THE OMEGA MAN (1971)

 

I suspect this Warner Bros. film was a popular topic in the break room some fifty years ago. Critics at the time were certainly divided, though. It has not held up all that well and it is longer than necessary at nearly one hundred minutes. The intrigue during the first third holds up the best and that is where I have focused my comments. Directed by Boris Sagal with a screenplay by John and Joyce Corrington, it is a warped adaptation of Richard Matheson's novel, I Am Legend, from 1954. Australian composer Ron Grainer—of Doctor Who and The Prisoner fame—was tapped to do the music score, and though it never gets in the way, it is merely adequate. One can give Matheson some leeway as he speculates about chemical warfare seventeen years in the future with apocalyptic proportions. Speculating only four years into the future, as his film does, simply displays the mindset of Hollywood's pessimistic fears of the “inevitable,” either from nuclear war or cosmic and environmental chaos.

Charlton Heston could be noteworthy in the right roles, where his stiff upper lip—the envy of all ventriloquist's dummies—a chiseled face or the machismo of bare chest resonate. Coming off his successful Planet of The Apes science fiction film, this post-apocalyptic tale also seems well-suited for him as the only person left on Earth with a sense of humor—and perhaps the only one inoculated. But this film does not readily reveal that there might be those naturally immune to the toxins. It could easily be construed as an absurd reverse scenario for Covid-19: those not vaccinated try to belittle—or eliminate in this film—those who are.

Filming in downtown Los Angeles on a deserted Sunday morning helped pull off the barren authenticity. Less authentic is Heston's driving skills of a 1970 Ford XL—which he crashes almost immediately due to driving inattentively and too fast for conditions. Furthermore, Heston is on record stating that piloting a chariot was easier than that motorcycle in the film. It must be true. Except for closeups of Heston when stopped, it is an obvious stuntman doing all the cycling. There is an amusing “Keystone Cops” moment during the opening—speaking of that Ford convertible—when the film is sped up as Heston stands from the driver's seat—a convertible imperative—to fire his automatic rifle at a mutant in a multi-story building. But I cannot understand why unless Heston made it even more awkward in real-time.

A small group missing out on the vaccine has become a creepy cult of powder-faced “plaguesters” calling themselves the “Family.” These nocturnal albino mutants in Monk robes and matching designer sunglasses represent the biggest credibility gap in the film. Overall, they never seem all that committed to living the night life though torching buildings would appear to be a pleasing pastime. Despite their serious physical ailments, their CEO, Anthony Zerbe, wants no part of modern technology, Heston's vaccine or the serum created from his own blood. Zerbe's plum role is quite understated when compared to so many recent insane villains. His right-hand mutant, Zachary, puts the “kill” in Lincoln Kilpatrick though he might have made a more disturbing leader. One thing is for sure, they both hate the “social good life” Heston is living―if one calls living like a prisoner in their own apartment every night. In true anarchist form, a select few destroy Heston’s personal property and all his lab work in a small-scale riot over a disagreement on how one chooses to live.

Lippert Pictures Series

Robert L. Lippert controlled a successful low-budget American film production and distribution company from 1948 to 1956, producing short, fast-paced westerns and crime films with a penchant for obligatory humor and the occasional jarring edits. This is my third of seven Lippert films.

UNKNOWN WORLD (1951)

This seventy-four-minute science fiction weakling, distributed by Lippert Pictures, was directed by Terrell Morse and written by Millard Kaufman. The latter carries the brunt of the blame. The film was produced by Irving Block and Jack Rabin, both involved in the special effects side of movie-making. Supporting all the endless technical jargon and suspense-like developments is a forgotten music score by Ernest Gold, generating fame nine years later for his score for the film, Exodus. Arguably, Otto Waldis and Victor Kilian are the most recognized faces in the project.

Sounding more like a Wild West sheriff than a doctoral scientist, loony Kilian is so panicked by an imminent nuclear war, he suggests everyone cram into the center of the Earth to survive the inevitable holocaust. Never mind the small molten core which had been confirmed centuries before. He thinks that is fake news. Facts are merely opinions. I am not sure many 1950 adults bought into this wacky premise. Science and fiction in their most preposterous form. Jules Verne might have given it one star for the fairly believable filming of the rock-boring scale model tank, appearing to be designed by Raymond Loewy. It is not the only boring thing in the film.

