THE RESTLESS BREED (1957)

The Restless Breed is the final Western from director Allan Dwan. It is distributed by 20th Century Fox. The Pathécolor tinting is of questionable quality in a film that utilizes bluish (night) studio sets along with location filming. Set in 1865, the story is written by Steve Fisher. The film's main stars are Scott Brady, Anne Bancroft, and Rhys Williams, along with a few familiar B-movie character actors. Fine performances all around. Be prepared for some unnecessary and disruptive two-second edits that return the viewer to another location during a break in the conversation. There is an overabundance of character eavesdropping, too, but it is not intended to be humorous.

Unlike most Westerns of the era, the film opens oddly (uniquely?) with a black background behind a glowing red modern font of credits accompanied by a contemporary music score by Edward L. Alperson Jr. The result creates an impression more attuned to a low-budget horror film by William Castle. Interestingly, or not, the opening music somewhat foretells Brady's own television Western, Shotgun Slade, with its atypical use of a jazz score. A lawyer with a temper, Brady opens the film as it confirms his father, a Secret Service Agent, has been murdered. The incident is told in a brief flashback that has true spoiler-alert credentials. He accepts his father's revolver but not the badge. Bent on revenge, he goes to the town where the murder took place, a Texas-Mexico border town overrun by the typical gang of outlaws. After a self-defensive shooting of two town bullies, everyone thinks he is their latest gunslinger.

There appears to be a significant role for Scott Marlowe yet he is irrelevant until near the movie's end. Even then, one wonders why drag out his character so frequently. The young Marlowe pops up throughout the film lurking nervously against storefront posts, in alleys, or peeping through a broken section of saloon window. His every appearance proves he does not have the nerve to shoot down Brady. The eavesdropper reports to Leo Gordon, one in the gang of gun-runners, whose boss is Jim Davis.

Williams is quite the eavesdropper, himself. These "advanced notifications" make him wise beyond his understanding. He is perceived as the only sensibility factor in town, benefitted by dressing in black like a minister. When pressed by Brady, however, he admits to the impersonation. Only his word should be taken as gospel. The tunnel-visioned Williams deems his good intentions are best for the whole town. His soft-spoken demeanor always wins out. It is hard to argue with a man who initiated a children's shelter of unwanted half-breeds. The oldest being Bancroft. Williams becomes much more "hard-spoken" when she becomes enamored with Brady. Always ready to make demands, she must stay away from that no good gunslinging [yet handsome] criminal.

All the town's previous sheriffs have been murdered soon after taking office. Brady himself survives numerous assassination attempts but the gang's numbers only dwindle. Beware of a hot-headed lawyer with a gun. Williams finally gets the facts about Brady and nearly apologizes. The murderer arrives back in town with a few of his henchmen. We learn of Marlowe's small part in the murder, then he disappears from the film. We can only assume he still lurks. Everyone supposed to be dead is now dead and Williams supports the Brady-Bancroft union.

Note: I could not pinpoint the restless breed. I presume it is Brady, out for revenge. The contraband gang is quite restless. Perhaps it is Bancroft, wanting to break out of a children's shelter. Perhaps it is the town itself. It could be the four producers needed for the film.

THE INSIDE STORY (1948)

This eight-seven-minute comedy begins in 1948 with a voice-over about a small town's Uncle Ed, played by Charles Winninger, who suggests every town has one—a lovable but absent-minded inn clerk possessed by “knock-knock” jokes. He has a habit of wearing his eyeglasses on the top of his head, with consistent reminders of where to locate them. The live-action has Winninger entering a bank to place government bonds into his safe deposit box. Accessing funds is a friend. Both men have different views about hoarding or spending money. Winninger tries to persuade him to invest in government bonds and circulate his money. The balance of the film flashes back to 1933 in the midst of the Great Depression as Winninger recalls the "inside story" about one confusing day due to his error handling a thousand dollars.

