THUNDER ALLEY (1967)

Today, in the memory-fogged use of hindsight, some lament over Annette Funicello not getting the chance to break out as a legitimate actress. This was irrelevant in the mid-Sixties as young ticket buyers never gave a thought to her acting abilities. She does have a pulse in this film; however, doing a good job with a wide range of emotions. This predictable film was not as successful as the previous year's Fireball 500, again starring Funicello with Fabian Forte.

Kenneth Crane and Ronald Sinclair managed to edit this "auto-racing-beach-party" film down to a lengthy ninety minutes. They still did not leave enough frames on the editing floor. This was the last American International Pictures film for Funicello. A timely departure given the studio's transition to rougher, psychedelic biker films and anti-Vietnam war projects. Director Richard Rush leaves behind the previous teenage beach comedies to “adultify” the characters from those innocent, music-filled films where boy meets girl and they behave themselves. Monroe Askins' frenetic, effective cinematography during a post-race wild party changes that. This is typical drive-in movie fare. Funicello’s disapproving character leaves the party early, but as she anemically sings a love ballad in her pre-teen whisper, she removes a cigarette pack. You can hear Walt Disney’s pipe hit the floor after dropping from his mouth. But she is only putting it and other packs in a case for someone else. Whew!

Though imagining that teen idol, Fabian Forte, came up with that stage name, he was actually born with it. His acting strength in this genre was his ability to act cocky on screen. But his cardboard performance gets the yellow caution flag for any high school drama department, as he does not quite leave the late Fifties behind. His character is a promising stock car driver whose blackouts—when boxed in—create track havoc. He causes a crash that kills a popular driver, and he is suspended from professional racing. The authorities think he caused the crash for personal gain. Disgraced, he is desperate for work and willing to accept driving on the county fair bumper-car circuit. Race team owner, the lumpy Stanley Adams, initially shies away from the controversial competitor.

Forte ends up accepting a job as a daredevil driver for a cheap demolition derby owned by a tightwad promoter, Jan Murray, whose daughter, Funicello, is one of his drivers, along with fellow driver and boyfriend, the unassuming Warren Berlinger. Forte offers advice on how better to do Funicello's upcoming stunt. She is not happy about her unsuccessful attempts, thinking it is because of her father’s unwillingness to spend money on a more powerful engine. Fabulous Forte suggests it is not power but speed. Start farther back and get a good run on the ramp. Duh! She agrees with his obvious assessment. No surprise, they are soon on the ramp of romance, with Berlinger permanently in pit lane. Stunt thrill shows remained fairly popular during this era. Doing 2-wheel driving in new Ford Mustangs may have boosted sales, though not necessary.

The vintage footage inserted may perk up the NASCAR historian. The producers were unable to match the resolution with the staged film segments, giving the stock footage a blurry, color-altered appearance. Cutaways to the actor’s staged cheering or the motionless studio prop car “driving” are straight out of the Forties. Real track announcer, Sandy Reed, is again on hand to call the races. In shades and a microphone in hand, he appears restrained from gesturing wildly by a short cord. During a final race, Forte gets boxed in again and, through ghostly flashbacks, comes to grips with his past, dissolving his blackouts. Self-cured and in the good graces of race organizers, he returns to big-time oval racing.

Note: George Barris had quite an imagination, often ignoring the concept of form following function for attention. Certainly, his claim to fame is television’s Batmobile, along with his “Dragula” coffin-inspired dragster, Herman Munster’s vehicle of choice. The mostly white 1967 Dodge "Thunder Charger" in this film is a hunk of outrageous work, repainted from its original, more cohesive design. Barris hacks up the movie car into three color sections rather than using white as the lead color up front, "speed thrusting" the red and blue to the rear. One may wonder how much air was trapped in the remaining fastback section. That said, the hugely popular Charger generated a lot of conversation exiting the drive-in in the family's ten-year-old Buick.