To give the basement-budgeted film a sense of journalistic gravitas, a narrator walks the audience through the "logical" steps leading up to an expedition of scientists. The only expedition member without a doctoral degree is played by Jim Bannon. This makes his character quite expendable. After government funding falls through, the team is bailed out by a private kook, newspaper heir Bruce Kellogg, who would be tickled to go along. Part-time narrator and scientist, Marilyn Nash, is the film's ardent feminist—so says the opening narration. They will enter the Earth through a volcano in Alaska, then follow the “Earth Core” historical markers. With no time allowed for research and development, someone constructs an enormous atomic-powered tank, the Cyclotram, capable of drilling deep enough to get where they are headed.

The team's endless philosophizing and doubts about their success make the viewer stop and think: surely I have better things to do. They finally reach a utopia where every element needed for survival is present, except for sunshine, and testing reveals that any life form is born sterile. [descending music cue: Dah-dah-dah-dah!] The dangerous journey ultimately claims the lives of two expedition members. They are soon forgotten once the eruption of the underground lake pushes the Cyclotram and its three survivors back to Earth's surface near a small tropical island named Gilligan. 

THE ATOMIC KID (1954)

A crowd mentality suggests a person will typically do things in a crowd—no matter how small—that they would not do alone. I probably should have watched this silly science fiction film with a couple of friends due to my lack of laughter. I mustered a couple of chuckles, however, due to comedic visuals. The film has not aged well. The B-movie garnered lukewarm reviews when it was released, too. It is an absurd twist on actual early Fifties atomic bomb testing in the Nevada desert about two lame brain prospectors stumbling into ground zero—maybe the only science fiction film of the era that is meant to be a comedy. The thirty-four-year-old “kid,” Mickey Rooney, and his seven years older partner, Robert Strauss, have gotten lost in the desert searching for uranium. Rooney confesses to Strauss that he threw away the compass. It was broken. The needle only pointed in one direction—north. A clever line that also defines his character. They cannot agree on the purpose of a 500-foot tower with a “cabin” on top. The duo comes off as a once-popular, decade-long comedy team in their final film insult before calling it quits.

Seeking rest and food, they are encouraged by a lone house in the distance. The abandoned house with a mannequin family is there to give the researchers a vague idea of what an atomic explosion can do. However, the duo is unaware that the Nevada desert is set aside for nuclear testing. Parked beside the abandoned model home is a new Mercury with the key and a full tank of gas. I cannot explain this. Strauss, the one with big ideas, takes the car to get help, heading straight for a trench filled with military men. Having no clue why they are wildly waving their arms at him, he sheepishly waves back. Under protest, he is dragged to the safety of the trench. Staying behind in his search for a peanut butter sandwich, Rooney absurdly survives the atomic blast in an enclosed pantry. Do not try this at home. He emerges from the obliterated house seriously singed, hair smoking, and with a toasted sandwich. His voice is sped up electronically, giving him a cartoon delivery. The officials who arrive wonder if he is a 5' 2" alien. Only one-third into the movie, it is the film's funniest scene.

During Rooney's treatments, his real-life "mid-point" wife of eight, Elaine Devry (Davis), plays his attending nurse. He becomes a national phenomenon for surviving an atomic bomb blast. Somehow. After weeks of medical supervision, he needs to escape his hospital room. Way too freely. The FBI plans to follow him because their intel says the Soviets want to kidnap the kid. The two selected FBI agents cannot believe their assignment. They are left with the responsibility to pick up the atomic hitchhiker because no one else stopped. Some funny lines from the agents. Rooney arrives in Las Vegas and bumps into Devry there. Because of radioactivity exposure, he can clear out every slot machine he walks by. Outside the "inconvenient" radiation exposure, Rooney does glow in the dark when his romantic impulses increase around Devry. Perhaps the first film to use this gimmick in this manner.

In bug-eyed, bombastic Strauss form, he sets his sights on money-making deals about the peanut butter brand Rooney was eating at the time of the denotation. The kid's newfound fame could make him a fortune with a book and product endorsements. The dunderhead he is, he unwittingly teams up with a Soviet spy. Now radiation-free, Rooney unconsciously helps them capture the "head spy" by accidentally falling on him from an upper-story office window.  

Devry developed a thing for the little guy, and they get hitched. Tired of all the attention, the newlyweds take back roads across the Nevada desert, stopping at an isolated house for directions and maybe a cold drink. But the mannequins inside are of no help. Panicked, they accelerate away from another atomic test site.

