JOHNNY COOL (1963)

A surprising box office success, this one-hundred-three-minute film, distributed by United Artists, produced by Peter "Rat Pack" Lawford, and directed by William Asher, has some believability issues and its mix of comedic and criminal elements simply lessens the impact of contract assassins. Borderline tongue and cheek, it is lightyears away from the wallop two years earlier by, Blast of Silence. However, Asher does a fine job with pacing and lending authenticity is location shooting. The film’s violence is not visually brutal, but gets the point across and may have set a new trend for assassins without a moral conscience. Helping sell that point is Henry Silva’s definitive, smirking performance. A Billy May jazz score also provides the right amount of kick when needed. It could be argued Silva did for contract killers what James Coburn did for spies with his Derek Flint character.

Silva certainly carries this film, in the early stages of his typecast career—he was even intimidating as a mobster in the Jerry Lewis comedy, Cinderfella. Silva’s emotionally detached persona advanced the type to a higher violent quotient by the late Twentieth Century. At certain angles or lighting, his facial structure may appear as though he had reconstructive surgery after a serious face plant. A face he will eventually mature into. His eyes seemingly lack any iris, just giant pupils.

Elizabeth Montgomery is believable in an emotionally difficult, roller-coaster role. Witnessing Silva easily dispense with an obnoxious bar patron in a nightclub, she is instantly attracted to the button-eyed Silva in the worst way. Her boredom is quelled by his mysterious aura. This guy’s persona overpowers all her discernment. Danger is always teasingly attractive to Hollywood.

Marc Lawrence is riveting in his opening scene, thanks to years of portraying movie gangsters. As an exiled American gangster living in Sicily, he has bigger plans for Silva than the local contract killer he has become. A look-alike is killed in Silva’s place so Lawrence can reinvent him for the American market as the oxymoron “cultured assassin.” He wants Silva to eliminate—take out—each former associate living across the pond. Lawrence has equipped him with a detailed history of all things underworld. Silva 2.0 has memorized it all, removed his Sicilian “costume” beard, and takes the name of Lawrence’s character, eventually gaining a modified moniker in the process, the film’s title. After establishing himself in New York City, his next “take-out order” sends him to Las Vegas.

Silva infiltrates a Vegas crap game with no real relevance to the plot, only providing the aforementioned levity. Sammy Davis, Jr. wears an eye patch similar to the one he used for a while after his 1954 injury. In real life, long-since fitted with a glass eye, he uses the patch here as a comedic prop. He has a knack for rolling winning numbers. After a few winning rolls in a row, his nervousness demands he lift his eye patch—albeit with Silva holding a gun to his head—just to make sure he is still using the same die. Another Vegas heritage connection, comedian Joey Bishop, takes an amusing turn as a fast-talking Los Angeles used car shyster who prevents Montgomery from getting a word in edgewise during her purchase.

Then there is an amusing “filler” scene involving a Vegas tour bus driver. The local police are looking for a suspicious passenger, now lined up outside the bus. Silva, who already “confessed” his religious views against gambling to the driver, is in a flowery tourist shirt with three cameras around his neck. Looking down the line, the police are convinced by the bus driver that Silva could not possibly be wanted for anything. Just look at him. A guy in line with a cowboy hat is bragging to Silva about the money he won, exclaiming, “Boy I murdered ‘em!” He asks how Silva did and he blandly replies, “I did all right.” It is the cowboy who gets yanked out of line. 

Silva systematically checks off his to-do list. Jim Backus is an unethical contractor, whose day is cut permanently short. John McGiver can play silly or ruthless. He is the latter, here, as a casino owner with limited dialogue after Silva departs. McGiver's confidence man is the then-popular comedic pundit, Mort Saul. In typical comatose acting form, he actually has a purpose in the film by calmly informing Silva that Lawrence is using him like he was used. Murder's delivery boy. Unemotional Saul is aware he faces eternity at the hands of an embarrassed Silva.

Silva and Montgomery are off to Los Angeles where she learns his background, which does not phase her much. In “trial by fire” she unwittingly becomes the getaway driver for Silva’s latest hit on an oil baron, Brad Dexter. With her convertible automobile idling atop an overlook above Dexter’s backyard pool, she hears an explosion then she and her windshield become spotted with chlorine water in rather creepy detail. In somewhat of a panic she drives away attempting to process Silva's detailed instructions about doing ordinary things until her time comes to reconnect with him back in New York City. She goes to a hair salon and pulls curbside. It is clear she has issues with parallel parking. Upon exiting the salon, she notices a patrol officer looking over her 1962 Ford parked at a fifty-five-degree angle from the curb. Guessing “what would Johnny do,” she abandons the poorly parked car. This is a big error. She will never know the officer was only giving her a ticket for an expired parking meter. A second officer hits pay dirt, though, by discovering fragmented pieces in the car's interior, typically used in a homemade bomb. Evidence that is a turning point in Silva’s future.

Silva's killing efficiency may be hard to believe but he is also an expert con artist. Posing as a photojournalist on assignment, he uses a motorized outdoor window washing system to inch his way up to the upper floor skyscraper office of Telly Savalas, a New York mobster. In what would otherwise be a comedic parody scene, Savalas turns to see Silva’s head slowly rising outside his skyscraper window. As surprising as this is, the only thing concerning him is the rifle pointed in his direction. 

