Meryl Streep’s First Film Role Was in an Animated Film on Erik Erikson’s Stages of Life (1976)

Dif­fi­cult as it may be to remem­ber now, there was a time when Meryl Streep was not yet syn­ony­mous with sil­ver-screen star­dom — a time, in fact, when she had yet to appear on the sil­ver screen at all. Half a cen­tu­ry ago, she was just anoth­er young stage actress in New York, albeit one rapid­ly ascend­ing the rungs of the­atri­cal pres­tige, doing three Shake­speare plays and then star­ring in Weill, Haupt­mann, and Brecht’s Hap­py End on Broad­way. The Deer Hunter, Kramer vs. Kramer, Out of Africa, Post­cards from the Edge, The Bridges of Madi­son Coun­ty: all this lay in her future in 1976, the year of her fea­ture debut.

Streep made that debut in Every­body Rides the Carousel, a now-obscure ani­mat­ed film that dra­ma­tizes post-Freudi­an psy­chol­o­gist Erik Erik­son’s eight stages of psy­choso­cial devel­op­ment. First pub­lished in his book Child­hood and Soci­ety in 1950, this scheme cap­tured the imag­i­na­tion of the mid-cen­tu­ry Amer­i­can pub­lic, grow­ing ever hun­gri­er as it was for clear, leg­i­ble sys­tems of self-under­stand­ing.

Erik­son con­ceived of each age of man as a strug­gle for res­o­lu­tion between two oppos­ing forces: in infan­cy, for exam­ple, trust ver­sus mis­trust; in ado­les­cence, iden­ti­ty ver­sus role con­fu­sion; and so on.

The young Meryl Streep, or rather her voice, appears in the sixth stage, ear­ly adult­hood, whose theme is love. She acts out that age’s con­test of inti­ma­cy and iso­la­tion with Charles Levin, anoth­er up-and-com­er who would go on to achieve wide recog­ni­tion on tele­vi­sion shows like Alice, Hill Street Blues, and (just once, but mem­o­rably) Sein­feld. In char­ac­ter as a young cou­ple unsteadi­ly feel­ing their way through their rela­tion­ship, the two engage in a remark­ably nat­u­ral­is­tic con­ver­sa­tion, all ani­mat­ed in a sev­en­ties water­col­or style in the vision of direc­tor John Hub­ley. A pro­lif­ic ani­ma­tor who’d worked on Dis­ney’s Fan­ta­sia, Hub­ley was known as the cre­ator of Mr. Magoo: a man who pro­vid­ed us all with an exam­ple of how to nav­i­gate late adult­hood’s path between ego integri­ty and despair, how­ev­er myopi­cal­ly.

via Messy Nessy

Relat­ed con­tent:

Watch Meryl Streep Have Fun with Accents: Bronx, Pol­ish, Irish, Aus­tralian, Yid­dish & More

Social Psy­chol­o­gist Erich Fromm Diag­noses Why Peo­ple Wear a Mask of Hap­pi­ness in Mod­ern Soci­ety (1977)

Mas­ter of Light: A Close Look at the Paint­ings of Johannes Ver­meer Nar­rat­ed by Meryl Streep

Mar­cel Marceau Mimes the Pro­gres­sion of Human Life, From Birth to Death, in 4 Min­utes

Meryl Streep Gives Grad­u­a­tion Speech at Barnard

Hear Meryl Streep Read Sylvia Plath’s “Morn­ing Song,” a Poem Writ­ten After the Birth of Her Daugh­ter

Based in Seoul, Col­in Marshall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. His projects include the Sub­stack newslet­ter Books on Cities and the book The State­less City: a Walk through 21st-Cen­tu­ry Los Ange­les. Fol­low him on the social net­work for­mer­ly known as Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.

The 1830s Device That Created the First Animations: The Phenakistiscope

The image just above is an ani­mat­ed GIF, a for­mat by now old­er than most peo­ple on the inter­net. Those of us who were surf­ing the World Wide Web in its ear­li­est years will remem­ber all those lit­tle dig­ging, jack­ham­mer­ing road­work­ers who flanked the per­ma­nent announce­ments that var­i­ous sites — includ­ing, quite pos­si­bly, our own — were “under con­struc­tion.” Charm­ing though they could be at the time, they now look impos­si­bly prim­i­tive com­pared to what we can see on today’s inter­net, where high-res­o­lu­tion fea­ture films stream instan­ta­neous­ly. But tech­no­log­i­cal­ly speak­ing, we can trace it all back to what this par­tic­u­lar ani­mat­ed GIF depicts: the phenakistis­cope.

