FLIGHT THAT DISAPPEARED (1961)

 

Nearly twenty minutes of this seventy-one-minute science fiction film are spent setting up the low-budget premise about an alien abduction of an airliner over “flyover country” between Los Angeles and the Nation's capital. The flight never arrives at anything compelling. The pilot and co-pilot have an attempt at witty banter about the eventual demise of the piston-era airliner they are flying. The poster is way ahead of them with an inaccurate headline teaser and graphic. Two scientists and a mathematician on board the flight have been summoned to a classified meeting at the Pentagon. Filmmakers on America's two left coasts—lacking any logic—lived in fear of total destruction by an atomic weapon, perhaps figuring that an administration never gave it a thought about how futile it would be to engage in a nuclear war where retaliation makes life moot. This tired premise is the second one in this boring talk-fest, produced by Robert E. Kent. Nearly a “mayday” call toward the end of his long career. United Artists distributed the film. United Airlines wanted no part of it. What really disappeared was this film from almost everyone's memory.

Midway through the flight, the Douglas DC-6 airliner—with enough studio cockpit room to be the envy of a cruise ship's bridge—mysteriously begins to climb ten miles high even though its engines had ceased three miles before. More alarming to the pilot (above) is his realization that the cockpit has no roof. The oblivious co-pilot continues to be fascinated with the spring in his ballpoint pen. The passengers start to pass out despite the emergency oxygen masks. Their hearts have stopped, as well as their watches. Never mind the “nutcase” who opens an airliner door and is not sucked out, but given the choice to jump. The three heavy thinkers—Dayton Lummis, with the formula for a new bomb, Craig Hill, literally a rocket scientist, and Paula Raymond, a mathematician lacking logic—are mysteriously immune and soon are greeted outside the airliner by a human-looking alien in an open-collared summer shirt and Haband slacks. The three follow with an underlying fake theremin into a lot of fog. The money saved on the set and costumes was a boon. One's imagination will have to do.

They are shown a future where “their bomb” has been used and it has destroyed the atmosphere, killing all life on the planet. A typically negative attitude from people in charge, without any true hope. The narrow-minded aliens continue to castigate until they proclaim a guilty verdict. But their Sage, Addison Richards, objects to the counsel's life sentencing on planet "Limbo" and allows the three to return from whence they came. The abduction alone will give them something to think about. 

Except for Hill, the other two assume they all had the same vivid dream. The control tower is astounded when the plane lands safely, being a decrepit old prop-driven airliner. No, that is not fair. It is because they were supposed to land the previous day. Proof that Hill's theory of the trio's “day-long” trial—with no bathroom breaks—and judgment was not a mere dream. One wonders if that “nutcase” jumped into the future, delaying his demise one whole day.

Notes: Television actor and Spanish film star Craig Hill had a trio of Robert Kent films to his credit during this period. This film is sandwiched between Deadly Duo and You Have To Run Fast. The latter is the better of the three. Close your eyes, and his voice may conjure up Bob Cummings.

Perhaps no Ray Teal or Whit Bissell in terms of frequency, the ever-present Roy Engle (above, far right) ranks high on the “everyday guy” list. He has a brief appearance here as an over-acting, obnoxious passenger thrilled with the prospect of obliterating the USSR. Dayton Lummis is excruciatingly stuck in the window seat.

THE 27TH DAY (1957)

Based on John Mantley’s 1956 novel of the same name, this seventy-five-minute science fiction effort could be considered a thought-provoking approach, but it is the time-honored Hollywood fear that atomic weapons will destroy Earth by dim-witted political administrations. And every galaxy knows about it. Though not given any credit, Robert Fresco wrote the screenplay's adaptation. An oversight, I assume, and not at his request. It is competently directed by William Asher and produced by Helen Ainsworth for Columbia Pictures. Mischa Bakaleinikoff composed an effective score. It is a solid lead cast, though most are not globally known. A misleading poster suggests aliens arrive to attack the Earthlings. Again. The film is well-played with a refreshing alien twist.  