MILLION DOLLAR WEEKEND (1948)

Masque Productions presented this seventy-two-minute romantic adventure with an honorable nod to film noir. Produced by Matty Kemp, it was distributed by the British film production company, Eagle-Lion Films, Inc., one of the most respected B-movie makers on Hollywood's "Poverty Row.” This film is one of their weaker efforts, not in the mold of T-Men, Raw Deal, or He Walked By Night. The director is the star of the film, Gene Raymond, based on his original story. I am happy to report on a commendable job with aircraft/airline continuity—matching in every scene. A couple of times, he got clever with overlapping transition shots. One has the female lead's hand curled over, gripping the airline armrest’s end, and the transitional footage shows the pilot's hand gripping all four prop controls. Later, the flame from Raymond's cigarette lighter transitions to the flame of her lighter. I suspect a lot of congratulatory back-slapping after viewing the rushes.

SPOILER ALERT IF ANYONE CARES

Action leading up to and during a flight to Hawaii is perhaps the most intriguing, as the premise is revealed. We are introduced to the main cast: Raymond is a stockbroker with plans for an unlimited vacation thanks to his million-dollar theft from his employer. How he plans to blow through a million in two days is of no concern. While waiting for an airline ticket, he flips a coin to determine whether he follows his plan. At the same time, Osa Massen—billed here as Stephanie Paull—flips a cardboard coaster on whether to board the [same] plane to Hawaii. She is a recent widow with a substantial death benefit. Francis Lederer, the handsome version of Peter Lorre, is well aware of her late husband's abuse. He attempts to blackmail her for half the benefits because it would be easy to convince the authorities that she murdered him. He was there that evening. She and Lederer are sitting side by side. As the latter heads for the lavatory, she asks Raymond—seated directly across from her—to pretend they are old friends and take Lederer’s seat. Upon his return, Lederer smugly sees through their weak charade—duh! After these initial twenty minutes, the film's intrigue gets grounded on final approach.

While Raymond and Massen share a balmy evening, Lederer breaks into Raymond’s hotel room and takes his million-dollar briefcase. There is a car chase of sorts, with the orchestra feverishly working hard to make it exciting. All three end up back on the same plane. After arriving in San Francisco, Lederer spreads a rumor with customs about Raymond, giving him space to escape. Once released, Raymond has a heart-to-heart talk with Massen about their past as the viewer dozes off. Raymond’s sheepish expressions indicate he is not cut out for a life of crime. Their honesty brings them closer together, but alas, they must part. On Raymond’s suggestion, they optimistically agree to meet back in Hawaii at a designated spot in one month if their individual troubles are put behind them.

Now alone in the bar with a glass full of remorse, Raymond sees a young woman order a bottle of Napoleon brandy. Lederer's drink of choice. He follows her back to the hotel room and then barges in on the charming scoundrel. A bit of a fistfight breaks out with Raymond, the all-American stockbroker, the winner by a knockout. He retrieves his briefcase, returns to Los Angeles, and puts the money back in the company safe on Monday morning. A month later, Raymond awaits Massen's arrival and learns the value of patience. She is over thirty minutes late.

Notes: This was in an era when Hawaii and its music transported one seemingly to another planet. On hand to perform traditional Hawaiian music are “The Royal Hawaiian Serenaders.” Except for one singer in falsetto, the quartet is not far removed from the “Sons of the Pioneers.” Just balmier.

Finally, there is an amusing use of stock film suggesting Raymond has telephoto vision. He gazes admirably from his hotel room at surfers about a half-mile away, but his view is close-up Hawaiian promotional footage from water level. The stockbroker's dreams are dashed, realizing he does not know how to surf anyway.

BENEATH THE 12-MILE REEF (1953)

20th Century Fox distributed this one-hundred-two-minute, big-budget film, the third motion picture made in CinemaScope. This fad was a stand-out element of the film. It alone may account for its box office success, though its two young co-stars probably contributed. The widescreen format enhances some nice underwater sequences by the film's cinematographer, Edward Cronjagerand, and his occasional sunset or sunrise near Tarpon Springs, Florida. But on terra firma, it is a routine romantic drama centered around family heritage amid ‘the most dangerous of all occupations, sponge diving.’ Not firefighters. Not police officers. Not bomb disposal personnel. Intertwined is an ethnic war between Greek culture and sponge pirates, the Conch fishermen. 

