Don Bluth is a name synonymous with a certain era of animation, a time when hand-drawn artistry still reigned supreme. While many remember his classics like The Secret of NIMH and An American Tail with fondness, not all of Bluth’s ventures hit the mark. Among the less celebrated entries in his filmography is Rock-a-Doodle, a movie that, despite its catchy title, often evokes more cringes than cheers. Having revisited this 1991 film after years of vague, less-than-stellar recollections, and spurred on by my father’s vivid memories of cinematic displeasure, it’s time to delve into why Rock-a-Doodle often lands on lists of animation misfires. Was it unfairly judged, a misunderstood gem? Or is it, as my dad succinctly put it, “god awful”? Sadly, the rooster crows not in favor of a hidden masterpiece.
Rock-a-Doodle unfolds with the tale of Chanticleer, a rooster christened after the famous character from Reynard the Fox lore and Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales. This Chanticleer, however, is no ordinary farm bird; he’s an Elvis Presley impersonator in feathered form, complete with the voice of country music legend Glen Campbell. In a barnyard belief system, Chanticleer’s crow is believed to be the magical force that summons the sun each morning. This idyllic world is ruffled when, one fateful morning, Chanticleer is prevented from his sunrise serenade, yet the sun rises anyway. Brandishing accusations of fraud, Chanticleer’s farmyard friends turn on him, leading the dejected rooster to abandon his rural life for the glittering promise of the city, where he swiftly ascends to rock star status.
Chanticleer, on paper, holds the potential for an engaging character arc. His crisis of confidence, the fear that his talent and the esteem of his peers were illusions, presents a relatable core. The Elvis parallels could have been mined for comedic and dramatic gold. However, despite being the face of the movie – plastered across the poster and emblazoned in the title Rock-a-Doodle – Chanticleer is strangely sidelined. He’s not the protagonist driving the narrative, but rather the object of everyone else’s pursuits. The farm animals yearn for his return to banish perpetual rain, while the villains plot to ensure he never crows again. While Chanticleer possesses the power to resolve the central conflict – the unending storms plaguing the farm – his limited screen time and underdeveloped characterization reduce him to a mere plot device, a feathered MacGuffin rather than a fully realized character.
The true protagonist, as the film awkwardly reveals, is Edmond, a live-action boy residing on a live-action farm, drenched in perpetually gloomy, poorly lit cinematography and shaky camera work. This farm, mirroring Chanticleer’s animated world, is also suffering under relentless rain, prompting Edmond’s mother to seek solace in reading him the story of the legendary rooster.
The live-action segments of Rock-a-Doodle are, to put it mildly, a significant misstep. Visually unappealing and amateurishly shot, these scenes clash jarringly with the animated sequences. The attempts to blend live-action and animation fall flat, especially when considering the groundbreaking success of Who Framed Roger Rabbit, released years prior, which seamlessly merged these worlds. The performances from Edmond’s live-action family are lackluster, and Edmond himself emerges as one of the film’s most glaring weaknesses.
Edmond is crafted as an “everyboy,” a blank slate devoid of distinctive traits or compelling interests. We learn nothing of his hobbies, his personality beyond a generic cuteness. This manufactured cuteness becomes a central, and ultimately grating, characteristic. While genuine cuteness in characters arises from behaviors specific and authentic to their personality, Edmond embodies a checklist of stereotypical “cute” indicators. A lisp, transformation into an animated kitten, manufactured fears, and a repetitive insistence on being “one of the big boys” all feel calculated and hollow. His supposed central conflict – feeling too small to aid his family during the storm – is equally generic, contributing to a character that feels less like a person and more like a collection of forced, “cute” clichés. His performance, much like his character, feels strained and inauthentic.