The story is by Ernest Lehman and Geza Herczeg and the snappy screenplay by the team of Mary Loos and Richard Sale. It is a Depression-era story written when President Roosevelt declared an eight-day "bank holiday" (closings) with the Emergency Banking Act of 1933 to avoid customer withdrawals. In the case of this film, however, it involves the circulation of a thousand dollars that solves and creates problems.

William Lundigan plays a struggling artist (cliché intended). He is stressed about a decent living for supporting his fiancée, Marsha Hunt. He owes a thousand dollars to her father, Gene Lockhart, owner of a local inn. Lockhart loathes the artist's feast-or-famine career pursuit. It initiates his overstepping the bounds of character exaggeration. The frequency becomes a bit out of place in a film of subtle humor, not in keeping with a screwball comedy.

While attending to an inn guest, Roscoe Karns, Winninger mindlessly puts his thousand dollars in the wrong envelope—addressed to Lundigan—into the safe. Karn's insurance money is meant for a local farmer, Tom Fadden, when he arrives. Karns uses his typical rapid-fire delivery as a wisecracking womanizer with a trademark double-take after a verbal smackdown. He is frightened by the mere mention of conflict. Lockhart later finds the money in the safe and mistakenly thinks it was payment for Lundigan's paintings. He quickly changes his tune toward Lundigan in absurd fashion. He claims the cash to pay off his debt to local merchant, Will Wright, who in turn pays what he owes the building's owner, Florence Bates. The head-strong Bates in turn gives the money to an attorney, Robert Shayne, to cover waning legal fees. 

Speaking of over-the-top, Shayne is so distraught over not being able to make a living for his wife, Gail Patrick, he considers suicide. Bates prevents this with her visit to his office. Suddenly Shayne is beside himself with joy. I suspect he is bipolar. Patrick then uses the money to pay Lundigan for her portrait she's gifting her husband. So, amusingly, the money goes full circle, ending up with the artist, who then pays Lockhart, who gives it to Winninger to place in the safe. Perfect timing for Karns to pay farmer Fadden. Into the mix is are bootleggers, Allen Jenkins, and his dim-witted partner, William Haad, was tempted to steal the dough in the safe. But unknown to them, the safe is empty!

Note: The film has its implausibilities with the aforementioned over-the-top emotional swings and the fact that all six people owe or are paid exactly one thousand dollars. Winninger is the spark of the film. In true form is both lovable and exasperating. Hunt, Lundigan, and Shayne never looked better.

ARSON, INC. (1949)

The American production company, Lippert Pictures, had a talent for underwriting low-budget action films which were generally easy to like: they were short; had bits of humor; and typically an exciting climax. Directed by William Berke and produced by William Stephens from a story by Arthur Caesar, everything is in order for this film about tracking down an arsonist by an undercover fireman—not a police detective. This may seem like old serial episodes edited into a sixty-three-minute film noir. It is not. One might discover this film under the alternate titles, Firebug Squad or Three Alarm Fire.

The film's opening credits are supported by an upstanding military march theme followed by a voice-over that spells out the film's premise. The narrator plays the Deputy Chief of the Los Angeles Fire Department who smoothly transitions his speech to welcome handsome Robert Lowery (below center) into his office. Chosen because of his special interest and knack in solving crimes of fire. He is given full reign to find the missing briefcase of evidence from a fellow investigator, deliberately killed during his own arson investigation. Lowery must expose who is behind the killing and the suspicious warehouse fires of recent years.

Perennially slimy bad guy, Doug Fowley (above right), is the insurance claims adjuster whose payouts for property loss in fires seem legitimate. The smug agent delivers his lines—initially in extreme close-ups—as tight-lipped as someone whose jaws are wired shut following reconstructive surgery. On the take is Hollywood's well-known nervous weasel, Byron Foulger, needing money to cover past debts. Fowley tells him to torch his wife's mink coat—something Foulger has probably thought about for years—to be awarded the needed cash. The spineless husband senses he may get burned after Lowery's initial questioning.

