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 “inspirations” end up being the only classy elements of the film as the jazz score pops up throughout. 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 in a drive-by shooting). 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 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 between two ladies on the editor’s “payroll.” Andre cannot bear to watch, comically peeking between his fingers. 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 George Andre (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 Andre 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 developed by NASA for their early space flights. He yanks on the tiny cord several times, making a high-pitched “zip-whirr” noise. 

Dugan somehow finds 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, Andre somehow remains an editor. Finally, the police figure out who and where he is. He makes a run for it—for some reason, now limping—as the police move in. He attempts to step into an out-of-service elevator and discovers the passenger cubicle is several floors below—narrowly escaping 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 to school via a TWA Boeing 707. She and Dugan part ways. 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—are the same person. Outside this film, I found no images of the main cast online. 

THE DAY MARS INVADED EARTH (1962)

This independently made black-and-white CinemaScope science fiction film was backed by Robert L. Lippert and had its premiere in the cinema capital of the world, Minneapolis, Minnesota. The seventy-minute is best viewed during daylight hours when there is a lower chance of dosing off. The film was released by Twentieth Century Fox as the bottom half of a double feature, Elvis Presley's Kissin' Cousins. Ouch! On the positive side, there are no embarrassing alien monsters to groan about. Hauntingly dull best describes the film.

Kent Taylor halfway through reading the screenplay

The film was directed and produced by Maury Dexter, and it was the second and (thankfully) final script written by Harry Spalding. The film stars B-movie regulars, Kent Taylor, Marie Windsor, and William Mims. Taylor is the anchor of the film but not his family. He is just too brilliant in his position at NASA to be there for his kid's birthdays, April Fool's Day, Armed Forces Day, Memorial Day, or even Easter. It could explain Windsor's lackluster performance, who seems sedated throughout the film.

Marie Windsor cannot believe she signed the film's contract

Taylor is in charge of a probe surveyor craft to Mars. The robotic probe is destroyed on the surface by some unknown force, and that same force makes Taylor's face get all blurry. More than this, there are double Taylors, with at least one showing up for a rare family Christmas at the Windsor family's lavish, 46,000-square-foot mansion. Taylor's entire family eventually gets all blurry-faced and when he goes looking for his wife, she is in two places at the same time. The footage of Taylor or Windsor wandering through acres of the well-groomed estate is covered by a “sleep-inducing” soap opera score.

William Mims, a family friend and future blurry face, is a cohort of Taylor He is invited to the mansion and their conversation turns to the four extra “people” at the estate. His wanderlust being strong, Taylor later stumbles upon his duplicate. The Taylor martian tells him that they are without physical bodies and possess energy-generated intelligence. Sort of a hologram without the film's special effects department able to show that on screen. The Martians travel to Earth by two-way radio waves, preferably the FM band with its lack of static. Speaking of static, the Martians do not want any. Turns out they are not the social animals Hollywood usually envisions—they want no more illegal Earthling visits.

This film puts “provoking” into “thought-provoking”—mostly wondering if one can sit through the film. Spoiler alert: there is a bit of clever writing after the entire human cast has been reduced to ashes at the bottom of an empty swimming pool—in proportioned silhouette forms. The water jets are opened and the ashes disappear down the drain without a trace. Like one's money disappearing in a crooked hedge fund. The five aliens pile into the Plymouth station wagon and drive off to an unresolved ending. Spooky.

Note: Most of the film was shot at the Greystone Mansion located in Beverly Hills since 1928. It has been used in countless films over the decades and is currently a public park and set aside for special events.

PANIC IN YEAR ZERO! (1962)

 

American International Pictures (AIP) is known for its budgeted productions, horror films, and sensationalism. By the end of the Sixties, they transitioned to violent motorcycle gang films. Only hinting at that future is this science fiction black and white survival film, destined upon completion to be a double feature. Using the crew from Roger Corman Productions (Santa Clara Productions), it was produced by Arnold Houghland and Lou Rusoff. The fast-paced screenplay is by John Morton and Jay Simms, helping make the film profitable. It would have to be an awful film to not turn a profit from a 225-grand budget. Up to the halfway point, the film is captivating with non-stop action and tension, set during the height of the Cold War. The second half slows considerably and gets more violent as a trio of lawless hep-cat thugs get their kicks by looting, female sexual assaults, and cold-blooded murder. These are the less-than-zero-trio.