Invent­ed simul­ta­ne­ous­ly and inde­pen­dent­ly in late 1832 by Bel­gian physi­cist Joseph Plateau and Aus­tri­an geom­e­try pro­fes­sor Simon Stampfer, the phenakistis­cope was a sim­ple wheel-shaped device that could, for the first time in the his­to­ry of tech­nol­o­gy, cre­ate the illu­sion of a smooth­ly mov­ing pic­ture when spun and viewed in a mir­ror: hence the deriva­tion of its name from the Greek phenakisti­cos, “to deceive,” and ops, “eye.”

When it caught on as a com­mer­cial nov­el­ty, it was also mar­ket­ed under names like Phan­tas­mas­cope and Fan­tas­cope, which promised buy­ers a glimpse of horse-rid­ers, twirling dancers, bow­ing aris­to­crats, hop­ping frogs, fly­ing ghouls, and even pro­to-psy­che­del­ic abstract pat­terns, many of which you can see re-ani­mat­ed as GIFs in this Wikipedia gallery.

Even­tu­al­ly, accord­ing to the Pub­lic Domain Review, the phenakistis­cope was “sup­plant­ed in the pop­u­lar imag­i­na­tion: first­ly by the sim­i­lar Zoetrope, and then — via Ead­weard Muy­bridge’s Zooprax­is­cope (which pro­ject­ed the ani­ma­tion) — by film itself.” Muy­bridge, pre­vi­ous­ly fea­tured here on Open Cul­ture, did pio­neer­ing motion-pho­tog­ra­phy work in the eigh­teen-sev­en­ties that’s now con­sid­ered a pre­cur­sor to cin­e­ma. Under­stand­ing what he was up to is an impor­tant part of under­stand­ing the emer­gence of movies as we know them. But the most instruc­tive expe­ri­ence to start with is mak­ing a phenakistis­cope of your own, instruc­tions for which are avail­able from the George East­man Muse­um and artist Megan Scott on YouTube. The fin­ished prod­uct may not hold any­one’s atten­tion long here in the age of Net­flix, but then, the age of Net­flix would nev­er have arrived had the phenakistis­cope not come first.

Relat­ed con­tent:

Ead­weard Muybridge’s Motion Pho­tog­ra­phy Exper­i­ments from the 1870s Pre­sent­ed in 93 Ani­mat­ed Gifs

How Ani­mat­ed Car­toons Are Made: A Vin­tage Primer Filmed Way Back in 1919

The Trick That Made Ani­ma­tion Real­is­tic: Watch a Short His­to­ry of Roto­scop­ing

Was a 32,000-Year-Old Cave Paint­ing the Ear­li­est Form of Cin­e­ma?

Based in Seoul, Col­in Marshall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. His projects include the Sub­stack newslet­ter Books on Cities and the book The State­less City: a Walk through 21st-Cen­tu­ry Los Ange­les. Fol­low him on the social net­work for­mer­ly known as Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.

Curious Alice — The 1971 Anti-Drug Movie Based on Alice in Wonderland That Oddly Made Drugs Look Like Fun

The Rea­gan pres­i­den­cy was prob­a­bly the gold­en age of anti-drug mes­sag­ing. America’s school kids were told that a brain was like an egg and drugs were like a fry­ing pan. The First Lady told America’s school kids sim­ply to “Just Say No.” The mes­sage was stu­pe­fy­ing­ly sim­ple. Drugs, like Com­mu­nism and tax­es, are bad.

Dur­ing the ear­ly 1970s, how­ev­er, that anti-drug mes­sage was much more con­fused. Take for exam­ple Curi­ous Alice, a visu­al­ly stun­ning, deeply odd movie about the per­ils of drug abuse that makes the stuff look like a lot of fun. Cre­at­ed by the Nation­al Insti­tute of Men­tal Health in 1971, the film shows young Alice read­ing Lewis Carroll’s Alice in Won­der­land in a sun­ny dap­pled mead­ow before nod­ding off.