With a never-ending supply of matches is the usually harmless, double-chinned, balding, comedic actor, Ed Brophy (above left), often delivering reactionary lines in other films as a poor man's Curly of The Three Stooges fame. As Fowley's fire man, he is instructed to keep tabs on Lowery. The investigator goes deep cover as a disgruntled firefighter to gain the confidence of Brophy, the latter vouching for him to his boss. Now, good pals, they frequent a bookie's backroom hideout. During a raid, the two are arrested. The following day, a phony newspaper headline indicates Lowery lost his job as a firefighter. Brophy is encouraged that Lowery is a rat just like himself. The duo works with Fowley on his next fire sale.

There are three female costars in this film: Anne Gwynne plays a school teacher and part-time babysitter for Foulger's young son. Lowery is instantly aflame for her upon their first meeting. She initially puts his fire out, but it does not take long to figure their budding relationship. Gwynne even plays along as part of his undercover work. Brophy sets off a warehouse fire but cannot resist having Lowery drive him back to see the huge flames. But Lowery tipped off an undercover cop, who was nearby to put the potential blaze out. This is disappointing to Brophy, and very suspicious to Fowley.

The second female is Marcia Mae Jones (above lower right), Fowley's secretary, with facial features appearing to be a composite of three females, all put together at odd angles. With too much to drink while dining with Brophy, Lowery, and Gwynne, she lets it slip about the next warehouse fire of mink stoles. Turns out it is Fowley's plan to see if Lowery shows up. No minks are going up in flames with a flummoxed Lowery trying to explain it to the fire captain. Bullets whiz by Lowery as he and Gwynne take cover in the warehouse. The seething Brophy sets off another fire to flesh them out for a clear shot.

Note: The briefly seen third female costar is Maude Eburne as "Grandma," also an occasional babysitter for Foulger. Her elderly face is on the opposite end of the spectrum from Gwynne. As is often the case in a Lippert production, levity plays its part. She and Lowery accidentally bump into each other early in the film—she completely in his arms. It becomes the amorous highlight of her day. Eburen wrapped up her thirty-three-year career one picture and two years later.

Mismatched Couples Blogathon

TELEVISION HISTORY 101

Decidedly unknown today, even in America, Yancy Derringer (1958-59) was categorized as a Western but set in New Orleans—a Southern Western if you will, broadcast on the USA's CBS network. It was an era of gimmick Westerns to remove the stigma of the traditional Westerns in the likes of Cheyenne, Gunsmoke, or Wagon Train. The trend was The Rifleman, Wanted: Dead or Alive, Have Gun—Will Travel or Bat Masterson. Each weekly hero carried unique defensive weapons. One Western lead had shiny discs around his hatband that blinded his opponent in a gunfight given his precise positioning against the sun. There was also a short-lived series of a one-armed bounty hunter—his prosthetic arm covered in black leather and supported by a sling. And there was the Derringer series. The title character owned a river boat, a lavish homestead, was an expert card sharp, and had a most apt name for the character: he concealed four-barrel Sharp derringers, one up his sleeve, another in his vest, and a third under his hat. Oh, and he sometimes carried a cane that concealed a sword. Just in case.
Yancy Derringer undoubtedly had the largest gimmick: a Pawnee Indian sidekick. At first glance, he appeared to be the cliché cigar store Indian seen in many ancient Western films or television episodes. His face remained emotionless, and he hardly ever bent at the waist except to sit. Pahoo Ka Ta Wah never spoke and rarely broke a stare. The duo communicated only by sign language.

On the other hand, Derringer was a fancy-dressed dude. Always cool, fluid, collected, and the ever-gallant gentleman to the ladies. He looked every bit that next to the wooden Pahoo in authentic Indian dress. In this contrast, few characters appeared more disparate than these two. Far from it. Acknowledged blood brothers, Pahoo always had Yancy's back with a knife sheathed behind his right shoulder and a buckshot-spitting shotgun concealed under his Native blanket. However mismatched they appeared, they were a tightly synchronized duo on the set because both began their careers as stuntmen.