Note: This eighty-six-minute film was distributed by Republic Pictures and produced by Mickey Rooney Productions from a Blake Edwards story. The music score by Van Alexander puts the odd in periodic as it flits from a symphonic string quartet during a lighthearted moment to a driving march theme during Rooney's physical tests. The film includes many familiar faces in comedy films or television: Joey Forman, Paul Dubov, and Stanley Adams. Peter Leeds and Hal March deliver funny,  sarcastic remarks as the two FBI agents. Not missing out on a single casting call is Whit Bissell.

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. Liberal filmmakers on America's two coasts—lacking any logic—lived in fear of total destruction by an atomic weapon, perhaps figuring 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 ceased three miles before. More alarming to the pilot (above) is his realization that the cockpit has no roof. Just kidding. 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—mysteriously are immune and soon 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 a 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 destroyed the atmosphere, killing all life on the planet. A typically negative attitude from people in charge without any real 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 being 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 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.

FORGOTTEN FILMS: TV TRANSITION

Though typically overshadowed by Hollywood's A-list, there were respectable performances by numerous actors and actresses who never became major film stars. A common occurrence was their transition to the new medium of television, often becoming familiar faces in homes across America. These periodic posts offer insight into their transition.

Richard Denning: Louis Albert Heindrich Denninger, Jr. (1914-98)

Richard Denning got his start in Hollywood starring in a few popular radio programs of the 1940s and early 1950s. The most famous was being opposite Lucille Ball in the radio comedy, My Favorite Husband, which set the groundwork for her Lucy Ricardo character. But with no face for radio, the handsome Denning soon was singled out, first as a bit player then gained starring roles in mostly low-budget films. He was always fun to watch in spite of being cast in some forgettable films.

Denning was successful at garnering many supporting film roles during his early years in Hollywood as in the musical comedy, The Farmer's Daughter (1940), or The Glass Key (1942), and Black Beauty (1945) all the while rubbing elbows with some major film stars. He was the lead in numerous routine B-movies where he often played cool, easygoing characters able to hold his own in a fistfight. The 6’ Denning could deliver sarcastic quips with coolness in a Dick Powell fashion. Perhaps his most infamous role was in Creature from the Black Lagoon (1954) supporting Richard Carlson and Julie Adams followed by his lead in another science-fiction cult classic, Target Earth (1954). He had a nice turn in The Crooked Web (1955) as an undercover government agent routing out a German war crimes officer.

Television credits began to pile up with the lighthearted crime show, Mr. & Mrs. North (1952-54). Denning played a mystery magazine publisher who—along with his wife—moonlight as amateur detectives, echoing the Thin Man film series of the 1930s. The show was also a follow-up to a decade-old film as well as a radio mystery program of the same name. Denning kept busy with lead roles in the series The Flying Doctor (1959) and as the private investigator, Michael Shayne (1960-61) tooling around Miami in a 1960 Oldsmobile convertible. Beyond his screen time, the show was a dud. The comedy dud, Karen (1964-65), was next followed by his being called out of retirement to play Hawaii’s governor in seventy-three episodes of the classic police show, Hawaii Five-O (1968-80).

Note: Richard Denning was born in Poughkeepsie, New York but his family moved to Los Angeles before his second birthday. He attended Manual Arts College earning a Master of Business Administration degree from Woodbury Business College in Los Angeles. Denning married horror film and B-movie actress Evelyn Ankers in 1942. Their marriage lasted until her death in 1985.

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 adaption. 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 Earthlings. Again. The film is well-played with a refreshing alien twist.  

Hollywood almost always portrays aliens as wiser than mere humans. Mankind’s hopeless assumption is that it is always greener on the other side of their life, which is not evolving like they had hoped. As representatives of the world's population, five earthlings (that 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 people from annihilation. The aliens favor Earth as their new home. The problem is 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 no invasion on the twenty-seventh day. They will simply challenge another planet for living rights.

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. The group gets shorter by one, a suicide. Another, Valerie French, throws her capsules into the ocean relieving her of any relevance 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.” 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 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 wave. His coordinates are given. He only vaporizes. No one else in a 3,000-mile radius is affected. One of the five, a respected scientist determines 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. 

