AN AESTHETIC OF NONSENSE PT. 3

 If, in my previous writings on the rationales for metaphenomenal fantasy, I've given the impression that nonsense-fantasy was a new creation, I should correct that by mentioning that a fair number of archaic tales invoke the rationale of "just because." In fact, in Chapter 7 of Susanne Langer's PHILOSOPHY IN A NEW KEY (which I referenced in yesterday's post), Langer begins her generally unflattering description of simple folktales with some examples from Melanesian lore. Her first example, for instance, involves a buffalo and a crocodile having a dispute, whereon they ask various other animals, or even inanimate objects like a mortar and a floor-mat, to judge the quarrel. The idea of attributing life even to clearly nonliving things seems to me more extreme than that of talking animals who behave like people, though both are examples of nonsense-fantasy. Another example of non-living things being given life appears in the (presumably much later) Japanese conception of tsukumogami.                                                       

The Aesop's fables offer a lesser range of nonsense-fantasy. Sometimes the animals therein are shown only doing regular animal activities, as in "The Dog and the Bone," with the exception that the animal may be given some degree of human intelligence. Other stories show such creatures like the Fox and the Stork dining together and using human utensils.                                                              

In the annals of literature, the example of Lewis Carroll's Alice-verse stands as one of the most sustained examples of pure nonsense-fantasy. However, L. Frank Baum's later Oz books might be termed "impure nonsense-fantasies." Sometimes Baum's world follows rough rules about what its system of magic can accomplish, with its witches and flying monkeys and prophetic hats. Other times, though, the world stretches to include a number of entities I'd consider "just because" fantasies, like the Hammerheads and the porcelain-people of China Country. I'd have to read more of the Oz books to judge whether the logic of magic or that of "just because" holds greater sway overall.                                                                               

As impressive as some of the nonsense-fantasies of both oral and written stories might be, those that appeared in early American cartoons might outdo them both by sheer preponderance. Felix the Cat, rated as the first major continuing character of those early short cartoons, might be exemplary here. I don't know if he's the first character in all fantasy who could break off a part of himself-- almost always his tail-- and just will it to become some other object, like a fishhook or a question-mark. But thanks to the popularity of Felix, animated cartoons became increasingly associated with the ability to transform themselves, or aspects of their universe, into anything they pleased.           

That acceptance of the "anything goes" propensity of cartoons of course didn't keep some animators from following the more circumscribed pathways of Aesop. Donald Duck debuts in the 1934 cartoon "The Wise Little Hen," which like its source material simply depicts its anthropomorphic creatures dressing like humans and doing human things.                                                                                   

 I tend to believe that the majority of Disney's stories about anthropomorphic creatures follow the Aesopian pattern, in which clothes-wearing ducks and mice and dogs go around doing all sorts of human things, not least the mouse named Mickey owning a non-anthropomorphic dog. Carl Barks is justly celebrated for creating scores of stories about Donald Duck and Uncle Scrooge having adventures indistinguishable from what humans might do in similar circumstances, with the protagonists' ducky nature being the only "nonsense" element. Once in a while, though, Barks did apprise himself of random nonsense elements, such as "Lost in the Andes," wherein Donald and his nephews encounter square chickens that lay corresponding square eggs. Some of Barks' stories might be considered another breed of "impure nonsense," in that they combine the base nonsense-fantasy of human-like animals with either scientific or magical rationales. Here's what I wrote about Barks' use of a particular type of magic in his story "Oddball Odyssey:"                                                                                                                                                                                                                       'For her part, Magica provides exposition for the reader about her great new powers, about having "scrounged secrets" from old temples and caves that have given her control over the elements. Most interestingly, Magica advances a fairly sophisticated theory for the origin of the Greek pantheon: "those gods were more likely live sorcerers than figments of ancient dreams." This theory allowed Barks to have his cake and eat it too: he doesn't have to show his witchy villain garnering power from either old gods or, for that matter, Satanic sources. Instead, it's implied that ordinary mortals can generate magic powers from study of the universe's secrets, which is certainly an odd thing to find in a Disney comic book of the period.'                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                           Thus endeth my short history lesson, though I expect to reference some of these observations in related essays,