She soon finds her­self plung­ing down the rab­bit hole and in a won­der­land … of drugs. The King of Hearts is hawk­ing hero­in. The Mad Hat­ter is trip­ping on LSD. The hookah-smok­ing Cater­pil­lar is stoned out of his gourd. The Dor­mouse is in a bar­bi­tu­rate-induced stu­por and the March Hare, who looks like the Trix Bunny’s ne’er-do-well broth­er, is a fid­get­ing tweak­er. “You ough­ta have some pep pills! Uppers!” he exclaims. “Amphet­a­mines! Speed! You feel super good.”

The movie was report­ed­ly intend­ed for eight-year-olds. While it’s unlike­ly that your aver­age third grad­er is going to absorb Alice’s mor­al­iz­ing about acid, they will almost cer­tain­ly respond to the film’s trip­py, Mon­ty Pythonesque ani­ma­tion. The ani­ma­tors clear­ly had a blast mak­ing this movie, but their efforts didn’t exact­ly trans­late into an effec­tive mes­sage. After the movie came out, the Nation­al Coor­di­nat­ing Coun­cil on Drug Edu­ca­tion slammed the movie, call­ing it con­fus­ing and coun­ter­pro­duc­tive. As an adult, how­ev­er, the movie is a lot of fun. So check it out above.

Note: An ear­li­er ver­sion of this post appeared on our site in 2014.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Reefer Mad­ness, 1936′s Most Unin­ten­tion­al­ly Hilar­i­ous “Anti-Drug” Exploita­tion Film, Free Online

The First-Ever Film Ver­sion of Lewis Carroll’s Tale, Alice in Won­der­land (1903)

Artist Draws Nine Por­traits on LSD Dur­ing 1950s Research Exper­i­ment

The Orig­i­nal Alice’s Adven­tures In Won­der­land Man­u­script, Hand­writ­ten & Illus­trat­ed By Lewis Car­roll (1864)

Jonathan Crow is a writer and film­mak­er whose work has appeared in Yahoo!, The Hol­ly­wood Reporter, and oth­er pub­li­ca­tions. 

How Disney Fought Fascism with Propaganda Cartoons During World War II & Averted Financial Collapse

Today, the Walt Dis­ney Com­pa­ny seems like one of those enti­ties that’s “too big to fail” — but dur­ing the Sec­ond World War, fail it near­ly did. Like the big-think­ing enter­tain­er-busi­ness­man he was, Walt Dis­ney him­self had been re-invest­ing the com­pa­ny’s prof­its into ever more ambi­tious ani­mat­ed films. This prac­tice took an unfor­tu­nate turn with Fan­ta­sia, which may now be regard­ed as a clas­sic even by those of us with­out inter­est in Dis­ney movies, but which did­n’t bring in the expect­ed box-office take when it was ini­tial­ly released in 1940. It fol­lowed the also-under­per­form­ing Pinoc­chio, which could­n’t reach audi­ences in war-torn Europe. The fol­low­ing year, Dis­ney found itself at the edge of bank­rupt­cy.

Then came the Japan­ese attack on Pearl Har­bor, which result­ed in the U.S. Army’s eight-month-long occu­pa­tion of Walt Dis­ney Stu­dios. The idea was to pro­tect a near­by Lock­heed plant, but Dis­ney, who’d already made inquiries about pro­duc­ing war films, used an oppor­tu­ni­ty to make a deal that saved his com­pa­ny.

Walt Dis­ney Stu­dios was con­tract­ed to make not just a vari­ety of train­ing films for mil­i­tary use, but also a series of war-themed car­toons for pub­lic exhi­bi­tion. This was “total war,” after all, which required the mobi­liza­tion of the pub­lic at home, and the mobi­liza­tion of the pub­lic at home required domes­tic pro­pa­gan­da. Who bet­ter to stoke Amer­i­can desire for vic­to­ry over the Axis than Dis­ney’s biggest ani­mat­ed star at the time, Don­ald Duck?

