RAIDERS FROM BENEATH THE SEA (1964)

No, this is not a science fiction horror film, though horrific may describe it. The music by Hank Levine is the anchor of the film, sending it beneath the sea immediately signifying 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 the two evils. Coupling with the other disjointed cues is the guitar-dominated music ala The Ventures. This is neither a beach party film. There is even a drum solo for whenever a 1964 Chrysler appears. 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 provided a screenplay that 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 if he is not drunk or peeping 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 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 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 effect and—more importantly—signals the film's end is near. Anders' facial reactions suggesting she is watching Scott's 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, the misplaced music cues are certainly glaring and a favorite 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's use of the more common Hammond organ. 

THE FAST AND THE FURIOUS (1955)

This seventy-three-minute B-movie is loaded with all the ingredients of a little-known film. But it is not. Despite its meager budget and a ten-day shooting schedule, it garnered a huge box office return. The two leads seem made for each other and perhaps that was a catalyst for moviegoers. Filming at the Pebble Beach racing circuit may have also boosted ticket sales—plenty of vintage sports car footage for the automobile fan. Produced by Roger Corman with a story by the same, this Palo Alto Productions was the first film produced for American International Pictures. There is a puzzling opening to the film that has the feel of a truncated theatrical trailer. The viewer has to wait about forty minutes to find out what it is all about. The film stars John Ireland, who also directed along with Edward Sampson. Corman updated his resumé after seeing Ireland’s good results. Getting few casting calls at this point in her career, Dorothy Malone signed on as the second-billed lead. Despite the necessary dialogue to explain why Ireland is furious and Malone drives fast, it is full of entertainment value and plenty of Corman trademarks.

Ireland, in another furrowed brow role, is framed for murder but breaks jail—the only means of escaping the rap. Minding his own business in a diner, Malone drives up in her Jaguar XK120 to get a glass of pineapple juice. Try requesting that in Minnesota. A blonde motormouth waitress, Iris Adrian—the physical equivalent of today's social media—is full of opinions and gossip about the recent murder. She is irritating Ireland as does a rotund male customer who keeps probing him with questions. He pulls a revolver on Ireland, there is a scuffle and "Lumpy" gets decked. The Jaguar did not go unnoticed. Ireland hustles Malone out of the diner and suspends her driving privileges. She might come in handy as a suggested couple. What she becomes is a nightmare hostage, frustrating him to no end as she tries to escape, throws the ignition key in the weeds, or constantly complains. They dislike each other immediately.

The unconscious music score is the single worst element in the film. A Corman tradition. It is never appropriate for any given scene as if they randomly chose selections from a music library based on the album's cover art. The first inappropriate use is during Malone’s arrival at the diner over sitcom music of the era. I half expected a laugh track when she ordered the pineapple juice. An over-the-top theme is used as the two escape motorcycle police facing the opposite direction down a switchback from them. Ireland decides to coast the Jaguar down the mountain, thus passing behind them. The complicated, raging orchestral music is played at a very low level so it will be less noticeable. But the scene calls for tension from a sustained note. Some of today’s action thrillers have a fear of silence like so many people on a picnic who cannot eat outdoors without a sound system making willows weep. The music quietly and mindlessly crescendos as Malone excitedly says, “I’m Hungry!”

Ireland pulls a gun on Malone as they enter a clichéd roadblock. “Don’t try anything,” he snarls. Hollywood's idle threat is always stupid. If he fires the gun, the police will be on top of him and there is no point in killing her. Maybe Ireland really is a psycho. No surprise they get through the roadblock after telling the authorities they are participating in the nearby international race. Suddenly, Malone gets playfully sarcastic as her mood changes. Soon, “humorous” jabs are traded, signifying an upshift in their relationship.

