FALLGUY (1962)

This one-off, sixty-four-minute crime drama opens in a highly interpretive manner as we watch a pair of slacks and a briefcase enter a house where three female bimbos are lounging around. Naturally, there is the obligatory saxophone to accompany them. A guy comes down the stairs and hands some cash to the slacks—now with a hat. The scene cuts to the minimalist office of a newspaper editor/mob boss. He smugly tells his two operatives that the Indian is set to deliver his contract tonight. Crank up the cool 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, not gawking might be difficult. Not that anyone might care, here is my spoiler alert: the following paragraphs walk through the myriad of awkward or funny elements right to the 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 Johnny (John) 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 assumed “inspirations” end up being the only classy elements of the film. An independent production, its lack of creativity is a good example of a wasted low budget. The film had no chance of being successful. This is not a foreign film but some post-production vocal recording was no doubt necessary for this inexperienced cast. Actors who indicate 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 injured 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, working out of his white, plywood-paneled basement. Looks sterile enough. Recognizing the man, the doctor knows the Indian’s contract was unsuccessful. As the injured driver collapses, Dugan grabs the gun but it accidentally expels a bullet into the thug. The syndicate attempts to frame Dugan as the title character. A crooked police chief grills him under a single 65-watt bulb.

Some of the oddest scenes occur at the editor’s home, played by G. J. Mitchell, where he is constantly lounging and enjoying the finer things of a middle-class lifestyle. The boss's partners, the weasel-of-a-doctor in a bow tie, and a pudgy police chief are talking syndicate business when an irrelevant and bazaar catfight breaks out on the carpet by two ladies on the editor’s “payroll.” Those rug burns are going to sting. Ignoring the obvious distraction, the double-chinned chief is actually miffed that Dugan has not changed one word of his testimony. That would make total sense, actually. The 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 music on his radio. The chief yells at him, 'Will you shut that thing off and listen to me!' The boss obliges, reaching over to turn it off. Viewers hear a click but the background score faintly continues as before. “That's better!”

Due to a freak fender bender, Dugan escapes the squad car and as the chief attempts to fire his gun, he slams the 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 helps out these dark, lengthy scenes. The Wile E. Coyote of Indian hitmen hangs his head in shame as he reports to the boss. The police chief suggests 'Chief Broken Head'—as he sarcastically calls him—go back in front of a cigar store. The funniest line in the film.

One of the funnier scenes, however, has all three operatives again at the mob boss’s home, mostly arguing about how the Indian is a lousy shot or the police chief complaining about the doctor fretting over his daughter’s well-being, constantly phoning her in near panic. Amid all the petty squabbling, there sits the boss in his recliner, preparing to shave. Now he decides to shave?! Unique and totally uncalled for. Suggesting a product placement, he uses 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. Then there is this: though a warm California sunset splash is not out of the realm of reason, it is unusual to film the scene in near total darkness with the characters poolside in swimwear as if working on their “moontan.”

Dugan ends up at the doctor’s house where he tries to convince his daughter that he is being framed. She is skeptical. The police chief arrives with the doctor and he takes a pot-shot 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 tip-toeing down the basement's wooden steps. He fires one chamber of his shotgun at his two current hits. He then succumbs from 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 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. Actually, it is a clever, 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 daughter off on a flight for unknown reasons via a TWA Boeing 707. There is a profile close-up of Dugan's head as the opening jazz theme cranks up. For the 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 could be found as part of a triple billing feature to help ease the embarrassment of buying a ticket for only one of them. The director and producer, Donn Harling, vanished after this, his one and only film. It is a risky assumption but he may be more to blame than the story and screenplay by Richard Adams and the singular George Mitchell. The confusing stats on IMBD dot com indicate that G. J. Mitchell plays mob boss Carl Ramin. The “G” stands for George, apparently. However, he is credited as George André in the effort to never be found again. Many sources mistakenly suggest character actor, George Mitchell (1905-1972), plays Ramin by using his photo. He is not in this film and he has zero credits as a screenwriter as well.