Hollywood almost always portrays aliens with a higher intellect than mere humans. Mankind’s hopeless assumption is that it is always greener on the other side of their life, which is not evolving as they had hoped or were led to believe. As representatives of the world's population, five humans (that low number is not a typo) are taken aboard a spacecraft by an alien, Arnold Moss, the planet’s marketing director. He travels at the speed of light yet waits until the last minute to save his own people from annihilation. The aliens favor Earth as their new home. The problem: all the humans taking up so much space. The subjects are given three capsules, each capable of destroying all human life within a 3,000-mile radius. Neither the environment nor anything constructed by men or women will be harmed. Whew! Each of the five can only open the capsule case through their specific mental projection. The liberal alien believes the entire human history is one of self-destruction, and it will not surprise him if the capsules are used for this purpose. Aliens can be a pessimistic bunch. However, if humans behave themselves, the capsules will be rendered useless, and there will be no invasion on the twenty-seventh day. The last time Earthlings took an alien at his word was from Klaatu.  

Alien Moss interrupts worldwide broadcasting transmission to reveal the names of the five, becoming the first alien whistle-blower. The media speculates about the “dangerous five” with a fever pitch of personal opinions. It becomes a pandemic of fear. Jisatsu shortens the group by one, while another, Valerie French, throws her capsules into the ocean, relieving her of any responsibility in the film. Not making a great deal of sense, she catches the next flight to rejoin top-billed Gene Barry. Now with a new purpose, she becomes the companion and sounding board for his theories. The police have awarded Barry an APB, but not for being a newspaper reporter. Citizens are warned not to take the law into their own hands, yet someone fitting his description has already been killed. Quoting Barry, “People hate because they fear, and they fear anything they don’t understand.” Earthly life as we know it today. Relinquishing their three-day hideout at an off-season horse race track, they place their bets with the authorities.

Friedrich Ledebur, above, a year after playing the bald, creepy, tattooed Queequeg in Moby Dick, has a brief role as a brilliant scientist with the most chiseled, aesthetic face in this or any other film. Once realizing the alien’s ultimatum, he subjects himself to a lethal dose of gamma radiation just in case they need a guinea pig to test one of the capsules. To his good fortune, they do! They place him on an inflatable raft—with an irrelevant life vest—in the South Atlantic Ocean. We see him happily waving. His coordinates are given. He vaporizes. No one else in a 3,000-mile radius is affected. One of the remaining four, a respected scientist, determines that a complete set of capsules has a numbered code of “math destruction.” He activates all three capsules, and the results indicate they contain the power for both life and death. Confusingly, the screenplay suggests the capsules know which is which. Those tricky aliens!

                               EX-TER-MI-NATE! EX-TER-MINATE!!

On the other side of Earth, the Soviets are relentlessly interrogating the Soviet officer about his capsules. He is administered a truth serum plus mind and physical torture, which provides the Soviets with knowledge of the capsules’ purpose. Unable to sustain the atrocities, the officer mentally opens the capsule's lid. The Soviets, somehow, locate the two other capsule cases. Global headlines claim the Soviets have world domination with the demand that America withdraw all its military from Europe.

The United Nations is all giddy about the prospect of being overrun with aliens. They give Alien Moss fifteen seconds (that is also not a typo) to reply to their friendship broadcast, hoping he has not stepped out for a supermarket errand. All broadcasting ceases to provide a clear reception of his reply. Millions are pretty peeved that they will miss their regularly scheduled programming.

WAR OF THE SATELLITES (1958)

Roger Corman's rock-bottom budget for this film would put one comfortably in a new Dodge Charger SRT Hellcat. He directed and produced this sixty-six-minute, double-billed, imaginative film released by Allied Artists. The frenetic, disjointed score with percussive xylophone by Walter Greene opens and closes the film like a mid-Sixties science fiction television series. Think of it as a conglomeration of The Jetsons and Lost in Space themes. Coupled with the then-trendy, opening animated graphics—a Corman trademark—and strategic placement of bold text, it suggests the viewer will hardly be able to contain themselves for an hour. This is the oft-told tale of evil twins (clones). All the tension occurs aboard a manned satellite spacecraft with interior props made from the finest cardboard and plywood. 

