REEL CHARACTERS

Doro Merande (Dora Matthews 1892-1975)

The specialty of the angular, stiff-framed Doro Merande was her comedic interpretation for any number of eccentric characters, whether a dowdy small-town snoop, a maid, gossip, a terse secretary, or a sour neighbor. Her dry wit, high nasal warble, half‐opened eyelids, a smile of childish innocence, or a bewildered look, made her one of the most endearing characters of stage, film, and television. It might have been overkill to have her in lengthy roles, but she pops up delightfully in small doses. It is easy to understand that live theater was her first love. I can only imagine the effect she had on a live audience. Staying focused on my Obscure Cinema blog, I offer a couple of Merande performances in film and television plus a film of considerably less obscurity.

Prior to television's rising popularity, she could be captured in all her comedic glory in Cover Up (1949). Starring Dennis O'Keefe, Barbara Britton, and Williams Bendix, the mystery-romance film is easy to like with some lighthearted scenes. But by far the most amusing performance is Merande's character, Hildy, the maid to end all maids, with her casual asides suggesting she is completely out of touch with reality. Far from it. She is a walking encyclopedia of everything that goes on in the family and in town, delivering astute, cutting opinions as if they were compliments. Britton's father, Art Baker, appears to be the prime suspect in an assumed murder according to O'Keefe's investigation. Hildy takes it upon herself to deliberately set fire to Baker's old college coat—a key piece of evidence—in the backyard. She nonchalantly confesses to him in passing, "I had a little accident with your beaver coat. I was cleaning it and it caught fire—burned up completely." As she exits the scene, Baker looks at her in confused amusement.

With the dawn of television, Merande could be seen on a number of popular shows through the Sixties. A memorable small-screen performance was from a 1958 black comedy episode of Alfred Hitchcock Presents entitled, "Mrs. Herman and Mrs. Fenimore." Merande is a poor widow who has devised a fool-proof plan to kill her crotchety live-in uncle, Russell Collins, for the inheritance money. Merande is delighted when a struggling actress, Mary Astor, becomes her new tenant. Through feigned empathy, Astor elevates Merande to a new level of sophistication and they agree to work together on Collin's demise. But the gullible Merande is unaware—as is the viewing audience—she has been duped. Her dumbfounded big-eyed stare at the end seals the episode.

There are many other roles of varying length for Merande, of course, but she was never quite so visually funny in her sporadic appearances in the Cold War paranoia spoof, The Russians Are Coming the Russians Are Coming (1966). Merande is one of the few things that has remained timeless about the film. Dressed in pajamas and robe, she is the ever-vigilant beacon during the assumed invasion. In a burst-out-laughing scene, we see Merande—about four feet off the floor still seated in a chair—placed upon the wall by the Russians to keep her away from the telephone. Her stone-deaf husband, Parker Fennelly, not only cannot hear her muffled screams behind her scarf, he is completely unaware that she is on the kitchen wall. Kind of funny just key stroking that. When a friend arrives to rescue her, he finally turns around to ask what she is doing hanging up on the wall. It is a hilarious cartoon moment.

Merande's final role was in the remake of The Front Page (1974). The actress was attending a "Honeymooners" anniversary special in Miami when she suffered a stroke and died at a local hospital. Gone but never forgotten.

A special thanks goes out to Aurora for hosting the tenth-anniversary WHAT A CHARACTER! Blogathon on December 4, 2021.

THE STEEL LADY (1953)

Directed by Ewald André Dupont with a screenplay by Richard Schayer, one might suspect Aubrey Wisberg's story was the inspiration for Elleston Trevor's 1964 novel, The Flight of The Phoenix, and the 1965 box office failure. Both films center around crash-landing in the Sahara desert with at least one dissenter in the group and the customary limited food, water, no radio, and any rescue attempt taking too long for their survival. Something has to be improvised. Wisely, the Yuma desert filming got underway at the very end of the previous year. The similarities between this B-movie cast and the 1965 big-budget cast separate the two but it is sometimes difficult to determine how much. Released by United Artists, it is a concise eighty-four minutes of adventure, produced and edited by Grant Whytock. Concise is not a word used to describe the extra hour added to the more implausible “Phoenix” film. The incredibly prolific Edward Small Productions again provides a movie without a dull moment. What Small did with limited budgets has rarely been equaled.

Heading up the four-man crew of American oil company employees in this film is Rod Cameron and Tab Hunter in his fourth film. Like today's many films or television series with a socially askew computer genius who saves everyone's bacon, Hunter nearly fits that role as sort of an electronics expert. John Dehner is the pessimistic “glass half empty” dissenter in the film. He and Cameron are at odds throughout the film, in no small part due to the former's alcohol addiction. Always available for a few quips is Richard Erdman, the dependable guy with an eye in the opposite (sex) direction. His countenance before crash landing, below, is both one of inevitable doom and acceptance.

Perhaps given the naive acceptance of the era's movie patrons—who were less critical about such things—one will need to ignore a few filming and editing shortcomings when viewed today, like the era's painted sandhills or studio backdrop screens. Perhaps most confusing here is the gear-up plane crash, burying the nose in a sandbank according to the pilot, Cameron. By the next morning, there is a mound of sand piled around the main landing gear, which clearly depicts the twin-engine Cessna T-50 in its tail-dragger stance. Then there is the bullet's cartoon ricochet effect that sounds more like a metal spring has broken loose from its anchor. But I digress. Nearly every film made—no matter the budget—has something amiss in one detail or the other.

Cameron sets out over a ridge and spots an antenna flag poking above the sand that is connected to a buried World War II Nazi tank. Thinking it may provide them a way out of a dire situation, the crew digs out the sunken tank. They notice German wording on the side roughly translating into the film's title. After burying the mummified German duo, Hunter repairs their radio with parts from the tank's radio but it only works long enough to tell their contact in Casablanca that they are alive.