Malone is well-known and respected on the racing circuit. She enters her car in the cross-border race but Ireland will drive the manly course. Riding as a passenger, she verbally points out the correct driving techniques to be a winner as they take a practice run over the course. Ireland is implausibly a quick learner. She did not coach Ireland on how to appear believable when “driving” the studio prop car, though. His face looks positively numb. Suspicious of Ireland is Malone’s racing friend, Bruce Carlisle, who is given the caution flag for worst acting. The racing sequences, using shaky, rear-facing race footage, add some excitement. Rather humorous, though, is the race announcer calling turns and spotting cars over the long-distance road course despite a thick forest and distant hills obscuring his view. Ireland and Carlisle battle for the win until the latter loses control and crashes. Ireland’s plan for his Mexico escape does not become a reality as he stops to help his fellow racer.

Note: Dorothy Malone’s hit-and-miss career might be compared to a contemporary of hers, Marsha Mason. Malone’s most visible role may have been her lead in television’s “Peyton Place.” Originally a brunette, dyeing her hair platinum boosted her career for a short time—an assumed alternative to Monroe. But there were plenty of those.

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 work 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" is obviously the humans. They are constantly assessing the humanoids whom they fear are planning to take over the world. 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 are 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.

ANATOMY OF A PSYCHO (1961)

The screenplay for this seventy-five-minute oddity was by Jane Mann and Don Devlin and rumored to include Ed Wood, Jr. This Plymouth Picture Inc. film was distributed by the “renowned” Unitel Productions. It is a rare occasion when I use the character names instead of the actor’s name, but with an essentially unknown cast, this seems to make more sense. Ronnie Burns (Mickey) stars with Pamela Lincoln (Pat) and her on-screen brother, Chet, played by Darrell Howell. We see a lot of third-billed Chet in this movie. Each actor does a fairly decent job given the assumed direction by Boris Petrof and a crew with little imagination. Michael Grainger (Lt. MacGowen) brings the most acting experience to the quartet of performers.

Lincoln had a number of television acting roles prior to this turkey and it displays her emotional range. And a powerful set of upper teeth. Likewise, Burns was not entirely unknown, being seen frequently on his parent's television show, Burns and Allen. Then he disappeared after this film. Burns’ larger list of acting credits gives him top-billing. Some reviews are confused, thinking Mickey is the psycho. But the film’s title refers to Chet, whose performance gets better the more psychotic he becomes. His somewhat anemic, dazed, acting is actually effective for his character. Similar to a couple of Johnny Cash’s performances sans Western apparel.

Chet and his buddies frequently meet at “the shack,” a rundown house that epitomizes that very word. His best friend, Moe, an ex-Marine, calls it home. He is the elder statesman of the clubhouse. The band of buddies resides in a neighborhood where students are “held back” a few grades more than in the average town. Most of the young characters appear to be in their early to mid-twenties, masquerading as teenagers. Chet increasingly experiences paranoia and mental delusions after his brother is sentenced to die for a murder he committed, ultimately losing touch with reality. His condition is compounded by this but it is pretty obvious he was not diagnosed with mental issues before the movie began. Pat tries to encourage her brother to bring in some income and take his mind off the subject. She pleads, 'I wish you'd go back to school. I'm a girl. I don’t need to go.' A popular statement during the early nineteenth century. But he is determined to seek revenge on those who testified against his brother.

Parents are scarce in this film. The only one is Mickey’s father, one of those who testified. When Chet finds this out both are in his sights. The son of the DA gets beaten by the masked “flour children” and Lt. MacGowen visits the young men—a sack mask over his head in a joke—to question them about a sack found near the crime. Known as “Mac” at the shack, he might have gone into social work full-time had he not chosen to be a police officer. He has real empathy for Chet and is determined to give him some sort of electro-shock treatment. I mean, counseling.

Chet’s girl, Sandy, played by Judy Howard, playfully twirls through her first of two scenes in slow motion outside her mobile home seemingly rolling off a fence and then a garage while always looking back at him with the neck flexibility of a swan. She wants a man with money. A man with a larger trailer. Chet has neither.