Montgomery finally has a reality check while ensconced in Newport Beach. Though still disturbingly attracted to Silva, she realizes he is a despicable human, especially after learning Dexter’s two children were poolside, potentially killing them. Silva's location is revealed and the east coast “brotherhood” puts him in a straight jacket and then explains in very specific detail how his life will slowly and painfully end. Not so cool, Johnny.

Notes: There is a bit of unintentional humor involving FBI agent, Douglas Henderson, with only one tinted eyeglass lens. We have already seen Davis with an eye patch. Now, this. Even if it was caused by natural lighting or reflection, it is strange enough, obvious enough, that the director would ultimately have the character not use eyeglasses or re-position the lighting or camera position. 

James Van Heusen wrote a nearly incoherent title song as if Sammy Davis Jr.—totally without blame—was making up the song on the spot in an attempt to fit in with the orchestra. A song that seemingly could never be duplicated the same way twice. A perpetual motion tune with rambling lyrics by, sorry to say, Sammy Cahn, who seems to have written too many words for Van Heusen's given notes. Were they ever in the same room together?

FILM BRAKE: SHOOTING WITHOUT BULLETS

This 1958 black and white thirty-minute ABC network crime series centered around a celebrated World War II combat photographer, now a nationally famous freelancer working out of New York City. In reality, Desilu Studios in California. He is also well-known among his peers. Except that he had none. This man handled a space heater-sized press camera with its huge flash dish like few others could. He had fists of iron and an uncompromising persona. He had the latest spy cameras and always had the correct film for any lighting situation. He could change flashbulbs in a mere two seconds no matter how hot they were. His prints were to die for. Surely an entertaining premise where the lead character unwittingly “develops” into a freelance private detective.

Various Hollywood writers were used but most of the twenty-nine episodes were directed by either Paul Landres or Gerald Mayer. The action-packed jazz theme was by television's groundbreaking composer, Herschel Burke Gilbert. The series was a veritable “who’s who” of B-movie and television guest stars, many of whom would garner fame in their own right on the small screen. In his one and only leading television role, Charles Bronson is Mike Kovac, the envy or bane of all photojournalists.

Bronson’s voice-over introduced or periodically addressed his assignments and their potential dangers. Adding authenticity, he might provide technical details about a particular, high-tech camera to explain how he got that perfect shot. He drove a Ford station wagon equipped with a phone and a portable lab to develop prints on location. Though not much could be done with those prints without sending them with a “wire service.” Expect to see the lean and toned Bronson sans shirt, sometimes with boxing gloves. Whether assisting newspapers, insurance companies, the police, private individuals or clicking where he is unwelcome, taking photos can be life-threatening. Of course, Kovac had a connection with a police lieutenant who more often than not followed the cameraman's lead.

A nice touch was scripting in a father for Kovac. For seven episodes, his immigrant father was played by Ludwig Stossel who owned his own photo business. “Pop” was the photo genius and his son would seek out his photographic or assignment advice. There was good chemistry between them and it would have been nice to have these two interact in more episodes. It was difficult to make this happen as Kovac was not always in New York City and the series' short run gave little opportunity.

As the series progressed, Kovac was increasingly sent undercover, sometimes on foreign soil—stock footage inserted to sell the idea. He usually felt inadequate for these complex assignments, arguing that someone more qualified should handle them. But he is always persuaded. If you are going deep cover, get yourself a photographer. The show began losing its identity, morphing into another in a long line of private detective shows. In part, due to hiding spy cameras inside a portable radio, a cigarette lighter or even his necktie. That nifty Ford station wagon was essentially garaged as well.

This Friday prime-time show with its initial uniqueness, plenty of action and a captivating performance by Bronson, was sandwiched between “Walt Disney Presents” and “77 Sunset Strip.” One could not ask for a better time slot. For its second season, ABC switched it to the graveyard shift, the last prime-time show on the dreaded Monday night schedule. The move, coupled with some routine or lame scripts, had a “negative” effect and its second season was cut short. I wonder if ABC knew what to do with a guy like Bronson.

With the exception of Bronson devotees, the show resides in unknown territory. The complete series is available on DVD with a great color image and layout on the packaging. Following in Steve McQueen’s footsteps, Bronson soon found his niche and became a superstar in action films. Almost always a man with a gun.

EXPERIMENT ALCATRAZ (1950)

The best news about this film is that it makes good use of only fifty-seven minutes. Distributed by RKO Pictures, it was directed by Edward “B-movie” Cahn who turns out a good one with a small budget and a low-tier cast. Orville Hampton wrote the screenplay with Irving Gertz's score used appropriately. Voice-over narration gives a sense of an exposé documentary, but the medical research in this film is merely hypothetical. Hopeful thinking of the era to harness nuclear energy for peaceful purposes. In keeping with an RKO trend, location titles are superimposed over the given background footage so no viewer gets lost. 

