FILM BRAKE: IRWIN ALLEN AT SEA

This science fiction television series is based on the 1961 film of the same name created by Irwin Allen. Fortuitously, the film's sets, costumes, props, special effects, models, and occasional footage, were available for the series. Launched in 1964, the show had a popular four-season run when compared to Allen's other science fiction series of the period, Lost in Space, The Time Tunnel, and Land of the Giants. The first season was seen in black and white and seemed to fit the show's occasional scripts about Cold War tensions or averting a third-world government coup. Not even close to the bottom of the sea. Yet the series never left its science fiction roots, attested to by a first season episode about an off-course flying saucer that submerges into the sea and prehistoric "monsters" discovered under Antarctica's "warm spot." Most networks hopped on the new trend of color broadcasting by 1965. Viewers were thrilled to watch their favorite gray actors in color.

THE MAIN CAST

Most of the action took place on a futuristic, nuclear-powered submarine, the Seaview. True to the series title, the Seaview was on the bottom of the sea quite often due to sabotage or an unknown force controlling the ship's operating systems. The Seaview was the brainchild of Admiral Nelson—played by respected actor Richard Basehart—the director of the super-secret Nelson Institute of Marine Research. It co-starred David Hedison as the ship's Captain and featured Robert Dowdell as the Lieutenant Commander, Del Monroe, reprising a similar role in the film version, and joining the cast after season one was Emmy-winning director and producer, Terry Becker.

For many young viewers, the Seaview was the star, with its far-reaching technology. Yet the series took place only about a decade into the future. The final two seasons were set during the eighties yet technology apparently never advanced further. In keeping with all the 007 gadgetry of the era, the crew gained the seldom-seen Sea Crab, a self-propelled explorer, a two-person mini-sub in the first season, and the yellow Flying Sub (FS-1), a three-person Manta Ray-shaped craft capable of underwater navigation or supersonic flight. It was launched underneath the Seaview's bow through a sliding panel—even when the ship was flat on the ocean floor due to an “editing mishap.” The Seaview went through early design modifications, most notably reducing the number of front horizontal windows in the bow to four. The view from the interior, however, the windows were decidedly vertical.

                                     THE SINKING SCRIPTS

In the first half of the series, there were many decently written espionage or Communist takeover plots in true spy fashion. The ABC Network wanted a lighter, less serious approach, and what developed was quite outlandish at times. It is doubtful the show could have sustained a four-year run without transitioning into the fantasy world of science fiction of a humanoid sea creature, an invisible alien, or an ordinary-looking house plant that controlled a crew member's mind. It never seemed to matter. Certainly not to the average nine-year-old. The "alien-of-the-week" was well underway during the final two seasons. One of the more silly devices had a villain or creature routinely destroying the Circuitry Room's wall of wires, disabling the ship. The amount of stockpiled wiring must have been astounding. The crew would predictably tossed left and right multiple times from an explosion on board, setting off fires and miniature fireworks. All helped by a studio camera that rocked back and forth in the opposite direction to the actors. As lead officers, Basehart and Hedison were the least vaccinated against alien mind control, who then threatened the ship or crew. Despite lowering the bar during its run, it was likely those episodes that made the series an Irwin Allen cult classic.

Note: Upon returning from the catastrophic climax scene, the final thirty seconds allowed Basehart to predictably give a rapid summation of what just transpired with everything miraculously back to normal. He might end the episode with a reserved smile or quip. I would speculate the two experienced film actors thought four seasons was plenty.

RAIDERS FROM BENEATH THE SEA (1964)

No, this is not a science fiction creature film, though fiction may describe it best. The music by Hank Levine is the anchor of the film, sending it beneath the sea, immediately signifying that the next seventy-three minutes may be better spent elsewhere. The music is often substituted for dialogue, which makes it hard to decide the lesser of two evils. Coupled with the other disjointed cues is the guitar-dominated music that cashes in on The Ventures' popular sound. This is also not a beach party film. A drum solo for whenever a 1964 Chrysler appears is very strange. More than likely, the only leitmotif written for an automobile. The character with a weak heart has his own theme when having an attack—a fake theremin sound. Though not the worst film of the mid-Sixties, the problem lies with the directing and producing by Maury Dexter, as he capitalizes on the essence of "strangulated" budgets. The production company for this "dead fish" crime film is Lippert Pictures. Harry Spalding's screenplay is guilty by association, which limits the audience's ability to invest in the characters. Twentieth Century Fox did most of the investing.

The very tall Ken Scott has the cardboard lead. His wife is played by the very short, curvy (corrugated) Merry Anders. He is the landlord of some Catalina apartment houses. His younger brother lives in the same apartment house and helps with maintenance when he is not drunk or peeping at Anders while she is soaking up the sun. It defines his character, and he is half responsible for the obligatory sultry saxophone.

