FILM BRAKE : ZIV TELEVISION

 

Ziv Television Programs was founded in 1948. By 1955, Frederick Ziv churned out more than 250 half-hour shows until first-run syndicated programming dwindled in the early1960s. Despite starring some noted actors, the majority only ran for one season. Ziv's longer-running shows of three seasons were Tombstone Territory,  Sea Hunt, and the four-season Highway Patrol, which I have elected to profile.

HIGHWAY PATROL (1955-1959)

This 156-episode crime drama action series famously stars Broderick Crawford as the dedicated Dan Matthews, a gruff yet empathetic head of a police force. Clad in a suit and fedora, Crawford's signature rapid-fire delivery served him well as he barked into a patrol car's microphone any number of police codes while leaning against the open door of his Buick patrol car. The show was created in response to the California Highway Patrol wanting to be featured in a series. However, Ziv thought the show needed a broader police scope, so the state name was dropped. In its early run, the show received technical assistance from the California Highway Patrol, using actual patrol vehicles. Apparently unhappy with the show's direction, they dropped their support, and the producers had to use unofficial vehicles with their own subdued markings. The show opened with aerials from a helicopter as it buzzed over a highway roadblock. David Rose's military march theme song then set a noble tone. Interestingly, Tombstone Territory also utilized helicopter filming of the show's star on horseback while voice-over narration explained his journey. 

Ziv has stated that the small budget show moved at a fast pace to match Crawford's rapid delivery. He claimed the show introduced "quick cutting" to television, starting a new trend. The opening narration by the unmistakable voice-over artist, Art Glimore, gave the sense that the story unfolding was pulled from actual police files. Not exactly, but the show was noted for realism and its famous location shooting around the formerly rural San Fernando Valley and Simi Valley. Common pursuit locations included the curb-sided Griffith Park Drive and nearby Bronson Canyon. The show centered on crime-fighting rather than issuing traffic tickets, though during its formative years, the episodes ended with Crawford himself delivering pithy traffic safety advice—sometimes humorous—aimed at the television viewer.

Note: The show featured many actors who went on to become successful stars in their own right, among them was Stuart Whitman as Sgt. Walters, Guy Williams appeared occasionally as Matthew's partner, Clint Eastwood, Robert Conrad, Larry Hagman, Barbara Eden, Paul Burke, and Leonard Nimoy. 

BEAST FROM HAUNTED CAVE (1959)

Right up front, the producers acknowledge their gratitude to South Dakota for their cooperation in making this film (only for the extended television print). Specifically, the use of their snow. No Hollywood fake snow in this one. The film will eliminate seventy-five minutes from your life. Double-billed with The Wasp Woman, many Dakotans may have been expecting another “comedy” from this grammatically challenged “Tonto-esque” titled film. But many probably came away skittish about hitting "plenty big slopes" given the spooky creature. The “special effect beast” is handled with restraint, relying mostly on ominous shadows, a claw, and a prehistoric scream that sounds like someone tightening their vocal cords while inhaling to get a high-pitched screeching effect. Lessening the embarrassment are undefined facial features as it supernaturally floats about, sometimes superimposed in the corner of the screen. Strange. This paced film, produced by Gene Corman, Roger’s kid brother, has the Corman touches. The random graphics splashing on the screen are typical of the Corman brothers. But accolades are due for being primarily a heist film with the science-fiction premise almost as the film's sidebar. Never mind the salacious, misleading poster, designed to attract an audience.

A Corman always pads their films, and there is plenty of ski footage, supported with misplaced music. Alexander Laszlo’s recycled score, in part, is from other Corman movies. From a Hammond organ to soap opera strings to a cool jazz segment (see note below), the music is certainly disjointed. And totally expected. The film was distributed by Filmgroup—the Corman boys—for Allied Artists Pictures. Charles Griffith’s script of clipped and witty banter, however unlikely, is quite suitable for the drive-in crowd. After a decade of papier mache “monsters,” this one relies more on imagination. The squeamish element is that the beast spins its live victims in a web-like cocoon, placing them in various cave locations until it can return for dinner. Certainly more creepy than Roger’s laughable wasp head on Susan Cabot.

The handsome Michael Forest is undeniably the most familiar face in the film. His long list of television appearances allowed him a great deal of notoriety and variety. He and his four co-stars were Corman regulars, professionally accounting for themselves. Forest is the level-headed element in this film, a ski instructor/guide in snowy Deadwood. In a turtleneck sweater, a prop pipe with his own cabin, he seems too classy, too perfect, to be in this film. He is persuaded to guide a group of four on a multi-day cross-country ski tour to his cabin. The group’s leader, Frank Wolff, has in his possession an unappreciated girlfriend, Sheila Noonan, a free spirit with sarcastic wit, a drinking problem, and insights into her life's bad decisions. She also slurs her lines as if her mouth is actually frozen in the authentic weather. This is Noonan’s second of four roles in her nearly one-year film career. She tries to thaw “Mr. Perfect,” who keeps her flirting at arm’s length for a while. Noonan wants out of her bottomless pit and reveals that her three skiing companions are gangsters. The other gang members consist of Wally Campo, a nutty little guy, and Richard Sinatra, Francis Albert's real-life cousin. 