MYTHCOMICS: "LAND OF THE TOTEM POLES" (FOUR COLOR #263, 1950)

 

In my somewhat scattered re-reads of the two Disney titles wherein Carl Barks created his most distinctive work, UNCLE SCROOGE and DONALD DUCK, the latter series has usually seemed to show less potential for myth-mining. The Donald of the comics did become much more articulate than his animated forebear. But even when Donald went on wild adventures without his money-hungry uncle, those exploits didn't seem to spark Barks' imagination quite as much, as when the artist cooked up such bizarre entities as Magica DeSpell. The Larkies, and the inhabitants of Tralla La.

To be sure, with the selected story "Land of the Totem Poles," the main opponents faced by Donald and his resourceful trio of nephews aren't that distinctive. In fact, many modern readers would probably consider Barks' depiction of a primitive tribe of Indians in British Columbia to be condescending. But Barks' main theme in "Totem" revolves around his comic validation of American entrepreneurship, and so the Indians-- I'll name them after the punny river in their terrain, "the Kickmiquik"-- exist primarily to become his ambivalent customers.

Though in this story Donald Duck does show a great deal of determination in his pursuit of a hefty sales commission, though not that much common sense. Not only does he not research the area he's assigned to sell his goods in, he barely seems to have looked at the item he's supposed to sell. He tells his nephews that he thinks it's "some sort of pressure cooker," when the item he's supposed to sell to primitive tribes is a giant steam calliope. In contrast, the three kids bring along their own set of commission-goods, but those goods-- mostly makeup items-- are both sensible and easy to transport. After Donald fails to sell anything to his first prospect, while the kids succeed, he orders them to switch with him. Of course, the second customer, a remarkably hairy hermit, does buy what the kids are selling, so that Donald fails again. This trope, in which the kids frequently outpace their uncle in some way, was one Barks surely used to appeal to his kid-audience. 

However, just so the Ducks don't have an easier row to how, the kids take the hermit's order but don't leave him their "sample case," being just as motivated as Donald to make a big score even in unlikely circumstances. However, just as the river comes to an end, the Ducks see smoke signals. Donald in his blind chauvinism assumes that primitive Indians will go gaga over his sample case of makeup items. Barks takes a slight jab at this assumption, since the Kickmiquicks have heard that all palefaces are "bad medicine" and try to avoid the intrusive salesman. 

Donald does manage to rope in several tribe-persons with a demonstration of the makeup, but they start using the junk before he can make any explanations, and they turn on him. 

By good fortune, the nephews luck onto a method by which they can drive the calliope to the Kickmiquik village, all unaware of Donald's flight from dissatisfied customers. 

When the kids find out what's what, they try to rush to the rescue, but in so doing, they destroy the calliope. However, with typical Junior Woodchuck cleverness, they transfer some of the calliope's mechanisms to the natives' totem poles. And thus they again trump their uncle, for though at first the Kickmiquiks are terrified of their totems making horrendous sounds, they rapidly change their minds and become customers for a product that the salesmen never actually intended to market. You can't get a much better validation of entrepreneurship than that, even allowing for the many comic reversals in the story.

In closing I should add that Barks didn't just draw a bunch of stock Native Americans, as a lot of artists of the period would have in his shoes. Since Barks' story hinged upon the visual pun equating calliopes and totem poles, he clearly researched the attire and artwork of the Indians most associated with totem poles, those of the Pacific Northwest. So, even if the artist's treatment of the primitive tribe might not seem virtuous to many readers today, Barks certainly exerted himself to ground his story in the actual art seen in the real-life "lands of the totem poles."