Leading the Baldwin family on vacation to the mountains is the star and director, Ray Milland. His co-starring family consists of Jean Hagen, Frankie Avalon, and television's Mary Mitchel. With this film's success, Avalon made several pictures for AIP, mainly at a beach. Featured prominently is a 1962 Mercury Monterey with a Kenskill travel trailer in tow. As the family heads for their mountain vacation, from miles away, they witness the bright flash of an atomic explosion. The special effect painting of a distant nuclear cloud over Los Angeles looked believable enough, but their second look back was spliced-in nuclear test footage that looked more like a large smoke signal from several Indian tribes.

Slightly long at ninety-three minutes, the film's editor, William Austin, out of budget constraints or simply following directives, pads the film with repeated footage—albeit from different angles—of the same automobiles in their high-speed escape into the mountains. The film could have done without the many abrupt post-production editing implausibilities. These cheapen an otherwise exciting first half. Splicing in frequent, three-second close-ups of the Mercury Monterey's wheels, with an odd sound effect like bad wheel bearings, is another example. There are close-up blurs of automobiles zipping by, and poor-quality stock footage of multi-lane automobile traffic from a totally different location and vantage point. At first, the family decides to turn back to Los Angeles. But going in the opposite direction are escaping citizens, recklessly speeding up the two-lane mountain highway—on blind curves or blocking both lanes—as maniacal stunt drivers leave the Baldwins little space to drive. It is too perfectly arranged to be believed. 

On the plus side, one could not have a better survival leader during a nuclear winter than Mr. Baldwin. Milland's character knows precisely what to do and how many supplies they will need—perhaps his dry-run panic during the 1958 recession may have helped. The family uses a damp, chilly Prehistoric cave as their home. Before partaking in their first cave meal together, Milland asks for God's protection with prayer. He had vowed earlier to protect his family by whatever means, including physically assaulting a store owner at gunpoint, decking a gas station attendant, crashing through a barricade after being asked to turn around, destroying a bridge that might give others access to their food, and making deadly, vigilante use of his hunting rifles. Perhaps a prayer of forgiveness will be forthcoming.

Note: The opening jazz score by big band legend Les Baxter provided no sense of doom or tension. It is, however, befitting the assumed lawlessness after a nuclear attack. Today, it would only take a jury's decision with which a group of myopic, ignorant thugs disagrees. But I digress. The film's opening is focused on a car's radio, so maybe the music was cleverly coming from there. It simply is misplaced music of the era to start the film—given its main theme—rather than a gang of idle teenagers succumbing to a life of crime. 

CODE 7 VICTIM 5 (1964)

An annual week-long celebration is the cold intro to this film. Once the mountains are spotted in the background you know it is not New Orleans. The colorful parade traverses the Cape Town streets with instrumentalists and flag wavers creasing the point of view camera as participants pass by. Amid the celebration, however, three clowns commit a murder.

Released in America in 1965 by Columbia Pictures, nearly half of this eight-nine-minute film has a potential license to thrill. I was impressed with the great opening theme music by Johnny Douglas as the credits rolled with his faint nod to the signature sound of the "007" franchise of the period. Coupled with Nicolas Roeg's beautiful panning of Cape Town's bay from high in the mountains, it portends what might have been an international action-packed thriller. Add a winding mountain car chase amid views of the sea between two unlikely vehicles, one can expect a lot of tire-screeching. Another reason for optimism is the presence of the maturely handsome Lex Barker, a New York City private detective with great-looking hair. In the early going the private detective delivers exactly two one-liners ala Mr. Bond of the period. Yet there is not much action for him in town—and his stuntman—outside an early fistfight with attackers. The film starts to lose its intrigue with a somewhat confused and dull final third.

From the moment Barker steps off the Lufthansa Boeing 720 the film has secret agent potential. He never looked better. Yet he is more a puzzle-solver than tough detective womanizer. The engaging script continues as he is quickly met by the beautiful (naturally) Ann Smyrner, secretary of a wealthy German, Walter Rilla, whose butler was the film's opening victim—the reason for Barker's hiring. The heavily French-accented Veronique Vendell plays Rilla's adoptive daughter. The dodgeball-faced tart bounces from "any male" to another. Smyrner is not only an aviation pilot, she also takes the helm of a 1958 Lincoln Continental Mark III 430 CID V8 convertible land yacht as it wallows up the mountains toward the estate. Roeg's distant pan shots of the vehicle add adventure—and no back-screen projection scenery ala Hitchcock's It Takes a Thief from a decade earlier. But look out—they are pursued by an eighteen-year-old Dodge Custom, perhaps on its last legs.