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

On the other side of Earth, the Soviets are relentlessly interrogating the Soviet officer about his capsules. His administered truth serum plus mind and physical torture, provides the Soviet's knowledge of the capsules’ purpose. Unable to sustain the atrocities, the officer 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 their 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 they will miss their regularly scheduled programming.

4D MAN (1959)

 

Jack H. Harris, from his original screenplay, produced this eighty-five-minute independent film for Valley Forge Film Studios. It was directed by Irvin Yeaworth and distributed by Universal International. The film's slightly off-kilter opening credits may appear at various spots on the screen with graphic arrows inserted randomly for a split second, stinging your eyes. Despite this, it is not a spy thriller nor a crime drama, yet the jazz band score disagrees. Its smaller budget is a well-kept secret thanks to bits of impressive special effects, suspenseful cinematography, and an engaging lead actor. It is not consistently successful, however. 

The premise of this imaginative science fiction film is explained by voice-over while we witness a young scientist, James Congdon, accidentally ignite a small fire after his experiment goes awry while adjusting what looks like a shortwave radio made in high school shop class. A funny transitional editing occurs as the small fire in a trash can consumes the building instantly by the next film frame, in scale model flames. The jazz band blasts in as if to celebrate the blaze. A music cue better suited for a spy barely escaping imminent danger. The university is not pleased with Congdon’s research results and he finds himself instantly unemployed, although it had nothing to do with his misplaced range of acting skills.

Congdon reunites with his older brother, Robert Lansing, in his film debut, as a distracted and dejected scientist whose laid-back, moody trademarked acting style adds his own dimension to the film. His lab is in the midst of an experiment with what appears to be a huge sugar cube. The material is Cargonite, so dense it is assumed impenetrable—perfect for a set of travel luggage. Once the lab equipment is activated, it sounds like there is a squirrel going nuts trying to break out of a wooden cage. Rounding out the main cast trio is Lee Meriwether, also in her film debut, getting early training for adjusting dials in a lab coat for her role a few years later on television’s The Time Tunnel.

Congdon is pleased to know Lansing has plans to marry Meriwether. The three have dinner in an upscale restaurant with Congdon bringing drawing paper to do a sketch using the inside of the large menu as a drawing board. His sketch suggests penetrating a solid object utilizing an "amplifier" in conjunction with mental will. Never mind. She cannot take her eyes off him and suggests he join their research team. Lansing seconds the notion. The big band score explodes, and she invites Congdon to dance. There is no room for dancing nor a designated area, so the nearby patrons carefully guard their tables and everything on it. Just imagine impromptu dancing inside an Applebee's.

The film takes an embarrassing turn as the three have a picnic in a hillside park, after fashion, in the middle of nowhere. There is a children’s merry-go-round, and the studio mounts a camera in the center. We watch a giggling Meriwether and an aggressive-looking Congdon go round and round in front of a blurring landscape and an accompanying score grossly out of place. Better suited for a sitcom. The frivolity ends with an attempted game of tetherball the size of a small shotput. Meriwether escapes with no eye injuries. Lansing looked as concerned as I was about these scenes. Quietly and in deep thought, Lansing decides to leave. Alone. His potential bride slips into the fifth dimension.

Congdon shares his 4D theories with "big brother." That restaurant sketch is unveiled in tangible form as a pencil through an inch-thick solid mass of steel. But for no apparent reason, after excitedly retrieving the object upstairs, Congdon takes a tumble coming back down. Really odd without a laugh track, so provide your own. Apparently, the one-off sample was mentally created by Congdon, willing the pencil through the steel with the help of an amplifier. Lansing begins experiencing painful headaches after his own 4D testing. His doctor is amazed at the electro-impulses of his brain. He speculates his mental capacity may be unlimited. No better use for an impulse than proposing to Meriwether. 

Lansing locates her at the home of a friend where, as a favor, she is monitoring a younger-than-twelve-looking Patty Duke. Duke was an acting veteran compared to the three main leads in this film. Meriwether tells him marriage will never work because he is so wrapped up in research. Brooding, he storms off, later breaking into his brother’s locker at the research center. He attempts to push a pencil through a thick metal plate, but his hand, instead, goes halfway through. The effect utilizes an excellent prop in the film. His brother later witnesses the feat and then disturbingly tells him the amplifier was never on, dude. Lansing went into the fourth dimension entirely by his own will.

