FRIGHT (1956)

This gullible talk-fest with a sleep-inducing pace and a puzzling title was directed and produced by W. Lee Wilder, the younger B-movie brother of Billy, who turns out another questionable production in his nearly forgotten career, one of six films for Planet Filmplays. His son, Myles Wilder, penned the original story and screenplay which addresses hypnotism and reincarnation. The future comedy writer could have had a lot of fun with this film two decades later. These sixty-eight minutes were distributed by Exploitation Productions, a credit that does make some sense. The only thing alluding to fright is the use of a Theremin as it oscillates its way into the anonymous score by Lew Davies in his first and final film. Putting aside the disjointed opening score, the cinematography suggests an exciting crime drama as the authorities chase a murderer in the opening sequence. Savor these first three minutes or so. After this, any fright—other than that lady in the poster—comes to a grinding halt.

Through long-distance hypnosis and simple word associations with an escaped murderer, Frank Marth, a psychiatrist, Eric Fleming, is able to prevent his plunge into the East River from the Queensboro Bridge. Accomplished over a distance of about four city blocks thanks to a microphone, speakers and a searchlight burning Marth's retinas. In the gathering crowd is Nancy Malone, whose indirect hypnosis provides Fleming another opportunity to perform his magic. After a few consultations, he unveils her belief that she is the reincarnated spirit of a Baroness. The moviegoer suffers through her dual personality. Likewise, the non-charismatic Fleming has a dual-acting personality—credible one moment then lackluster and stiff—indicating his inexperience in this, his second feature film. Malone does not burn up any film frames either, as both seem to be in the midst of a final rehearsal. I suspect Wilder shares a chunk of responsibility for this.

Malone could be nuts but she is not joking. Her subconscious is taken over by the long-dead Baroness—as the legend goes—who had an affair with a Crown Prince. Not exactly undying love, they made a vow to die together rather than live apart. Fleming wants the genuine Malone back for himself and since “Mithter Marth” is scheduled to be executed anyway, he hypnotizes him to play the Crown Prince. The film's convoluted journey preposterously concludes by reuniting the imaginary lovers one last time. The Crown Prince of Marth is expected to shoot—with what sounds like a cap gun—Baroness Malone. Her reincarnated self falls to the floor releasing the hold on her and the genuine Marth is quickly ushered back to his cell. It takes a death row murderer to get away with a reincarnation killing. I hoped I had been hypnotized by the end, but alas, I woke up entirely on my own.

Note: Some posters made it a point to include under the main cast, “featuring an all-star New York Broadway cast.” Not sure that mattered after the premiere. A bit more significant today is witnessing the beginnings of four future television regulars. Fleming is well known for the popular western, “Rawhide,” though his full potential was never realized due to a fatal freak accident. Malone went on to a prolific television career as an actress, director and producer. Marth set a non-stop pace in lead and supporting roles. The versatile actor could not be typecast and went on to appear in just about every major American prime-time show during the Sixties and Seventies. Finally, Myles Wilder went on to write for many successful television comedies during the same decades. His father, however, never progressed beyond the hokum in this film.

THE BRAIN THAT WOULDN’T DIE (1962)

Modern commentators amazingly may suggest—in the unrestricted freedom of hindsight—that this film has deeper meanings than what appears on the surface. Yes, it is deep. About ankle-deep. This is bottom-of-the-barrel filmmaking, yet this preposterous result has garnered almost more attention than The Longest Day. William Castle’s thumbprints are assumed on each film's canister yet he did not produce it. In this case, imitation is the lowest form of flattery. This decapitated budget disaster was produced by Rex Carlton and Mort Landberg with direction by Joseph Green, who co-wrote the story with Carlton. Though completed in 1959, this science fiction horror double feature was theatrically released with an inane score three years later by American International Pictures. Europe’s salacious eighty-one-minute version includes gratuitous “naughty bits” with no benefit to a bizarre screenplay. This hardly unknown, seventy-minute version is still a good ten minutes too long.