Barker—not to be confused by a word scramble of band leader Les Baxter—is one of two faces Americans will recognize. Less so is perhaps Ronald Fraser as Inspector Lean, Barker's help in solving the case and the film's levity. Fraser's lifestyle is ogling bikini-clad females, always arriving late to assist Barker. With his somewhat disparate facial features—a mouth no wider than his nose flanked by inflated cheeks—the ladies are not too discriminating. Rilla sits poolside in a wheelchair though he is not the least bit physically impaired. Reminiscent of Program Manager, “Guy Caballero,” of SCTV fame. Baxter discovers a well-hidden photograph at the estate of four people marked for death. The butler makes it five. But no reveal of Code 7. Perhaps for good reason: Code 7 officially means “out of service to eat” for American police squads, making the tagline at the top of this poster hilariously misguided.

This British Lion Film Corporation endeavor was written by Harry Alan Towers under the pseudonym Peter Welbeck with a screenplay by Peter Yeldham. With its obvious Ian Fleming influence, the film made a tidy profit. Originally filmed as Table Bay, the current spy craze gave it the obscure Code 7 Victim 5 title—yet again as the more logical Victim Five. The end result is a rather talky mystery as it bounces from location to location. The former Tarzan, Barker shifts to “African Safari” summer wear from JC Penney as he explores a diamond mine, shoots an attacking lion and goes scuba diving with viewers wondering its point in the film. The “point” is the tip of a spear gun's harpoon mysteriously skewering one of the cast. Expect the oft-used battle between good and evil on a gondola lift as it ascends a mountain and an implausible (nee ridiculous) cliff-hanging climactic pursuit.

Note: There is no doubt this film has some 1960s foreign trademarks of abrupt editing and a studio soundtrack seemingly unconnected to any screen action. Code 7 Victim 5 was released on Blu-ray in 2016 with another 1964 South African caper, the talkative and dull, Mozambique—essential with the same production team—as a double feature. It stars a weary Steve Cochran, with an American release eight months after his death. The same or similar Lufthansa Boeing 720 from this film is also used in Mozambique. With the astounding success of the Eurowestern, The Treasure of Silver Lake (1962)—and its six sequels as "Old Shatterhand"—Barker was on a career resurgence in Germany by the time "Code 7" was released.

HANDS OF A STRANGER (1962)

A promising concert pianist, James Stapleton, loses the use of his hands when they are thrust through the glass of a taxicab during a low-speed crash. The viewer must assume the glass used is the same as that from a kitchen window. His hands are a mangled mess of flesh and bone. Not a scratch on his face, by the way. Truly a one-of-a-kind accident. Therapy is not an option. He receives a groundbreaking double hand transplant from the hands of a recent murder victim. Do not get ahead of me. Lead surgeon Paul Lukather declares the operation a success. At least he has hands that inhabit normal living. But the pre-owned hands do not respond to Stapleton's brain. They cannot discern black keys from white. In fact, both hands seem to have a brain of their own, completely taking control of the pianist's psyche. 

More murder mystery than horror, if the title or its mis-categorized genre does not explain the premise, the first fifteen minutes will. Then settle in for the less-than-thrilling outcome. Distributed by Allied Artists Pictures—uh-oh!—it is a routine attempt to bamboozle an audience, preferably at a drive-in. The best part of this one-hundred-seventy-grand film may be the marvelous opening and subsequent scenes by photographer Henry Cronjager, Jr. The piano concert music score throughout by Richard LaSalle is appropriately used. One may spot some familiar television faces, but it may be difficult to put a name to them. Also unknown at the time is Sally Kellerman, whose film fame was only slightly proportionately longer than her script, here. There are solid, sensitive performances by the three leads, however. If it were possible at the time, this movie might have gone straight to DVD.

In Stapleton's distress, the blame lies entirely with the surgeon. His older sister, Joan Harvey, is of the same mind. She hysterically believes the surgeon wanted personal glory for doing hand transplants. Talk to the hand! Her over-the-top performance during this scene made me wish I could be transplanted to another room. One expects a murder rampage will work its way into the film's eighty-five minutes. Hands-down, this is the main reason for its theatrical release. No real point going into detail about how or who, but know that Stapleton's script calls for him to kill—accidentally or on purpose—repeatedly thanks to those clunky criminal mind hands. The violence is only alluded to with any gore, unnecessary since most victims were killed by hand. He sets his sights on the doctor who assisted in the surgery and presumably will get around to the rest of the medical staff in due course if he survives the film.

