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 below deck during a boating cruise 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 a common insecticide. The radioactive mist and insecticide combination rearrange William's molecular structure, causing his cells to shrink in perfect synchronization. Well, it is science fiction.

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 (above). Jumping to a conclusion, he blames the laundry service, perhaps that mysterious process known as Martinizing. The realization that his wife no longer needs to stand on her tiptoes 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. One may wonder who provided his scaled-down clothes. Especially those tiny zippers for his trousers.

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. 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 Chrysler 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 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, perhaps paper towels. 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." 

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, “The Twilight Zone” and “Alfred Hitchcock Presents.” In this, her "largest" role to date, it was Randy Stuart's next-to-last film.

THE MOB (1951)

This Columbia Pictures release, directed by Robert Parish with an adapted screenplay by William Bowers, is first-rate from beginning to end. A compelling film about corruption, mental delusions, and atonement. Bower’s script bounces humorous quips from one character to another, as one might expect from a film noir of this caliber. Nearly everyone has a turn at them. The cinematography by Joseph Walker is rich with wet streets and dark, danger-filled shadows. The well-versed George Duning provided an effective music score, as well.

Police detective Broderick Crawford is duped by a mob killer carrying an authentic police badge who appears to be coming to the aid of a shooting victim. Crawford discovers too late that the victim was a key witness in an upcoming hearing. The police commissioner is livid and would like to punish Crawford for his halfhearted effort to double-check the true identity of the impostor/gunman. For news headline purposes only, accompanied by a fake picture, he is “suspended.” His real punishment is a death-defying undercover assignment to infiltrate a rough New York waterfront crime organization and bring down its kingpin. 

Needing to redeem his career, Crawford's acting allows him to fit right in as a tough, sarcastic, and unflappable thug from New Orleans. His noir quips are expelled effortlessly through his legendary lightning delivery. Also on the waterfront payroll is Richard Kiley. He and Crawford become pals. It does not take Kiley long, however, to frequently question why Crawford is so interested in what goes on. Crawford drops a few key names that get the attention of a Union thug, Ernest Borgnine. Neville Brand, nearly approaching a typecast level in his career, is again playing a henchman. This time, not the psychotic “Chester” from D.O.A. but a gunman with the wherewithal to also deliver a few great quips of his own at Crawford's expense.

Local bartender Matt Crowley seems to know a lot about what goes on around the waterfront. For a fee. After frequent encounters, he feels Crawford can be trusted enough to set up a meeting with Blackie, the kingpin. The police put a tracking device under Crowley’s car, about the size of a carry-on suitcase. Also installed is an equally sized tank that cleverly drips fluorescent dye on the road so the police can tail the car at night using an infrared spotlight. Cool. Except they did not figure a city street sweeper would turn onto their street a few blocks ahead of them. Just one of the many clever twists in this film you will not expect.

Blackie wants Crawford to do him a favor. Kill the suspended police officer seen in the newspaper. In a twist to end all twists, Crawford is hired to do a hit on himself. Blackie has kidnapped Crawford’s girlfriend, Betty Buehler, to use as a pawn to flesh out her boyfriend, who stands before him. Twisted. When she and Crawford meet, their roles are played as effectively as possible. The detective kicks a lamp over, but in total darkness Blackie escapes with a minor gunshot wound. A hospital setting ends the film, where Buehler and Blackie are recovering. Blackie enters at gunpoint and closes the window curtain. A "nurse" enters to check on Buehler and to open the curtain for more light. From an adjacent building, the police have a clear shot through the window.

Note: From numerous twists, there is a humorous one when Kiley sets up a blind date with Crawford to find out what his game is by using his sister, Lynn Baggett, to pump him for information. Crawford immediately hooks up with Kiley’s wife, played by Jean Alexander, the more attractive of the two. It seems no one wants to be with the sister. Especially Kiley, who protests. He says there is nothing wrong with Doris. “Why can’t he like Doris?!” The sister quickly adds, “Why can’t somebody?” After numerous teasing lines between Baggett and Crawford, the sister turns to her brother, “Well, say something to me.” Kiley hesitates, then awkwardly replies, “Oh...uh..how ya’ been?”

CHICAGO SYNDICATE (1955)

There is a crowded Chicago commuter trainload of details to sift through during this average B-movie from Clover Productions, distributed by Columbia Pictures. The voice-over details in documentary style, plus the added dialogue, make it difficult to keep things straight at times. Probably does not matter. I have grown to appreciate Dennis O’Keefe's talents. His character here, through no fault of his own, is too amazing to be real. He knocks down the analytical accountant stereotype of a numbers cruncher. A Chicago newspaper editor, civic leaders, along with a detective, the ubiquitous John Zaremba, want him to go undercover to flesh out the syndicate responsible for killing a bookkeeper who had evidence on the syndicate’s boss, Paul Stewart. Feeling they have the wrong guy for the job, O’Keefe is totally against the dangers associated with the idea. They plan to pay him sixty grand to do it. He gives it a try. O'Keefe handles everything like an experienced secret agent. Cool under pressure and light on his feet. Fists of iron. Pencils with no erasers. Stewart is excellent as a seemingly good-natured crime czar whose only love comes from his mother. The suave insurance scammer has little fear, but his patience has its limits. He can be vicious. O’Keefe’s plan is to capture assumed microfilm to put Stewart away on tax evasion.

Speaking of hard to believe, Allison Hayes’ role has her going undercover, on her own initiative, using an alias to avenge her bookkeeping father’s death at the hands of Stewart. This is after spending time in a mental institution over the traumatic event and the subsequent suicide of her mother. O’Keefe befriends her (above) to gain access to Stewart’s nightclub. Once he is informed of who she really is, he suggests she stay out of harm’s way. But Hayes comes in handy. O’Keefe’s amazing accounting expertise places him in good favor with Stewart after the police arrange a jewel theft and a nifty insurance scam.