Derringer is played by Jock Mahoney while Pahoo is played by Jay X Brands X Brands. Mahoney is considered the most original and best stuntman working in Hollywood in the Forties and Fifties with an athletic ability that stunned his contemporaries in the business. His earlier Western series, Range Rider, showcased many of his outstanding abilities. As stuntmen, they were consistently developing new stunts for the Derringer series. One of the more common was passing Pahoo's knife back and forth—a deceivingly simple toss backward—without looking. By the way, it was Mahoney's suggestion that Brands not say a word during his audition for the part. Pahoo became a defining character of the series.

Notes: With its blend of drama, action and humor, the series was destined for a second season but the CBS network, now realizing they had a hit on their hands, wanted a significant interest in the series and wanted Desilu Productions out of the mix. Neither Mahoney nor the creators would agree to this and the network canceled the series.

A special thank you to Realweegiemidget Reviews for hosting the Mismatched Couples Blogathon.

SHAKEDOWN (1950)

Howard Duff plays an over-confident, womanizing con man with a camera who despises the low income of society, of which he is currently a part. The opening beating he takes sets the tone for his well-known lack of character. Among other things, the love of money is the root of all evil and he will use anyone as a stepping stone for financial gain. A newspaper photo editor, Peggy Dow, falls for Duff's smooth, charming manner and ambition, then vouches for him to the editor-in-chief, Bruce Bennett. With a nose for news, honesty and integrity, he does not like Duff from the outset—something rotten is developing. Nevertheless, due to her persistence, he is hired. In time, his uncanny ability to be in the exact spot to capture a newsworthy happening suspiciously lacks authenticity. Like the time Duff happens upon an apartment fire and spots a lady breaking a third-story window for escape. He tells her to pause then yells, "Now jump." Click! I assume there were firemen to catch her. Not an issue for Duff.

Duff surviving until the end of this film seems highly unlikely. His cocky, yet naivete, gets him involved with organized crime. He is well paid for his darkroom skills, going to work for a racketeer, Brian Donlevy, who provides him with inside information about a rival's activity. Duff just "happens" to be in downtown San Francisco to capture Lawrence Tierney during the bank robbery. Duff later approaches Tierney to offer him a deal—he will keep the negative in safe keeping for a substantial fee. If that is not enough, he later hides in a parking garage to capture him in the act of installing an after-market accessory to Donlevy's limo: a bomb. The unscrupulous shutterbug now has the blackmail image of his dreams. Duff is free to swoop in for Donlevy's widow, Anne Vernon.

During the rapid climax at a high society formal event, Duff's true colors are revealed to Vernon—Tierney suggests he was responsible for her husband's death. But those negatives, hidden within a picture frame at Dow's apartment, will prove otherwise. Duff's frantic call proves fruitless. She is fed up with his fabrications and hangs up on him. Duff is a marked man. After being shot three times, he still manages to squeeze the shutter release cable hanging from his tripod to photograph Tierney firing the fatal bullet.

Duff lived for a “shot” at immortality. His photographic evidence brings the mobsters to justice. Yet the newspaper staff knew he was a "skunk of the first odor" all along.

Note: The eighty-minute film was released by Universal Pictures and directed by Joseph Pevney. It is a better-than-average B-movie noir. Fine performances all around. The powerful scores are from a stock library by several well-known composers. Duff effortlessly delivers numerous sarcastic, witty quips throughout—like a guy who memorized the excellent screenplay by Martin Goldsmith and Alfred Lewis Levitt. Ignore the poster. At no time did Donlevy attempt to punch out Duff. The viewers on the other hand....

There is at least one gullible moment in the film. Duff desperately wants that image few could capture. As a taxi fare, he notices the car in front is weaving left and right and thinks it might lead to something. The erratic car does plunge into shallow water, balanced precipitously on its side—the driver in a panic. Rather than help the driver, Duff tells him to stick his head out the side window and then stretch out his arms in a show of desperation. Why the driver would comply with these commands is difficult to fathom. 