All work together—even Dehner, for the most part—to get the tank mobile using the remaining gasoline from the plane. With zero options, Cameron must also use their remaining water for its radiator, a decision Dehner tries to thwart at gunpoint. Never get into a fistfight with square-jawed Cameron. Adding another element to the story is a satchel of jewels in a hidden storage compartment, a discovery that Dehner keeps to himself. Although there is more to the story than this, it is the same bejeweled tank Bedouin leaders have been trying to find since 1944—implausibly never spotting the flag sticking above the sand. The Bedouin leader, the Hersey chocolate-faced John Abbott, offers Cameron horses, pack camels and water in exchange for the tank. “We love tank!” Amazingly, the foursome agrees to the exchange with none wondering what the desert dwellers could possibly do with a tank unless they fill it with water. Smelling an infestation of desert rats, Cameron and the team reclaim the tank the following day, with only three surviving the standoff.

THE ATOMIC KID (1954)

A crowd mentality suggests a person will typically do things in a crowd—no matter how small—that they would not do alone. I probably should have watched this science fiction film with a friend or two due to my lack of laughter. Though mustering a hearty chuckle, I could generate nothing more. The film has not aged well. It is an absurd twist on actual early Fifties atomic bomb testing in the Nevada desert with two lame brain uranium prospectors stumbling into ground zero—may be the only science fiction film of the era that is meant to be a comedy. The thirty-four-year-old “kid,” Mickey Rooney, and his seven-year-older partner, Robert Strauss, have gotten lost in the desert searching for uranium. Rooney confesses to Strauss that he threw away the compass. It was broken. The needle only pointed in one direction—north. They cannot agree on the purpose of a 500-foot tower with a “cabin” on top. The duo comes off as a decade-long comedy team in their final film insult before calling it quits.

Seeking rest and food, they are encouraged by a lone house in the distance. The abandoned house with a mannequin family is there to give the researchers a vague idea of what an atomic explosion can do. Parked beside the abandoned model home is a current model Mercury with keys and a full tank of gas. Perhaps a military official's personal car he forgot about. Strauss, the questionable brains of the two, takes the car to get help, heading straight for a trench filled with military men. He has no clue why they are waving their arms at him. Under protest, he is dragged to the safety of the trench. Staying behind in his search for a peanut butter sandwich, Rooney miraculously survives the atomic blast in an enclosed pantry but emerges from the obliterated house seriously singed and with a (now) toasted sandwich. His voice is electronically altered to sound chipmunk-like and sped up. The officials that arrive wonder if he is an alien. Probably the funny scene in the film.

During Rooney's recovery, his real-life mid-point wife of eight, Elaine (Davis) Devry plays his attending nurse. He becomes a national phenomenon for the atom bomb survival. Mannequins should be so lucky. Absurdly, because radioactivity powers,  he can obliterate an entire room with one sneeze. Funny. While in Las Vegas, he simply walks by the slot machines and the coins pour out. His partner, in classic bug-eyed Strauss form, sets his sights on money-making deals and unwittingly teams up with a Communist spy. The kid's newfound fame could make him a fortune with a book and corporate endorsements. Naive Rooney is tracked by the FBI and unconsciously helps them crack the spy ring by accidentally falling from an upper-story window onto a spy. Oh, and Rooney periodically glows in the dark when his romantic impulses get out of control.

Devry develops a thing for the little guy and they get hitched. Tired of all the attention, the newlyweds take back roads across the Nevada desert and stop at an isolated house along the way for help and maybe a cold drink. But the mannequins inside are of no help. Panicked, they speed away from another atomic test site.

Note: This eighty-six-minute film was distributed by Republic Pictures and produced by Mickey Rooney Productions from a Blake Edwards story. The music score by Van Alexander puts the odd in periodic as it flits from a symphonic string quartet during a lighthearted moment to a driving march theme during Rooney's physical tests. The film includes many familiar faces in comedy films or television. There is Joey Forman, Peter Leeds, Hal March, Paul Dubov, and Stanley Adams. Not missing out on a single casting call is Whit Bissell.

NEVER TOO LATE (1965)

Family-themed films of this era that open with bucolic scenes of small-town life—in this case, Concord, Massachusetts—that also have a title vocal covering the scenes makes one wary it may turn into a suds-fest. Yet this film's category is comedy. The title song was written by David Rose with lyrics by Jay Livingston and Ray Evans. It is sung in the unmistakable tone of Vic Damone. The film starts off strong with Paul Ford's sarcastic delivery—mostly to his live-in son-in-law—projected through his prominent nose. The first thirty minutes or so are consistently the funniest and one may conjure up future shades of Archie Bunker. Unfortunately, there are about seventy-five minutes left.

Ford plays a successful New England lumber company executive in his early sixties living a humdrum life with—for the purposes of this film—his similarly aged wife, played by Maureen O'Sullivan. Ford's myopic ideas about life are funny in the beginning. After the wife reveals to the family she is pregnant, the film gets less funny—hit and miss—as the story slogs through a sagging middle of a mature subject matter for its era. There is little to laugh about late in the film as it becomes a silly melodrama. Ford is not supportive of his “good news.” One ends up disgusted with him and irritated by O'Sullivan's breathy, aloof delivery. However, both pale in comparison to their daughter, Connie Stevens, who tries too hard to be funny or cute, fully aware cameras are rolling. Her on-screen husband, Hutton, is no less over-the-top by the mid-way point. Her desire is to start a family but he wants to wait. Their squabbles are uncomfortably drawn out in a clichéd fashion. Perhaps all better played on a stage environment (see the Note below).