Prior to the ski tour, the thieves set off a diversionary explosion in an abandoned cave as cover for stealing gold bars from the town’s bank vault. Forest becomes a hostage in order to get the gang close to their escape plane when it arrives. How the pilot could possibly land among thick evergreens and yard-deep powder is not clearly spelled out. But nothing goes as planned, thanks to that stringy spider-beast awakened by "heap big cave blast." Cocooned bodies are suspended in various locations, with the victims helplessly staring out into space. The beast’s lair provides temporary blizzard shelter for the remaining cast. Emphasis on temporary. Chaotic editing makes for a confusing climax in which a final gangster fires two flare guns, giving “haunted beast plenty big sunburn.” 

Note: The extended print for television broadcasts is responsible for ten minutes of extra footage to pad the film. One of those scenes happens before the opening credits roll, focusing on a cutting-edge Polaroid Land Camera. Most viewers were glued at this point. The two guys in a 1960 Corvair station wagon (top image) are casing the town's bank. One will note jazzy saxophone caper music. The brief music snippet may remind one today, humorously, of the chase music later expertly written for the famous cat-and-mouse jazzy chase sequence in the film “Bullitt.” But this is Laszlo, not Lalo. I digress. In the background is a white 1961 Ford Thunderbird. For a film released in October 1959, both vehicles seem a bigger mystery than a cave beast. As the original length version indicates, the only mode of transportation for the gang is a 1959 Ford. 

4D MAN (1959)

 

Jack H. Harris, from his original screenplay, produced this eighty-five-minute independent film for Valley Forge Film Studios. It was directed by Irvin Yeaworth and distributed by Universal International. The film's slightly off-kilter opening credits may appear at various spots on the screen with graphic arrows inserted randomly for a split second, stinging your eyes. Despite this, it is not a spy thriller nor a detective drama, yet the jazz band score disagrees. Its smaller budget is a well-kept secret thanks to bits of impressive special effects, suspenseful cinematography, and an engaging lead actor. The film is not consistently successful, eventually passing into the gullibility dimension. 

The premise of this imaginative science fiction film is explained by voice-over while we witness a young scientist, James Congdon, accidentally ignite a small fire after his experiment goes awry while adjusting what looks like a shortwave radio made in high school shop class. A funny transitional editing occurs as the small fire in a trash can consumes the building instantly by the next film frame, in scale model flames. The jazz band blasts in as if to celebrate the blaze. A music cue better suited for a spy barely escaping imminent danger. The university is not pleased with Congdon’s research results, and he finds himself instantly unemployed, although it had nothing to do with his misplaced range of acting skills.

Congdon reunites with his older brother, Robert Lansing, in his film debut, as a distracted and dejected scientist whose laid-back, moody trademarked acting style adds his own dimension to the film. His lab is in the midst of an experiment with what appears to be a huge sugar cube. The material is Cargonite, so dense that it is assumed impenetrable—perfect for a set of travel luggage. Once the lab equipment is activated, it sounds like there is a squirrel going nuts trying to break out of a wooden cage. Rounding out the main cast trio is Lee Meriwether, also in her film debut, getting early training for adjusting dials in a lab coat for her role a few years later on television’s The Time Tunnel.

Congdon is pleased to know Lansing has plans to marry Meriwether. The three have dinner in an upscale restaurant, with Congdon bringing drawing paper to do a sketch using the inside of the large menu as a drawing board. His sketch suggests penetrating a solid object utilizing an "amplifier" in conjunction with mental will. Never mind. She cannot take her eyes off him and suggests he join their research team. Lansing seconds the notion. The big band score explodes, and she invites Congdon to dance. There is no room for dancing nor a designated area, so the nearby patrons carefully guard their tables and everything on them. Just imagine impromptu dancing inside an Applebee's.

The film takes an embarrassing turn as the three have a picnic in a hillside park, after fashion, in the middle of nowhere. There is a children’s merry-go-round, and the studio mounts a camera in the center. We watch a giggling Meriwether and an aggressive-looking Congdon go round and round in front of a blurring landscape and an accompanying score grossly out of place. The frivolity ends with an attempted game of tetherball the size of a small shotput. Meriwether escapes with no eye injuries. Lansing looked as concerned as I was about these scenes. Quietly and in deep thought, Lansing decides to leave. Alone. His potential bride slips into an unknown dimension.

Congdon shares his 4D theories with "big brother." Rod Serling proposed there was a 5th dimension, but I digress. That restaurant sketch is unveiled in tangible form as a pencil through an inch-thick solid mass of steel. But for no apparent reason, after excitedly retrieving the object upstairs, Congdon takes a tumble coming back down. Really odd without a laugh track, so provide your own. Apparently, the one-off sample was mentally created by Congdon, willing the pencil through the steel with the help of an amplifier. Lansing begins experiencing painful headaches after his own 4D testing. His doctor is amazed at the electro-impulses of his brain. He speculates his mental capacity may be unlimited. No better use for an impulse than proposing to Meriwether. 

