You probably remember the 1939 movie. Everyone does. The ruby slippers, the Technicolor transition, Judy Garland’s voice—it’s baked into our collective DNA. But if you grew up near a television in the early sixties, or caught the weirdly grainy reruns decades later, you might have stumbled across something much stranger. I’m talking about Tales of the Wizard of Oz, the 1961 animated series that basically took L. Frank Baum’s world, threw it in a blender with some mid-century jazz, and served it up in five-minute chunks.
It was produced by Videocraft International. You know them better as Rankin/Bass, the studio behind Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer. But before they mastered stop-motion animagic, they were messing around with traditional cel animation in Canada. This show wasn't trying to be the MGM movie. Honestly, it couldn't afford to be. It was low-budget, high-energy, and featured a character design for the Scarecrow that looks like he’s had about four cups of espresso.
What Tales of the Wizard of Oz Actually Was
Context matters here. In 1961, TV syndication was a Wild West. Kids' programming was often just "filler" between commercials for sugary cereal. Videocraft hired Crawley Films in Ottawa to handle the heavy lifting. The result? Over 100 episodes of hyper-kinetic, slightly surreal adventures. They weren't grand epics. Each episode was roughly five minutes long.
The plot usually involved the Wicked Witch (named Momba here, not Elphaba or just "The Wicked Witch of the West") trying to steal something or mess with the gang. But the gang was... different. Dorothy was voiced by Corinne Conley, and she sounded much more like a pluckier, older teenager than a lost child. Then you had Dodo. No, not the bird. Dodo was Dorothy’s dog. In this version, Toto was replaced by Dodo because of licensing quirks or just a desire for a fresh brand. Dodo was smarter than the average dog. He wore a collar and had a personality that felt almost like a silent film sidekick.
The animation style is what really sticks in your craw. It’s "limited animation," a technique made famous by Hanna-Barbera to save money. Backgrounds stay still. Characters slide across the frame without moving their legs. It has that distinctive 1960s aesthetic—thick lines, geometric shapes, and colors that feel like a vintage postcard. It’s charming, but also kinda unsettling if you’re used to the fluid grace of Disney.
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The Voices Behind the Curtain
The voice cast is actually where the show's secret weapon lived. You had Carl Banas, Paul Kligman, and the legendary Stan Francis. These were the same Canadian voice actors who would go on to voice the characters in the 1964 Rudolph special. If the Lion’s voice sounds familiar, it’s because it’s the same guy who voiced Santa Claus and Donner.
- Socrates the Scarecrow: He didn't just want a brain; he acted like a bumbling intellectual.
- Rusty the Tinman: A guy who literally squeaked when he moved and obsessed over his oil can.
- Dandy the Lion: He was "Dandy" because he was a bit of a dandy, I guess? He was a coward, sure, but he had a certain theatrical flair.
Momba the Witch was the real star. She didn’t have the green skin of the movie. She was more of a classic, haggard crone with a giant nose and a screeching voice. Her interactions with her crow sidekick, Tyrant, provided most of the comedy. It was slapstick. Pure, unadulterated 1960s slapstick.
Why the 1961 Cartoon Diverged from Baum
If you're a purist, Tales of the Wizard of Oz might give you a headache. It ignores most of the books' lore. There are no Silver Shoes (and no Ruby Slippers either, since those were an MGM invention). Instead, the show focuses on "The Wizard," who looks like a short, bald man in a lab coat. He’s more of a weird scientist than a humbug magician.
Why change so much? Money and copyright. In 1961, the original 1900 book The Wonderful Wizard of Oz was in the public domain, but the 1939 film definitely wasn't. Videocraft had to walk a tightrope. They could use the characters, but they couldn't make them look or sound like the movie versions. This is why the Tinman looks like a walking water boiler and the Scarecrow wears a floppy blue hat. It forced a level of creativity that ended up defining the Rankin/Bass "look" for the next decade.
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People often forget that this series was the precursor to Return to Oz (the 1964 animated TV movie, not the terrifying 1985 Disney film). The character designs from the '61 show were reused for the '64 special, which had a much higher budget and featured Dorothy’s original voice—sort of. They actually got Dorothy’s daughter, Liza Minnelli, to voice her in the 1964 film. It’s a weirdly tight-knit circle of Oz history.
