I didn’t realize how often I had seen a chunky piece of pizza walking across a blank road to nowhere with Mickey Mouse gloves and big ol’ boots, but once I did, I could never unsee it. Every so often, usually while scrolling through Pinterest or Instagram, a sentient object with buggy eyes and a cheeky smile under a plasticine Canva font would greet me, usually with the intention of selling me something or telling me to go somewhere where other people could sell me something. The designs create an uneasy feeling for me; it’s unclear whether they belong in a pandemic teen’s bedroom or an overpriced millennial bistro. A quick Google search (and a couple of Reddit threads) brought me to a strange term: “modern rubberhose”.
If you’re like me — someone who’s not embroiled in the history of animation — the phrase “modern rubberhose” sounds like it could refer to a pretentious underground band or a piece of cutting-edge gardening technology. In actuality, it refers to the interpretation of 1930s animation styles in present-day art. In the 1930s, “rubberhose” was the main art style for animation — namely the first mainstream one. Characterized by its loose-limbed, physics-defying slapstick, the goal of the art style was to allow creative freedom within the constraints of a low budget, especially during the Great Depression. Fleischer Studios was the juggernaut of this era, and their creations remain American cultural icons (do Betty Boop or Popeye ring a bell?). Initially falling out of favor in exchange for more sophisticated long-form animation (the post-Disney industry was not kind to this style), rubberhose blossomed back into popularity in the late 2010s after the massive success of video games like Bendy and The Ink Machine and Cuphead, both released in 2017 and directly inspired by Fleischer’s body of work. Now it’s everywhere in the graphic design community — and I can’t say that’s ideal.
I may not be an animation expert, but I do love video games. I was a huge fan of the resurgence of the charming vignette-laden art style back when Cuphead first took the gaming scene by storm. It was a painstakingly human art style, as dynamic and lifelike as the controls — and you could tell, much like the shorts that inspired it, the game was made with love. Besides, I’ll never complain at the sight of artists breathing new life into a long-dormant art style; that is, until the new life goes stale. My obvious grievance is that its overuse makes it mundane in comparison to when it first made its return to the mainstream scene. But that can be said for any stylistic trend. So what makes this particularly unappealing only a few years after its resurgence? The answer is simple: It misses the point.
These new images are static snapshots that cannot replicate the fluidity that makes the style successful in animation, no matter how hard they try. The eyes of the characters no longer dazzle with excitement — they only possess a soulless, thousand-yard stare, transforming the cute character into a bizarre corporate entity. Unlike the distinct attire of the characters of yore, these little guys exclusively wear white gloves and boots, showing a severe lack of creativity when it comes to giving them a distinct appearance. As for movement? You can forget it. No motion lines or creative poses here. The most they can muster is a half-hearted march across a beige No Man’s Land. Overall, without the animation to liven up the characters, these drawings can only ride nostalgic coattails rather than expand on a truly innovative idea.
That lack of innovation is detrimental to a style like this. Rubberhose was born in an era of minimal resources and necessary simplicity. The animators had to have memorable storylines and a punchy sense of humor to make up for the immovable backgrounds and (usually) the lack of color paint. Without creative ingenuity, rubberhose wouldn’t exist! This is a crucial aspect of the history of rubberhose that the two video games are determined to honor. In Cuphead, you “enter” different animated shorts in a beat-’em-up frenzy. Each boss level has a distinct theme; whether you’re in a candy kingdom or a desert storm, there are always a billion moving parts to each sequence, and no two levels are the same. Bendy is about the dilemma between two animators after one of them tries to bring their characters to life, which quickly escalates into a tale of demonic ink creatures and identity crises as the player explores the haunted, dilapidated studio.
The common denominator here is a story fueled by original ideas that expand upon what made the old style successful, all while paying homage to the motivations behind the development of rubberhose. That is absent in its current incarnation, where, instead of aiming to push the envelope, modern rubberhose has been reduced to nothing more than a sleek corporate overlay — which is, quite honestly, a tragedy considering its underdog roots.
I’m not alone in my growing disdain for this development. Graphic designer Ram Reyes took to Instagram to voice his concern that modern rubberhose was becoming the Gen-Z equivalent to Corporate Memphis. This blobby, emotionless style, often used by Google, has long been derided by graphic designers as being stale and soulless. He highlights how this corporate energy has only become worse as rubberhose characters become more prevalent in stock websites:
“(The) sad thing about the whole templification of this art style is that no matter if somebody did use a stock rubberhose character or they had somebody draw it, collectively I feel like it degrades the authenticity of the art style.”
I can’t help but agree. As I stare down the barrel of these chubby-cheeked anthropomorphic products, it’s evident that what was once a novelty art style, important to the history of animation, has now become an embarrassing fad used by companies to seem cozy or approachable, when they are anything but. They’re no longer distinguishable from one another. It’s sad to see this level of laziness emerge, especially considering this trend was born out of a desire for a creative, cutting-edge art form. I implore future rubberhose artists to reinvest in art that takes work — animation, comics, characters within a real story. Anything but a stale advertisement.
Rubberhose thrives when the concept does. Once that is prioritized, I believe rubberhose could feasibly have a place in the cultural zeitgeist again. However, if this style isn’t redirected, it will tarnish the rubberhose name for future generations, those so far removed from the nearly century-old cartoons that they will associate it with slop rather than sincerity.
Daily Arts Writer Isabella Casagranda can be reached at ijcasa@umich.edu.
