The Art Of Tom And Jerry Laserdisc Archive ✦ Plus & Official
By disc four, Leo had called in sick to work. He was deep into the 1950s Cinemascope era, watching a version of Tom and Jerry in the Hollywood Bowl where the orchestra was fully rotoscoped from a live Los Angeles Philharmonic performance. The conductor’s face was Leonard Bernstein’s, drawn in 12 frames per second. The disc included a commentary track by Irv Spence, one of the original animators, recorded in 1989, months before his death.
The Art of Tom and Jerry: The Complete Classic Collection. A box set. Not the common 1990s re-issue, but the mythical 1989 Japanese exclusive, pressed on heavy, shimmering discs the size of vinyl records. Only 500 ever made. The cover art wasn't the usual slapstick silhouette; it was a delicate watercolor of Tom mid-piano recital, Jerry conducting from the keys, both frozen in a moment of pure, mutual joy. the art of tom and jerry laserdisc archive
“This disc was pressed for my granddaughter. She loved the sound of the laser reading the grooves. She said it sounded like ‘a quiet cat.’” He laughed softly. “These five discs are the only complete archive. Not the final cartoons. The work before the cartoons. The erased drawings. The jokes that hurt too much. The frames where they’re not fighting—just sitting together, tired, waiting for the next cue.” By disc four, Leo had called in sick to work
The screen stayed black for thirty seconds. Then a single frame appeared: a hand-drawn cel of Tom and Jerry sitting on a curb, looking up at a star. No text. No action. Just stillness. The cel faded, replaced by a live-action black-and-white video—grainy, handheld. A man in a cardigan sat at a drafting table. He was old, white-haired, smiling. He held up a pencil. The disc included a commentary track by Irv
The laserdisc had been mastered from original 35mm nitrate negatives, never transferred to video before. The grain was lush, the blacks deep as ink. Leo watched the famous opening—the MGM lion roar, then the curtain. But instead of the clean, broadcast version, the disc revealed pencil tests . Raw, rough, beautiful. Tom’s design slightly off, Jerry’s ears too large. Scribbled frame numbers in the corner. Hand-drawn timing charts.
Disc two contained The Night Before Christmas (1941). The audio track offered a choice: final dubbed music, or isolated Foley and voice . Leo switched to the latter. He heard Scott Bradley’s unadorned orchestra—no dialogue, just woodwinds and plucked strings—and underneath it, the actual recording of Bill Hanna and Joe Barbera laughing in the booth, calling out cues. “Faster on the roll, Bill.” “No, let him hang for another beat.” Their voices were warm, tired, brilliant.
“If you’re watching this,” he said, and his voice cracked, “you kept the format alive.”