Lansing locates her at the home of a friend, where, as a favor, she is monitoring a younger-than-twelve-looking Patty Duke. Duke was an acting veteran compared to the leads in this film. Meriwether tells him marriage will never work because he is so wrapped up in research. Brooding, he storms off, later breaking into his brother’s locker at the research center. He attempts to push a pencil through a thick metal plate, but instead, his hand goes halfway through. The effect utilizes an excellent prop in the film. His brother later witnesses the feat and then disturbingly tells him the amplifier was never on, dude. Lansing went into the fourth dimension entirely by his own will.

Lansing begins to realize his miraculous electro-impulses allow him a great deal of latitude. High notes from an electric organ signify his 4D state. Another successful effect is the first time he puts his arm through a grocery store window to steal an apple. The glowing blue outline around his arm, where it intersects the glass pane, is nicely done. The next time, though, the audience is not being fooled by simple camera positioning for an edge-on window pane view, along with camera processing wizardry. His lust for power turns him into a bank robber with little fear of ever being incarcerated for any length of time. Oh, and it gets worse. His “special effects” rapidly accelerate the aging process. When seeking a doctor’s help, he inadvertently discovers that by simply touching the doctor, it rejuvenates his own life. The doctor is accidentally drained for all he is worth. An ironic twist on a doctor's final bill. The doctor’s ninety-year-old facial aging process is done with a smooth transitional effect. Now a very wanted man, Lansing litters the town with wrinkled people, including his self-serving boss, Edgar Stehli, who looked to be pushing eighty-five anyway.

Lansing hid the amplifier in a lab vault. He returns to retrieve it, apparently, on April Fool’s Day with humorous results. The belly laugh scene in the film. He pushes the open button, but Congdon pushes the close button from the control booth, preventing Lansing from accessing. He cannot figure out what is going on with that stupid button! He turns around to look toward the booth, but he and Merriweather have crouched down out of sight. He hears no snickering. Pretty funny, and it happens more than once.

Lansing is really bummed that he and Meriwether cannot agree on any dimension together. The century-old Lansing, still with a thick head of powdered hair, only wants a final kiss. She obliges. From her lab coat, a revolver fires. They quickly break away, yet are temporarily anchored together by a four-inch string of spittle. Without a doubt, the single most disturbing effect in the film. Strangely, no explanation for why Meriwether never ages. Perhaps the bullet interrupted the process. In a rage, he defiantly proclaims his invincibility and convinces himself he can even pass through a wall of Cargonite. Let’s just say he is only half right. 

Note: The film’s score was written and conducted by Ralph Carmichael. Though the opening jazz theme is cool, it does not fit a science fiction horror film. Unless the 4D man is a detective. As mentioned briefly above, his music does not support certain scenes and is inappropriate. His greatest strength would come to fruition during the next decade, establishing himself as the father of contemporary Christian music, a gospel award-winning composer, arranger, and conductor, writing popular songs of faith. He would occasionally arrange hymnal standards with his contemporary orchestra, causing quite a stir among pipe organ worshipers. 

T-BIRD GANG (1959)

At sixty-five minutes, most will be able to sit through this one if you ignore the low production quality, obvious budget constraints, and an artificial gang leader that stretches the gullibility of the viewer. I do not suggest it is going to be easy, however. The main cast does not embarrass themselves despite the area microphone echo in certain scenes. If one misses the opening credits it is still likely many will readily guess this is another production by Roger Corman. Less successful would be guessing it was distributed by Sparta Productions. Using its original title, Cry Out in Vengeance, it was a double feature with High School Big Shot and the first release of Corman’s company, The Filmgroup. At times, the overpowering, Corman trademark jazz combo soundtrack of solo drums, trumpet, or piano can be distracting. The film does have a fairly decent screenplay, co-written by star John Brinkley and co-star Tony Miller. This is one of five Corman pictures for television regular Ed Nelson. He honed his craft, churning out nearly twenty-two low-budget films. Lobby posters apparently never showcased the 1957 T-Bird from the film, choosing to use a current-generation model. For whatever reason, Nelson is MIA in this promo shot below. For automobile accuracy, I adapted elements for a revised poster to start this review.

The opening scene sets the tone of this rickety film with meandering bongo drums as the camera moves in on Nelson's T-Bird and his right-hand henchman, Tony Miller. From a safe distance, they await the outcome of a warehouse burglary in which things do not go as Nelson planned. Seemingly an expert in the misdemeanor crimes of household and warehouse burglaries, Nelson is technically only an accessory to every crime. Top-billed Brinkley arrives at the warehouse to find his father, the night watchman, murdered, however. Later in a bar, Nelson sees Brinkley defend himself in a fistfight with a troublemaker and invites him to join his gang. The police captain coaxes Brinkley to go undercover to help flesh out Nelson's gang, whom they figure is responsible for the murder.