Because Edmond lacks a defined character, his struggles and the skills he needs to overcome them remain equally nebulous. The overarching problem is clear – the storm threatening both farms – but Edmond’s personal journey is murky. The film hints at internal obstacles, yet fails to articulate them. Is he battling fear, insecurity about his capabilities, a desire for familial respect? It’s unclear, and seemingly, so is the movie’s intent. Instead of a gradual arc of self-discovery or a moment of impactful revelation, the audience is presented with a bizarre, nonsensical scene. Edmond retreats into a surreal “mental realm,” filled with abstract imagery of brains and nerves, haunted by fleeting images and voices from the preceding hour. A sudden yell of “No!” inexplicably grants him the mental fortitude needed to rescue a farm animal. This confusing, poorly executed metaphor for overcoming “unspecific fears” epitomizes the film’s narrative incoherence.
Adding to the disjointedness is the almost complete absence of a meaningful connection between Edmond and Chanticleer, the two supposed leads. When they finally meet, a mere ten minutes before the film’s climax, a bewildered Chanticleer even asks, “Well who are you?” The film feels like two separate, weakly interwoven stories held together by a shared cast of farm animals. Chanticleer’s narrative, seemingly the more compelling of the two, is drastically curtailed. A crucial element of his arc – his loss of self-confidence and inability to crow – is introduced and resolved within the film’s final moments. Instead of exploring Chanticleer’s internal struggles as a fallen rock star grappling with loneliness and self-doubt, the narrative prioritizes Edmond and his ill-defined issues. Despite superficial attempts to draw parallels, such as a shared “haunted by voices” scene, Edmond and Chanticleer remain emotionally and narratively disconnected. The film sacrifices its most promising character to center on its weakest link.
Edmond’s passivity and lack of agency present a narrative challenge. While films can succeed with passive protagonists, often relying on compelling supporting characters to drive the plot, Rock-a-Doodle missteps by positioning Edmond not just as the protagonist, but as the hero. This necessitates that every other character be demonstrably less capable than Edmond, a premise that severely limits the film’s potential for engaging supporting roles.
After his transformation into a kitten courtesy of the Grand Duke, the film’s antagonist, Edmond encounters the farm animals searching for Chanticleer. Leading this group is Patou, an elderly farm dog voiced by Phil Harris, famously known for Baloo in Disney’s The Jungle Book. Casting Harris appears to be a deliberate attempt to evoke classic Disney charm, even the name “Patou” echoes “Baloo.” However, the magic Harris brought to Baloo fails to translate to Patou. While Harris’s performance is adequate, the character is simply underdeveloped and unfunny. Patou’s opening line – recounting the story from “back before I knew how to tie my shoes” – is meant to establish a folksy, nostalgic tone. Yet, Patou is visually depicted as an old dog. The shoe-tying gag, far from being a charming quirk, becomes Patou’s defining, and only, characteristic. It’s never explored metaphorically, given emotional depth, or integrated into the plot. Its sole purpose seems to be to highlight Edmond’s (very basic) competence, as Edmond can tie shoes, further propping up Edmond as the unlikely hero.
And why does Patou wear shoes to begin with? Not for fashion, not to match other shoe-wearing animals (there are none), but because he suffers from “bunions, lots and lots of bunions.” The shoes are for foot comfort, a detail both bizarre and utterly pointless.
Patou also serves as the film’s narrator, a role seemingly assigned to ensure even the youngest viewers can follow the convoluted plot. His narration is incessant and intrusive, explaining events that are visually obvious, offering confusing commentary, and even preemptively spoiling plot points. For instance, during Chanticleer’s performance for adoring fans, Patou interjects to inform us that “Chanticleer had become a star,” a fact already abundantly clear. His pronouncements on Chanticleer’s supposed lack of intelligence, or Goldie’s supposed hidden depths, feel equally unnecessary and unsupported by the film’s events. Patou’s narration suggests a profound lack of faith in the film’s ability to tell its own story visually and dramatically.