FALLGUY (1962)

This one-off, sixty-four-minute crime drama opens in a highly interpretive manner as we watch a pair of slacks and a briefcase enter a house where three female bimbos are lounging around. Naturally, there is the obligatory saxophone to accompany them. A guy comes down the stairs and hands some cash to the slacks—now with a hat. The scene cuts to the minimalist office of a newspaper editor/mob boss. He smugly tells his two operatives that the Indian is set to deliver his contract tonight. Crank up the cool jazz theme and graphics. This intriguingly quirky opening may have you wondering if it is an Indian from New Mexico or New Delhi. Like passing an automobile accident, not gawking might be difficult. Not that anyone might care, here is my spoiler alert: the following paragraphs walk through the myriad of awkward or funny elements right to the amusing ending.

That pounding opening jazz score by Jaime Medoza-Nave will remind those familiar with the then-current television series, Checkmate, and its cool theme written two years earlier by Johnny (John) Williams. The graphic title sequence is an obvious knock-off of the genius work of Saul Bass, then breaking new ground with film title graphics. These assumed “inspirations” end up being the only classy elements of the film. An independent production, its lack of creativity is a good example of a wasted low budget. The film had no chance of being successful. This is not a foreign film but some post-production vocal recording was no doubt necessary for this inexperienced cast. Actors who indicate their apparent limited experience in community theater. The film’s star, Mr. Ed Dugan (top), saved his best performance for his final film. This was also his first film. There are moments when one more retake might have helped his delivery. 

Driving home one night in his Triumph TR3, Dugan comes to the aid of a badly injured motorist (assumed dead by the Indian). The head laceration of the injured man is well done. Hats off to the makeup department. At gunpoint, however, the thug forces Dugan to take him to the syndicate's doctor, working out of his white, plywood-paneled basement. Looks sterile enough. Recognizing the man, the doctor knows the Indian’s contract was unsuccessful. As the injured driver collapses, Dugan grabs the gun but it accidentally expels a bullet into the thug. The syndicate attempts to frame Dugan as the title character. A crooked police chief grills him under a single 65-watt bulb.

Some of the oddest scenes occur at the editor’s home, played by G. J. Mitchell, where he is constantly lounging and enjoying the finer things of a middle-class lifestyle. The boss's partners, the weasel-of-a-doctor in a bow tie, and a pudgy police chief are talking syndicate business when an irrelevant and bazaar catfight breaks out on the carpet by two ladies on the editor’s “payroll.” Those rug burns are going to sting. Ignoring the obvious distraction, the double-chinned chief is actually miffed that Dugan has not changed one word of his testimony. That would make total sense, actually. The chief is also angry with the boss. Not because he is dressed in a “Hugh Hefner” lounging robe on his Sears massage recliner, but because of music on his radio. The chief yells at him, 'Will you shut that thing off and listen to me!' The boss obliges, reaching over to turn it off. Viewers hear a click but the background score faintly continues as before. “That's better!”

Due to a freak fender bender, Dugan escapes the squad car and as the chief attempts to fire his gun, he slams the door on his hand. The film actually improves slightly at this halfway point as the shaved-head Indian is now in pursuit, giving the Dugan a chance to shine as he pantomimes fear. An improvement over delivering any dialogue. The jazz score helps out these dark, lengthy scenes. The Wile E. Coyote of Indian hitmen hangs his head in shame as he reports to the boss. The police chief suggests 'Chief Broken Head'—as he sarcastically calls him—go back in front of a cigar store. The funniest line in the film.

One of the funnier scenes, however, has all three operatives again at the mob boss’s home, mostly arguing about how the Indian is a lousy shot or the police chief complaining about the doctor fretting over his daughter’s well-being, constantly phoning her in near panic. Amid all the petty squabbling, there sits the boss in his recliner, preparing to shave. Now he decides to shave?! Unique and totally uncalled for. Suggesting a product placement, he uses a portable, non-electric wind-up shaver from the era. In case of a shaving emergency during a blackout. In actuality, they were used on NASA’s early space flights. He yanks on the tiny cord several times, making a high-pitched “zip-whirr” noise. Then there is this: though a warm California sunset splash is not out of the realm of reason, it is unusual to film the scene in near total darkness with the characters poolside in swimwear as if working on their “moontan.”