While attending a dance party at the very swank home of the local judge, Pat accepts Mickey’s proposal of marriage. It is a bit of a shock to witness the breathtaking view of a large immaculate pool against Pikes Peak near Colorado Springs. As if the producer blew the entire film’s budget on this scene. It seems out of place after experiencing dark, low-rent neighborhoods for the first thirty minutes. Sandy shows up with a new beau, the son-of-a-judge, dressed intentionally to get noticed. Mickey invited Chet. Perfect. He hates the judge and his son, too. Perhaps the reason to progress the film under the guise of a dance party is so Chet can set fire to the judge’s mansion.

Mickey and Moe get into their second tussle at the shack. Moe pulls a knife but it accidentally ends up in his stomach. Mickey flees. Chet kneels down while Moe pleads with him to not pull the knife out, he will bleed to death. In order to pin the crime on Mickey, Chet pushes the knife in further. What are best friends for? Slow-learning Bobbie witnesses the murder and a dreaded courtroom scene ensues at about the fifty-minute mark. The judge is particularly amateurish. The swearing-in of McGowan seems to have caught the registrar off guard as he stumbles, then repeats his opening words. The usual theatrics raise their head as the prosecuting and defense attorneys badger the witnesses. Bobbie lies under oath after acknowledging he knows what perjury means. It is authentically boring stuff for an audience who knows the truth. I thought the jury turned in a solid performance because outside of the foreman announcing the verdict, they had no lines. Bobbie cannot stand by Chet any longer and confirms the truth about Moe’s demise. The shack and its contents are “auctioned” off.

Notes: Slowly but surely over the years, the "enlightened" have been convinced of their own importance. By the end of the Sixties, Hollywood codes and lifestyles began to change, but in 1961 there were restraints in place to not get too graphic with Chet’s revenge nor was there anything perverse about having a young boy admire an older friend as a role model. Most were naturally conscious of not offending anyone. This is silly now, but when Mickey introduces Pat to his father he comes out of his room in a white tank top undershirt, reminiscent of men’s 1920s swimwear. He is totally embarrassed to have Pat see him “half-dressed” and crosses his arms to cover himself as he backs into his room. 

THE YESTERDAY MACHINE (1965)

When one person is in charge of directing, producing and the screenplay, beware. They might be a genius or like Russ Marker, the man responsible for this eighty-five-minute debacle. The executive producer nor the entire crew offered any concerns, even for its length. This budgeted film for Carter Film Productions could not even afford a lobby poster for me to post. I doubt there is one cast member of familiarity with the possible exception of the bloated Tim Holt, hardly recognizable here. He is only two nails shy of sealing his career coffin. One could write numerous paragraphs on why Don Zimmers’ music was used. Worse than the score may be the inept sound engineering by Nick Nicholas, one of the musicians saddled with playing Zimmers’ creativity. There are simply too many disastrously funny things to mention but here are some obvious points.

I imagine the casting interview might have gone like this for Linda Jenkins, who plays Baton Margie:

"So, Miss Jenkins, we were reading over your resume. Not really that good, is it? Except your baton-twirling abilities are pretty hot. We would like your baton to open our newest movie in the tradition of the snow globe in “Citizen Kane.” Picture yourself in front of a 1960 Buick, with the hood up, twirling the baton while doing an "ants in your pants" dance. You know, something like the Twist. Just sign here and here."

Despite her limited screen time and acting ability, Margie's baton routine is arguably the most famous segment of the film. She turns out to be central to the film. In contrast, Howie’s stalled Buick has not gotten the attention it deserves. As cheerleaders, they have to get to the football game by walking. They are totally lost by nightfall and end up at the wrong campus! Spotting a campfire in the middle of nowhere is an encouragement but danger lurks there. Howie tells Margie to ‘run like the devil’ back to the car. He fends off two Civil War infantrymen, one of which, strangely, he knows by name. Howie uses his cheerleader skills to knock out one soldier with a capital “T” gesture, but running away takes a musket ball above the kidney. The credits resume rolling.