Accompanying this frustrated quartet is the town's mayor and Ford's next-door neighbor, Lloyd Nolan, who seems to be doing a parody of Joe Biden—assuming some sort of time warp has taken place. There is an overall resemblance but it is his personality that suggests Biden—ironically as a Democrat—where everyday conversation sounds politically motivated with a full cadre of faux-niceties—when not pointing his index finger. Yes, Nolan does that, too. He and Ford are long-time friends and past political rivals. The mayor awards a significant contract to Ford—sort of a congratulatory gift—to the expectant couple. Nudge. Nudge. Rounding out the cast are the family's physician, Henry Jones, and his on-screen wife, Jane Wyatt. As confidant to O'Sullivan, Wyatt thinks she needs relief from her husband's every “Nineteenth Century” command. It is she who suggests O'Sullivan see her husband about sudden fatigue.

Ford is beginning to long for humdrum. Being a father again at his age is embarrassing as the townsfolk chide him about his unexpected treasure. He complains about turning eighty at his child's future college graduation, about his wife's wardrobe spending, and their child's room renovation. Standard Hollywood fare includes the obligatory drunk scenes as Ford and Hutton return home and set up a prank on the mayor's lawn involving a spotlighted toilet. “Mayor Biden” threatens to cancel that lumber contract; O'Sullivan catches the next bus out of town, and Ford is actually stunned. And scared. And in pursuit.

Note: Warner Bros. Pictures distributed this film based on the 1962 Broadway play of the same name by Sumner Arthur Long who also wrote this screenplay. Ford and O'Sullivan reprise their roles. Nearing their height of popularity, Hutton and Stevens are cast to bring in the younger moviegoers. And given the play's success, I imagine those who saw it live anticipated the film. After O'Sullivan comes to grips with her late pregnancy, the uplifting music and her brisk pace suggest a modern, liberal woman. Just the kind of characters that producer Norman Lear would gravitate to in the next decade. Along with the director of this film, Bud Yorkin, their future partnership changed the landscape of television and this film foreshadows their concept—viewers tossed between hilarity and conflicting social issues—leaving one perplexed as to when laughing is appropriate.

THE CLAY PIGEON (1949)

 

An intriguing opening scene has a former World War II prisoner-of-war patient awakening from a coma at a naval hospital. He overhears the doctor and nurse mention his court-martial for treason and he shoots straight up in bed—face in the camera. He is accused of informing on fellow inmates in a Japanese prison camp. His amnesia makes for a foggy past and a perfect candidate for deception—hence the film's title. Not convinced of his guilt, he escapes from the hospital and contacts two people he hopes will help him re-capture the truth.

Williams' first stop is the widow of one of his POW buddies he greatly admired. Hale knows who he is and the newspaper headlines fuel her dislike of him. There is an intense physical struggle [fight] between the two that is well-played and believable. Though somewhat implausibly—after confessing to being a nice guy—he gets tough with her making the audience wonder if he should receive some sort of punishment. He gags and threatens her at gunpoint, while he calls his best friend, Richard Quine, another ex-POW. I will just say he is pretty irate to get the call as if he has something else planned. Overhearing Williams sincere conversation, Hale starts to change her opinion. Her gag order is lifted. Expect the obligatory roadblock out of town with Williams—not yet sure she can be trusted—pointing a gun and saying something silly like, “Don't try anything.” This is never believable. Those flashbacks help clarify his past for him and the audience. Williams needs to be eliminated before he recovers his memory. Leave this to thugs Richard Loo and Robert Bray.

This American film may not be included on anyone's top ten film noirs but there is little to fault here. There is never a dull moment. Starring in the B-movie is Bill Williams' rather bland performance due to his vocal tone and delivery. Barbara Hale holds her own, however. The real-life husband and wife were in their third year of marriage when this film was released by RKO Radio Pictures. It is a tidy sixty-three-minutes of suspense competently directed by Richard Fleischer with a screenplay and story by Carl Foreman based on a true story. The cinematography of Robert De Grasse should be noted, specifically his positive-negative effects during one flashback.

Note: Williams and Hale hide out in a trailer park while he fully recovers from another black-out caused by the initial hit on the head during the Japanese prison camp. The scene is filmed at the Paradise Cove location where Jim Rockford will eventually park his own trailer in the popular detectives series.

GUN CRAZY (1950)

This movie fits into the “human-noir” category where childhood can be a dark affair affected by circumstances, psychological issues or the influence of others. Any number of B-movie actors would have brought justice to each character, yet it turned out to be the defining film for both John Dall and Peggy Cummins. A superstar couple may have clouded the natural interpretation of the script by these two. Though well-acted, it is the cinematography that stands the test of time, however. The film's premise could be used in any decade and to support my theory, this film is based on a 1940 story of the same name from The Saturday Evening Post by MacKinlay Kantor. He also wrote the screenplay along with Dalton Trumbo. The film features a gun-shooting husband and wife on their short crime spree honeymoon. It never consistently hits the bull's eye but it still racks up some points.

I found the opening backstory about Dall's childhood obsession with guns drawn out more than necessary when narration over key filmed segments would have sufficed. Victor Young's opening score fits these scenes which may be the only rushes the prolific composer ever saw. His music seems absent during the balance of the film. The opening does make it clear Dall is crazy about shooting guns. Peggy Cummins, on the other hand, is just plain crazy. Her first scene in this film—clad in Spandex-like pants borrowed from television's Longer Ranger—she appears to be far more dangerous without a gun. She is a crack shot in a traveling carnival and Dall is enthralled. He has found his shooting-mate for life. His psyche is triggered then betters her in an on-stage challenge, using a gun he has never fired before. He is that good. Dall's future is in her hands—though he tries to reign her in—they are both on an anticipated downward spiral. Her character flits from charming to disturbed in the midst of a robbery. What he does not know about her past—she occasionally has to shoot somebody—the FBI is well informed. Their “undying” love will have them running until death do them part.