As the credits open, the composer of the film may stump you, but the music becomes unmistakably Bernard Herrmann. The harp played a role in a number of his scores, and it is used appropriately during some underwater sequences. There is one scene, however, where the score is nearly overkill as symbols crash and French horns soar as we watch two lowly fishing boats creep out into the gulf during a calm sunrise. But without a doubt, Herrmann’s score enhances the film.

Swashbuckling Gilbert Roland, with shirt unbuttoned forming a V, is in command of the film in its early going, making it more fun. His swagger and confidence are indelibly imprinted on his son, Robert Wagner, who, oddly, along with his on-screen sister, is the only Greek in the film without a hint of an accent. But Wagner’s curly studio permanent is pure family lineage. Completing the trio of spongers is the heavily accented J. Carrol Naish with some humorous lines.

The twenty-three-year-old Wagner catapulted to fame during these years and shared top billing with Roland and Terry Moore. There is little doubt that the two young stars have a destiny. One could rightfully assume they anchored off-screen as well. Moore had a ten-year advance on Wagner’s career, though only a year separated their births. Eventually, Wagner’s popularity overwhelmed Moore’s, but both were celebrities rather than acting powerhouses. Wagner does alright in this role, especially in the first half. They both pretend to be in their late teens, with Moore giggling a lot in the early going. Like a number of others in Hollywood, she seems aware that the cameras are rolling and works hard to make a screen impression after hearing the words, “Action!” from the director, Robert Webb. I am sure their equally young fans were not aware of these occasional shallow performances.

Richard Boone, looking vibrant and fit, plays Moore’s father and the “Conch Master” over his crew. They do not want any Greeks diving in “their waters.” After Roland gathered his day’s worth of sponges, Boone’s crew, on Peter Graves’ lead, intercepts and steals their take. Roland laughs off the theft, knowing he will get revenge on Boone. They come to an understanding. Graves is navigating to marry Moore, but becomes a squeaky third wheel beside the cocky Wagner. Graves is jealous of the young punk and gives him a beating as a warning shot over his brow.

On his final pre-scuba gear dive, Roland succumbs to a deadly case of the bends. Wagner confidently soldiers on. During another sponging, Roland’s family boat accidentally goes up in flames. Graves tries to put the fire out with no success. Angry Wagner then steals the Conch boat and, with the help of Moore, adapts it for more sponge baths...uh...diving. They are a bit giddy, like in an Andy Hardy film where Rooney and Garland pull together a neighborhood show as a fundraiser. On Wagner's first diving experience, he encounters a large octopus. Posters of the day over-emphasize this as the film's major element. It is a very believable, however, with Wagner surviving with only a couple of hickeys. 

The climactic ending brings sudden character turnabouts. Moving in on their stolen boat for another sponge robbery is the conch crew. Boone, previously level-headed and showing sympathy for Roland’s short script, now wants his daughter back, "stolen" by Wagner. Yet to everyone's surprise, including the audience, they have already gotten married. Somewhere. Once alongside, Graves jumps on board, going at it with Wagner again as they go overboard. A lot of splashing later, the young punk ends up saving Graves from drowning in a seaweed entanglement. Back on deck, Boone is hesitant to accept Wagner, but Graves reminds him that he just saved his life. Oh, yeah. To dissolve Boone's displeasure, Wagner confidently exudes, "Look who you got for a son-in-law. I'm a very beautiful young man!" The Greek-Conch hatred dissolves instantly into laughter and acceptance. Sponge Conch, LLC is formed.

Note: Harry Carey, Jr., a frequent co-star on Boone’s popular television western series, plays one of his sons here. Boone’s show, on more than one occasion, also featured two other characters from this film, Jay Novello and Jacques Aubuchon. The studio assigned the brief, uncredited opening narration to the unknown Roy Harold Scherer, Jr., aka Rock Hudson.