Cut to a jazz score and a newspaper office studio set covered by one area microphone. Two “community players” are delivering their lines with the reporter, Jim (lower left above)  He is sent out in his 1964 Rambler American...a cinema first...to make sense of the film’s strange opening and to interview Howie, recovering in the hospital. Jim’s performance is one of the film’s better efforts but, in perspective, do not forget how awful this film started. He later meets with the police lieutenant, Holt, who recalls a preposterous experience he had in Germany during World War II about a young Nazi officer and his experiments. The kind of scary story a camp counselor would make up around a crackling fire at a YMCA youth camp. Meanwhile, Holt's own conversation with Howie about what happened is totally irrelevant. Holt learns nothing. But we do learn of the reporter’s sense of humor. Jim: Dr. Wilson Blake and the rusty scalpel. Nurse: Oh, you know him? Jim: I should. He broke into me once and stole an appendix. I was disappointed that the sound department did not include a drummer’s rim shot.

One investigator, turning in a credible monologue, returns with a grocery bag. Inside are Margie’s sweater and a Confederate soldier’s cap. He has confirmed the cap is authentically from the Civil War period. The sweater is definitely from Sears and Roebuck. Every time he mentions a strange about his discoveries, the sound department throws in a one-second weird effect. The first as a glass handbell choir then as fingers strumming across the wires of a grand piano. One of many funny insertions from the sound department.

Margie’s older sister, Sandy, is a nightclub singer in a blonde costume wig from a Dollar Tree store. This is her only film role and that becomes quite obvious as the movie unravels, unlike her wig. Her solo number, unsurprisingly written by Russ Marker, is agonizing. By all accounts, she apparently did the singing but her deadpan engagement with the camera is so unconvincing it appears dubbed. The bombastic vocal does not match her limp physical delivery. She enlists the help of Jim to find the disappearing Margie. The perfect team! They ultimately find themselves briefly in the 19th Century before being transported to the laboratory of that Nazi youngster Holt referred to. Now an old crotchety Nazi, he is a raving lunatic with extreme mood swings. This time machine scientist is simply laughable with a ridiculous bit of overacting on cue. The guy can really hold a grudge, too. The madman reveals all the groundbreaking Nazi things happening near the end of the war. A war he thinks the yesterday machine would allow them to win if given a second chance. Prophetic words from a delusional Nutzi.

But good news! Margie was simply whisked away to the Nazi lab on her devil run back to the Buick. Jim and Sandy, after a bit of imprisonment themselves, get help from an "Egyptian Princess" who sets the wheels in motion for their escape. They rescue “Miss Baton of 1965” and escape from the underground lab through a steel escape hatch at ground level. How grass could possibly grow on top of a steel door is a great mystery. Against the most inappropriate, comic background music, Holt goes into the bunker, shoots the Nazi sympathizer and destroys the time machine. The scientist slumps into the time machine’s transportation chair and vanishes as if the unthinkable might happen...a film sequel. Holt ends the film under military-style muted trumpets and a lame warning to Jim about their current real dangers. The hydrogen bomb. Your neighbors. High-fat foods. History is so...yesterday, Jim.

Note: Tim Holt bowed out of Hollywood in 1971 after one more film and a television appearance. For his early fans, this film would be an embarrassing end to a career that started out strong with films like, “The Magnificent Ambersons” or “The Treasure of the Sierra Madre.” He was a popular Western star, something he predicted upon graduation from Indiana’s Culver Military Academy.

THE CAT BURGLAR (1961)

This sixty-five-minute film opens with night moves by a petty thief, Jack Hogan, climbing on balconies and roofs in his cat burglar apparel, a black sweatshirt, and a flat cap. The film feels promising with an opening title theme by Buddy "Repetitive" Bregman. The jazz score is cool in the beginning, yet becomes stale as the movie progresses with the same riff repeated over and over, only louder. Hogan shines in the last of his short film career as the burglar, giving the distinct impression that his delivery style is that of James Caan. When his character audibly shares his inner thoughts, his vocals pull it off with a natural flair. Hogan carries this film.