In the most acclaimed of these car­toons, the Acad­e­my Award-win­ning Der Fuehrer’s Face from 1943, Don­ald Duck is employed at a muni­tions fac­to­ry in Nutzi­land, some kind of Axis super­state ruled over by Hiro­hi­to, Mus­soli­ni, and espe­cial­ly Hitler. It’s some­thing else to hear the phrase “Heil Hitler!” in Don­ald Duck­’s voice, and through­out his day of humil­i­a­tions and pri­va­tions in Nutzi­land, he has to say it quite a lot. Just when all of this has put him in a tail­spin toward mad­ness, he wakes up in his bed­room back in the Unit­ed States of Amer­i­ca, stars-and-stripes cur­tains, minia­ture Stat­ue of Lib­er­ty, and all. For Don­ald, the night­mare is over — but in real life, Allied vic­to­ry remained far from a sure thing.

You can watch Der Fuehrer’s Face and sev­en oth­er Dis­ney-pro­duced World War II pro­pa­gan­da car­toons (along with the Looney Tunes short The Duck­ta­tors, from Warn­er Bros.) in the playlist above. To be sure, some of them con­tain ele­ments con­sid­ered crude and even offen­sive here in the twen­ty-first cen­tu­ry. But like all pro­pa­gan­da, they’re all of great his­tor­i­cal val­ue, in the realm of both polit­i­cal his­to­ry and the his­to­ry of ani­ma­tion. Con­sid­er how they found their way into Europe and Rus­sia, find­ing audi­ences there even as the war raged on; con­sid­er, too, how well-loved Don­ald Duck and his com­pa­tri­ots have been by gen­er­a­tions of Ger­man, Ital­ian, and Japan­ese chil­dren. After this total war, no one enjoyed more total a vic­to­ry than Dis­ney.

Relat­ed con­tent:

Edu­ca­tion for Death: The Mak­ing of the Nazi – Walt Disney’s 1943 Film Shows How Fas­cists Are Made

Neu­ro­science and Pro­pa­gan­da Come Togeth­er in Disney’s World War II Film Rea­son and Emo­tion

Before Cre­at­ing the Moomins, Tove Jans­son Drew Satir­i­cal Art Mock­ing Hitler & Stal­in

Pri­vate Sna­fu: The World War II Pro­pa­gan­da Car­toons Cre­at­ed by Dr. Seuss, Frank Capra & Mel

“Evil Mick­ey Mouse” Invades Japan in a 1934 Japan­ese Ani­me Pro­pa­gan­da Film

“The Duck­ta­tors”: Loony Tunes Turns Ani­ma­tion into Wartime Pro­pa­gan­da (1942)

Based in Seoul, Col­in Marshall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. His projects include the Sub­stack newslet­ter Books on Cities and the book The State­less City: a Walk through 21st-Cen­tu­ry Los Ange­les. Fol­low him on the social net­work for­mer­ly known as Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.

Iconic Animator Chuck Jones Creates an Oscar-Winning Animation About the Virtues of Universal Health Care (1949)

While our coun­try looks like it might be com­ing apart at the seams, it’s good to revis­it, every once in a while, moments when it did work. And that’s not so that we can feel nos­tal­gic about a lost time, but so that we can remind our­selves how, giv­en the right con­di­tions, things could work well once again.

One exam­ple from his­to­ry (and recent­ly redis­cov­ered by a num­ber of blogs dur­ing the AHCA deba­cle in Con­gress) is this gov­ern­ment pro­pa­gan­da film from 1949—the Har­ry S. Tru­man era—that pro­motes the idea of cra­dle-to-grave health care, and all for three cents a week. This mon­ey went to school nurs­es, nutri­tion­ists, fam­i­ly doc­tors, and neigh­bor­hood health depart­ments.

Direct­ed by Chuck Jones, bet­ter known for ani­mat­ing Bugs Bun­ny, Porky Pig, Daffy Duck, and the Road Run­ner, “So Much for So Lit­tle” fol­lows our main char­ac­ter from infancy—where doc­tors help immu­nize babies against whoop­ing cough, diph­the­ria, rheumat­ic fever, and smallpox—through school to dat­ing, mar­riage, becom­ing par­ents, and set­tling into a nice, healthy retire­ment. Along the way, the gov­ern­ment has made sure that health care is noth­ing to wor­ry about.

