In a summer besieged by recycled characters launched like political campaigns (Spider-Man, the Simpsons, Jason Bourne, et al.), let us recall franchises of yore, when beloved familiars made their way to theaters so frequently and economically that little fanfare was necessary. Today we have two such artifacts, both of the 1930s, though their origins lie in the 1920s: the third and final installment in 20th Century Fox’s “Charlie Chan” series, and Warner Bros.’ first of two volumes collecting the complete Fleischer Studio’s “Popeye the Sailor” cartoons. Each includes worthy archaic extras, hidden almost apologetically behind the featured stuff.

The Chan set assembles leftovers, since the earlier collections were configured thematically: Volumes 1 and 2 have Earl Derr Biggers’s Chinese-American detective stumbling over murders in four countries (1934–35) and at four cultural or sporting events (1936–37) — all conveniently located on the Fox lot (think Epcot with stock footage). These include the most admired pictures in the series, with Charlie visiting Paris, Egypt, the opera, and the Olympics. Four of Oland’s early outings as Chan have maddeningly disappeared, bringing us the far-from-negligible motley of Volume 3.

Oland’s second Chan film, “The Black Camel” (1931), is his only surviving picture based on a Biggers novel and the only one filmed on location (in Honolulu); Bela Lugosi helps out as a crystal ball gazer and Dwight Frye plays an apprehensive butler, adding a twist to the original story, which was loosely based on the murder of Hollywood director William Desmond Taylor.

The other Oland films are a visually lively investigation of the occult: “Charlie Chan’s Secret” (1936) has Charlie showing his skill in forensics and gunplay. His final outings include “Charlie Chan on Broadway” (1937), with a strong supporting cast and an arbitrary but unguessable villain, and the routine “Charlie Chan in Monte Carlo” (1937, but released after Oland’s death in 1938), in which the bumbling of Key Luke and sloe-eyed beauty of Kay Lineker (better known for writing “The Blob” 20 years later) provides needed relief from Harold Huber’s pidgin French.

The ringer in the carton is “Behind That Curtain” (1929), the first talkie based on the Chan stories and a slow-moving antique that nonetheless has much to recommend it, including the unique presence of an Asian actor, E.L. Park, in the title role. When Fox began releasing its Chan and Mr. Moto films, it included supplements with Asian-American commentators, as if begging permission to recycle movies in which characters with Asian roots are played by such Occidentals as the Swedish-born Oland. We now live at a time when racial politics limit actors to roles permitted by birthright — a long way in the wrong direction since the era, 40-plus years ago, when Ruby Dee played Cordelia to Morris Carnovsky’s Lear.

No one can get too exercised about Oland’s Chan, who is always the smartest, bravest, and most courteous man in the room. Next to the murderers, the most derisively treated characters are the white cops, especially the racist ones (like the William Demarest character in “At the Opera,” who calls Charlie “Chop Suey”). The bowing and scraping attributed to Chan is, in fact, something of a charade and not without its touch of condescension. And the deliberate diction with which Oland recites an endless supply of aphorisms recalibrates the tempo of scenes to suit him, often forcing the other characters to suppress impatience. Chan’s signature, “Thank you so much,” recently appropriated by Kyra Sedgwick’s Brenda Johnson on “The Closer,” can be especially acidic, as in “Charlie Chan’s Secret,” when a cop bawls him out for letting the presumed killer escape.

In “Behind That Curtain,” Chan is a supporting character, brought in toward the end to gather evidence and shoot the malefactor. Park, making his only film appearance, is so amateurish and unlike Chan (no words of wisdom) that he nervously looks toward the camera, as if seeking direction. His presence underscores the detective’s utter remoteness from a real Chinese man. He is a minstrel construct in the American tradition of humbling otherness. It would be unthinkable to revive Chan today without an Asian-American actor, but even he would have to channel the physical and verbal politesse that gives Chan his solitary disposition. Oland was a good enough actor to play a stereotype while simultaneously — often in well-timed close-ups — puncturing it.

Another fascinating aspect of “Behind That Curtain” is that it represents an exceedingly rare instance of a screenwriter (Sonya Levien, whose later work ranged from “Drums Along the Mohawk” to “Bhowani Junction”) taking an intricate detective story (the Biggers novel of the same name) and removing the elements of mystery fiction so that all that remains is a back-story, tracked chronologically. Instead of the detective compiling clues to find out what happened to Eve Durand (Lois Moran), it follows her travail, which involves a cleansing view of the desert that looks backward to T. E. Lawrence and forward to Paul Bowles, and could be adapted today.

Actor Warner Baxter, who plays Eve’s lover, and director Irving Cummings had just come off a great success with “In Old Arizona,” and Fox was willing to spend some money. Many scenes are haltingly enunciated, visually inert, and performed as if the actors were sedated, but location shots of the desert, notably a caravan trekking across the rim, and the streets of San Francisco, are impressive. So is Boris Karloff, in little more than a bit role, milking the line (see if you can do it), “The desert gives and the desert takes away,” for a full six seconds.

The desert rim shot is also used in “Popeye the Sailor Meets Sindbad the Sailor,” a Technicolor two-reeler noted for its hallucinatory colors, three-dimensional animation, lively theme song, and almost exhausting vitality. It’s one of 60 Popeyes, programmed in the order of their initial release, on the indispensable “Popeye the Sailor, 1933–1938,” a four-disc set made possible by the resolution of a rights conflict between the newspaper syndicate that owns the strip and Warner Bros., which own the Paramount cartoons.

Hidden away, among several featurettes, are Fleischer animations from the silent era, among them nine “Out of the Inkwell” epics, with Koko the Clown misbehaving on Max Fleischer’s drawing board. The absence of music is unfortunate, but they still exude charm, invention, and joy, as do several older vault treasures, including a 1916 Mutt and Jeff exploit with dialog balloons and a plot frequently recycled by Laurel and Hardy.

Popeye represents a pinnacle in Depression animation and comedy, working diverse variations on the eternal triangle alongside Olive Oyl, the fickle femme with concave chest and linguini limbs, and Bluto, the bruiser with a huge body, tiny head, and revolting manners. Moral support is provided by Swee’Pea, a cap-wearing infant of uncertain origin, and Wimpy, a poster boy for supersizing.

Max’s brother Dave exhorted his animators to punch up every scene with a gag — the Popeyes may not be as consistently subversive as the studio’s pre-code Betty Boops, but they are faster and funnier. The Fleischers offered an anti-Disney view of the world: gleefully violent, habitually jazzy, gloatingly surreal. The characters seem plugged into a cosmic rhythm, their mutterings too subliminal to lip-synch.

While most of the commentary tracks are illuminating, several are trashed by three knuckleheads, apparently stoned and giggling incessantly. Maybe it’s because of them that the box warns: “‘Popeye the Sailor 1933–1938 Volume One’ is intended for the adult collector and may not be suitable for children.” Say what? Also, while due regard is paid to the voice of Popeye, Jack Mercer (dig him scatting “The Spinach Overture”), almost nothing is said of Mae Questel, who patterned her Olive Oyl on Zasu Pitts, flattening the vowels at the end of lines and singing like nobody’s business. Without Olive, Popeye is just another spinach-crazed gob.

Mr. Giddins is the author of “Natural Selection: Gary Giddins on Comedy, Film, Music, and Books.”