UNDERTOW (1949)

Distributed by Universal Pictures, produced by Ralph Dietrich, and directed by William Castle, this film is not groundbreaking, but it does fly by thanks to a screenplay by Arthur T. Horman and Lee Loeb. It is another B-movie noir with little to fault and only one surprise. How it plays out is well handled, yet they spill out an assumed outcome in the first ten minutes of this seventy-one-minute film. The filming in Chicago may bring back memories if you lived there during this era. The same goes for the filming in Reno. The ever-present Paul Sawtell took the reins as the composer, but none of the themes in this movie will be hummed after the ending.

Scott Brady, doing a great job here as a handsome I-take-care-of-myself former Chicago mobster, ex-con, and war veteran, who is turning over a new leaf as manager of a lodge in Reno. Before leaving on a quick trip back home to Chicago and “mend a fence” or two, he spots his old friend and colleague from the Windy City, John Russell, a fellow casino owner. As both get up to speed on their seven-year separation, each is excited to share a glimpse of their engagement rings for their respective girl. Strolling through the casino, Brady accidentally bumps into vacationing Peggy Dow. Pardons are accepted, but they stumble upon each other a second time, laughing at the coincidence. They are so comfortable together that there is little surprise they will have a future together within the hour. 

Dow is an unassuming elementary teacher from Chicago with zero gambling experience, but has won twice with only two dice rolls. After seeing the handler change the dice after a nod from Russell, Brady makes an astute gambling decision on her behalf so she can win again. Russell is not amused and feigns his disappointment that Brady has to leave so soon. This is that ten-minute point. Based on Russell’s early film roles with his angular face and “dangerous” thirty-degree ascending eyebrows, there is no surprise that he has ulterior motives. It will be no surprise, as well, that Dow and Brady are on the same plane back to Chicago. Good odds. She may not be any good at it, but she is willing to gamble on a relationship.

Candid images of Scott Brady and John Russell on location between filming in Reno 

Dave Celinas Collection

No sooner than hitting the pavement from the airliner steps, Brady is met by a childhood friend, now detective Bruce Bennett. He has orders to bring Brady in for questioning. The police captain is especially hard on Brady, accusing him of returning just to kill mob kingpin Big Jim. The police tail him with little success. Brady reunites with his girl, Dorothy Hart, Big Jim’s niece, at Buckingham Fountain along Lake Shore Drive. Brady wants to make peace with him so they can get married. Later that night, Brady is attacked, shot in the forearm, and placed in a car across the road from a diner—a revolver placed beside him. Gadzooks! That one surprise in the film is the character actor with the over-the-top Southern drawl, Robert Easton, a well-worn Hollywood dialect coach. He is the parking valet of sorts for the country diner where cars are parked willy-nilly in a gravel lot. Spotting a parked police car, Brady makes a quick exit and finds out Big Jim is suddenly not available for any future scenes, and a clichéd frame is afoot. Dow goes the extra “magnificent mile” to protect Brady, while Bennett, unfairly suspended by the captain for supporting an innocent man, has evidence to help clear Brady.

Unsurprisingly, Russell shows up in Chicago with Hart in the mansion she inherited from “Big Dead Jim.” Brady expects help from both, but she is pretty icy about it. He then notices the chunk of “ice” around her finger that Russell had shown him in Reno. Again, no surprise who orchestrated the murder and frame-up. A rapid, happy ending evolves for Brady and Dow, at least.

NOTES: Some suggest Peggy Dow was bland in this outing. Perhaps hard to argue with, casting her did seem appropriate. She is sweet in this role. Probably best she ended her three-year acting career after marrying an oil baron. Otherwise, she might have been lost in guest-starring roles after her television transition. Dorothy Hart never set a film frame on fire, either, but she should have. She is pretty one-dimensional as a devious female with hardly more than a smirk or smile. Bennett's fellow police detective is the nearly invisible Roc (Rock) Hudson in his fifty-second appearance in a dark police lab. Smoki Whitfield has three brief and effective scenes as Big Jim's long-time aide, out to get whoever killed his boss. Perhaps the most memorable takeaway from the movie, outside Easton's obligatory performance.