The film won an Acad­e­my Award in 1950 for Doc­u­men­tary Short Subject—not best sci-fi, despite how rad­i­cal this all sounds.

So what hap­pened? John Maher at the blog Dot and Line puts it this way:

Par­ti­san­ship and cap­i­tal­ism and racist zon­ing poli­cies shat­tered its ide­al­is­tic dream that Amer­i­cans might actu­al­ly pay com­mu­nal­ly for their health as well as that of their neigh­bors and fel­low cit­i­zens.

Three cents per Amer­i­can per week wouldn’t cut it now in terms of uni­ver­sal health cov­er­age. But accord­ing to Maher, quot­ing a 2009 Kingsepp study on the orig­i­nal Afford­able Care Act, tax­pay­ers would have to pay $3.61 a week.

So folks, don’t get despon­dent, get ide­al­is­tic. The Great­est Gen­er­a­tion came back from WWII with a grand ide­al­ism. Maybe this cur­rent gen­er­a­tion just needs to fight and defeat Nazis all over again…

Note: An ear­li­er ver­sion of this post appeared on our site in 2017.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

The Evo­lu­tion of Chuck Jones, the Artist Behind Bugs Bun­ny, Daffy Duck & Oth­er Looney Tunes Leg­ends: A Video Essay

How to Draw Bugs Bun­ny: A Primer by Leg­endary Ani­ma­tor Chuck Jones

Chuck Jones’ 9 Rules For Draw­ing Road Run­ner Car­toons, or How to Cre­ate a Min­i­mal­ist Mas­ter­piece

Chuck Jones’ The Dot and the Line Cel­e­brates Geom­e­try & Hard Work: An Oscar-Win­ning Ani­ma­tion (1965)

Ted Mills is a free­lance writer on the arts.

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Watch “The Birth of the Robot,” Len Lye’s Surreal 1935 Stop-Motion Animation

Robots seem to have been much on the pub­lic mind back in the nine­teen-thir­ties. Matt Novak at Pale­o­fu­ture gives the exam­ple of a moment in 1932 when “the world was awash in news­pa­per sto­ries about a robot that had done the unthink­able: a mechan­i­cal man had shot its inven­tor.” Despite being a typ­i­cal exam­ple of the exper­i­men­tal-fic­tive jour­nal­is­tic style of that era, it nev­er­the­less reflect­ed “a time when robots rep­re­sent­ed some­thing fear­ful,” and were indeed “a potent sym­bol of run­away automa­tion and job loss.” Novak cites the sta­tis­tic that “about 25% of job­less Amer­i­cans thought automa­tion was to blame for their unem­ploy­ment by the end of the Great Depres­sion.”

Not much more than a decade after the very term robot was coined, in Czech play­wright Karel Čapek’s R.U.R., robots were in need of some good PR. Enter Shell Oil, which had not only the resources to com­mis­sion an eye-catch­ing adver­tis­ing film, but also a robot-shaped emblem famil­iar to many con­sumers.

“The Birth of the Robot,” which made its the­atri­cal debut in 1935, tells that char­ac­ter’s ori­gin sto­ry in hyper-sat­u­rat­ed Gas­par­col­or, begin­ning with the very motor of existence–turned by the hand of Old Father Time–while Venus plays her music out toward the stars. We then descend to Earth to find a motorist hap­pi­ly careen­ing around the Egypt­ian desert, not just between but over the Pyra­mids. (Tourism must have been dif­fer­ent in those days.)

Then a storm hits, at which point even the least atten­tive view­er will notice the strik­ing char­ac­ter­is­tics of “The Birth of the Robot“ ‘s visu­al style. It was ani­mat­ed in stop motion by a New Zealan­der named Len Lye, who was already known for shorts like “A Colour Box” and “Kalei­do­scope,” fund­ed, respec­tive­ly, by the Unit­ed King­dom’s Gen­er­al Post Office and Impe­r­i­al Tobac­co. Tak­ing a con­sid­er­able nar­ra­tive and aes­thet­ic step for­ward from those, Lye pro­duces a charm­ing, fan­ci­ful result from what was clear­ly a labo­ri­ous process. Despite hav­ing been reduced to bones in the sand, our pro­tag­o­nist is even­tu­al­ly brought back to life by a few drops of Shell oil, albeit not in human but in humanoid robot form — and ready to show off a few moves that, today, would belong in a Boston Dynam­ics com­mer­cial.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