Television stalwart, Jason (Herb) Evers, in his first leading film role, plays the obligatory mad surgeon who has invented a serum to keep human body parts alive. Mary Shelley was way ahead of him. He and his fianceé, Virginia Leith, are cruising to his country estate in her Mercury convertible. As any insane person might do, his speed increases to a point where the land barge has little chance of negotiating the downhill curves. The cheap, oft-used mounting of a camera on the front bumper’s corner fakes a sense of high speed. One can expect a poorly edited crash at any moment. The three-second, decades-old stock sound effect of screeching tires and metal crunching is used. There is a quick edit of Evers’ silently screaming in horror as the camera lens rapidly rotates. He then perfectly rolls down an embankment (whee!) to find the car exactly where it was positioned. It is a clean decapitation of Leith. Well, I think her head simply popped off. Instinctively, Evers grabs her head thinking he could probably do something with that later.

In his estate’s basement laboratory, Evers keeps Leith’s head wired and tubed for days with an added pair of stylish headphones. The effect of her head on a tray is well done, convincing in a gullible way. Her new existence is sheer agony. Her nose itches. He ignores her pleas. Leith brings a new definition to brain power as she instigates a kinship with an insidious mutant by telepathy—Evers’ early experiment gone awry. It is one of the worst makeup attempts in cinema. I think Evers’ surgery has to garner the blame. One eye is positioned forty-five degrees opposite the other with a head shape that can best be described as a descendant of the Conehead family from the original Saturday Night Live skits. A reference photo of any human may have helped. The mutant’s first sounds of grunting or vomiting are pretty funny. If only he had also farted.

Evers, now with the option of taking Leith’s figure to a whole new level, hunts for a body specimen at a sleazy burlesque club, and a beauty contest, and lusts after girls who “randomly walk cul de sacs.” He settles on a former girlfriend—now a “figure” model—a face reminiscent of Elizabeth Taylor from certain angles. Her hair hides a hideous facial scar from a male attacker. Understandably, she is turned off by men. She can add one more to her list as he drugs her and takes her to his country estate's lab.

Given the ridiculous concept of this film and her lack of body language, Leith's alto voice acting is well done as the head of the table. But Evers has had enough of her constant yapping and puts tape over her mouth. This may work at home but is never successful at stopping telepathy. It is pretty ghastly when Mr. Mutant first tears an arm from a lab assistant and then takes a bite out of Evers' neck, spewing blood—and then some—from his carotid artery. The director, wondering how to possibly end this debacle, sets fire to the lab, as one would expect. Leith ends the film with cryptic nonsense, “I told you to let me die.”

Note: This project ended Virginia Leith’s film career—perhaps out of total embarrassment. Understandably, she refused to return for some post-production recording, so her voice had to be dubbed here and there. The drive to the country estate is the first time her voice is obviously dubbed with a higher vocal register complete with a southern accent—most frequently used is an out-of-place laugh. Actress Doris Brent, the nurse at the beginning of the film, did the honors.

WORLD FOR RANSOM (1954)

 

Sarcastic gumshoe, Dan Duryea, opens the film under duress from a local racketeer. Duryea yells much of his discouraged dialogue in his trademark high-register voice with its grating quality of whining. Truly the anti-hero, he complains plenty in this film. He appears to live a day-to-day existence, hoping that a positive turn of events is around the next rickshaw. His pal and polar opposite, Patric Knowles, turns out to be a double-crossing coward. His wife is played by newcomer, Marian Carr, whose breathy delivery is a bit annoying as if to give Marilyn Monroe a box office challenge. As a nightclub singer, her single number has er in top hat and tails, about midway between 1930’s Morocco and 1982’s Victor/Victoria. Later in the film, she is constantly weaving fore and aft at the waist as if trying to get enough air to breathe. Also a bit annoying and a possible subtle scene-stealer. Carr’s career was a short one.