Nelson is the cool gang leader whose ego is stroked by simply snapping his fingers to get what he wants. Bossing twenty-something “high schoolers” around and relaxing to classical music is his best use of time. With an air of superiority, good looks, and wearing driving gloves or the occasional ascot, he exudes big-shot qualities. His girlfriend, Pat George, in her film debut and career closer, is treated like an airhead by Nelson, but she usually beats him at chess when she is not devouring a series of thick books. He angrily switches to poker to improve his winning chances. She is also easily amused, and her unbridled laughter annoys him as it did me. At one point, “Mr. Warmth” purposely knocks over a glass of milk onto her new coat, causing her to leave the room to his relief. A real sweetheart.

For all his assumed bravado, Nelson's low mileage status symbol and security blanket is his beloved two-year-old Thunderbird, cowardly staying in the driver’s seat during capers. The gang's next warehouse caper also goes awry—in part due to an awkward score. Brinkley tipped off the police. A security guard is knocked unconscious by being punched in the kidneys. The most amazing special effect in the film. "Mr. T-Bird" realizes he has been set up and takes the undercover rat to a closed tavern. He will need a new town of teenagers after this blown caper. He lets it slip that his second-hand man doing his dirty work, Miller, can easily be replaced. Unaware Miller overheard the discouraging words, he repeatedly beats Nelson with a pool cue, then spears him with its blunt end. Oh, the second special effect. Scratch one gang leader. An empty tavern can be drafty as the pool cue slightly sways back and forth in Nelson's “stomach” in the closing seconds.

Note: As a testament to a low-budget Corman film, there are a few awkward or funny moments in addition to those mentioned earlier. A solo trumpet nearly kills a tender moment between Brinkley and his girl. The trumpet is about as subtle as Doris Day wearing an eye patch. Later, in dazed conversation, he twists strands of her hair into a 4” long rope. Not by request. But the topper is Nelson’s hilarious one-ding doorbell in his modest studio home/set. It is exactly the sound of ending another boxing round.

THE WASP WOMAN (1959)

Roger Corman found his infamous niche in recycled teenage drive-in horror movies. Ignore his sensational text in the above poster. It has nothing to do with the film. This self-directed and produced film is another bad representation. Not William-Castle-bad, however. Roger's brother, Gene, maintaining the Corman gene, produced Beast From Haunted Cave, which was double-billed with this film and better. The screenplay was written by the perennial Western bad guy, Leo Gordon. For an estimated fifty grand, I suspect a chunk of the money went for hiring Susan Cabot again from the previous year for War of the Satellites, and Corman's superior, Machine Gun Kelly. It should be no surprise that the production quality is lifeless, with a waste of about twelve minutes at the opening as we follow a “Doctor of Waspology,” Michael Mark, through the woods looking for a wasp’s nest. He is also ostracized by the local beekeeper union because he is not a team player. Bees, dude, not wasps! But he has made an incredible discovery. There is a wasp enzyme serum that can turn back the aging process. Truly, what sinks this film is the hilariously poor wasp head costume at the end. That alone makes this a "horror-ble" movie.

The opening score by Fred Katz is mesmerizing, yet annoying. A very dissonant and chaotic arrangement that supports the background image of bees making honey. Never mind the movie is about wasps. The film score was used several times for Corman's science fiction movies. The score, with dominant xylophone, specifically during an in-car camera drive and general "investigating" filler scenes, is a sensory experience of bargain-basement filming. 

Susan Cabot does a good job in her final film and with the best special effects in the film. As the CEO of a major cosmetic company, her initial appearance gives the impression of a dowdy, middle-aged female with no social life. Ever. Yet wasps are very social. But then, so are bees. I digress. Product advertisements have featured her image since the launch of her company, but recently, sales have tanked with her current image. An extremely "complex" bar graph, made by a middle school project, needs clarification from Fred (Anthony) Eisley to explain plummeting sales. Using something called a pointer, he offers a blunt suggestion: replace Cabot’s image with someone younger. His assessment is applauded by the entire board. Cabot lowers her head in self-awareness.

Excentric “Dr. Waspy” re-enters the picture and shares his research with Cabot. Vanity, thy name is wasp. Of course, she needs to look younger, and after a few injections, violá, she reveals her new, confident self. From a wasp’s perspective, she could not look more vibrant. It becomes her new line of injection cosmetics. Then the headaches start. Cabot’s stunt double goes into action, turning into a blood-sucking vampire wasp (head). Much easier than what the poster suggests, a wasp's body with Cabot's face. Hello, CGI. Needless to say, the board members will be voting on a new CEO.

Note: Barboura Morris, with her attention-getting first name, plays Cabot’s assistant and a flirting target for Eisley. She was well-versed in low-budget movies and may have recognized the film score since it was used for her first Corman outing, “A Bucket of Blood.” Always on cue is character actor Frank Gerstle, naturally playing a police detective. A filler to pad the film's length is two attractive office tarts, one of whom manicures and buffs her nails down to the cuticle. In another uncredited role, Corman plays the doctor attending to "Dr. Waspy" after his jaywalking accident.

