, more than anything else, of the Victorian fear of the body and sex, like calling legs “limbs.” It is blue-stocking puritanism and to hell with it. 

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