In his second credited film role, television’s Paul Wexler plays a deputy sheriff who opens the movie with a wooden delivery and bass voice belying such a narrow guy. He gets the film off to a shaky B-movie start with an attempt at local humor about the town's name to a motorist. However, the film quickly gathers momentum as David Raksin’s score fires up. His complex composition during the opening bars features soaring brass and dissonant strings suggesting something is about to happen. The score quickly shifts to represent a bustling small town. In a slice of chaotic realism, the railroad telegraph operator interprets a top-secret message of national significance. Caught off guard by the urgency, he habitually blurts, 'Good. Night. Shirt!' I like his creative use of words. For those under fifty, "nightshirts" were essentially knee-length T-shirts to sleep in.
FASTEN
YOUR SUSPENDED DISBELIEF SEAT BELT
Sinatra, along with his accomplices, Christopher Dark, and actor/voice-over artist, Paul Frees, arrive at Gleason's house ahead of schedule with phony FBI credentials. Gleason wonders what the FBI is doing on this type of assignment. As Hayden and Bouchey approach, the trio hides in an adjoining room. Out pops 'ol Blue Eyes with Bouchey going for his gun, who is the first to go down. Hayden takes a bullet in the arm, breaking a bone, which needs to be reset. He asks the smirking Sinatra to do it but he replies, 'You couldn’t take it.' Hayden insists. Sinatra, sensing a gruesome delight coming his way tells him, 'Hold on brave boy.' One hard yank and a smile erupts. Not a peep out of Hayden. A little man in every sense of the word, Hayden sizes him up pretty quickly. It is interesting to note the size difference between the two when standing toe to toe. Surely a subliminal message.
Perhaps overlooked in editing or simply badly staged, the house, when viewed from the depot, appears to be about an eighth of a mile up a hillside. But viewed from the house, the depot is directly across the tracks! Sinatra was counting on a wooden table to screw to the floor and provide stability for his scoped rifle. Instead, he has to settle on Gleason’s metal table. Considering how close Sinatra is to the depot, a scope will be useless. Lazy Frees whines about the hassle of bolting everything down. He suggests that a “Tommy” gun would work just as well. Here is a guy who knows the distance to the depot. Like Tonto to his Lone Ranger, Frees is told to go into town and see what is happening. He whines. Frees gets questioned by Wexler, loses his cool and the deputy gets wounded. The coward does not get far, groaning and whining as he goes down from, ironically, one of his beloved “Tommy” guns.
Gleason was in the process of fixing his television but ended up calling their local repairman. Using his past field training, he sets up the exciting climax by suggesting the clueless repairman clamp the wires—the 5,000-volt ones—to the metal table for better “reception.” Sinatra seems annoyed by all the background electronic gibberish. Gleason fakes an angina attack with the grandson fetching his pills in the next room. After grabbing the pills, the lad swaps his toy gun for Gleason's real one. The geezer “accidentally” spills his cup of water on the floor near the metal table. The shallow puddle goes unnoticed. Dark, who just prior wanted to call the whole thing off and make a run for it, (suddenly) is excited to view the shot through the gun’s scope. He will get a microscopic view of a Philips head screw in the depot's sign! With his soles sufficiently wet and the rifle gripped, his soul is sent into the afterlife. His involuntary reflexes repeatedly pull the trigger and their location is no longer a secret. Sinatra sees the sparks, yanks off the clamp, pushes dead Dark out of the way, and rapidly steps up to the rifle in fear of missing the shot. Hayden throws a heavy ceramic ashtray at Sinatra’s spine, and then Charney, the little pistol, takes an errant shot. He tosses the revolver across the carpet.
Not phased by all the personal attention from the rear, Sinatra grins, suggesting he is locked in, ready to fire. Except the train does not intend to stop thanks to a stool pigeon's tip about the assassination plot. Had it stopped, all passengers would have been hidden from his view by exiting from the opposite side of the coach! His face goes into shock. The scene sets up beautifully delivered lines for Sinatra. In utter bewilderment, almost to tears realizing his moment of glory is gone, he hesitantly and quietly says, 'It didn’t stop. It. Didn’t. Stop.' He quickly pivots, facing the center of the room, and shouts, 'It didn’t stop!' Gates delivers an accurate second bullet (suddenly) realizing a gun can be a crime deterrent.
Note: Though not flawless as noted, it is seventy-five minutes well spent in Suddenly, California. Visually it is a time capsule of small-town America, the storefronts and their interiors, the vehicles, and the Southern Pacific Railroad. It was an era when a U.S. President made a stop, it was a rare and special event. As a testament to the era, early in the movie, Hayden asks Gates if he can pick her up for church on Sunday. Try suggesting that for any modern action movie. Incidentally, after the television is fixed, it is Paul Frees’ voice-over calling the fake baseball play-by-play.