The story, written by Leo Gordon, prolific television actor, screenwriter, novelist, and all-around burly guy, has a subplot that I did not see coming so some kudos are in order for this. But expect the usual awkward scenes, which have now become amusing. Beyond Hogan's excellent performance, the other players do a decent job, though June Kenney's untrained voice and stage presence hurt her performance. (Seen below in deep thought.) Gregg Palmer's over-the-top performance is borderline hilarious.

Hogan steals a briefcase from Kenney’s apartment, hoping to find something of value. His usual pattern is to fence his take at a local pawn shop run by Gene Roth. Roth is effective here as the cigar-smoking owner with an annoying cough. Hogan’s contents are not of much value except for a notebook he thought worthless. He leaves that behind in his trash can.
Kenny, the unsuspecting briefcase courier, tells her boss/boyfriend, John Baer, about the theft, and his only concern is that notebook.

Greedy mastermind, Palmer, learns of the missing case and questions his partner, Baer. Using a low "hip cam" angle, we have a detailed view of his waistline and suit, which forms an "A" shape around Baer's face. He grumbles down on Baer’s recklessness in commanding form. It demands we see his face. But the cameraman cannot find his face in his viewfinder. When we hear Palmer’s threatening words as he thrusts a newspaper’s damaging headline at Baer, it is immediately followed by six descending notes of doom from a trombone, da-da-dum, da-da-dum. Another Bregman overkill. It is the funniest element in the film and is repeated often, just when expected. The very same notes of doom used over the years in comedy skit parodies.

Without revealing how, Kenny manages to locate a rotund, unkempt man in a sleazy apartment complex. An additional low "ankle cam" experiment is used as she approaches his apartment door. He is downtown’s official informant and takes her to the pawnshop. After telling her story, Roth knows to contact the cat burglar. After a meager payment to Hogan for the briefcase contents, Roth returns the briefcase to Kenny. Baer is not amused that the notebook is still missing and verbally assaults Roth, assuming he knows where it is.

Before dumping the notebook, Hogan tore out a couple of pages to level his teetering dresser, which his motel owner refuses to fix until he pays his rent. He arranges to get the notebook back to Kenney after a rather ambitious plan for a guy who calls himself a “crumb.” He painstakingly writes out several fake pages to fill out the notebook's mathematical schematics and get a fast hundred-dollar reward.

Baer meets with Palmer (above), who is enraged by the pages of gibberish in the notebook. The fake pages make the engineering plans for a new ICBM propulsion useless. He expected to trade those to foreign buyers on the black market. Suddenly, a national security subplot! They immediately head for Hogan’s motel room, and Palmer’s muscle gives Hogan a thorough beating and takes his one hundred dollars. But one thug is not quite finished. Not comfortable enough, he wants to get down to business. He takes off his suit coat and rolls up his sleeves. On previous beatings, he tried this with sleeves buttoned, but it was never successful. Hogan now realizes that the notebook must have a high value.

Kenney, assuming the benefit of the doubt, tells Baer that Hogan thinks he is involved in espionage. Da-da-dum! Da-da-dum! With lies spewing left and right, she soon finds that Palmer is not actually a police lieutenant. Arriving in his new Thunderbird should have been her clue. Hogan is waiting in a warehouse full of empty, blank boxes. As the last to enter the warehouse, Palmer releases Baer of any future scenes and mortally wounds Hogan. At the clichéd elevated position, he and Palmer struggle, both stuntmen falling onto the aforementioned empty boxes to break their fall. Both die from severe paper cuts. The "crumb" finally did something worthwhile with his life..

Note: Billie Bird, the daffy Mrs. Prattle, is the motel owner. She insists everyone pronounce it Praytel. The Praytel Motel does have a ring to it. Comically, she grumbles about being interrupted in the middle of nothing important. Drag racing legend Tommy Ivo plays her somewhat dimwitted son, who garners some laughs with his weak performance.