Gene Deitch's Recent Posts
Oscar®-winning director Gene Deitch has much to say about Motion, Music and Magic in his updated essay on the director's role in an animated project.
With the growth of motion/performance capture, Oscar-winning animator Gene Deitch contemplates the future of animation.
Gene Deitch, who given a special honor at the event, writes about his experiences at this years Cartoons on the Bay.
Gene Deitch responds to fan mail questions and one hate mail letter in the last excerpt from his book How to Succeed in Animation (Dont Let a Little Thing Like Failure Stop You!)
Gene Deitch looks at his diverse fan base, which ranges from lovers of Tom Terrific to his work on Weston Woods Studios projects.
Gene Deitchs Charlottes Web starts to go south as Bill Snyder writes a letter that turns E.B. White sour on the project.
Peeing in the soup continues. The bladders of producers seem as continuous fountains. Here are a few hairy tales.
Weston Woods, that is. I feel that my best films are the least known. My greatest fans still are teachers and librarians, and I spent 25 years of creative fulfillment in pleasing them.
A whole new area of work opened up for me just as the Soviet forces were breathing smoke around the borders of Czechoslovakia, and I made a film called The Giants that the communists banned for 20 years. For me, it was a point of pride.
Gene Deitch shares an interview he did with the Screen Cartoonists Union newsletter, Top Cel, about animation production life in a communist country in 1968.
What do you do when you have to make a living diminishing true works of art? E.C. Segars Popeye and George Herrimans Krazy Kat have been mauled by others, so I dont need to apologize for my efforts at damage control. Heres what we did with them.
Who could have predicted this? I just read that Oscar winners live longer. In our case, the Oscar gave our life an instant boost, and a perpetual publicity handle. We managed five nominations, and have been living in the glow ever since. But was Bill Snyder able to melt that golden statuette down into real dollars?
That was the question I constantly had to answer while isolated from my old colleagues, and hunkered in this distant and seemingly God-forsaken communist-gripped misery. This chapter answers the question. Was I a pinko? A spy? An enemy agent? A CIA man? Or did I just happen to fall into something too good to be true?