Gene Lockhart playing an unbalanced, criminal mastermind is a bit of a stretch. Though accustomed to playing unethical businessmen, his biggest character flaw here is his arrogant, condescending attitude. He wants the secrets to the hydrogen bomb and enlists two thugs to "Shanghai" Arthur Shields, a nuclear scientist. Knowles is in this plot up to his mustache assisting the kidnapping by impersonating a military colonel. Lockhart meets with the ever-so-British Nigel Bruce—the Colonial Governor—and demands five million dollars, a sum Knowles sells his soul to get his hands on. It is Lockhart’s ransom of the century to prevent the nuclear destruction of Singapore and then some, but not the world. As a bonus, he “promises” to release Shields unharmed.

 

The climax is a fairly exciting standoff with a lot of gunplay at the kidnapper’s hideout. Duryea’s desire is to bring the errant Knowles safely back to his wife and with the help of the Major, Reginald Denny, also rescue the scientist. Knowles is not handling the stress well with multiple lies to save his hide. He shoots all his criminal associates, including Lockhart, then turns his attention to Duryea. Self-defense is called for.

The ending between Duryea and Carr is not uplifting, though he gets his face lifted from being slapped a few times. It is the demise of their friendship. She actually had a thing for the scoundrel because he never questioned her shady past. The closing scene, like the opener, has Duryea receiving wisdom from a female fortune-teller, an actress not even credited for an uncredited role.

Note: This film is the assumed continuation of the popular 1950s television series, "China Smith," starring Duryea as a mercenary adventurer. Its main notoriety is its director, Robert Aldrich, who would soon make his mark with an infamous Mike Hammer film the following year. Also, a carryover from television land is the competent—yet forgettable—score by Frank De Vol. The filming was finished well under two weeks and made the most out of a television-restrained budget. Distributed by Allied Artists Productions, it takes a while to get the blood flowing perhaps due to extending a thirty-minute series into an eighty-two-minute movie. Add to this a slightly confusing screenplay by Hugo Butler during the opening scenes. Worth it all is some excellent cinematography work by Joseph Biroc and his use of intriguing points of view and lighting contrast in sweaty Singapore. Not much stands out beyond this, so it becomes an “also-ran” within the film noir archives.

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.

Patricia Blair: Patsy Lou Blake (1933-2013)

Like numerous attractive female actresses of the era, Patricia Blair got noticed first as a model. The photogenic Blair signed a contract with Warner Brothers in the mid-Fifties, later being picked up by MGM in 1959. She appeared as a second female lead—a common occurrence—in such standards as Jump Into Hell (1955), an uncredited role in The McConnell Story (1955) followed by Crime Against Joe (1956) alongside John Bromfield and Julie London. She played the devoted girlfriend of escaped convict and heroin dealer, Vince Edwards, in City of Fear (1959), a well-produced thriller with unintentionally funny moments. He steals a canister of what he believes to be experimental heroin—worth a fortune and Blair is all-in. In reality, it is a highly contagious radioactive isotope. Next came the low-budget caper, Cage of Evil (1960), playing the self-serving love interest and temptress of police detective, Ron Foster. Her second-tier productions did little to strengthen her film career so it was back to the small screen.

Television was already a big part of her resume when she became a semi-regular for one season on The Rifleman (1958) as the spunky love interest and businesswoman, Lou Mallory. Adding her seemed like a last-ditch effort to advance the series. Unfortunately, the move spelled an end to one of the series’s strongest points—the singular father and son relationship. Her most popular recurring role was playing the wife of frontiersman, Daniel Boone, on the long-running, highly-fictionalized series starring Fess Parker. Outside of Parker's 165 appearances, she had the most credits with 118 until the show ended in 1970.

For the Texas-born beauty there were single appearances on the “DOA” comedy-western, Dusty's Trail (1973) starring Bob Denver and the more promising, yet short-lived, Petrocelli (1975). Her last television role was her one appearance in the popular comedy, Me and My Girl (1988). After retirement, she produced industrial trade shows, echoing the business savvy of Miss Mallory of North Fork fame.