THE FLYING SAUCER (1950)

This American, independently made Soviet spy drama was written, produced, directed, and starred the average-looking Mikel Conrad, not Comrade. So, most of the blame falls on his shoulders. In truth, he does a decent job of capturing his character, but he is never in Micky Spillane territory. Occasionally, one person in charge of all aspects of a film can make an impact. Allen Baron is a great example with his 1961 crime film, Blast of Silence. The result here is lackluster filmmaking. The film is not a thriller; it is science fiction, but not in the typical sense. Do not expect flying saucers to destroy totem poles in Juneau, Alaska. This is a mystery, and that is its strongest compliment. Denver Pyle, Roy “B-movie” Engel, and to a lesser degree, Russell Hicks, are the best-known faces, while much of the cast turns in solid collegiate performances.

Intelligence officials learn that Soviet spies have begun exploring a remote region of the Alaska Territory, concerning worldwide reports of flying saucers. Conrad, raised in that region, is recruited because his credentials as a wealthy American playboy are best suited to handle an undercover assignment to assist a Secret Service agency. He is not excited—too much work. Then he admires his reflection in a mirror and is introduced to the pretty female agent, Pat Garrison. Many frames are eaten up by bucolic Alaskan scenery, slow motorboat navigation across a vast lake, a seaplane flight, and a picnic, all of which include no dialogue. The crescendoing music score is better suited for an epic film. Yet the grandeur is lost in a wash of grays. 

Conrad is to pretend he is suffering from a nervous breakdown—trying to control this film perhaps—with Garrison acting as his private nurse. The charade seems to be a moot point throughout the film. The lodge's caretaker, from his first frame, is one of the more obvious villains. “Mr. Terrific,” clad in plaid, is highly skeptical of flying saucer reports until he hears one slice over his Alaskan lodge. Probably a meteor, he thinks. The saucer is real, an invention of American scientist Roy Engel, whose mechanic, Denver Pyle, is a greedy communist spy with a plan: get in on the ground floor of the Soviet Frisbee cartel. Conrad has to deal with Soviet agents in Juneau, a conniving barmaid, and his own drunken stupor, an avalanche, and the rescue of his phony private nurse—all of which approach mundane. Conrad, Garrison and Engel see light at the end of a secret Soviet tunnel just in time to spot Pyle being "saucered." The Soviets would learn a lot from reverse engineering, so Engel installed an after-market accessory. At a certain altitude, the saucer explodes with small "Pyles" scattered about.

Note: This seventy-five-minute science fiction film was distributed in the United States by Film Classics Inc. It is the first feature film to deal with the era's hot topic of flying saucers. I imagine those who bought tickets for this international spy yarn were ticked off that it has nothing to do with the poster. The single saucer in this film is more akin to a reconnaissance drone. Flying disks were first given the film's title in 1947 by a private pilot who reported nine silvery, crescent-shaped objects flying in tight formation. Some chose to take him at his word.

FILM BRAKE: EMERGENCY!

 

I believe it is safe to say this is the only series that involves two composers of two different Route 66 themes. Nelson Riddle wrote the theme for Emergency! and for the previous decade's hit show, Route 66. Emergency! cast member, Bobby Troup, wrote the hit song, Get Your Kicks On Route 66, famously recorded by Nat King Cole. 

This American television medical drama from Mark VII Limited and Universal Television is aimed to be more realistic than the two previous decades of medical shows, centering on the new field of emergency medical system (EMS) paramedics. Famous for his insistence on realism and not theatrics, it was created and produced by Jack Webb along with Robert Cinader. Additional creative credit went to Harold Jack Bloom. Pioneering EMS innovator, James O. Page, served as a technical advisor, always on the set to make sure everything was authentic. Resisting the comparison to modern medical dramas, the show still remains an impressive display of intelligent production, with money well-spent where it counted. 

The earliest episodes were on shaky ground with sometimes stiff and cliched performances, delivering the occasional clipped banter or tight closeups ala Dragnet. The show hit its stride by the third season, not focusing so much on interpersonal relationships, but the seamless blend of action, drama, and comedy (best showcased at Station 51). Yet it never ranked in the Nielson top 25. Networks were having a problem with 1970s action shows blended with comedy. Emergency! was not Medical Center any more than Jim Rockford was Steve McGarrett of Hawaii Five-O. Loyal viewers kept the hour-long show running from January 1972 until May 1977. After the regular series ended, there were six two-hour television movies produced during 1978-79 as the seventh season in an attempt to bring closure to the series. See "Notes" below.

Unlike many action dramas today with multiple plots, Emergency! fans' attention span was most impressive. The show only had two areas of interest: the rescue and the hospital. If an area of heavy brush needed clearing in order to access a crashed automobile "placed" in a ravine, the production filmed a bulldozer clearing the brush. It was mesmerizing at the time, sending the message that rescues can be tedious and with potential danger. Though both lead actors underwent some paramedic training for their roles at Station 51, arrival to film an "emergency scene" sometimes offered the unexpected. Some ad-libbing was inevitable to make their characters believable. The producers were able to balance out their budget despite the high cost of the rescue scenes. On the other side of the coin, the hospital scenes were inexpensive to shoot. With the back and forth locations during an episode, they were able to split the cost for each episode. 

 

Anyone binge-watching today may find a few emergencies a bit too extended with repetitive, four-note, bass guitar licks or flutes in the background that made it seem even longer. The repeated footage of the rescue vehicles leaving the station or in transit will also be obvious, with certain neighborhoods apparently having more than their share of emergencies. Automobile accidents are obviously staged using "pre-crashed" vehicles. Crash stunts were not the point, it was how the paramedics coordinated their efforts with the hospital. The show evolved to include more spectacular 1970s-style pyro-technics, and the paramedics were involved in some exhausting stunts, using few or expertly hidden stuntmen. As a general rule, if you could not see their faces, it was stuntmen. 