Lansing begins to realize his miraculous electro-impulses allow him a great deal of latitude. High notes from an electric organ signify his 4D state. Another successful effect is the first time he puts his arm through a store window to steal an apple. The glowing blue outline around his arm where it intersects the glass pane is nicely done. The next time, though, the audience is not being fooled by simple camera positioning for an edge-on window pane view along with camera processing wizardry. His lust for power turns him into a bank robber with little fear of ever being incarcerated for any length of time. Oh, and it gets worse. His “special effects” accelerate the aging process at a rapid rate. When seeking a doctor’s help, he inadvertently discovers this by simply touching the doctor, rejuvenating his own life. The doctor is accidentally drained for all he is worth. An ironic twist on a doctor's final bill. The doctor’s ninety-year-old facial aging process is done with a smooth transitional effect. Now a very wanted man, Lansing litters the town with old people, including his self-serving boss, Edgar Stehli, who looked to be pushing eighty-five anyway.

Lansing hid the amplifier in a lab vault. He returns to retrieve it, apparently, on April Fool’s Day with humorous results. The belly laugh scene in the film. He pushes the open button, but Congdon pushes the close button from the control booth, preventing Lansing any accessing. He cannot figure out what is going on with that stupid button! He turns around to look toward the booth, but he and Merriweather have crouched down out of sight. He hears no snickering. Pretty funny.

Lansing is really bummed that he and Meriwether cannot agree on any dimension together. The century-old Lansing, still with a thick head of hair, only wants a final kiss. She obliges. From her lab coat, a revolver fires. They quickly break away, yet are temporarily anchored together by a four-inch string of spittle. Without a doubt, the single most disturbing effect. Strangely, no explanation for why Meriwether never ages. In a rage, he defiantly proclaims his invincibility and convinces himself he can even pass through a wall of Cargonite. Let’s just say he does enter the wall. 

Note: The film’s big band jazz score was written and conducted by Ralph Carmichael, a gospel award-winning composer, arranger and conductor. No such accolades for scoring this film. The previous year he composed the score for, “The Blob,” but not the movie’s theme. Carmichael would soon establish himself as the father of contemporary Christian music, arranging and writing popular songs of faith. He would occasionally arrange hymnal standards for various albums with a big band flavor, causing quite a stir among pipe organ worshipers. 

THE WASP WOMAN (1959)

Roger Corman found his infamous niche in re-cycled teenage drive-in horror movies. This self-directed and produced film is another bad representation. Not William-Castle-bad, however. Roger's brother, Gene, maintaining the Corman gene, produced Beast From Haunted Cave, which was double-billed with this film. For an estimated fifty grand, I suspect a chunk of the money went for hiring Susan Cabot again from the previous year for War of the Satellites, and Corman's superior, Machine Gun Kelly. It should be no surprise, then, that this film has some banal scenes. The production quality is lifeless with a waste of about twelve minutes at the opening as we follow a “Doctor of Waspology,” Michael Mark, through the woods looking for a wasp’s nest. He is also ostracized by the local beekeeper union because he is not a team player. Bees, dude, not wasps! But he has made an incredible discovery. There is a wasp enzyme serum that can turn back the aging process. Truly, the only thing that detracts from this film is a poorly executed horror prop at the end. Without it, though, this would not be a "horror" movie.

The opening score by Fred Katz is mesmerizing, yet annoying. A very dissonant and chaotic arrangement that supports the background image of bees making honey. Never mind the movie is about wasps. The film score was used several times for Corman's science fiction movies. The score, with dominant xylophone, specifically during an in-car camera drive and general "investigating" filler scenes, is a sensory experience of bargain-basement filming. 

Susan Cabot does a good job in her final film. As the CEO of a major cosmetic company, her initial appearance gives the impression of a dowdy, middle-aged female with no social life. Ever. Yet wasps are very social. But then, so are bees. Product advertisements have featured her image since the launch of her company, but recently, sales have tanked with her current image. An extremely "complex" bar graph, made by a middle school project, needs clarification from Anthony (Fred) Eisley to explain plummeting sales. Using something called a pointer, he offers a blunt suggestion: replace Cabot’s image with someone younger. His assessment is applauded by the entire board. Cabot lowers her head in self-awareness.

Excentric “Dr. Waspy” re-enters the picture and shares his research with Cabot. Vanity, thy name is Wasp. Of course, she needs to look younger, and after a few injections, violá, she reveals her new, confident self. From a wasp’s perspective, she could not look more vibrant. It becomes her new line of injection cosmetics. Then the headaches start. A silly, cheap wasp-head mask is attached to Cabot’s stunt double, turning her into a blood-sucking vampire wasp. Much easier than what the poster suggests, a wasp's body with Cabot's face. Hello, CGI. Needless to say, the board members will be voting on a new CEO.