Dugan ends up at the doctor’s house where he tries to convince his daughter that he is being framed. She is skeptical. The police chief arrives with the doctor and he takes a pot-shot at Dugan from outside the house, wounding him in the shoulder. His second shot mistakenly hits the daughter (D'oh!), and the scene shifts to the surgical basement ward where four cast members are conveniently staged. In his great-grandfather’s tradition, no one hears the Indian tip-toeing down the basement's wooden steps. He fires one chamber of his shotgun at his two current hits. He then succumbs from simultaneous return fire, as his second chamber accidentally goes off...hitting Dugan’s knee. Whoops!

One Indian and two oafs down, the boss makes a run for it as the police move in. He attempts to step into an elevator and suddenly discovers the passenger cubicle is several floors below—potentially plunging to his death. Actually, it is a clever, startling scene assisted by blaring trumpets. He wisely takes the stairs. Ironically, he stumbles on the very top step and dies instantly by the time he hits the first landing. A genuine fall guy.

The final scene has the daughter off on a flight for unknown reasons via a TWA Boeing 707. There is a profile close-up of Dugan's head as the opening jazz theme cranks up. For the suggested cool ending, the camera pans away as Dugan turns toward the camera with a full-body shot of him hobbling away from the airliner on crutches. Job well done, Ed Dugan. Well done. 

Note: This film could be found as part of a triple billing feature to help ease the embarrassment of buying a ticket for only one of them. The director and producer, Donn Harling, vanished after this, his one and only film. It is a risky assumption but he may be more to blame than the story and screenplay by Richard Adams and the singular George Mitchell. The confusing stats on IMBD dot com indicate that G. J. Mitchell plays mob boss Carl Ramin. The “G” stands for George, apparently. However, he is credited as George André in the effort to never be found again. Many sources mistakenly suggest character actor, George Mitchell (1905-1972), plays Ramin by using his photo. He is not in this film and he has zero credits as a screenwriter as well.

SUDDENLY (1955)

Directed by Lewis Allen, with a screenplay by Richard Sale from his 1943 story, Active Duty, this film was distributed by United Artists. Hardly unknown to anyone with access to the Internet or a Sinatra fan, the crooner capitalizes on his Oscar performance the year before. He is riveting as a big-shot contract killer whose self-imposed bravado in World War II does not quite ring true. My essay goes into more detail than usual to highlight the good aspects and call attention to some gullible moments. Based on today's film buff familiarity, spoiler alerts are unnecessary. The premise falls into the noir slot because of the content. Do not expect dark, shadowy visuals in the sunny California desert.

In his second credited film role, television’s Paul Wexler plays a deputy sheriff who opens the movie with a wooden delivery and bass voice belying such a narrow guy. He gets the film off to a shaky B-movie start with an attempt at local humor about the town's name to a motorist. However, the film quickly gathers momentum as David Raksin’s score fires up. His complex composition during the opening bars features soaring brass and dissonant strings suggesting something is about to happen. The score quickly shifts to represent a bustling small town. In a slice of chaotic realism, the railroad telegraph operator interprets a top-secret message of national significance. Caught off guard by the urgency, he habitually blurts, 'Good. Night. Shirt!' I like his creative use of words. For those under fifty, "nightshirts" were essentially knee-length T-shirts to sleep in.

Co-starring in the film is Sterling Hayden, the chief of police who knows instinctively what to do. Anytime. The Secret Service arrives, headed by the ever-present Willis Bouchey, who coordinates with local officials to make the President's stopover secure. He is surprised to learn that his old boss, James Gleason, lives nearby and would like to see him. Gleason's on-screen daughter and grandson, played by Nancy Gates and Kim Charney respectively, live with him. Her son and Hayden get along quite well. The boy has his eye on a toy gun inside a window display—Gates will have none of it—to pretend he is Hayden or his grandpa, a former Secret Service agent for President Coolidge. A grieving war widow, Gates despises guns and is hesitant to move on with any new relationship. The film's believability is at an all-time high at this point.