The Word “Robot” Orig­i­nat­ed in a Czech Play in 1921: Dis­cov­er Karel Čapek’s Sci-Fi Play R.U.R. (a.k.a. Rossum’s Uni­ver­sal Robots)

The His­to­ry of Stop-Motion Films: 39 Films, Span­ning 116 Years, Revis­it­ed in a 3‑Minute Video

Watch a Visu­al Sym­pho­ny of Every­day Objects in the French Stop Motion Film Grands Canons

Watch Gum­ba­sia, the Jazzy Stop Motion Film That Gave Birth to Gum­by (1955)

The Cameraman’s Revenge (1912): The Tru­ly Weird Ori­gin of Mod­ern Stop-Motion Ani­ma­tion

Hard­er Than It Looks: How to Make a Great Stop Motion Ani­ma­tion

Oil’d, by Chris Har­mon

Based in Seoul, Col­in Marshall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. His projects include the Sub­stack newslet­ter Books on Cities and the book The State­less City: a Walk through 21st-Cen­tu­ry Los Ange­les. Fol­low him on the social net­work for­mer­ly known as Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.

Where The Simpsons Began: Discover the Original Shorts That Appeared on The Tracey Ullman Show (1987–1989)

When it first went on air in the late nine­teen-eight­ies, Fox had to prove itself capa­ble of play­ing in a tele­vi­su­al league with the likes of NBC, CBS, and ABC. To that end, it began build­ing its prime-time line­up with two orig­i­nal pro­grams more the­mat­i­cal­ly and aes­thet­i­cal­ly dar­ing than any­thing on those staid net­works: the sit­com Mar­ried… with Chil­dren and the sketch com­e­dy series The Tracey Ull­man Show. Before and after com­mer­cial breaks, the lat­ter treat­ed its ear­ly view­ers to a series of irrev­er­ent ani­mat­ed shorts cre­at­ed by an acclaimed car­toon­ist and fea­tur­ing the vocal tal­ents of Dan Castel­lan­e­ta, Julie Kavn­er, and Nan­cy Cartwright. I speak, of course, of Dr. N!Godatu.

On an alter­nate time­line, per­haps the per­son­al and pro­fes­sion­al adven­tures of that near-unflap­pable psy­chother­a­pist were spun off into their own hit series that broke every record for prime-time ani­ma­tion and is now in its 36th sea­son.

Here in our real­i­ty, how­ev­er, that’s been the des­tiny of The Simp­sons, which also began as The Tracey Ull­man Show’s bumper enter­tain­ment. Dr. N!Godatu van­ished after a few weeks, nev­er to be seen again, but the Simp­son fam­i­ly remained for two full years, mak­ing their final short-from appear­ance in May of 1989. Sev­en months lat­er, The Simp­sons made its Christ­mas-spe­cial debut — an event that, if you don’t remem­ber watch­ing, I can’t count you as a mem­ber of my gen­er­a­tion.

Not that, giv­en my young age, I’d ever actu­al­ly seen The Tracey Ull­man Show at the time. But the hard pro­mo­tion­al push lead­ing up to that first real Simp­sons offered glimpses into an ani­mat­ed world that looked and felt com­plete­ly nov­el. (Hav­ing grown accus­tomed over gen­er­a­tions to the show’s aes­thet­ic, we eas­i­ly for­get how bizarre its yel­low-skinned, uni­ver­sal­ly over­bite-afflict­ed char­ac­ters once looked.) Many who tuned in would­n’t have been aware that that look and feel had­n’t been cre­at­ed out of whole cloth, but rather had emerged through the evo­lu­tion­ary process you can wit­ness in the 48 orig­i­nal Simp­sons shorts col­lect­ed in the Youtube playlist at the top of the post (and the hour-long con­sol­i­dat­ed video here).