TEENAGERS FROM OUTER SPACE (1959)

Quoting the opening lyrics from the movie theme, Love Story, by Andy Williams, "Where do I begin?" This independent production, infamously known to MST3000 fans, will have your shoulders going up and down from laughter. At the same time, those tears of laughter will turn to pity for the incompetent, unknown cast, which forces me to use their character name in this review. Pinning down who is the funnier in this film depends on how often it is viewed. As if the cast did not want to be remembered or assaulted, almost everyone has an alias in the long opening cast list that would rival the film Spartacus. Its budget would barely allow you to buy a pre-owned sedan today. The money not spent was pretty obviously used on props. Apparently, with some money to burn, Warner Brothers distributed this one, doing a complete one-eighty from their legendary television westerns of the same period. My comments address the edited version of this oddity, clocking in at eighty-five minutes. The full-length version, for no other reason than being forty-four minutes longer, is best left on the editing floor.

All apologies to any junior high drama departments, but that best describes the acting level of this Tom Graeff Production. The opening scene sets the stage for what the viewer is about to experience. Two men in an observatory, the older astronomer of the two with a questionably authentic Van Dike, recites dialogue on his “twenty-third take” after constantly reassuring the director, “I can do that better if you want.” All blame for this film rests on Graeff's shoulders as the director, the producer, the screenwriter, the cinematographer, and the editor. And...he wrote the music, which at one point reminds one of the Leave It To Beaver sitcom. And...he plays the reporter in this debacle. 

Three of the four twenty-something teenagers from space are obviously from the angry red planet, Mars. A disgruntled group if ever there was one. How they traveled so far without killing each other might make a pretty good prequel. Speaking without contractions makes the dialogue feel slightly Shakespearean with a pinch of Amish. One thing is for sure: it accentuates poor acting. Memories of those Italian sword and sandal dubbed movies may come flooding back. The travelers have mythological-type names of Thor, Moreal, Saul, and how he was accepted into this group, Derek (above left, with Thor), the sensitive member of the expedition, holds sanctity for life. 

Thor is one unhappy space teen. No point trying to reason with hate. Out of this hatred for all things unknown, he kills a dog with his “Dollar Tree” plastic ray gun, turning it into a skeleton. This special effect is a good bit of editing and is pretty effective whenever it occurs. Which is often. Derek reads the dog tag and tells the crew there really is intelligent life on this planet, barring the costars. Angrily, Thor growls out, “Of what concern are foreign beings?!” Derek, with all the thespian power he can muster, lethargically replies, “Of none to you, Thor.” The deliberate-speaking Derek manages to escape with the dog tag.

These “adultified” teenage hoodlums have come to release giant

lobsters...er...Gargons to eliminate all Earthlings. Thor is left on Earth to track down Derek and bring him back to their home planet for a trial. Thor’s first experience in an automobile and verbal lesson on how to drive is pretty funny as he keeps repeating angrily, “What’s that for!” Derek shuffles into a nearby town searching for the dog’s owner. The address on the tag is the home of two gracious individuals, Gramps and his granddaughter, Betty. She has the voice capacity of a newborn sparrow and the acting skill of the average seven-year-old. Gramps is a rotund, congenial dolt, clueless and unassuming as they come. He figures the stranger wearing white “tennies” and a one-piece jumpsuit with pant legs tucked into his white socks is part of the military. They happen to have a rental room and assume Derek is interested. In reality, he has no idea what he is doing, nor does he know the concept of “rental.” To say nothing about Earth's currency.

Before long, the sidewalks are littered with skeletons. The police, after a fashion, surmise there might be something afoot here. Thor is perpetually growling out commands to everyone, always threatening to “skeletonize” them if they disobey. The police descend on Thor, and he gets wounded by two Earth bullets. He escapes and hides in the back of Betty’s car. When she and Derek return, Thor demands they get him to ‘...a man of surgery to remove the metal pellets from my flesh. One sudden move and I will slay you both!’ Thou art angry! They take him to a manikin-like medical doctor to remove the bullets. Mister tough teen refuses any anesthesia and gets a surprise when he passes out during the removal of the bullets. Both Derek and Betty escape. There is a reveal about Derek’s lineage with little bearing on the movie, nor does the audience care at this point. 

The plainclothes policemen, still with their plastic revolvers drawn, use them as pointers at the bloodstains on the sidewalk. We never see the police again. After the doctor’s nurse unknowingly gives aid to Thor, he gets behind the wheel of his non-levitating Earth vehicle. Once again in pursuit of Derek, he loses control of the sedan and his first gravity lesson finds him down a mountainside. Off-screen, he is subsequently arrested. The slow-witted Derek cons everyone, interrupting the transfer of Thor at the police station, and they both head back to their special effect “guide ship” logo. Derek makes the ultimate sacrificial decision to save Earth from the Gargons. And Thor.