The producers used fictitious names for the stationhouse and hospital, yet not all the actors were fictitious. A few were employed by the Los Angeles fire and police departments and used their real names. The balance of lead and supporting actors in the series can be found at the link below. Though Randolph Mantooth (Johhny Gage) and Kevin Tighe (Roy DeSoto) had prior credits, this was their first lead roles -- both seemingly appearing out of nowhere. These lead characters are a huge factor in making this series successful. Gage is a self-absorbed, die-hard single guy while DeSoto is married with children and has been in the paramedic program longer than his partner. These ordinary-looking guys tease, argue, and get on each other's nerves like brothers, and it is this partnership (they are best friends in real life) that makes the series memorable. There is not a situation or subject that Gage is not an "expert." He will have ideas about moonlighting on his off days for extra cash or butting in to resolve everyone's personal dilemmas to the amusement or ire of DeSoto and the firemen because he rarely knows what he is talking about. As per Barney Fife's earlier precedent, Mantooth's character became the breakout star of the show.

Notes: The series used a variation of Riddle's theme during some emergency runs. Beginning with the third season, big band composer and arranger, Billy May, came aboard to provide the show's incidental music with a jazzy, brassy, 1970s-style driving rhythm during emergency runs. Other times, his music is simply overbearing and highly repetitious. On the "B-side" is Gerald Fried's score for the last two movies. His music themes rarely fit a given scene as if he never saw a single frame from the movie. When it is not silly, much of the music is totally out of sync with the visuals.

Aside from the movie about the paramedic's retrospective of memorable rescues, there is no commonality between the movies and the series. The movies have lost their timeliness and are best bypassed today. Station 51 is nowhere to be found and the complete hospital cast only appears in the first movie. Gage and DeSoto become secondary cast members as they travel to observe paramedics in a couple other cities on the west coast, with a new cast that is dangerously close to amateurs. Perhaps the producers were thinking that watching any paramedics will be just as good. 

For more detail on the series, including the memorabilia and vehicles now in the Smithsonian Institution collection, visit HERE.

Lippert Pictures Series

Robert L. Lippert controlled a successful low-budget American film production and distribution company from 1948 to 1956, producing short, fast-paced westerns and crime films with a penchant for obligatory humor and the occasional jarring edits. This is my fourth of seven Lippert films.

TREASURE OF MONTE CRISTO (1949)

Though the opening narration tries to justify why this movie has "Monte Cristo" in the title, there is no mention of swords or high-waist tights. Well-directed by William Berke, and distributed by Screen Guild Productions, it attempts to bring Alexandre Dumas to modern-day San Francisco, complete with a prison escape of sorts. It is another fast-paced Lippert Pictures production making a likable film from a constrained budget. And it only removes a mere seventy-eight minutes from your life. One of the better Lippert productions, the film is centered around a descendant of the Count and his sizable fortune. As expected, some would like to intercept that treasure. The duped descendant tries to unravel reality during one of his most improbable weeks. The location cinematography by Benjamin Kline puts the viewer on the streets. He even uses a "gun cam" behind the gun's barrel of one detective firing bullets. A competent score by Albert "B-movie" Glasser is well-utilized.

Dashing Glenn Langan is the descendant, a Second Mate on the shipping freighter, Pacific Queen. After dropping anchor, he rescues an assumed damsel in distress, Adele Jergens—the real-life wife of Langan. He and Jergens never looked better than in this film. I doubt anyone in the theater believed her backstory about her mental hospital stay, so her guardian could control her wealth. But Langan does. Jergens wants an "arranged" marriage to deflect her pursuers. So it is off to Reno. He becomes the latest Hollywood simpleton completely unglued by a female's lying lips.

In the captivating opening scene, the Cristo fortune liaison is knocked unconscious while recovering in the hospital. Paralyzed, except for the ability to move his eyes, Langan visits him in hopes of discovering his point in the film. It sets up an unintended funny moment. Needing yes or no answers, he suggests the patient move his eyes back and forth, left to right, for the appropriate reply. But it appears he is simply looking at one side of the room, then the other, in terror of the strange noise of an attacker. Blinking would have had a less humorous outcome. While Langan leaves the hospital, the liaison is permanently silenced, with Langan set up to take the fall. The traditional flashing newspaper headlines inform the viewer of his sentencing to die quicker than his marriage ceremony.

It is rare to find Steve Brodie in an educated professional role, yet true to form, he is a crooked underworld lawyer with a studio caterpillar mustache passing himself off as Langan's best defense. But his scheme already included Jergens, and he plans to throw the case, removing Langan from any inheritance. Despite his limited screen time, he provides the only spark in the film. Something he often did.

From a story by Aubrey Wisberg and Jack Pollexfen, the screenplay is intelligent enough, once it gets past Dumas' original intention. In keeping with a number of Lippert productions, a bit of amusing obligatory dialogue is sliced in late in this film. Sid Melton, the weasel working on Brodie's behalf, abducts Jergens, ushering her into a waiting car. Rising above his comical looks, he assumes he might be worthy of her attention. "You know I'm single?" Her deadpan reply is, "I can understand that." She gets shuttled around again by Brodie, and she frightfully asks, "What are you going to do?!" He replies, "Two things, and you're the second."

Note: Langan's character was taken in as a young child by an Italian family. His “Papa” and two sons visit him behind bars on more than one occasion. Papa is played by Michael Vallon “witha-the-worsta” stereotypical Italian accent. In keeping with their criminal heritage, the two sons later spring Langan during a prison transfer, shooting out a tire on the police vehicle and arranging for his change of clothes from a well-planted panel truck.