Pop culture can be drivel but it can also be evocative of its era, a lens on its values, dreams, and fears. Having grown up with the debut of The Adventures of Rocky and Bullwinkle and having younger siblings who were a decade behind and able to enjoy Tom Slick, Super Chicken and the repackaged Dudley Do-Right of the Mounties, I am aware of how Jay Ward’s cartoons reflected the sensibilities and both exasperations/aspirations of their prominence. What I didn’t know was how the trials and struggles of the entrepreneur who brought these characters to life had contributed to the authenticity visible beneath the overblown characters.
In The Moose That Roared: The Story of Jay Ward, Bill Scott, a Flying Squirrel, and a Talking Moose,I learned how a Harvard Business School graduate launching a real estate career was able to rebound from a freak truck accident (runaway truck in the hills of Berkeley, California crashing through front window/wall of his office) and dedicate the bulk of his life to producing what was fun, funny, and of high quality. I didn’t know how much pain and difficulty in walking Jay Ward went through. I only remember seeing publicity pictures of him in his Napoleon costume, bravely pitching his products. I didn’t realize how his first series, Crusader Rabbit was virtually stolen from him by unscrupulous business partners. Nor did I know about Jay Ward’s health emergency where an airline flight from New York City had to make an emergency landing in Salt Lake City for his benefit (p. 61).
Having observed the entertainment (albeit mostly interactive entertainment) industry at close range, I could identity with Ward’s mistrust of ad agencies and network executives. And having lived through the era when all (or at least most of) my generation figured we could die in nuclear conflagration at any moment, I loved the Cold War humor of the The Adventures of Rocky and Bullwinkle because laughing masked the fear. And, as a self-confessed fan of “clever” word play, I’ve never forgotten those “punful” titles (two-for-the-price-of-one) like “Bullwinkle Bites Back” or “Nothing but the Tooth” (Episode #90, p. 362). My favorite might have been “You’ve Got Me in Stitches” or “Suture Self” (Episode #122, p. 364). No, I don’t have a phenomenal memory. Part of the beauty of this book is that it features 50+ pages of show notes (complete with listings of uncredited voice actors) for all of the aired episodes and even the Cap’n Crunch commercials.
The Moose That Roared: The Story of Jay Ward, Bill Scott, a Flying Squirrel, and a Talking Moose was not only a valuable and pleasurable reminiscence of an art form that helped shape me as an individual, it is a tremendous historical reference that has enabled me to appreciate the artistic quality of Ward’s “limited animation” series across the board (storyboard?). The late Bill Scott who wrote or edited and polished most of the scripts over the years was also a consummate voice actor and, most importantly, the voice of Bullwinkle. I laughed at the threat from Red Skelton (another cherished comedian of my childhood) to litigate over the voice of Bullwinkle sounding like the voice of Clem Kadiddlehopper (to which the comedian was reminded of how much Clem’s voice resembled ventriloquist Edgar Bergen’s Mortimer Snerd character and even, to some degree Disney’s Goofy—p. 182). As a kid, I remember laughing at the Kirward Derby storyline, even then knowing that there was a television personality named Durward Kirby. I thought it was great fun, but the personality apparently didn’t get the joke (p. 181-182). As I completed the book, I lamented the fact that a lot of difficult and valuable editing work on silent and early voice film classics of comedy had been done by Scott and film editor extraordinaire Skip Craig, though the one I would most have enjoyed seeing, the W. C. Fields feature, was never released due to an artistic difference between the Fields estate and Jay Ward (p. 300). Also sadly, the Buster Keaton feature was primarily screened in the U.K. as opposed to the U.S. (p. 300).
I remembered some early episodes of The Adventures of Rocky and Bullwinkle with what even a pre-teen Johnny viewed as crude animation. I wondered what Val-Mar was. The Moose That Roared: The Story of Jay Ward, Bill Scott, a Flying Squirrel, and a Talking Moose tells the horrifying (and yet, almost miraculous) story of outsourcing to Mexico with a studio built from scratch at the assistance of network and ad agency executives with a conflict of interest (pp. 66-69). Fortunately, for those who don’t realize what an accomplishment this was, the book provides a useful and informative glossary of technical terms in animation within its reference section (pp. 426-427).
The Moose That Roared: The Story of Jay Ward, Bill Scott, a Flying Squirrel, and a Talking Moose is a lively, bittersweet history of an iconic studio. Though never as lucrative or prolific as the studios at Disney, Warner, and Hanna-Barbara, Jay Ward Productions offered significantly more substantial artistic value than the others (at least, in the television production end). Personally, I would have relished even more stories and information on the voice actors involved over the years: Daws Butler (there is a lot, but I selfishly wanted more), William Conrad (what there was seemed very interesting, considering I’ve heard nearly all of his Gunsmoke episodes), Hans Conried (it was great, but there are always more stories about this fellow), June Foray (as talented as she was, she seems barely discussed in this work), Stan Freberg (for his influence more than his actual voice-acting, but still…), and Paul Frees (actually, he got quite a bit of coverage, though scattered). Having said that, of course, I recognize that the book is almost 450 pages as it is. What publisher would have let Scott write more on such a specialized subject. I think The Moose That Roared: The Story of Jay Ward, Bill Scott, a Flying Squirrel, and a Talking Moose served its purpose because, as the old show-biz adage goes, it left me wanting more.