The ending is what one would expect. We find Stapleton in a vacant, echoing concert hall as Harvey and Lukather arrive and spot his latest victim. After a few disparaging remarks, Stapleton begins pounding on the keyboard—something he never excelled at before—proving that his future may likely include boxing.

STARK FEAR (1962)

Over the decades, Hollywood's Golden Age classic films have nearly been pulverized to dust by exhaustive, glowing critiques. Allow me to pulverize this unknown low-budget thriller-ette distributed by Ellis Films. Who? Ned Hockman was given the directing duties but he abandoned the project over conflicts with the cast. Actor Skip Homeier took over. I imagine he was never more relieved to not be credited. One hopes this psychological exploitation film will be about sixty minutes due to the score alone. Unfortunately, the viewer is stuck for an unbearable extra eleven minutes of soapy opera. 

One might dismiss the sleazy screenplay by Dwight Swain, but dismissing the music score by Lawrence Fisher is impossible. It is the single worst element of this film. The music supporting an oil derrick pounding away in the opening is totally misplaced for an intense drama. Some sections flit from an Oklahoma hoedown to an early Hal Roach film, to schizophrenic terror. The score can be defined as the worst example of leitmotifs. Added annoyance is a sound quality suggesting the score surely was lifted from a decades-old source played by amateur musicians. In an unabashed attempt to copy Bernard Herrmann's Psycho score, frantic, dissonant strings accompany an over-the-shoulder camera closeup of Beverly Garland driving a 1960 Buick. The film is an ugly account of humanity at its worst.

The aforementioned Homeier plays a sadistic—something of an adult role distinction for him—husband who mentally tortures his wife, Garland. Despicable he. His fixation on his dead mother explains a lot about the psychotic character inspired by the Hitchcock blockbuster two years prior. When a man loathes a woman—apologies to the Percy Sledge hit—there is little he will not do to impose his hatred upon her. The fuming husband is seen throwing bottles at her mantle picture, breaking its glass before falling to the floor. The Buick floats into the driveway. Ah, “home sweet home.” It is her husband's birthday. There is a cake to help celebrate. She adds a single candle—like the one-year-old he is—and puts a romantic album on the Hi-Fi. He views this simply as a ploy to divert her “affair” with her boss. After viciously verbally abusing her, Homeier has a bipolar moment as they romantically embrace on the couch. While the record spins, oddly superimposed—fading in and out—is footage of an abstract painting on their wall. One may look at an abstract painting and wonder what the point is. So goes their marriage.

Kenneth Tobey—the boss—is up to his knees in Oklahoma crude. A former business rival of Homeier, they have had a long-standing hate relationship. The single, cryptic opening voice-over does not quite divulge this. Tobey is empathetic to Garland's marriage and has come to her aid on more than one occasion. Jealousy runs deep in Homeier's veins, and he demands she stop working for Tobey. Never mind that he is on the verge of being fired and currently bringing in little income. Garland tries to stick with her disturbed husband, which few moviegoers can figure. She feels it is her wifely duty to locate the disappearing skunk, nevertheless. But she cannot. The script salaciously places her into some unlikely, personally dangerous, and spooky situations in her discovery. Even stumbling upon a nighttime Comanche celebration dance that could not have been anticipated by her or the audience. Hitting a low point, the script has her raped by a drunken slob, hired by the demented Homeier.

The future of Homeier is of little interest to the moviegoer; it is never revealed. Viewers can take comfort in the fact that his marriage has dissolved. She and Tobey enjoy an exhaustive weekend walking tour of Eureka Springs, Arkansas, through overlapping scenes of the happy couple accompanied by Fisher's goofy 1930s serial music. Garland returns to work for Tobey. He seems to be the right man, but he harbors a stark secret.