THE PRIZE (1963)

This rather long, illogical Communist spy yarn, distributed by MGM, fits the era and is more suspense than thriller, more nonsense than common sense. Director Mark Robson formed the Irving Wallace novel into a blend of intrigue and sarcastic wit.  Alfred Hitchcock's influence is quite evident, even in the glaring process screen backgrounds, but there is certainly nothing low-budget about this film, what with the lead cast's salaries and crew in Stockholm. The intricate plot takes about fifty minutes to get propelled, while the subplots lengthen the film with no relevance after exiting the theater. Right from the opening credits, with its use of snare drums and syncopated rhythms, you may guess correctly that Jerry Goldsmith wrote the score.

Newman arrives in Stockholm with skepticism about receiving his Nobel Prize in Literature. His lack of Nobel enthusiasm and less-than-classy behavior does have its effect on attendees. Newman tells the press he has not written a book in years and wonders why he was nominated in the first place. The committee is aghast to learn he has maintained a living by writing pulp fiction detective novels. All their noses automatically turned upward.

Elke Sommer, in her first American role, serves as Newman's assistant upon arrival. She is strictly by the book and expects no hanky-panky on the drive from the airport. Every moviegoer knows it is just a matter of time before she succumbs to Newman's bright blue eyes. Her character is one-dimensional and not thoroughly defined, relying only on her memorable attractiveness and stacked hair. Which was all that was needed for most males of the era. No one came out of a Sommer film stunned by her acting skills. Do not confuse this film with another of her roles in The Oscar (1966). That film takes the prize for the most embarrassing high-profile film of the Sixties. I digress.

On a 180-degree career path to Sommer is the classically pretty Diane Baker. Her upper-class, reserved appeal is her strongest asset for her intermittent role, with little to suggest she is integral to the script. She plays the niece of Edward G. Robinson's pivotal character. But there is little for him to do. He is also on the Nobel ticket but is kidnapped by the Communists with his “identical twin brother” taking his place. The plan is to move Uncle Edward behind the Iron Curtain, giving his brother the propaganda opportunity to make disparaging remarks about the U.S. during his acceptance speech. When Robinson 2.0 unites with Baker, it is not clear if she is part of the scheme or not. But Newman notices a change in Robinson's manner upon their second meeting, but no one takes him seriously except a couple of Communist agents. Newman becomes their primary target. His wit goes into hiding.

For a writer with little appetite for real-life dangers or the expertise to handle such, Newman manages a couple of fantastical escapes. His processed “Hitchcockian” fall into the river is reminiscent of the falling scenes in Vertigo. How he survived such a free fall, one may wonder. However, the real prize goes to the scene with the Communists trying to run him down on an iron truss bridge. Not successful, the agents pursue on foot. A farm truck approaches the bridge in a blur. Newman runs to the opposite side of it. After it passes, the agents are dumbfounded by his vanishing act. Even if Newman knew where to get a superhuman handgrip on the side of the truck, the force would have pulled his writing arm from his shoulder socket! His screams of agony would have made him easy to track. But there he goes, clinging to the side of the truck, face to face with a goat, in 007 glory. It is a ridiculous moment.

In the end, Newman has the Nobel thrust upon him anyway, making little sense after insulting the Nobel committee, nor for doing anything to warrant it. Like former President Obama receiving his Nobel during his first year.

Note: On the road to a career peak, after a few speed bumps, this movie is tailor-made for the likes of Newman. An anti-establishment figure with grumpy witticisms. Doubt there were other “A-listers” as appropriate, though James “Our Man Flint” Coburn comes to mind. Not necessarily James Dean, had he lived. Newman inherited a couple of roles that were slated for him. Then again, Dean, displaying his lack of interest in the Nobel Prize upon his arrival in Sweden, may have bested Newman's portrayal.