Note: Finland had a long wait for the film's television release: 2005! 

HIGH SCHOOL BIG SHOT (1959)

Distributed by Sparta Productions, this seventy minutes of celluloid was directed and written by television's Joel Rapp, the man responsible for writing some of the most popular shows of the Sixties. Let us not blame him entirely for this film. This was a team effort. Shave about five minutes, and this film might have played better through an RCA or Magnavox console. An intelligent, jazzy score by Gerald Fried opens the film, in which a third of the lead cast members are killed. Always an acceptable percentage for low-budget acting. The executive producer was Roger Corman, and though the twenty-something high school students are not fooling anyone, the acting is mostly above par, thanks to those same twenty-somethings and a few television veterans. A film that concerns a depressing group of flawed characters. There is the alcoholic, deadbeat father, a renowned safe cracker who subscribes to the “honor among thieves” mantra, a female classmate who puts the “man” in manipulate, and three high schoolers who enjoy talking about slapping their dates around or anyone they dislike. Just call them the “three stooges.”

Tom Pittman is good. Moody. Talking directly into the camera, he opens the film, asking about the whereabouts of a safecracker to maybe work out a deal. Though captivating, his cool, adult delivery immediately defeats the premise of the shy, awkward high school kid. He is routinely threatened by the bully-leader of the “three stooges,” Howard Veit, in his only acting role, simply because Pittman is the brightest student in the class. In true liberal thinking, he cannot beat someone, so he tries to eliminate the competition. Veit seems to be the more logical choice as the "wannabe" big shot, what with his classroom disruptions and smart-aleck replies. But he is just not that smart. Pittman is the one student who has a scholarship waiting. Being a big shot is not in his thinking. His downfall is the cute Virginia Aldridge, part-time tart of meathead Veit. With an ulterior motive, she goes sweet on Pittman to get him to write her final exam essay. He thinks they have a future, but she is thinking about graduating. Their teacher, television’s famous Peter Leeds, knows she did not write it. She cannot even quote it. After denying it, he presses Pittman again for the truth, and he confesses. She is outraged that he told the truth. Things just never work out for her. No diploma for her, and Pittman’s scholarship is canceled. Thanks, honey-bunch.

Malcolm Atterbury plays Pittman’s father. He was an old pro, and he bolsters the film’s early stages. Their father-son scenes are tender if not heartbreaking. Pittman is devoted to his father, who believes he will get another job or even remarry. Dad reassures his son that he has also sworn off drink. Later, finding his father again nearly unconscious, Pittman bends before him and breaks down in tears. He would do anything to remove their financial state of affairs and buy useless stuff for Aldridge. 

Pittman overhears his boss, Bryan Foulger, planning a million-dollar heroin deal, with the money to be locked in the office safe prior to the deal.  Pittman wanders the streets by fake-walking in place, head turning left and right. Pretty funny. He locates Stanley Adams, a well-dressed safe-cracker, who spends his off-hours mooching off a liquor store owned by his brother-in-law. Hard to believe, but Pitman transforms into a savvy mastermind as the trio splits their haul.

Self-serving Aldridge double-crosses Pittman and informs Veit that he should intercept the money from Pittman at the pier. Distant sirens can be heard. Detail-oriented viewers will notice a film flop as one Plymouth patrol car, conveniently unmarked, is right-hand drive. They use the same correctly projected footage for a “third” patrol car’s arrival. A visual lesson on how to save production money or pad a cheap film. But I digress. In his attempt to escape, Veit is dropped by a bullet and the briefcase flies open. Also on the scene is Foulger, who goes berserk, looking directly into the camera and twice uncontrollably fumes, “A million bucks!” as he watches it float away from the dock. Chilling, but the amount was only Pittman's share of the loot. The aftermath calls for four funeral arrangements and taxpayers to pay room and board for the rest of the lead cast. 

Note: James Dean made a huge impact (poor choice of words) on Tom Pittman. Both had television experience, with the medium being the bulk of Pittman’s work. He had several movies to his credit, and this was his last, released posthumously, along with a previous film, after he died from injuries crashing over a cliff in his own Porsche Spyder on Halloween, nearly four years after Dean. It was nearly twenty days later that his body and car were discovered in a ravine.

THE REBEL SET (1959)

Allied Artists Pictures distributed this basement-budget crime tale for E & L Productions. A one-time offering, apparently. The only thing lowering this below other heist films of the period is the hilarious “pre-hippie” subculture. In this regard, the film could stand alone. A position it richly deserves. Thankfully brief, the lame performances are the comedic low point in the movie, though the opening jazz combo is cool enough. Dig it, daddio? Other than the opening, an innocuous score seems to be added without the director's knowledge. After an opening seemingly longer than fifteen minutes, the plot unfolds, and the film gets better. But make no mistake, this film is funnier than intended. 