Directed by Joseph H. Lewis and produced by Frank and Maurice King of King Brothers Productions, the eighty-seven-minute film took thirty days and 400 grand to make. It was released by United Artists. Without a doubt, the most engaging element of the film is the periodically astounding cinematography by Russell Harlan. His extraordinarily realistic in-car camera work has the viewer riding in the back seat on a typical day of robbery as Dall and Cummins seem to be unscripted as their dialogue fades in and out as if they were ad-libbing. Harlan's famous one-shot bank robbery sequence from a car's back seat is another trend-setting example. These scenes appear out of place among other routine scenes seemingly shot by another cinematographer. Yet his camera placement under the dash—shooting through the steering wheel spokes—appears likely to be a wacky experiment that actually worked. Also of startling note are the extreme close-ups near the end as we watch the quivering lips of the sweaty couple. As to be expected during the first century of film, the editing by Harry Gerstad slips in a “chase” with a studio prop police car that should have been left on the editing room floor.

At least three things are a puzzlement. When the gun-crazy couple is being tailed by the police, Dall shoots the patrol car's front tire cleanly through their own rear window with nothing to suggest he broke out the backlight before shooting. For another, I found the drive to the top of the mountains strange—where Dall spent time as a youth. Not so much the drive as the foggy swamp at the summit. I had no idea there were swamps on California's mountaintops. Finally, seventy-year-old forgettable films may garner new fans when dissected through Twenty-First Century thinking. The cheap or implausible scenes are invisible to these commentators, preferring to zero in on content that was not appropriate to comment on in 1950. By this measure, some of today's forgettable films may one day be considered great by the hindsight of the more enlightened.

Note: Dall's movie career and his life were short. His only other notable films before settling into television were Alfred Hitchcock's, Rope, two years prior to this film and a significant role in Spartacus (1960). He died at the age of fifty. This is Irish-born Cummins best known and last American film. Her film career ended in 1961 but she lived a long life with personal involvement in other ventures. She died at age ninety-two in London.

FORGOTTEN FILMS: TV TRANSITION

Though typically overshadowed by Hollywood's A-list, there were respectable performances by numerous actors and actresses who never became major film stars. A common career shift was to the new medium of television. These periodic posts offer insight into their transition.

Harry Rhett Townes (1914-2001) 

Harry Townes was an American character actor with lengthy credits on stage and television. Yet there was little transition to television for Townes, being involved in the earliest days of the medium. Townes seamlessly became a familiar face to viewers with a wide range of emotions that side-stepped being typecast. His characters could be so real he seemed to disappear within the scenery with his sensitive and genuine performances—whether unlikable or whimsical. Intelligent audiences were more than satisfied with his skill. Unknown to most viewers in the 1970s, the average-looking leading man put himself through seminary to become an Episcopal minister.

Townes performed in several New York and Broadway stage productions, including summer stock. His Broadway credits include Gramercy Ghost (1950), Twelfth Night (1949), Mr. Sycamore (1942), Tobacco Road (1942), and In the Matter of J. Robert Oppenheimer (1968). His two-year run in the part of a leprechaun in Finian's Rainbow sent him to London. He left the stage to enlist in the United States Army Air Corps during World War II. There was the occasional film supporting roles. Most notable is Spencer Tracy's, The Mountain (1956). He joined a popular cast in the Dick Van Dyke comedy, Fitzwilly (1967) and played a General in the WW2 yarn, In Enemy Country (1968), followed by a re-edited two-part 1965 Kraft Suspense Theatre political thriller episode released in 1969, Strategy of Terror. All three slipping most moviegoers' minds within ninety days.

Townes found his greatest presence with an endless variety of television characters from the 1950s through the 1970s. Somewhat following a similar path as David Janssen, Townes was most captivating on the small screen. There are simply too many excellent roles to mention but I have listed a few notable performances. An actor's actor was the draw for these popular anthology series, Studio One in Hollywood, Kraft Theatre, Playhouse 90 with nine roles on Climax!. In one of his two appearances on Alfred Hitchcock Presents, he played a sadistic murderer with a warped sense of advancing his brother's political career by eliminating the competition in, “My Brother, Richard.” His two appearances on The Twilight Zone are of note. One, in particular, is “The Four of Us Are Dying” in which Townes' character has the ability to change his appearance at a whim, a trick he uses for personal advantage. He co-starred with his good friend, Wright King, in the “Shadow Play” episode. Producers sought him out for multiple roles on popular series: seven times for Gunsmoke, five times for Perry Mason, and The Fugitive. He returned four times on Quincy M.E. to play doctors. He gained popularity with a younger audience for guesting on a two-part episode of The Incredible Hulk, "The First." Townes' defined the episode because of his performance. The mid-eighties cast him in four spots on Simon & Simon and a recurring role on Knots Landing as Russell Winston. Harry Townes retired in 1989.

Townes' Personal Quote: I guess we're never entirely happy with what we do; we would like to do better. I feel I was lucky to get the work that I did. You always feel thankful because there are so many actors for so few jobs that it seems God is being good to you when you get a job. Of course, I would have loved to have done better, we all would. But we always think we can do it better in one more take. On the whole, I'm satisfied, though. As long as the audience was satisfied, then I'm satisfied.

THE WALKING TARGET (1960)

A California State Prison warden opens this crime drama like so many movies before it, warning the prisoner, Ron Foster, that the 260 grand he hid after a robbery five years before will bestow upon him the film's title. Reluctantly he signs the prisoner's release and Foster reluctantly finds himself in the arms of his former girl, Merry Anders, right out of the gate—literally. He cools her jets by asking where she has been for five years. Not one visit. Not one cake. This lady has never used an oven. Like her current favorite boyfriend, Robert Christopher—whose faux excitement of reuniting with Foster is short-lived—she has ulterior motives. They want that money. Unlike these two, Foster later reveals he has a beating heart.

Outside the competent cast, a bit of stunt driving in Ford Motor Company's models feature prominently and the matched studio prop car scenery out the rear window is logical and authentic. Less so is the obvious, poorly edited, stuntmen choreography during two fight scenes. Taking the sting out of any crime film, the misplaced music played under closing credits by an otherwise competent score by Paul Sawtell and Bert Shefter, befits an old Bob Hope comedy-mystery from the past decade.

