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Issue date: 2/4/10 Section: Opinion

Robinson

When Art Clokey had passed away on Jan. 8, the world lost a master of surreal and playful wonder. The creator of Gumby and Davey and Goliath, Clokey's specialty was stop-motion animation. There was no CGI in the 1950s. Instead, Clokey performed the laborious task of manipulating clay sculptures. When single shots taken after each small movement of his models were sped up, the end result was animation.

Although neither the earliest nor the most famous of Clokey's creations, Davey and Goliath was the first Clokey show that I knew. As a kid, I did everything I could to wake as early as possible and watch cartoons on a Saturday morning. In that peculiar way that kids feel injustice is done to them, I always thought that Sunday morning ought to be the same way. Up blinkingly early and feeling that I was owed something, I would hunt the channels for anything to watch. It was on those mornings that I discovered Davey and Goliath. Produced for the Lutheran Church in the early 60s and then re-run forever, this show offered simple moral lessons. Young Davey and his talking dog Goliath worked through everyday problems (yes, Goliath talked, an admittedly odd feature for a religious show). Goliath could only be heard by Davey; his famous phrase "I don't know Davey" uttered as Davey was about to make some error or lapse of judgment. It wasn't a spectacular show, but there was something sweet about it, easy viewing for the A.M. brain.

In strong contrast to Davey's normal world, Gumby existed in a surreal and fantastic space. Like most children, I had the bendable Gumby toy, but I don't recall seeing many of his adventures until later in life. Perhaps at the time I was too attracted to flashier superhero cartoons to appreciate the wonderful strangeness of Gumby. Gumby began life as the star of a series of short films in the mid-1950s. Eventually enough interest developed for a TV show. Although our green clay hero with the slanted head sometimes lived with his family in an otherwise normal suburban neighborhood, more often than not Gumby and his clay horse pal Pokey could be found adventuring in a space that resembled the floor of a messy child's playroom. In that world, Gumby and his friends could change shapes, drive toy trucks, and most impressively, enter storybooks to interact with the characters found therein. Whether he was having fun or opposing the schemes of the vaguely sinister Blockheads, Gumby's life was trippy and weird in a good way.

Although these two shows seem to be clay universes apart, what links them is a particular kind of gentleness, a real reverence for the innocence and imagination we hope lives on in childhood. I won't allow my nostalgia to overwhelm me. Some producers of kids' shows today do understand too. I think Spongebob Squarepants would get along quite well with Gumby. I'm just sad to see somebody like Clokey, who truly got it, leave us.

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