Equal-billed John Howard, doing a respectable job here, plays the doctor who discovers a serum that may cure a fatal blood disease. Death is an alternate outcome. Leading and supporting actor, Robert Shayne, had an unmistakable vocal tone as if talking through a hollow plastic box. A wound-tight mellow sound. His perpetual smirk here will immediately suggest he is up to no good. He is one of several Alcatraz prisoners to go free if they volunteer to take part in the Navy's experimental research. A notorious racketeer, Shayne appears to go insane after his injection of a radioactive isotope, stabbing and killing his prison pal lying in the nearby bed with a pair of scissors lifted from a Navy Lieutenant, Joan Dixon. It reflects badly on her assumed negligence and the Navy removes her from the immediately canceled experimental program.

Dixon’s untrained vocal delivery sounds periodical like she is pretending to be a bad actress in a classic movie spoof. Her occasional “heavy” eyelids appear to be lacking a proper night’s rest. Dixon's short B-movie career was in the hands of Howard Hughes at RKO who had hoped to mold her into a star. She was attractive enough, with a face that blends Gene Tierney and Elizabeth Taylor, according to my current eyeglass prescription. Her most famous role came a year later in the more famous, Roadblock.

Howard knows from repeated tests, that the reaction of the serum with the isotope actually dulls the person’s emotions, not excite them to violence. He sets out to prove Shayne, who has since returned to his racketeering, is a murderer. Back in his formal wear, Shayne is quite smug about his chances of being booked for murder. To deter his investigations, Howard is pummeled repeatedly by Shayne’s muscle. The balance of the film reveals why Shayne would kill his prison pal. Not exactly an original idea, it involves the pal’s wife. Though Howard never witnesses “The End” by the end, his research is reinstated by the Navy and I assume Dixon gets her job back.

Note: Real-life Navy veteran, John Howard, became one of the first screen actors committing to the new field of television. He formed a friendship with Fred MacMurray and was a frequent guest star on his Sixties television show, playing his boss. Howard transitioned into the field of specialized education, teaching English for more than twenty years.

BEHIND LOCKED DOORS (1948)

Budd “Oscar” Boetticher directed this sixty-two-minute film noir for Aro Productions. It was distributed by Eagle-Lion Films from a story by Malvin Wald—the only Malvin I have run across—responsible for this hypothetical look into a mental institution where suspense takes precedence over realism. There are some nice touches from cinematographer, Guy Roe, with suspenseful opening scenes. It quickly jumps right into the plot. Add to this the humorous “audience icebreaker” between the two main stars and one will want to see this one through. Yet it has not held up over the decades, in part due to its view of mental institutions. So what we are left with are trained professionals who made a movie together. The most famous name in the cast is Richard Carlson, not to be confused with Hugh Marlowe. But he is surrounded by the competent work of Lucille Bremer, Thomas B. Henry, with a brow and nose the envy of eagles worldwide, and Douglas Fowley. On the other hand, at about mid-career, the unique Tor Johnson (bottom) is also cast. He adds a distinct bit of scary anticipation to the film. 

A well-known and unethical judge, Herbert Heyes, is a fugitive from justice. Henry is the independent sanitarium’s chief of staff, the one sheltering him for a monetary agreement. Fowley (below center) is a piece of work as the “Director of Abuse.” A guy with zero empathy for patients, coming off as a violent prison warden. Spineless Henry repeatedly disciplines him verbally yet he is still employed. His favorite moments are with Tor, a former (very) heavyweight boxer known as, “The Champ,” whose head may have hit the mat too many times. Fowley is amused by banging on the fire extinguisher outside Tor’s cell with a cell key. Hearing the “bell,” Tor stands up and starts shadow boxing.  

A savvy reporter, Bremer, has been tracking the judge’s girlfriend who makes regular visits to a sanitarium. She seeks out a flirting private investigator, Carlson, and asks him to go undercover as a mental patient. To make it appear legit, he will pretend to be her husband. Something he is hoping will become a reality when he gets out. They pick a mental disease to their liking and seemingly with no testing, Carlson is recommended for an institution. Though the script establishes there are multiple moods of manic-depressives, whenever Carlson is in the presence of doctors, he only looks sadly aloof. He befriends an understanding staff member, Ralf Harolde, who fears repercussions if he speaks out about the abuse. Carlson is interested in a locked ward, off-limits to everyone. One patient is a giddy arsonist. He manages to set fire to the curtains in the judge's office. Carlson volunteers to put out the fire and then recognizes the judge. For a depressed guy, Carlson asks too many probing questions and his cover is blown. He is locked in the cell with Tor and we hear the clink, clink from Fowley’s keyring. Carlson becomes Tor's tiny training partner. 

Meanwhile, the resourceful reporter intercepts the judge’s girl en route for a visit. Bremer ends up in the girlfriend’s attire and gets access to the judge’s chambers. At gunpoint, she demands the judge free Carlson. Fowley fails to lock the Tor door upon leaving and an angry Tor has no trouble identifying the key torture guy. While this is transpiring, cowardly Harolde actually called the police with the judge’s objections being overruled. Carlson and Bremer kiss and Harolde, looking at the two lovebirds, closes the movie with, 'I never did think he was crazy.'