Attesting to the warden's astute judge of character, a number of people are on the ex-con's heels, most notably Harp McQuire. The two actors team up again after their earlier Robert Kent Production, Cage of Evil. McQuire again plays a detective but this time as a condescending, tough-talking, wise-cracking detective cliché. He stands out in the film for being the only unintended levity in the film. He loathes Foster until the contrived cafe ending. Barry Kroeger, not surprisingly, plays a mob boss with only three scenes to his credit. That is all he needs to establish his character. Weasel Christopher now works as his inside man. Anders, essentially, disappears from the film past the halfway point.

A flashback explains where the money was cleverly hidden. Both of Foster's partners in the heist did not survive, one leaving behind a widow, Joan Evans—in her final film—whose physical presence is her acting weak point. Foster's deep remorse for the robbery's outcome has weighed heavy on his conscience. He tracks her to an Arizona cafe she operates to give her the share due her late husband. She wants no part of the stolen money. Soon everyone knows where she is and a cafe confrontation between Kroeger, Christopher, McQuire and Foster ignites. Humorously, before going into the cafe, Kroeger instructs his henchmen, “Check the silencers to make sure they're working.” I expected them to place the guns to their ear to confirm this. The bullets are unrealistically quiet with three or four cast members going down just as quietly. Because of return fire, McQuire gets tabbed but the rapid closing suggests he survives.

Notes: Director Edward L. Cahn churned out numerous films like this one. Decent crime films possess all the elements that should make for a memorable movie. Unfortunately, the premise had been done so often—usually, with grit this film lacks—it has been universally forgotten. This tidy film is produced by Robert E. Kent Productions—as Zenith Pictures—for Edward Small, the executive producer. Small or Kent could produce realism in their pictures in spite of stale scripts and a low visibility cast. Talk around the office water cooler probably did not include this film, though television's Foster or Anders might have garnered mention. This film marks three in a row with director Cahn in Foster's sparse movie career. The seventy-five-minute film was distributed by United Artists.

YOU HAVE TO RUN FAST (1961)

The hunting season is about to start in the sleepy mountain town of Summit City and a gangster has the perfect wall for the head of Craig Hill. The actor plays a doctor during an era when their door was always open. In the middle of the night two men—obviously mob-related judging by their attitude and vocal tone—bring in a fellow they “found” on the side of the road. The gangsters are rather murky about their background and quickly leave Hill with the badly beaten victim who does not survive the dawn. The police arrive and Hill is informed the dead man is a detective and the good Samaritans were bogus.

So begins a rather nifty—what should have been—television episode. But this suspenseful crime drama was never edited down from its seventy-three-minute run time. It is well-acted with a "blistering pace" for a routine premise of someone assuming a new identity in another town for his own survival. Dr. Richard Kimball may have had his own ideas after seeing this film. Expect the makeup department's budget to include the obligatory black-rimmed glasses, powdered gray wig, and mustache to facilitate Hill's transformation.

Hill wants no part in being confined under police protection and their eyewitness gets out of town fast. It is one year later and hardly recognizable without the makeup department's help. Now managing a sporting goods store in Summit City, he has taken a room at a lodge run by Willis Bouchey and his daughter Elaine Edwards. A wheelchair-bound World War II veteran, Bouchey is his usual film character doling out wisdom to Hill about making something of himself rather than just running a seasonal hunting store. Awkward. Bouchey is also an expert marksman and is quite pumped about the hunting season when the public flood the small town in the likes of Fairmount, Indiana during James Dean weekend. This is a rare film for the small screen actress, Edwards, who is on the verge of getting serious with Hill. But his “survival secret” offers setbacks. Yet, like Kimble, it becomes impossible to hide his Hippocratic oath. Because of this and other astute research, the gangsters soon get a bead on his location though their old “passport” photo of Hill throws them a few curves. How they got such a photo is questionable. My guess is the prop department.

The townsfolk unwittingly provided the thugs with needed information. Unlikely the two guys in suit, wingtips, and fedora are avid game hunters, it soon becomes apparent to Hill there are bullets with his namesake on them. Edwards cannot figure why Hill has to leave so abruptly, running fast into the wilderness to dodge mob bullets. The banter between Hill and the mob boss lands directly into the cliché territory. Wanting to hunt anything moving, Bouchey grabs a high-powered rifle with a scope and wheels himself to a window conveniently located directly opposite all the filmed action. He kills a five-point buck. No. He kills one of the gangsters about to fire on Hill. In an amazing bit of time-saving editing, the boss is actually captured in his car by the doctor who has been crouching in the back seat for who knows how long. It was the day the running stopped.

Note: The film was directed by Edward L. Cahn and produced by Robert E. Kent. They were frequent collaborators for films of this nature. Decent but forgettable. United Artists distributed it for the [renowned] production company, Harvard Film Corporation. The bits of location shooting will reveal that the Ford Motor Company volunteered their wallowing automobiles for the film.

BLUEPRINT FOR ROBBERY (1961)

Jerry Hopper directed a couple of notable films including The Atomic City, Naked Alibi, and one notable for not being any better than the original, Never Say Goodbye. His talents were better served for the smaller medium where he kept very, very busy. Sandwiched in between his work on many popular shows was this film, a low-budget crime film where the heist's dry run to test the theft's feasibility is tediously slow. Seeing the British-born senior, J. Pat O'Malley—the film's legendary thief—scooting under electronic sensors on his stomach or back confirms this. Yet the film's focus on this tension is fairly captivating and the music score by Van Cleave pays off throughout the film. The acting is first-rate and I imagine the film garnered some talk over hot dogs after its premiere. In hindsight, this film remains unknown because of all the myriad of more exciting heist movies to follow. But those films owe a lot to this film—what with its smattering of humor and detailed-to-the-minute robbery plans. The robber's masks are creepy if not startling and the robbery goes without a hitch. But the aftermath proves crime—during this era—does not pay.

