Sic Twansit Gwowia Mundi

Posted by The Fallen on February 25, 2002

In Reply to: Chuck Jones obituary posted by R. Berg on February 23, 2002

: : : "Animation isn't the illusion of life; it is life," Chuck Jones once said.

: : : (AP) - Academy Award-winning animator Chuck Jones, who drew such beloved cartoon characters as Bugs Bunny, Daffy Duck, Elmer Fudd and Porky Pig, died at his home Friday (Feb. 22, 2002). He was 89. Jones worked on more than 300 animated films in a career that spanned more than 60 years, winning two Oscars as a director and receiving an honorary Oscar in 1996 for lifetime achievement.

: : Let's have t-t-teh-teh-uh t-teteedee-he-teh.. Oh heck! Let's raise our glasses for Chuck! We'll not see his like again.

: : Camel

: For another obituary, see Mark Evanier's site, POV Online:

The passing of Chuck Jones comes as a huge loss to the worlds of imagination, animation and comedy. Simply put, the man was both a genius and a pioneering giant in his field. The sheer number of his animated masterpieces almost defies belief, and it'd be ridiculous even to attempt to list a fraction of his triumphs of creativity. Forgive me however, if I highlight just a couple of examples of his work that I hold extremely dear, and briefly explain why.

Many years ago, I found myself studying French and German at college, which was all well and good generally, except on those occasions where the course material became dull enough to render me near comatose. On two separate and memorable occasions, Chuck Jones came to my rescue. Once was when I was obliged to examine Wagner's effect on German nationalism - if you have never dissected the lyrics to the Ring cycle, please spare yourself, and don't. Happening to see "What's Opera, Doc?" at the time probably saved my sanity - and put Wagner neatly in the perspective that the pompous git deserved. Similarly, watching Wile E. Coyote's heroic struggles in Roadrunner cartoons taught me far more about the nature of the Existential hero than trudging wearily through any bizarre novel penned by some goatee-sporting French manic depressive in obligatory beret and black polo neck, sucking feverishly at his Gitane in some 50's jazz club on the Rive Gauche.

Thanks for the laughs.