Leading the antagonistic forces is the Grand Duke, head of the photophobic owls. He orchestrates Chanticleer’s departure by sending a rival rooster to disrupt his crowing. This rooster, appearing solely for this brief fight scene before vanishing entirely, challenges Chanticleer, leading to the missed crow and subsequent sunrise. Why a rooster? Why not an owl, a creature aligned with the Duke, who might reappear later in the film? The logic is baffling. In an extraordinary stroke of luck for the Duke, Chanticleer’s departure coincides with the sun ceasing to shine. “Luck” is emphasized because there’s no conceivable way the Duke could have planned such a complex chain of events: a missed crow, farm animal ridicule, Chanticleer’s exit, and then, miraculously, perpetual rain.
The Grand Duke is a villain designed to be menacing to toddlers, but comical to anyone older. A plump, cartoonish owl, he’s more preoccupied with mugging for the camera and indulging in sarcastic quips than posing a genuine threat. The Great Owl in The Secret of NIMH, ostensibly a benevolent character, is far more genuinely terrifying. The Duke’s primary menacing attribute is magic, yet he primarily uses it for non-threatening actions: growing larger, transforming Edmond into a kitten, or cartoonishly hitting Chanticleer with a mallet. Despite this lack of genuine menace, test audiences reportedly found the red smoke emanating from his mouth during magic spells too frightening. The final film softens this effect by adding cartoonish, fluorescent “Lucky Charms” to the smoke. While occasional creepy expressions and a brief strangling scene towards the climax remain, for the most part, the Duke’s villainy is reduced to exaggerated facial expressions aimed directly at the camera in a desperate attempt to elicit a scare.
The supporting cast fares no better. Edmond is joined on his quest by two animal companions: Peepers, a supposedly intelligent mouse, and Snipes, an irritating magpie. Peepers’ “intelligence” is demonstrated through stereotypical tropes: driving a car, piloting a helicopter, using slightly more complex vocabulary, and wearing glasses. Despite her supposed brains, she conveniently lacks the ability to navigate to the city, ensuring Edmond retains a semblance of usefulness. The film attempts to forge a friendship between Edmond and Peepers, a potentially interesting dynamic given Edmond’s (presumed) insecurity and Peepers’ apparent self-assurance despite her small size. Both characters even share lisps. However, this potential is squandered. Their “friendship” consists solely of Edmond whining about his inadequacy, Peepers asserting her own capability, and Edmond proceeding to accomplish the task anyway. The shared lisp is never even acknowledged.
Snipes the magpie is less a character and more a collection of random, inconsistent quirks, introduced solely for fleeting comedic moments. One scene features claustrophobia, another an obsessive love of food. These traits never coalesce into a coherent character. His one consistent trait is being generally unpleasant, constantly bickering with Peepers for no discernible reason, rendering their eventual reconciliation meaningless. Snipes contributes nothing to the plot and serves only as ineffective comic relief, easily expendable from the narrative.
The Grand Duke’s henchmen are equally underwhelming. Pinky the fox functions as Chanticleer’s Colonel Tom Parker-esque manager, inexplicably also working for the Grand Duke. The benefits of this dual allegiance for either party are unclear until the plot necessitates their connection. If the Duke truly wants to silence Chanticleer permanently, focusing resources on his assassination, rather than his pop stardom, seems more logical. Conversely, Pinky’s reliance on the Duke while profiting immensely from Chanticleer is equally nonsensical.
The Duke’s immediate entourage includes generic, nameless owls and his nephew, Hunch. Hunch’s defining characteristic is an inexplicable habit of uttering “a” words ending in “-ation”: “annihilation,” “abomination,” “aggravation.” This is neither funny nor logical. A potentially amusing gag involving the Duke’s magical smoke transforming Hunch into various creatures when angered is introduced but underutilized, appearing only twice, with one transformation resulting in a bizarre owl-pickle hybrid, squandering comedic potential.