FASTEN YOUR SUSPENDED DISBELIEF SEAT BELT

Sinatra, along with his accomplices, Christopher Dark, and actor/voice-over artist, Paul Frees, arrive at Gleason's house ahead of schedule with phony FBI credentials. Gleason wonders what the FBI is doing on this type of assignment. As Hayden and Bouchey approach, the trio hides in an adjoining room. Out pops 'ol Blue Eyes with Bouchey going for his gun, who is the first to go down. Hayden takes a bullet in the arm, breaking a bone, which needs to be reset. He asks the smirking Sinatra to do it but he replies, 'You couldn’t take it.' Hayden insists. Sinatra, sensing a gruesome delight coming his way tells him, 'Hold on brave boy.' One hard yank and a smile erupts. Not a peep out of Hayden. A little man in every sense of the word, Hayden sizes him up pretty quickly. It is interesting to note the size difference between the two when standing toe to toe. Surely a subliminal message.

Perhaps overlooked in editing or simply badly staged, the house, when viewed from the depot, appears to be about an eighth of a mile up a hillside. But viewed from the house, the depot is directly across the tracks! Sinatra was counting on a wooden table to screw to the floor and provide stability for his scoped rifle. Instead, he has to settle on Gleason’s metal table. Considering how close Sinatra is to the depot, a scope will be useless. Lazy Frees whines about the hassle of bolting everything down. He suggests that a “Tommy” gun would work just as well. Here is a guy who knows the distance to the depot. Like Tonto to his Lone Ranger, Frees is told to go into town and see what is happening. He whines. Frees gets questioned by Wexler, loses his cool and the deputy gets wounded. The coward does not get far, groaning and whining as he goes down from, ironically, one of his beloved “Tommy” guns.

Gleason was in the process of fixing his television but ended up calling their local repairman. Using his past field training, he sets up the exciting climax by suggesting the clueless repairman clamp the wires—the 5,000-volt ones—to the metal table for better “reception.” Sinatra seems annoyed by all the background electronic gibberish. Gleason fakes an angina attack with the grandson fetching his pills in the next room. After grabbing the pills, the lad swaps his toy gun for Gleason's real one. The geezer “accidentally” spills his cup of water on the floor near the metal table. The shallow puddle goes unnoticed. Dark, who just prior wanted to call the whole thing off and make a run for it, (suddenly) is excited to view the shot through the gun’s scope. He will get a microscopic view of a Philips head screw in the depot's sign! With his soles sufficiently wet and the rifle gripped, his soul is sent into the afterlife. His involuntary reflexes repeatedly pull the trigger and their location is no longer a secret. Sinatra sees the sparks, yanks off the clamp, pushes dead Dark out of the way, and rapidly steps up to the rifle in fear of missing the shot. Hayden throws a heavy ceramic ashtray at Sinatra’s spine, and then Charney, the little pistol, takes an errant shot. He tosses the revolver across the carpet.

Not phased by all the personal attention from the rear, Sinatra grins, suggesting he is locked in, ready to fire. Except the train does not intend to stop thanks to a stool pigeon's tip about the assassination plot. Had it stopped, all passengers would have been hidden from his view by exiting from the opposite side of the coach! His face goes into shock. The scene sets up beautifully delivered lines for Sinatra. In utter bewilderment, almost to tears realizing his moment of glory is gone, he hesitantly and quietly says, 'It didn’t stop. It. Didn’t. Stop.' He quickly pivots, facing the center of the room, and shouts, 'It didn’t stop!' Gates delivers an accurate second bullet (suddenly) realizing a gun can be a crime deterrent.

Note: Though not flawless as noted, it is seventy-five minutes well spent in Suddenly, California. Visually it is a time capsule of small-town America, the storefronts and their interiors, the vehicles, and the Southern Pacific Railroad. It was an era when a U.S. President made a stop, it was a rare and special event. As a testament to the era, early in the movie, Hayden asks Gates if he can pick her up for church on Sunday. Try suggesting that for any modern action movie. Incidentally, after the television is fixed, it is Paul Frees’ voice-over calling the fake baseball play-by-play.