There are no big-name film stars in this one as if Hopper flipped through his Rolodex for some of his television connections. O'Malley is perhaps the most well-known for his numerous television roles. In-kind, many boomers would recognize Robert Wilke. What they may not recognize is that he is not a despicable western outlaw, but a detective. Robert Gist, a frequent player in television westerns as well—particularly Have Gun - Will Travel—adds the only spark to the film outside Jay Barney. Barney spent an innocuous career on the tube. Another key player in the big heist is television actor, the furrow-browed Sherwood Price. Finishing out the television casting call is Robert Carricart, Joe Conley—later snagging a recurring role as Ike on The Waltons—and Henry Corden, more often than not in sitcoms with his trademark black, thick-framed glasses. Unseen, he carried on the voice of Fred Flintstone after Allen Reed's death. 

There is a brief humorous spot for television's future “Mrs. Cunningham,” Marion Ross (below), which initiates a bit of levity early in the film. Barney comes to the prison dressed as a priest simply to convince O'Malley—scheduled for release—to help in the robbery. Ross sets down beside him—both staring straight ahead—and she slowly inches closer as she tearfully confides in the man underneath the rental cloth about her marital “faux-pax” before visiting her incarcerated husband. Father Barney, taken aback, calmly musters up his best advice which she takes to heart. Overhearing his assumed heartfelt consultation, the guard also puts his faith in the cloth on the man and unlocks the main door to the cells.

Counting up their tally after the getaway, they stole far less than anticipated with some useless bonds and newly printed marked bills which simply have to be burned. So be it. With Gist's nerves at bay and the loot under his watch, he suggests Barney and Price lay low by taking a vacation. It is the turning point in the film. Not using his brain's full potential, Price decides to go into a sporting goods store after Barney told him to stay in the car. He selects some fishing and hunting gear with no intention of paying. The greedy crook knocks out the salesman and heads back to the car as a policeman happens by and tries to convince the two about a great spot for camping. Out crawls the moaning salesman. The vacation (below) ends behind bars though being only an accessory, Barney would seem to be railroaded. Gist is unconcerned as he had figured they will be out in a few months, not the three-year sentence handed down.

O'Malley rents a clerical robe to visit Barney. The scene follows through with an earlier established premise, that the old mentor and the “son he never had” confide in each other. The old codger is soon questioned about his parole violation and his ill-fitting clerical collar. No one will ever call him a stool pigeon and it looks like life behind bars. With good intentions, Barney does something unforgivable. Their falling out comprises the sensitive climax.

Note: The film's screenplay was written by Irwin Winehouse and A. Sanford Wolf, based on the 1950 Brinks' express office robbery in Boston. The eighty-seven-minute film was produced by Bryan Foy with Paramount Pictures releasing this film with opening and closing “exposé” narration. 

FORGOTTEN FILMS: TV TRANSITION

Though typically overshadowed by Hollywood's A-list, there were respectable performances by numerous actors and actresses who never became major film stars. A common career shift was to the new medium of television. These periodic posts offer insight into their transition.

Rudolpho Acosta Pérez (1920–1974)

Though born in a small disputed area in Mexico with Texas, the section of land became American soil and character actor, Rudolpho Acosta, officially became an American citizen. He delivered dialogue with conviction, whether being charming or pointedly ruthless, and it was best put to use on the small screen. But with his strong facial features, he achieved his greatest success primarily as a Mexican bandit, Indian warrior or outlaw in western films in the US. There were numerous Spanish language films to his early credits—famously as a romantic idol—along with some English language films in the early Fifties. His first credited American role was in One Way Street, 1950, then a minor role in the forgettable The Bullfighter and The Lady, 1951, starring the “logical” choice for a Matador, Robert Stack. He was among the cast for Jeff Chandler’s Yankee Buccaneer, 1952. Acosta never let a casting call go unanswered during this period.

Acosta was soon seen on the Warner Brothers lot for Sugarfoot, Bronco and Maverick. His three indelible performances on Cheyenne, 1958-61, are of particular note for inhabiting his characters so authentically. During the same time frame there was Disney's Zorro and CBS's Have Gun – Will Travel. He was given two roles in the modern-day setting of The Sheriff of Cochise/U.S. Marshal series, 1956 and 1959. Sprinkled among the Westerns were roles on The Farmer’s Daughter, 1964, The Man from U.N.C.L.E., 1965 and The Fugitive, 1966. Acosta did not get a recurring role until the first two seasons of The High Chaparral, 1967. His tenure was short—being dropped from the series—unfortunately due to his abuse of alcohol consumption. 

He finished his career guest-starring in Cade’s County in 1971, a one-season hope that Glenn Ford might generate an audience. He worked again with David Janssen on his next series, O’Hara, U.S. Treasury, 1971, and again with Richard Boone in his final series, Hec Ramsey, 1972. His final roles were his two appearances on Ironside, 1971 and 1973, as a police chief and police sergeant. But who knew? He was nearly invisible throughout his career as a supporting player. Acosta never left Spanish language films entirely, but American television benefited his career most as his characters became more intimate with the viewer. I cannot attest to his Mexican films, but he excelled in his mature years in America. Acosta died young at fifty-four of liver cancer.

SECRET SERVICE INVESTIGATOR (1948)

Directed by R. G. Springsteen and released by Republic Pictures, this sixty-minute American crime film possesses a twisty screenplay and story by John K. Butler with some concise dialogue and a few quips for the star, Lloyd Bridges, to deliver to Lynne Roberts, who works in the classified advertising department of a local newspaper. Discovering who he is—a World War II hero in the Army Air Force—she gushes over him. With every compliment Bridges' chest gets puffier. But his assumptions are just that. She will be thrilled to tell her young son that she met his hero. Ouch! This fast-paced outing gives Bridges one of his earliest lead roles and he is fine with a coolness, a winning smile, and a commanding voice. He will have another connection with the Secret Service one year later for his film, Trapped, playing a counterfeiter released from prison to help—reluctantly—the Secret Service trap counterfeiters.