Edward “Get Smart” Platt steals the film and delivers a convincing performance as a scoundrel in a silk lounging robe. A bit of humor can be found beyond the coffee house performers, thanks to quips from Ned Glass, Platt's leg man, and wristwatch fence. Platt is certainly full of himself as he frequently quotes famous literary passages, making whoever he is with feel inferior. Glass assumes he is a master chess player because he never loses. On the contrary, Platt simply handpicks customers who cannot play the game well. He appears to be the biggest Beatnik sellout. In reality, his Los Angeles coffee house provides him cover where sunglass-wearing, anti-establishment weirdos with van dikes spout poetry—after a fashion—or leotard-clad females attempt interpretative dance all in an effort to “find themselves” through overt behavior. As most surely know, bongo drums have a magical power to transform people into groovy cats. Can you dig?

Being the wise judge of character he is, Platt condescendingly hires three frequent coffeehouse losers he has been monitoring. He asks their help to rob an armored truck of one million clams during the stopover in Chicago of the Los Angeles to New York train. All three men could use a financial portfolio booster. Top-billed and obviously acting, Gregg Palmer and his wife, Kathleen Crowley, are struggling because he cannot land any acting gigs. He was lucky to get this one. She suspects he is not trying that hard. It is not that he lacks potential. He is quite believable when coming up with excuses. John Lupton has writer's block, and Don Sullivan's only achievement, barring a few suicide attempts, is being the rich brat-of-a-son to his famous actress mommy.

The slickly planned and timed professional heist during the train's four-hour layover in Chicago goes without a hitch. Assuming all things could go as planned, these scenes are feasible. Platt “shaves off” his studio beard and dons a clerical collar. A good disguise, as all the elderly ladies on board think he is swell when quoting scripture. But one cannot judge a priest by his collar.

Sullivan's greed gets the best of him, and he plans to keep the entire take for himself. When he turns up dead, Palmer suspects someone is not playing fair. Dig, my brother? He and Lupton spot a typewritten suicide note designed to quell any suspicions. But Palmer astutely blurts, “Except that looks type-written.” Yes. It certainly does. Next up, Lupton departs the speeding train against his will. Palmer, finally buckling down to something, levels with his wife about his so-called all-night casting calls, then leads a police detective to the money's suspected location. 

Palmer initiates a long—can it only be seven minutes?—foot chase to capture Platt and his money-filled duffel bag through a rail yard, in which the director never threw away any footage during editing. If it were an actual chase, both men would have been exhausted in the first minute. But filming scenes can do wonders for your stamina. Just when you think Platt will be pounced on, he escapes—his cane becomes a force to reckon with—under or over rail cars or climbing up boxcar ladders. Reset. Platt is spotted and then disappears again. Reset. They each sprint through a locomotive shop completely unnoticed. Reset. Palmer finally gets hands-on with Platt as the chase finally comes to a...no, wait...a railroad employee comes to the “reverend's” defense. After beating off the employee, Palmer is back in the chase after one wily priest for an electrifying finish.

Note: In the middle of that climactic chase, we witness an odd placement of deliberate humor. Three hobos silently crawl forward on all fours to peer out from their individual, triangularly stacked large sewer pipe sections, wondering what all the commotion is about. When they spot the railroad police, all three pop backward inside their pipe like a turtle in its shell. A scene seemingly lifted from a silent film comedy.

CITY OF FEAR (1959)

This is a decent, eighty-one-minute Columbia Pictures film that hides a limited budget from a week's worth of filming. Director Irving Lerner creates a fast pace from a script that lacks total believability. A creative score by Jerry Goldsmith adds excitement, bringing the crime thriller up a notch or two. The middle of this thriller is filled with the usual angst in trying to track down an escaped convict. An eighty-four-hour search unfolds with the police, a nervous environmental authority, and a scientist working in concert to find him and his stolen canister. A suspense drama that bears a striking similarity to so many later television disaster-of-the-week movies. For the automobile historian, there are in-car cameras that put the viewer in the back seat. Several competent actors with familiar faces lend their credibility. The director brings together Vince Edwards, Cathy (aka Kathie) Browne, and screenwriter Steven Ritch from Murder by Contract, the prior year.

A night scene opens the film with a speeding ambulance driven by a known drug pusher, the aforementioned escaped convict, wanted for murder, and especially a stolen canister from the prison hospital. The driver is annoyed by the constant moaning from his mortally wounded partner, who dies in transit. Edwards actually stars as Vince, whose only interest is a sealed canister that he figures is worth a million dollars of experimental heroin. In reality, it is a radioactive synthetic, cobalt-60. Unless in a lead container, it is highly contagious. It appears in this film as aluminum. Opened, it could wipe out a city, according to the film. See my note below on cobalt-60.

Edwards’s acting solidifies the movie as he becomes completely drained from fits of coughing, sweating, and feeling stupid for not getting a seasonal flu shot. The character is as one-dimensional as can be mustered. He is despicable in every scene, trusting no one who does not appreciate the beauty of a stainless steel canister. Edwards feels rotten and wants to be left alone. With the canister. Which cannot be opened without special tools. Few things can put one in a bad mood more than not being able to open a simple jar from the supermarket.