As is so often the case in recent movies, it is left to a single hero to save the film, the world, and the girl. This would be Dick Miller and Susan Cabot (above), respectively. After an opening scene of disappointed scientists watching another satellite being destroyed, the film shifts to a gratuitous romantic couple—an apparent comedy team—in a 1957 Mercury convertible parked on the lane of love. They witness a UFO crashing, though what they pick up appears to be a large, professional firework. Whatever. A Latin phrase is inscribed. Roughly translated, “Earthlings are a bunch of belligerent boobs.” Just a guess. From a matching set of leather recliners, and with arms dutifully crossed before launching, anyone can survive space travel from the "liftoff lounge." 

The story picks up inside the United Nations, where world representatives discuss recent attacks by an unknown force on satellites. War with Earth has been declared after the UN disobeys the repeated subtle hints with satellite destruction. Perennial villain Richard Devon (below) is the genius behind the “Sigma Project,” designed to eliminate the attacks. He is well-cast in this film. Miller and Cabot are key team members supporting his theory. The responsibility of launching satellites falls under the UN Satellite Control Center. The large, single control panel is so simple to operate that it can be monitored by one man, Roger Corman, himself.

As their key speaker, Devon departs for the UN. En route, an alien force takes control of his steering wheel—despite Devon’s humorous preventive efforts—and plummets the vehicle down an embankment in a fiery crash. The sound effects of the alien force are lifted from the Martian crafts in The War of the Worlds, released five years earlier. Though some thought he was already a bit screwy, the UN council members mourn the death of Devon for about thirty seconds before he suddenly appears before the council, not a scratch or a burn on him. Few recognize the evil clone. He is equipped with a popular accessory, the ability to “splinter off” any number of Devons. Satellite crews suggest he is appearing in more than two places at the same time.

Wanting to make sure Devon is safe for the trip, the doctor wants to listen to his heart. He excuses himself because he has none. Later, he creates a heart by himself by placing his two hands in that general area. In the closing moments of the film, he becomes amorous toward Cabot, who is freaking out. Be still, your beating heart! Devon's emotionless speech pattern and no longer using a smoking pipe make Miller suspicious. Devon is now pushing "Plan B," but Miller knows "Plan A" is the safer and more effective course to counter the celestial blob that has been destroying previous satellites. 

The makeup department provided an effective, final evil demonic look for a clone. Devon's twitching "smile" adds to the effect. A couple of special effects are handled pretty well. Devon blackens his hand from a nearby chemical torch, but is unaware of it. The lab assistant runs to the doctor. Devon simply starts rubbing his hands together (the magic of hand degreaser) and removes the "cajon burn" from his hand. There is another rather cool, weird solarization effect (alternating negative print) near the climax with music that sounds as if played backward—an effect that will get a good workout after the mid-sixties with added hallucinogenic colors. The aliens cannot comprehend the inherent need for humans to defend themselves against aggressive attacks on freedom. Miller is left to make the point that space exploration is anyone's challenge.

Note: The point of this film has been used often after the US ended World War Two. To this day, according to many Hollywood scriptwriters, aliens are nearly always smarter than humans and arrive to warn us, in varying degrees of gullibility, about the use of nuclear weapons, their expected mutations from testing such, or the conquering of space, destroying its purity. The mere suggestion of such things masquerades as fact.

NOT OF THIS EARTH (1957)

This sixty-seven-minute, independently released sci-fi implausibility film was produced and directed by Roger Corman for his Los Altos Productions. Distributed by Allied Artists Pictures Corporation, Charles B. Griffith and Mark Hanna wrote a compelling and fast-paced story about an alien who comes to Earth in an attempt to save his planet. However, his methods are anything but legal. The film's interesting opening title graphics have an avant-garde appearance, while an equally appropriate music score is in support. It is a worthy alternative to the typical alien invasion films of this era. Using a meager one hundred grand with a Corman draw, the film pulled in approximately one million dollars. It is a creepy performance by Paul Birch. Pretty spine-tingling for late Fifties audiences, I imagine. 