Note: Barboura Morris, with her attention-getting first name, plays Cabot’s assistant and a flirting target for Eisley. She was well-versed in low-budget movies and may have recognized the film score since it was used for her first Corman outing, “A Bucket of Blood.” Always on cue is character actor, Frank Gerstle, naturally playing a police detective. A filler to pad the film's length is two attractive office tarts, one of whom manicures and buffs her nails down to the cuticle. In another uncredited role, Corman plays the doctor attending to "Dr. Waspy" after his jaywalking accident.

THE INCREDIBLE SHRINKING MAN (1957)

This was an impressive science fiction film for its day. The main character is not fending off a stereotypical invasion of aliens from another planet. Rather, it is a fantastical tale of a man's challenge to retain his very own existence through an imaginative screenplay and a thought-provoking story, thanks to Richard Matheson. The miniaturization special effects using larger-than-life furniture and props were convincing at the time, though the idea was produced seventeen years earlier in the first film to suggest miniaturization, Dr. Cyclops. Directed by Jack Arnold and produced by Albert Zugsmith, this is eighty-one minutes well spent. It was a box office success for Universal Pictures. Though logically pure science fiction, it seems a reasonable theory based on a convincing medical diagnosis to explain shrinkage.

While boating with his wife, played by Randy Stuart, Grant Williams is overwhelmed by a low-lying fog as it passes over the craft. After returning to the deck, she notices he is covered in reflective flakes, a visual affirmation of the cloud's effect. As if this once-in-a-lifetime experience was not enough, he is later accidentally exposed to large amounts of common insecticide. The radioactive mist and insecticide combination rearrange William's molecular structure, causing his cells to shrink in perfect synchronization. 

Months roll by with little thought of the misty cloud until Williams notices his clothes seem a tad too big. The subtle changes in his stature are handled believably. Jumping to a conclusion, he blames the laundry service, perhaps that mysterious process known as Martinizing. The realization his wife no longer needs to stand on her tip-toes to kiss him gives confirmation to his fear...she is getting taller! His physician, William Schallert, dismisses his concerns and reassures him that he is normal. A young man simply does not grow shorter, after all. But Williams is further convinced there is something wrong when his wedding ring falls from his finger. An omen to be sure.

At the suggestion of his “thoughtful” brother, Paul Langton, his story hits the headlines in the hope that Williams might provide income as a national, three-foot-tall, freakazoid. His humiliation is too much to bear, however, and he ventures outside his home. A female neighborhood midget—that does not happen every day either—becomes his encouraging source in accepting his shortcomings. It does not take him long to notice, however, she retains her height. One might wonder whether he stopped at a tailor for a fitting. His next moving experience is to get comfortable in a new 1:1 scale dollhouse. By this time, Williams is getting rather cranky. His wife needs a grocery run to pick up a lima bean for his supper. She leaves the front door open just a few seconds, and their cat, played by Orangey, gets in. As some cats have probably considered, he attacks his owner. When the wife returns to find a blood-stained piece of cloth, she assumes Orangey has been a vehwy, vehwy bad kitty.

Alive but trapped in the basement by a locked door, Williams has to overcome many obstacles to survive, including a very intimidating spider the size of a sedan and nourishment from cheese retrieved from a mousetrap. Yuck! These are “fun” scenes as challenges erupt when adapting to everyday objects. When the water heater bursts, a minor inconvenience for most people, it becomes a life-threatening flood for Williams as the rushing water leads down a drain pipe. After an exhausting final battle with that pesky spider, he awakens to find he is small enough to slip through one square of a window screen. Seeking a tailor is no longer an option, either. He is now literally dressed in rags. Having survived incredible odds, Williams does not fear the future as the inspiring music crescendos and he gazes to the heavens. No matter how small he becomes, he will still matter in God's universe. "To God, there is no zero." 

He is immediately devoured by a praying mantis. Perhaps.

Note: Richard Matheson was a superb writer of science fiction and may be best known as the one providing many successful scripts for television's original, “Twilight Zone” and “Alfred Hitchcock Presents.” In this, her "largest" role to date, it was Randy Stuart's next-to-last film.