To even a casu­al Simp­sons view­er, every­thing in these shorts will seem at once famil­iar and “off” in myr­i­ad ways. The design of the char­ac­ters looks both harsh­er and loos­er than it would lat­er become, and cer­tain of their voic­es, espe­cial­ly Castel­lan­e­ta’s Wal­ter Matthau-esque Homer, have yet to reflect the per­son­al­i­ties they would lat­er devel­op. The con­ven­tion­al­ly “car­toony” ani­ma­tion also dis­torts bod­ies and faces in ways that have long since been pro­hib­it­ed by the show’s offi­cial style guide­lines. Even so, there are occa­sion­al jokes and even haunt­ing moments of the kind we know from the first cou­ple of sea­sons, if noth­ing in par­tic­u­lar to fore­shad­ow The Simp­sons’ nine­teen-nineties gold­en age — or the three decades’ worth of episodes that have fol­lowed it.

Relat­ed con­tent:

The Rise and Fall of The Simp­sons: An In-Depth Video Essay Explores What Made the Show Great, and When It All Came to an End

Before The Simp­sons: Homer Groen­ing Directs a 1969 Short Film, The Sto­ry, Star­ring His Kids Mag­gie, Lisa & Matt

27 Movies Ref­er­ences in The Simp­sons Put Side-by-Side with the Movie Scenes They Paid Trib­ute To

Before The Simp­sons, Matt Groen­ing Illus­trat­ed a “Student’s Guide” for Apple Com­put­ers (1989)

The Simp­sons Reimag­ined as a Russ­ian Art Film

Thomas Pyn­chon Edits His Lines on The Simp­sons: “Homer is my role mod­el and I can’t speak ill of him.”

Based in Seoul, Col­in Marshall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. His projects include the Sub­stack newslet­ter Books on Cities and the book The State­less City: a Walk through 21st-Cen­tu­ry Los Ange­les. Fol­low him on the social net­work for­mer­ly known as Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.

The Story Of Menstruation: Watch Walt Disney’s Sex Ed Film from 1946

From 1945 to 1951, Dis­ney pro­duced a series of edu­ca­tion­al films to be shown in Amer­i­can schools. How to bathe an infant. How not to catch a cold. Why you shouldn’t dri­ve fast. Dis­ney cov­ered these sub­jects in its edu­ca­tion­al shorts, and then even­tu­al­ly got to the touchy sub­ject of biol­o­gy and sex­u­al­i­ty. If there was ever a com­pa­ny suit­ed to talk about “vagi­nas” in the 1940s in a fam­i­ly-friend­ly way, it was Dis­ney. Hence The Sto­ry of Men­stru­a­tion.

The film runs 10 min­utes, com­bin­ing sci­en­tif­ic facts with hygiene tips, and it was actu­al­ly com­mis­sioned by the Inter­na­tion­al Cel­lo-Cot­ton Com­pa­ny, the fore­run­ner of Kim­ber­ly-Clark, the mak­er of Kotex prod­ucts. An esti­mat­ed 105 mil­lion stu­dents watched the film in sex-ed class­es across the US. And, accord­ing to Tin­ker Belles and Evil Queens: The Walt Dis­ney Com­pa­ny from the Inside Out, the film remained a main­stay in schools until the 1960s. It’s now in the pub­lic domain. When you’re done, you’ll also want to watch Fam­i­ly Plan­ning, Walt Disney’s 1967 Sex Ed Pro­duc­tion, Star­ring Don­ald Duck.

If you would like to sup­port the mis­sion of Open Cul­ture, con­sid­er mak­ing a dona­tion to our site. It’s hard to rely 100% on ads, and your con­tri­bu­tions will help us con­tin­ue pro­vid­ing the best free cul­tur­al and edu­ca­tion­al mate­ri­als to learn­ers every­where. You can con­tribute through Pay­Pal, Patre­on, and Ven­mo (@openculture). Thanks!

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Watch Fam­i­ly Plan­ning, Walt Disney’s 1967 Sex Ed Pro­duc­tion, Star­ring Don­ald Duck

No Women Need Apply: A Dis­heart­en­ing 1938 Rejec­tion Let­ter from Dis­ney Ani­ma­tion

Your Body Dur­ing Ado­les­cence: A Naked­ly Unashamed Sex Ed Film from 1955

Watch Dat­ing Dos and Don’ts: An Old-School Instruc­tion­al Guide to Teenage Romance (1949)

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