FALLGUY (1962)

This one-off, sixty-four-minute, independently produced, crime drama is probably the most forgotten theatrically-released film of the Sixties. It opens in a highly interpretive manner as we watch a pair of slacks and a briefcase enter a house. The producer should have hired a taller cameraman. The camera pans to show three female bimbos lounging around. Naturally, the obligatory saxophone intrudes as accompaniment. The pants pick up an overstuffed envelope. The film cuts to another house, where a guy comes down the stairs, followed by another female companion, and hands cash to the slacks—now with a hat. The scene cuts to the exterior of a downtown building, then abruptly to a minimalist office of a newspaper editor/mob boss. He smugly tells his two operatives, Louis Gartner, the pudgy police chief, and Don Alderette, the weasel-of-a-doctor in a bow tie, that the Indian is set to deliver his contract tonight. Crank up the jazz theme and graphics. This intriguingly quirky opening may have you wondering if it is an Indian from New Mexico or New Delhi. Like passing an automobile accident, refusing to gawk at this film might be difficult. This is literally a dark film with hardly any location night lighting. Darkness eliminates a lot of potential reshoots. The following paragraphs highlight the myriad of awkward or funny elements, right to an amusing ending.

That pounding opening jazz score by Jaime Medoza-Nave will remind those familiar with the then-current television series, Checkmate, and its cool theme written two years earlier by John (Johnny) Williams. The graphic title sequence is an obvious knock-off of the genius work of Saul Bass, then breaking new ground with film title graphics. These crude “inspirations” end up being the only classy elements of the film. The film's lack of creativity represents a good example of a wasted low budget. It had no chance of being noticed, with unknown actors indicating their apparent limited experience in community theater. The film’s star, Mr. Ed Dugan (top), saved his best performance for his final film. This was also his first film. There are moments when one more retake might have helped his delivery. 

Driving home one night in his Triumph TR3, Dugan comes to the aid of a badly injured motorist (assumed dead by the Indian). The head laceration of the targeted man is well done. Hats off to the makeup department. At gunpoint, however, the thug forces Dugan to take him to the syndicate's doctor, Alderette, working out of his white, plywood-paneled basement. Looks sterile enough. Recognizing the man, the doctor knows the Indian’s contract was unsuccessful. The injured driver collapses, and the doctor struggles with the gun, which goes off, killing the thug. The syndicate attempts to frame Dugan as the title character. The crooked police chief, Gartner, grills him under a single 65-watt bulb. The double-chinned chief is miffed that Dugan has not changed one word of his testimony. That would make total sense, actually.

Due to a freak collision while transporting Dugan, the twenty-one-year-old "teenager" escapes the squad car. As the chief attempts to chase him, Dugan slams the car door on his hand. The film actually improves slightly at this halfway point as the shaved-head Indian is now in pursuit, giving "The Dugan" a chance to shine as he pantomimes fear. An improvement over delivering any dialogue. The jazz score somewhat helps out these dark, lengthy scenes. The Wile E. Coyote of Indian hitmen hangs his head in shame as he reports to the enept boss. Gartner suggests 'Chief Broken Head'—as he sarcastically calls him—go back in front of a cigar store. The only funny dialogue in the film.

The oddest scenes occur at the mob boss's home, played by G. J. Mitchell, aka George Andre, where he is constantly lounging and enjoying the finer things of a middle-class lifestyle. His delivery is noticeably better than the rest of the cast. His partners are talking syndicate business when an irrelevant and bizarre catfight breaks out on the carpet between two ladies on the editor’s “payroll.” Those rug burns are going to sting later. The doctor complains that there are women all over the place when they come here. Ignoring the obvious distraction, the police chief is also angry with the boss. Not because he is dressed in a “Hugh Hefner” lounging robe on his Sears massage recliner, but because of the music volume on his radio. Gartner yells at him, 'Will you shut that thing off and listen to me!' The boss obliges, clicking off the radio. Yet the "radio music" film score continues.

An embarrassed Carl Ramin during the catfight

One of the funnier sequences, however, has all three operatives again at the mob boss’s home, mostly arguing about how the Indian is a lousy shot or Gartner complaining about Alderette fretting over his daughter’s well-being, constantly phoning her in near panic. Amid all the petty squabbling, there sits Mitchell in his recliner, preparing to shave. Now he decides to shave?! Unique and totally uncalled for, suggesting a product placement. His shaver of choice is a portable, non-electric wind-up shaver from the era. In case of a shaving emergency during a blackout. In actuality, they were used on NASA’s early space flights. He yanks on the tiny cord several times, making a high-pitched “zip-whirr” noise. 

Dugan wanders (somehow) to the doctor’s house, where he tries to convince his daughter that he is being framed. She is skeptical and assumes he will take advantage of her. Gartner arrives with Daddy and takes a potshot at Dugan from outside the house, wounding him in the shoulder. His second shot mistakenly hits the daughter (D'oh!), and the scene shifts to the surgical basement ward, where four cast members are conveniently staged. In his great-grandfather’s tradition, no one hears the Indian tiptoeing down the basement's wooden steps. He fires one chamber of his shotgun at his two current hits. He then succumbs to simultaneous return fire, as his second chamber accidentally goes off...hitting Dugan’s knee. Whoops!

One Indian and two oafs down, the boss makes a run for it—for some reason, limping now—as the police move in. He attempts to step into an elevator and suddenly discovers the passenger cubicle is several floors below—potentially plunging to his death. It is a genuine, startling scene assisted by blaring trumpets. He wisely takes the stairs. Ironically, he stumbles on the very top step and dies instantly by the time he hits the first landing. A genuine fall guy.

The final scene has the parentless daughter off on a flight for unknown reasons via a TWA Boeing 707. Perhaps heading off to beauty school. There is a profile close-up of Dugan's head as the opening jazz theme cranks up. For a suggested cool ending, the camera pans away as Dugan turns toward the camera with a full-body shot of him hobbling away from the airliner on crutches. Job well done, Ed Dugan. Well done. 

Note: This film, typically found online with about three minutes omitted, was part of a triple-billing feature to help ease the embarrassment of buying a ticket for any one of them. The director and producer, Donn Harling, vanished after this, his one and only film. It is a debatable assumption, but he may be more to blame than the story and screenplay by Richard Adams and someone named George Mitchell. Most sources mistakenly use a photo of character actor George Mitchell (1905-1972) as mob boss Carl Ramin. He is not in this film and has zero credits as a screenwriter. Confusing stats indicate that George Andre, aka G. J. Mitchell—the “G” stands for George, apparently—and George Mitchell are the same person. Outside this film, I found no images of the main cast online.