THE BRAIN THAT WOULDN’T DIE (1962)

Modern commentators amazingly may suggest—in the unrestricted freedom of hindsight—that this film has deeper meanings than what appears on the surface. Yes, it is deep. About ankle-deep. This is bottom-of-the-barrel filmmaking, yet this preposterous result has garnered almost more attention than The Longest Day. William Castle’s thumbprints are assumed on each film's canister yet he did not produce it. In this case, imitation is the lowest form of flattery. This decapitated budget disaster was produced by Rex Carlton and Mort Landberg with direction by Joseph Green, who co-wrote the story with Carlton. Though completed in 1959, this science fiction horror double feature was theatrically released with an inane score three years later by American International Pictures. Europe’s salacious eighty-one-minute version includes gratuitous “naughty bits” with no benefit to a bizarre screenplay. This hardly unknown, seventy-minute version is still a good ten minutes too long.

Television stalwart, Jason (Herb) Evers, in his first leading film role, plays the obligatory mad surgeon who has invented a serum to keep human body parts alive. Mary Shelley was way ahead of him. He and his fianceé, Virginia Leith, are cruising to his country estate in her Mercury convertible. As any insane person might do, his speed increases to a point where the land barge has little chance of negotiating the downhill curves. The cheap, oft-used mounting of a camera on the front bumper’s corner fakes a sense of high speed. One can expect a poorly edited crash at any moment. The three-second, decades-old stock sound effect of screeching tires and metal crunching is used. There is a quick edit of Evers’ silently screaming in horror as the camera lens rapidly rotates. He then perfectly rolls down an embankment (whee!) to find the car exactly where it was positioned. It is a clean decapitation of Leith. Well, I think her head simply popped off. Instinctively, Evers grabs her head thinking he could probably do something with that later.

In his estate’s basement laboratory, Evers keeps Leith’s head wired and tubed for days with an added pair of stylish headphones. The effect of her head on a tray is well done, convincing in a gullible way. Her new existence is sheer agony. Her nose itches. He ignores her pleas. Leith brings a new definition to brain power as she instigates a kinship with an insidious mutant by telepathy—Evers’ early experiment gone awry. It is one of the worst makeup attempts in cinema. I think Evers’ surgery has to garner the blame. One eye is positioned forty-five degrees opposite the other with a head shape that can best be described as a descendant of the Conehead family from the original Saturday Night Live skits. A reference photo of any human may have helped. The mutant’s first sounds of grunting or vomiting are pretty funny. If only he had also farted.

Evers, now with the option of taking Leith’s figure to a whole new level, hunts for a body specimen at a sleazy burlesque club, and a beauty contest, and lusts after girls who “randomly walk cul de sacs.” He settles on a former girlfriend—now a “figure” model—a face reminiscent of Elizabeth Taylor from certain angles. Her hair hides a hideous facial scar from a male attacker. Understandably, she is turned off by men. She can add one more to her list as he drugs her and takes her to his country estate's lab.

Given the ridiculous concept of this film and her lack of body language, Leith's alto voice acting is well done as the head of the table. But Evers has had enough of her constant yapping and puts tape over her mouth. This may work at home but is never successful at stopping telepathy. It is pretty ghastly when Mr. Mutant first tears an arm from a lab assistant and then takes a bite out of Evers' neck, spewing blood—and then some—from his carotid artery. The director, wondering how to possibly end this debacle, sets fire to the lab, as one would expect. Leith ends the film with cryptic nonsense, “I told you to let me die.”

Note: This project ended Virginia Leith’s film career—perhaps out of total embarrassment. Understandably, she refused to return for some post-production recording, so her voice had to be dubbed here and there. The drive to the country estate is the first time her voice is obviously dubbed with a higher vocal register complete with a southern accent—most frequently used is an out-of-place laugh. Actress Doris Brent, the nurse at the beginning of the film, did the honors.

THE CREATION OF THE HUMANOIDS (1962)

 

This eighty-four-minute American science fiction double feature was directed by Wesley Barry for Genie Productions Inc. and released by Emerson Film Enterprises. Who knew? The Eastman color is rich and dense with cinematography work by Hal Mohr, enhancing the simplistic and colorful set designs, highly interpretive as if for a modern stage play. But Shakespeare, this is not. Most of the "lowly budget" was spent on paper to print the massive scripts that rival Congress's pork projects. Jay Simms created the most talkative film of the Sixties. Through its knee-deep dialogue, it attempts to convince the viewer that humans and humanoids share many similarities. This film is a real technical head-scratcher, so it is pointless to divulge any of its fictitious jargon. 