A movie centered on a rooster channeling Elvis Presley should, theoretically, be a musical goldmine. Rock-a-Doodle boasts twelve songs – thirteen if the reprise of the opening number is counted – leading one to anticipate a Glen Campbell-fueled soundtrack. However, only half the songs are sung by Chanticleer, and of those, only three are complete, standalone songs. Besides the opening and closing “Sun Do Shine,” Chanticleer performs the title track and “Treasure Huntin’ Fever.” While not exceptional, these songs form some of the film’s marginally better sequences. Beyond these, a Chanticleer song is abruptly cut short, and two others, while sung in their entirety, are almost inaudible due to Patou’s constant narration. “Come Back To You,” sounds potentially pleasant, but is largely obscured by Patou’s expository dialogue. “Kiss ‘N’ Coo,” the love duet between Chanticleer and Goldie, is similarly sabotaged, with Edmond and his companions’ distracting commentary drowning out much of the music.
The remaining songs are brief, inconsequential ditties, lasting barely a minute, adding nothing to the narrative. The Grand Duke and his owls are inflicted with three dreadful songs, including one with the lyrical profundity of “Tweedle-lee-dee, tweedle-lee-dee. They’re running out of batteries.” Perhaps the intention was to make Chanticleer’s songs comparatively better by making the villains’ music so abysmal, but the result is simply more bad music cluttering the film. Goldie’s solo is cut off after two lines, possibly to avoid pacing issues or to minimize her screen time. Test audiences also reportedly found Goldie’s figure “too shapely and seductive” for a children’s film, and toning down her song may have been part of a broader effort to desexualize her character. Chanticleer’s bouncers have a completely pointless song. And, predictably, Patou gets a song over the end credits, about his shoe-tying struggles.
The most surprising aspect of Rock-a-Doodle is its overwhelming dullness. Despite action sequences and chases, and occasional flashes of visual flair from the animators – the “Rock-a-doodle” musical number with Chanticleer performing atop a giant record player, a camera shot through a record hole – the film lacks the visual richness and engaging storytelling of Bluth’s earlier works. The opening shot, swooping from above the clouds through a farmyard to Chanticleer, is technically impressive, but the overall visual quality feels diminished compared to NIMH. Perhaps constrained by time, budget, or enthusiasm, Rock-a-Doodle lacks the intricate details and visual artistry that defined Bluth’s best films. Character designs are often unappealing, and the color palettes frequently clash, a stark contrast to the subtle tones and nuanced color work of his past movies. While stronger visuals wouldn’t salvage the weak story, they might have at least made the film visually engaging.
While acknowledging that Rock-a-Doodle is ostensibly aimed at a younger audience, critical scrutiny remains valid. Many animated films intended for children possess enduring appeal for adults, enjoyed across generations. Nostalgia plays a role, but the best children’s films continue to entertain and resonate with adults through sophisticated animation and well-crafted stories.
A predictable happy ending is not inherently a flaw. Knowing the destination doesn’t diminish a film if the journey and characters are compelling. Rock-a-Doodle fails to establish characters worth caring about. The audience is always aware of the inevitable resolutions: Chanticleer’s return, the sun’s reappearance, the owls’ defeat, Edmond’s survival. But crucially, the audience doesn’t care. Goldie’s move to the farm, Peepers and Snipes’ friendship, Patou’s shoe-tying – these resolutions lack emotional weight and fail to resonate because the characters and their conflicts are so poorly developed.
Rock-a-Doodle might entertain some children, but there’s little reason to recommend it. Children deserve intelligent, well-structured films with engaging characters as much as adults do. Excusing Rock-a-Doodle’s flaws due to its target audience is a disservice to both children and the many well-made animated films that appeal to all ages. As my father aptly pointed out, parents also endure these movies, and films that genuinely entertain across age groups have a far greater chance of enduring. Rock-a-Doodle is a forgotten film best left in obscurity, a cinematic sunrise that never truly dawned.