The "Fever Dream" Aesthetic and Its Legacy
There is something inherently "off" about 1960s TV animation. The music in this show—composed by Edward Thomas and Gene Forrell—is jazzy, repetitive, and catchy in a way that haunts your dreams. When Momba appears, the music shifts into this frantic, brass-heavy theme that lets you know things are about to get stupid.
It wasn't just a US phenomenon. The show was huge in Canada and even made its way to the UK and Australia. For a generation of kids, this was Oz. They didn't see the 1939 movie every year because it wasn't always on TV. They saw Socrates, Rusty, and Dandy every afternoon.
The show also leaned heavily into the "educational" or "moral" angle, but in the clumsiest way possible. Every episode tried to have a little nugget of wisdom, usually delivered by the Wizard, but it was always overshadowed by Momba getting hit in the head with a broom or the Scarecrow falling into a hole. It was chaotic. It was loud. It was quintessentially sixties.
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Where Can You Watch It Now?
Finding the full run of Tales of the Wizard of Oz is a bit of a scavenger hunt. Because it was produced by a smaller studio and went through various distribution hands (from Videocraft to Classic Media, now owned by DreamWorks/Universal), it hasn't received a glamorous 4K restoration.
You can usually find old VHS rips on YouTube. They are grainy. The colors are bleeding. The audio hums. Honestly? That’s the best way to watch it. Seeing it in high definition would probably ruin the mystery. It’s meant to be seen through a layer of analog static. There have been some DVD releases, often sold in "dollar bins" or as part of "cartoon mega-packs," but they are rarely complete.
Why It Matters for Animation History
- It was the first major Oz production for television.
- It established the Rankin/Bass partnership with Canadian talent.
- It proved that Oz could be a "brand" independent of the MGM film.
- The character tropes (the nervous lion, the eccentric witch) influenced how Oz was portrayed in later parodies.
The Verdict on the 1961 Version
Is it "good"? That’s a loaded question. If you compare it to Avatar: The Last Airbender, it’s garbage. If you compare it to other 1961 syndicated cartoons like The Dick Tracy Show or Courageous Cat and Minute Mouse, it’s actually pretty inventive. It has a soul. You can tell the creators were trying to do something fun with very little resources.
The character of Socrates the Scarecrow is genuinely funny. His "brain" often works in reverse, leading him to over-complicate simple problems while the others just stare at him. It’s a precursor to the "absurdist" humor we see in modern cartoons.
Actionable Steps for Oz Fans
If you want to dive into this specific era of Oz history, don't just stop at the '61 cartoon. There’s a whole ecosystem of mid-century Oz media that most people ignore.
- Seek out the 1964 Return to Oz: It’s the direct sequel to this series. It features the same designs but with better animation and Liza Minnelli’s voice. It’s the "prestige" version of the '61 show.
- Compare the Designs: Look at the original W.W. Denslow illustrations from the 1900 book. You'll notice that the 1961 cartoon actually stays closer to the book's "weirdness" than the 1939 movie did. The movie made everything pretty; the cartoon kept it a little bit jagged.
- Check the Credits: Look for the name Arthur Rankin Jr. and Jules Bass. Once you see their influence here, you’ll start seeing it in everything from The Last Unicorn to The Hobbit (1977).
- Listen to the Soundtrack: If you can find the audio tracks, listen to the incidental music. It’s a masterclass in how to use a small jazz ensemble to create a sense of frantic movement.
Tales of the Wizard of Oz isn't a masterpiece of cinema. It’s a weird, vibrating relic of a time when TV was still figuring out what it wanted to be. It’s a reminder that Oz is a playground that can handle any interpretation, no matter how low-budget or bizarre. Whether you find it nostalgic or just plain creepy, it remains a fascinating footnote in the history of animation and a testament to the enduring power of Baum’s world. It’s clunky, it’s colorful, and it’s very, very 1961. And honestly, that’s why it’s worth a look.