The people of a distant planet have developed an incurable blood disease. One of its citizens, Birch, is sent to Earth to extract the blood of humans (that's not nice), which may help cure his planet's dying race (good intentions). Birch's subtle, uneven robotic monotone speech pattern makes it hard to pinpoint his origin, whether earthly or planetary. No one seriously questions his constant companion, an aluminum briefcase, stereotypically used some fifteen years later by gangsters for money laundering. A more logical inquiry might be why he wears “polar expedition” sunglasses day and night, though obviously not needing mobility assistance. The audience is way ahead of the cast as the opening scene reveals the death behind those shades. If considered, the audience will find implausibility in how the alien got enough cash to buy an upper-class house or how he survived his background credit check. He may have had to secure a home improvement loan, as well, to install a teleportation device needed for transporting blood by the pallet. This surely added to the home's value.

To be his chauffeur and errand boy, Birch hires a young, unemployed hood, Jonathan Haze. A guy the audience does not have much invested in. I assume the well-paid miscreant was useful in selecting the pre-owned Cadillac for his “blind” boss. Eventually joining the two is Beverly Garland, who is assigned as the alien's in-home nurse. Her boss, William Roerick, lets Birch hire her because of the latter's telepathic power over him. Garland thinks nothing of Birch's odd countenance or the arrangement. Throughout most of the movie, she does not take much of anything seriously or suspiciously. To her, nothing could possibly be a problem or dangerous, dismissing concerns that could be attributed to more astute individuals. A somewhat annoying, flippant character interpretation. 

A dose of humor pops up via a Corman player, Dick Miller, as a vacuum salesman. He is about to close his sales pitch when he catches a glimpse of Birch's eyes. Feeling his demise imminent, he pauses, stares directly into the camera, shakes his head from side to side, then does a double-take. Miller's product is put to shame by the blood-vacuuming power of the alien's briefcase. Less humorous is Birch's super-sensitive hearing on Earth. Even an inter-office buzzer sends him into convulsions and gives him an unearthly migraine. Like hearing a modified Harley-Davidson motorcycle with noise-polluting exhaust pipes piloted by an “in your face” rider constantly tweaking the throttle. I digressed there a bit.

Feeling his behavioral pattern may be suspect, Birch reaches for a tube of last resort from his briefcase. Out pops an “umbrella cabbage.” It is truly a laughable special effect prop. It slowly dangles through an open window (no one installs screens in these movies) and encompasses Roerick's entire skull. Birch then plans to “dispatch” Garland back to his planet as an example of what Earth blood can do. Va-va-va-voom! His pursuit of her up the staircase, white eyes glaring, is menacing. Her loud scream temporarily debilitates him as it might any other male. She escapes. He tracks her in his bulbous, waffling 1955 Cadillac, sometimes only a few feet away, navigating among the trees. A Cadillac going off-road is scary enough, seemingly impossible. It is cleverly unsettling. With several traffic violations pending on his home planet, as well as parking in a No Parking Zone on the opposite side of the street on Earth, it is no surprise Birch is not a driving enthusiast. An in-pursuit police car's blaring siren zaps his concentration, and he dies in a crash. His death releases the hold on Garland, who finally has her suspicions about Birch, giving her pause while collapsing in hysteria. The final scene results in an unresolved ending.

Note: In the opening hospital scene, there is a male stand-in for Paul Birch. The above photo comparisons help confirm this. It is Birch who exits the Cadillac, but it is someone else in the waiting room, though it is clearly Birch's voice. During the hypnotism of the doctor, the out-of-focus close-up looks more like an overweight Gene Hackman than Paul Birch. The soft focus and backlighting are suspicious clues. Birch returns to the scene when Garland monitors his vitals. 

Turns out, Birch walked off the set during the afore-mentioned scenes over a legitimate disagreement with Corman and those white contact lenses. Corman insisted he wear them all day in case another scene needed to be quickly filmed. But the special-effect lenses were extremely painful, with no breaks to take them out. Corman apparently used Birch's prior audio to help carry the scene with the double.