From the pessimistic Hollywood playbook comes the story that most of humanity has been destroyed by a nuclear war. Humanoids are an advanced type of robot that works closely with humans. They are created from man's unique ability to learn, his memory, his personality, and his philosophy. The uppity “oids” seem a wee bit condescending. Today, they may visually remind one of the future Ernst Blofeld, played by Donald Pleasence, in You Only Live Twice. Like Blofeld, they dress in “Communist” uniforms with their banded collars. These godless humanoids routinely recharge at stations they call "temples" and exchange information with a central computer known devotedly as "the father-mother." Their glowing eyes are creepily well done. 

"The Order of Flesh and Blood" (OFB) is obviously the humans. They are constantly assessing the humanoids whom they fear are planning to take over the world. A familiar premise. They do seem to be quick learners. One local OFB union leader is played by the towering Dan Megowan, who may be the only familiar face in the film due to his many television and film Westerns. There is a love interest, of sorts, which becomes a real eye-opener for him. The wardrobe for all OFB members is sleek “Bob Mackie” versions of a Confederate soldier's uniform of powder blue shirts combined with a reflective material, topped off by a period “Rebel” cap. Jazz hands! Certainly not standard issue during the Civil War.

Note: The film suggests humans should not judge humanoids too harshly. Their words might come back to haunt them. Increasingly, humans have difficulty recognizing themselves. A sly, thought-provoking ending comment by the film's research doctor intimates that identity is deeper than mere appearance. Amen, brother!

DEADLY DUO (1962)

The first thing to notice about this film is the seemingly stock music opening with a prominent xylophone. Perhaps the blame falls on the film's composer, Richard LaSalle. It may remind you of a Hanna-Barbera cartoon. This sounds to be the exact music used in many comedic parody skits concerning a nostalgic lifestyle. The meager production budget is not terribly apparent but it is an old premise of good and evil twins, played by Marcia Henderson. I was a little uncertain if the twins represented the movie's title. One twin is a well-behaved widow raising her young son. Not deadly. The blonde, conniving evil twin is married to Robert Lowry, the perennial bad guy who, in this film, looks particularly sleazy in a black blazer, an open-collar shirt with a white ascot. Drink in hand. Got it. This is the duo.

Good twin’s husband was killed in a racing accident. He was to be the heir to a mega industry’s throne. His mother, Irene Tedrow, is the CEO. She wants good twin’s little boy to be the future heir and feels he should be tailored in the States, by her side, and not in Acapulco. She and her attorney want struggling Los Angeles attorney, handsome Craig Hill, to bring him back. Close your eyes and Hill's voice may conjure up actor Bob Cummings. He is repulsed by the idea of buying her a grandson and refuses. We next see him checking in at a hotel. The 50k he will be paid reminded him of how lovely Acapulco can be. 

Naturally, good-twin rejects the absurd idea, and Hill is shown the door. But he and the good twin hit it off on their second meeting. Hill has a natural rapport with her son. After getting off to a rocky start, they like each other. Henderson is believable as the good twin but her clichéd acting and blonde wig as the bad twin does not come off as well. 

Lowry double-crosses good-twin. Did not see that coming. He convinces her to take a restful day to herself so he can tamper with her car and lie to Hill that good-twin has changed her mind and is willing to sign the papers to send her son back to Tedrow. A confused Hill blasts away to the house in his cool 1961 Thunderbird rental car. A scene that is repeated about four times in the film. The bad twin awaits in good-twin's brunette wig and signs the papers. Hill does not question her sudden change of heart but is visibly angry at her.

Head-strong Tedrow, with her attorney in tow, flies to Mexico after the attorney’s phone conversation with Hill suggests there is a problem with accepting her offer. Upon arrival at the airport, they see Lowry tampering with good-twin's car. How this is possible I do not know, but it is incredible timing on their part. I am surprised they even recognize him. Once an "accident" is arranged for good-twin, Lowry and bad-twin are confident they will inherit 500k from her sister’s will. With all legal parties present, good-twin walks into the room. Bad-twin is stunned. Lowry a tad queasy.

The ending is a contrived happy one as everyone is now pleased with each other. The boy can stay with mom and Hill loses 50k faster than a Bernie Madoff investor. His trustworthy handling of the affair, however, endears him to the attorney as a future partner.

Note: This seventy-minute film was released in early 1962 by United Artists, produced by Robert E. Kent and presented by the Harvard Film Corp. It is written by Orville H. Hampton (aka Owen Harris) from a novel by Richard Jessup. The music is by Richard LaSalle. Most of whom can explain this forgotten film.