Bridges needs work. He cannot believe his good luck when Roberts shows him an ad requesting his service. The lead takes him to an apartment where two await his arrival. Trevor Bardette and Roy Barcroft introduce themselves, respectively, as an inspector and detective with the Secret Service. They also introduce Bridges to an unconscious man lying on a bed. He is startled to see that he and the man look more than similar. Bridges also plays the Dan Redfern character. The Secret Service wants Bridges to pose as Redfern to help them retrieve counterfeit plates from evil, condescending, George Zucco. The movie takes a twisty route as Bridges is spotted on the train by Redfern's wife, June Storey, and her brother, perennial bad guy, John Kellogg. Storey's amorous reuniting with her husband quickly goes cold because Bridge's hair color is different. More than that, he is not missing a thumb. Bridges is suddenly all thumbs and is knocked unconscious with brother and sister taking the plates.

Once back in San Francisco, Bridges finds out Redfern has been killed and Bardette and Barcroft are impostors. Bridges remains cool. The real Secret Service agents arrest Bridges and his story is so involved and detailed the Inspector believes no one could make it up. Throughout the film, Bridges is the most honest guy in any room. He calmly tells everyone the truth and it pays off. Sort of. He is asked to be an actual Secret Service Investigator and continue his charade as the dead Redfern. The plates change hands more than once until Zucco identifies them as fake. The double-crossing gangs of Zucco and Bardette are at odds. An intense fist-fight between Bridges and Bardette seems to go on forever in the exciting, slightly convoluted, climax. Shots ring out, slowing the pace permanently for at least two. After the gunpowder dissipates, Bridges and Roberts start planning their wedding.

Note: Bridges was churning out film after film in supporting roles before leading man status. He was about as busy as anyone in Hollywood in the 1940s. He made up for any lack of matinee idol looks with loads of charisma. His career began to accelerate by 1950 with The Sound of Fury though it was co-star Frank Lovejoy who steals (arguably) the acting honors. Bridges became a household name for US television viewers and, joining some peers, 1980's "Airplane!" helped redefine his long career.

STEP DOWN TO TERROR (1958)

Bicycling is a joy for most youngsters. The freedom to roam outdoors is inherent and often enhanced as an adult with the added adventure of touring. As with any transportation choice, however, there is a risk of serious injury. Just ask the main character, played by Charles Drake. His childhood head injury from being hit while riding his bike scrambles his brain, eventually resulting in a dual personality with uncontrollable behavior. The thought-provoking title of this seventy-six-minute film is subtly suggested underneath the opening credits. 

This American crime film is directed by Harry Keller and produced by Joseph Gershenson for Universal-International Pictures. It was written by Mel Dinelli with input from Czenzi Ormonde and Sy Gomberg. I find no credits for the music score so assume it is from Universal's stock library. But the opening is powerfully ominous and at least deserves a mention. Besides Drake, the film stars Colleen Miller in one of her more visible roles, and a relative newcomer to the big screen, Rod Taylor. Everyone is first-rate in this rather overstuffed story. 

It is no surprise from Drake's opening caustic verbal attack on his landlord that he has a problem—an underlying anger much deeper than a landlord popping in unexpectedly. However, he is all smiles in a phone booth when next we see him, suggesting a highly-respected, sweetheart of a guy coming home to visit mother, and his sister-in-law Miller and her seven-year-old son. When a family member disappears without a trace for six years, it would seem to arouse some sort of suspicion. But the unassuming relatives are ecstatic to have him home. The script throws suspicion his way in due course, perhaps subconsciously hoping his mental nightmare will finally come to an end once and for all. Drake embodies a psychotic in subtle fashion despite his handsome winning smile and straight-arrow appearance.

Drake gifts Miller with an expensive ring engraved with initials of no familial connection. Another lie appears to explain it. His heinous life starts to unravel—loosened by guilt—and he is helpless to stop it. Taylor, two years away from fame as H.G. Wells, is a lead policeman on the trail of the philanderer. Miller first finds his revelations preposterous until he tells the origins of the ring's bogus engraving. It leads to a serious falling out with her brother-in-law. This first remake of the Hitchcock classic, Shadow of a Doubt, is not on the same dark and creepy level. Drake is “Uncle Charlie” only to his nephew who has nothing to fear from him, being overly protective of the boy's safety on a bicycle.

The inane climax is the film's weakest element—ironically involving a bicycle. Drake avoids hitting the Schwinn with a slow speed turn—sped up to a humorous Herman Munster level—with his DeSoto convertible—windshield flattened—ending up completely upside down in tall grass. As if positioned there by a crane hired by the studio. Hmm. Miller absorbs her family's dark secret at the hush-hush funeral. Perhaps there will be a commissioned statue in honor of the town's ideal native son. 

RAIDERS FROM BENEATH THE SEA (1964)

No, this is not a science fiction horror film, though horrific may describe it. The music by Hank Levine is the anchor of the film, sending it beneath the sea immediately signifying the next seventy-three minutes may be better spent elsewhere. The music is often substituted for dialogue which makes it hard to decide the lesser of the two evils. Coupling with the other disjointed cues is the guitar-dominated music ala The Ventures. This is neither a beach party film. There is even a drum solo for whenever a 1964 Chrysler appears. Very strange. More than likely the only leitmotif written for an automobile. The character with a weak heart has his own theme when having an attack—a fake theremin sound. Though not the worst film of the mid-Sixties, the problem lies with the directing and producing by Maury Dexter, as he capitalizes on the essence of strangulated budgets. The production company for this "dead tuna" crime film is Lippert Pictures. Harry Spalding provided a screenplay that limits the audience's ability to invest in the characters. Twentieth Century Fox did most of the investing.

The very tall Ken Scott has the cardboard lead. His wife is played by the very short, softly corrugated Merry Anders. He is the landlord of some Catalina apartment houses. His younger brother lives in the same apartment house and helps out with maintenance if he is not drunk or peeping Anders while she is soaking up the sun. It defines his character and he is half responsible for the obligatory sultry saxophone.