Scott has big plans for a heist of a million dollars—speaking of obligatory—from a Catalina bank. One may note some brief dialogue pauses, giving the impression that some actors have just requested, “Line, please.” Scott and his former pal, Russ Bender—the guy with the theremin heart—approach the bank in scuba gear like creatures from beneath something. They casually escape by walking hilariously down the street to the beach. Neither whistling a random tune. A policeman stops them for not obeying city ordinances about scuba gear, oxygen tanks, and flippers anywhere near pavement. One cannot see their assumed red faces from his chastisement. 

Two other accomplices assist in the getaway boat. Scott is supposed to attach the money bag to a hook dropped from the boat by his brother, but the retrieval line gets snagged on his scuba suit and is pulled up into the propeller. That is kind of a cool concept and—more importantly—signals the film's end is near. Anders' facial reactions, suggesting she is watching Scott's distant underwater demise, are unconvincing. Feeling her best effort to work up a tear has passed, she walks away from the camera.

Note: Outside of the "stage acting" of the five leads, Levine's misplaced music cues are certainly glaring and a target for criticism. The opening music sounds to be lifted directly from the 1962 hit song, "More," the title theme to the odd, Italian travelogue vignettes for the film "Mondo Cane." The opening bars simply invert a note or two. Kai Winding, the Danish-born American trombonist and jazz composer, arranged his own chart hit for the song in 1963. His unique use of the French electronic music instrument, the Ondioline, is echoed in this film by the more common Hammond organ. 

NIGHT TRAIN TO PARIS (1964)

Ending in an appropriate sixty-five minutes, this film’s lackluster direction by actor Robert Douglas never becomes an exciting espionage yarn, hinting that he should stay in the television medium where he was best suited to direct. The repeated filming of the same sequences only lengthens the film. He uses a momentary rocking camera motion only for the train’s first interior filming to my annoyance. An opening jazz score by the modest British composer, Kenny Graham, assumes a treat ahead as if to mimic Henry Mancini. The underlying cartoon train graphic—I expected the Pink Panther as the engineer—shaves any dangerous edges off the film. So one might anticipate a little humor, and that is all one gets. Unlike a secure day train, only on a night train does one experience death. Filmed by Shepperton Studios in London, it was released by Twentieth Century Fox. It assumes a cool caper television pilot that the networks passed on.

The excitement begins and ends with two men exchanging wrapped deli sandwiches...er...a reel tape and cash at a phone booth. The guy with the cash never makes it home. The other guy retains a fake reel as a deception. The scene shifts to the office of an airline travel agency and its public relations man, Leslie Nielsen, a former intelligence officer in the OSS. He is charming and flippant, but not convincing, whether serious or comedic. Squeezing laughs out of an unfunny script by Harry Spalding is not easy. At this stage in his career, Nielsen is not a notable star, yet the average television viewer in America at the time would recognize his face if not his name. For any fan of Nielsen's comedic career crescendo, it may be difficult to entirely remove him from his Lt. Frank Drebin character. 

Arriving at his office in a modest tribute to the hairstyle of the bride of Frankenstein's creation is Alizia Gur in all her exotic allure. A frequent guest star on many American television shows during the period, her acting has not matured since her single Bond film appearance. She arranges a meeting between Nielson and Hugh Latimer—credited as playing Jules Lemoine—a fellow OSS officer who wants his pal off to Paris for a secret mission to deliver the (real) tape containing defense information. But Latimer's fake reel becomes his fatal drawback. Upon discovering his body, Nielson gathers unknown material from his apartment for a tedious waste of film. Without any music score, it seems even longer.

Nielson poses as an assistant to a professional photographer, and to further the gambit, they take along two models, one of whom turns out to be an impostor. Gur fills in as a third model. But even before packing for the special New Year’s Eve Bear Ski Club train, the photographer is stabbed in the back by the short-spiked end of a ski pole. I might have believed his immediate demise had he been struck in a carotid artery. With Gur as his companion, Nielson arrives at the costume party in a “Groucho Marx” prop—Drebin undercover. By midnight, the party is in full swing with era music and “ants in your pants” dancing.

On board is the large, high-cholesterol Eric Pohlmann, responsible for all the deaths in the film. The ski club has an inebriated bear mascot that interacts with Nielson for no apparent reason. The mascot gets a throttling as well, and after the boat docks, Pohlmann dons the bear costume to the unknowing travel agent. Their confrontation in Dunkirk is pretty silly, but it was not meant to be. He is able to beat the bear costume into submission with repeated blows to the stomach. Meanwhile, Gur’s been busy with her own plan for the tape, and her inept pursuit of Nielson is preposterously dull. Nielson ends the film with a lighthearted, freeze-framed expression in Police Squad fashion.

Notes: Hugh Latimer is credited with playing Jules Lemoine. Adding some confusion, he is introduced to Gur as Georges Freneau. She claimed to be a friend of Lemoine, yet, oddly, she never flinches when his undercover name is mentioned.

Finally, back in the day, a ferry shuttled specialty trains from Great Britain to France across the English Channel. Once docked in Dunkirk, the train would continue on to Paris and Switzerland’s slopes. Despite the film’s title, neither the audience nor the cast ever gets to Paris. Perhaps a more accurate, but less intriguing title, “The Dunkirk Night Ferry.”