Waiting two years for "Geigerman" is his girl, Patricia Blair, who thinks she might have better luck opening the canister. “I'm tellin' ya' honey, it can't be opened!” When later questioned by the police, she repeatedly denied any contact with Edwards amidst profuse sweating and a “smoker's" cough. We find out about a nervous shoe store owner, Joseph Mell, who has profited from Edwards’ past drug deals. Driving a 1958 Lincoln "Land Yacht" is a dead giveaway that the Buster Browns could not be moving that well.

I found the rapid ending not well thought out, but at least funny. When Edwards stumbles out of a diner and collapses, the authorities keep their distance. They fail to convince Vince that there is still a chance he could survive. Slim. At best. They actually ask for the canister. Bad idea. Though Edwards may be barely breathing, they immediately cover his body with a blanket and place a “high radiation area” sign of caution on top of it...carried in the trunk of an officer's patrol car just in case. I burst out laughing. The police captain then says to the scientist with relief, “Come on. I want to go home.” Someone will be by later to shovel him up, I guess. Dead or alive.

Note: Beginning in the 1950s, cobalt-60 was used to treat cancer and to sterilize medical equipment. It is a byproduct of nuclear reactor operations. Most exposure to cobalt-60 takes place intentionally during medical tests and treatments. Such exposures are carefully controlled to avoid adverse health impacts and to maximize the benefits of medical care. However, mishandling of a large industrial source of cobalt-60 could result in an external exposure large enough to cause skin burns, acute radiation sickness, or death. A small container would unlikely wipe out 3 million people. The bigger mystery, then, is why the drug pusher thinks heroin is kept at a hospital.

COUNTERPLOT (1959)

Forrest Tucker and Allison Hayes together at last! A stale tale of murder, a conniving lawyer and an expressionless boy in one sleepy location, Puerto Rico. The United Artists film is, literally, a real sleeper with opening music by Paul Sawtell and Bert Shefter that has all the sentimentalism deserving of this movie. Jackie Wayne plays the young errand boy looking out for Tucker who is in hiding from an assumed murder. Judging by the dark makeup, Wayne is supposed to be a native "San Juanian." He seems to worship Tucker and he likes their “just guys” arrangement. No icky women around. Tucker frequently scolds him for not doing what he is told, however.

Nightclub singer and icky woman, Hayes, has a past with Tucker and Wayne thinks she is the reason for Tucker’s trouble. Upon her arrival, she and Wayne spot each other but he does not initially acknowledge her. His lie about Tucker’s whereabouts is not convincing. Hayes is soon addressed by another familiar face, corrupt lawyer, Gerald Milton, the San Juan Shyster. The burly actor with his clear, commanding voice never uses contractions when speaking. It reminds me of one who commands people to do their bidding. A delivery that is two-thirds sultan and one-third Tonto. Even though Hayes says she is back to perform at her former gig, he suspects she is in town to find Tucker. Their cat-and-mouse conversation reveals more about Milton than the location of Tucker.

Milton comes to Tucker’s legitimate aid, however, keeping his hiding place secret from the adhesive-mustached Richard Verney, a business partner of the man murdered. With a tempting offer to represent him legally, Milton gets Verney to spill his guts about who actually committed the murder. All the while being secretly recorded by Milton. In retrospect, Tucker decked Verney’s partner during insults and feared his fall to the floor accidentally killed him. Tucker fled. Watching from another room, Verney finished off his partner to inherit the (no kidding) Acme insurance policy against his death. He is killed with a most gentle, choreographed head pounding against the floor which actually looked like he was trying to wake him. Wake up, little buddy! Clearly irritated with most anyone, Verney delivers his lines with a tight-lipped, disgruntled delivery of his best bad guy impression. His tenor voice sounds amateurish as many of his lines trail off to a whining end.

Milton’s assistant and legman, Miguel Angel Alvarez, double-crosses him and tells Verney where Tucker is hiding. Milton struggles to get control of Alvarez’s gun. When The Shyster bends over to retrieve it, he gets a letter opener in the back. Milton is able to get two shots off with a final, 'You interfered. I make payment.' Him plenty dead, now. Meanwhile, to prevent Tucker’s death by Verney’s gun, the boy shoots him in the arm with Tucker’s gun. Tucker later tells the boy that today he has become a man...his first shooting. He pours a “shot” of whiskey for each of them and teases him to take the drink. The boy is confused. Hesitant. He quickly puts down the drink in embarrassment. Tucker laughs at him. We do not know what happens with the boy after Tucker and the icky woman get back together. But that laugh probably took the boy some time to leave it behind.

Note: One funny editing note. As Hayes finishes her song, accepting applause, the camera cuts to Tucker’s face and then back to Hayes who is now in a completely different dress. Therein lies the popularity of her club act. The ability to change clothes on stage so fast that no one can see her do it. David Copperfield would be incredulous!