Scott has big plans for a heist of a million dollars—speaking of obligatory—from a Catalina bank. One may note some brief dialogue pauses giving the impression some actors have just requested, “Line, please.” Scott and his former pal, Russ Bender—the guy with the theremin heart—approach the bank in scuba gear like creatures from beneath something. They casually escape by walking hilariously down the street to the beach. Neither whistling a random tune. A policeman stops them for not obeying city ordinances about scuba gear, oxygen tanks, and flippers anywhere near pavement. One cannot see their red faces from his chastisement. 

The other two accomplices assist in the getaway boat. Scott is supposed to attach the money bag to a hook dropped from the boat by his brother but the retrieval line gets snagged on his scuba suit and is pulled up into the propeller. That is kind of a cool effect and—more importantly—signals the film's end is near. Anders' facial reactions suggesting she is watching Scott's underwater demise are unconvincing. Feeling her best effort to work up a tear has passed, she walks away from the camera.

Note: Outside of the "stage acting" of the five leads, the misplaced music cues are certainly glaring and a favorite target for criticism. The opening music sounds to be lifted directly from the 1962 hit song, "More," the title theme to the odd, Italian travelogue vignettes for the film "Mondo Cane." The opening bars simply invert a note or two. Kai Winding, the Danish-born American trombonist and jazz composer arranged his own chart hit for the song in 1963. His unique use of the French electronic music instrument, the Ondioline, is echoed in this film's use of the more common Hammond organ. 

FILM BRAKE: MR. JONES' TEMPTATIONS

 

Henry Jones (1912-1999) could usually be identified before looking up at the screen by his unique vocal groan-whine nasal delivery—ghrining—when lacking commitment or just ornery. The Philadelphia native was an accomplished actor of stage, film and television but the ordinary-looking 5' 10" Jones was initially a casting challenge—directors not knowing what to do with him. That quickly changed, being cast in more than 180 performances in film and television roles, the latter being where it was most frequently seen.

Jones possessed considerable stage experience—though a sporadic start in 1931. By 1938 he made his Broadway debut in Maurice Evans' Hamlet. Nearly a decade later, between film and television appearances, he gained notice for originating the role of the suspicious handyman, Leroy Jessup, in The Bad Seed, with a flaming end to his character for the 1956 Mervyn LeRoy version. Other theater credits included The Solid Gold Cadillac, with Sunrise at Campobello winning him the Tony Award for Best Performance by a Featured Actor in a Play. His last Broadway role was in Advise and Consent in 1960-61.

His wide range of second-string movie roles cast him often as a philanderer, minister, judge, banker or sly mayor. He shined in comedic support roles where his talent for angst or temptation could be put to good use in such outings as Will Success Spoil Rock Hunter?, Support Your Local Sheriff (and the sequel) Dirty Dingus Magee or 9 to 5. But it was not all laughs. He often portrayed unscrupulous characters or ones with a dark side. None more so than the methodically cruel coroner in Vertigo (1958). However, Jones was most consistently visible on television where he was in constant demand through the mid-1990s.

Capturing Jones' craft first-hand is perhaps best displayed in five leading roles on Alfred Hitchcock Presents (AHP). Jones was one of Hitchcock's favorites, accounting for his five appearances on the series (above). They best define his acting nuances where temptation gets the best of him, knowing full well it is the wrong thing to do—the very definition of temptation. His first episode, “”De Mortuis” (1956), casts Jones with fishing buddies, Philip Coolidge and a Professor, Robert Emhardt. Any one of which could hold an episode together despite a worn script. But the Professor cannot be found at home though they suspect he will be along shortly. To kill some time, their conversation turns to Emhardt's younger, attractive wife whose reputation for “fooling around” is no secret. In fact, each has stories to tell. Jones is particularly tempted by his encounter with her. A clatter leads them to discover Emhardt was in his basement all along. The fresh cement section about the same length as your average coffin gets them wondering—basement entombment being somewhat a habit for AHP during this period. His second appearance, entitled “Nightmare in 4-D” (1957) is a dark comedy casting Jones as a married man with constant nightmares from reading too much pulp fiction. In reality, he gets wrapped up with a coy Barbara Baxley and her corpse lying on the floor of her apartment. There is plenty of “ghrining” as Jones reluctantly helps remove the “icky” body in the middle of the night simply as a favor. Both performers are amusing. Unfortunately, his straightforwardness becomes his next nightmare. Next has Jones as a master taxidermist in, “The West Warlock Time Capsule” (1957), whose cleverness in removing a cruel freeloader seems to be foolproof. For the futuristic episode, “The Blessington Method” (1959), Jones plays an executive who meets with an "insurance" agent of sorts, with a "Dr. Kevorkian" twist. Jones is appropriately wary yet, once again, tempted. His quintessential character finishes his final episode, “Profit-Sharing Plan” (1962). Temptation raises its head during Jone's office retirement party—with a thankless pen and pencil set for twenty year's service. His unscrupulous plan is thwarted at the last minute in an unanticipated twisted ending. Jones also did one Alfred Hitchcock Hour episode, “The World's Oldest Motive” (1965). Jones plays a philanderer with murder on his mind. An ironic ending ensures.

One would think Jones might have frequented The Twilight Zone, but his single appearance was in the silly 1960 episode, “Mr. Bevis.” Jones—a persuasive guardian angel—rescues the title character, Orson Bean, from his oddball lifestyle as well as Bean's lackadaisical performance. Jones had a regular role on the drama Channing, then three decades of appearances running the gamut from The Man from U.N.C.L.E. to The Mary Tyler Moore Show and its spin-off, Phillis. Jones joined that cast as her cantankerous, droning father-in-law, Judge Jonathan Dexter. His final recurring roles were on Falcon Crest from 1986-87 and in a series without any traction, I Married Dora (1987-88).