Double-billed with O'Keefe is Abby Lane, Stewart’s tolerable girl. She drinks too much when she is not performing with her real-life husband, Xavier Cugat. The squinty-eyed, rotund devil had a thing for a woman nearly thirty years younger. Cugat was given some lines to say. Yay. With numerous roles already under her strapless gowns, Lane does alright in the part. If you are musically inclined, you may find yourself singing her opening number, “One At a Time,” long after the movie's end. O'Keefe suggests Hayes cater to Stewart's social weaknesses, which makes Lane jealous. She threatens to reveal Stewart’s edited books. His goons do a sixty-second beating in a separate room in full earshot of all the dinner guests. Awkward. Lane comes out of the room instantly bruised by a lot of strategically placed dark, smudgy makeup and tousled hair.

In a bit of a nail-biter, Zaremba and the police arrive to catch Stewart with his account book on a tip from O'Keefe. To his dismay, Stewart burns the pages in his mommy's wood stove. With the expected knock on the door, O’Keefe volunteers to answer it. To not blow his cover, he decks Zaremba. Now horizontal, he whispers to him that the book has been burned. Both men pull off the charade. As I say, one amazing accountant. Kind of funny when Zaremba tries to enter the room, though, as he does a comical triple-take as if confused. What the...hey! Stewart knows Zaremba well, but O'Keefe covers the incident by telling him he thought he was trouble. Lane's hidden microfilm evidence is revealed, and Stewart tells O’Keefe to light a match to it. Instead, he pockets the microfilm, gives Stewart a knuckle sandwich, and makes a run for it. From her upstairs apartment window, as if expecting her son to come by any moment, Mom witnesses Stewart being brought down by police gunfire. He was such a good boy.

DANGER LIGHTS (1930)

One could easily assume the RKO cinematographers were supervised by people who love trains. No doubt, the Chicago, Milwaukee, St. Paul, and Pacific Railroad’s cooperation was a significant force in showing their first-class railroad at work. It is the most authentic steam railroad movie Hollywood has ever made. No restored museum locomotives were used. No CGI necessary. Typical of dramas in this era, there is no distraction or needed help from a music score. The filming of actual freight train operations is singularly unique, with an opening landslide expertly authentic. It is a true time capsule of an era that might otherwise remain unknown. The acting is more than satisfactory, though it is typical of 1930s melodramatic storytelling. Some scenes are treated like stage plays with cued entrances. But first and foremost, this is a railroad film which happens to have actors in it. Just the opposite of Titanic (1997), a concocted love story in which they happen to be on a "boat" that sinks. In this regard, Danger Lights stands alone. Today's viewer needs to accept this; otherwise, it will only play as an outdated, corny film with yucky, polluting trains.

Louis Wolheim, who would die suddenly one year later in real life, plays the burly rail yard boss in Miles City, Montana. A singular career man who gets things done. Nobody loafs or gets a free ride on his watch. A few boxcar hobos are quickly put to work to help clear the tracks after the aforementioned landslide. Robert Armstrong, a former railroad engineer, is one of them. Wolheim recognizes Armstrong simply needs to get his self-esteem back and hires him. Jean Arthur, Wolheim's fiancée, knows their love story is far-fetched. Her father has long desired that she would marry the hard-working, honest, and polite railroader. But he exudes all the romantic charm of a jackhammer. A steam locomotive has a more attractive face. This is where handsome, energetic Armstrong comes bounding in to fill her void. Once he and Arthur meet, it is full steam ahead, and Wolheim is uncoupled and placed on a siding. 

Few films paint a more accurate picture of a steam locomotive's “romantic” era than one scene from inside Arthur’s living room. I am not sure if miniatures were used at all or exactly how the scene was shot, but it is realistic enough. Perhaps a studio set with real train footage superimposed in the background. As curtains flutter in the summer breeze through the open windows, we see a freight train in the distance and hear the engineer’s unique, personal whistle signifying it is Armstrong to Arthur's heartfelt delight. This is authentically true as many engineers had their own recognizable, rhythmic “song.” 

The young couple decides to elope on the next train to Chicago. During the rainy night, Wolheim spots them walking down the tracks and goes into a jealous rage, pounding toward them with steel fists. Armstrong steps between two tracks as it switches, getting his shoe caught in between. Suddenly, Wolheim's anger is thwarted by what he sees. Armstrong is in the path of an approaching high-speed train. Danger lights! The big-hearted boss yanks him free, but a stuffed, limp dummy takes a nasty hit in the head by the locomotive’s cylinder. Had it been a real person, he would have died instantly. Not in Hollywood. Wolheim’s only hope of surviving his "migraine" is to get him to specialists in Chicago in record time. Armstrong volunteers. It is an eye full for locomotive fans and exciting for everyone else, including beautiful pan shots of the train crossing an iron bridge, around curves, with top-mounted cameras through cities. After returning home, the recovering Wolheim resolutely acknowledges to Arthur that his first love will always be the railroad. Though she feels guilty for not honoring his long courtship, inside, she is secretly jumping off the ceiling with joy.

Notes: There are doses of humor from Wolheim. Armstrong and Arthur have a humorous romantic encounter as he is washing up, singing a jaunty tune. But it is Hugh Herbert who must carry the torch. Herbert does double duty as the film's dialogue director and a lovable hobo who expects a great deal of respect for his position in life. He sheepishly threatens to report the railroad if he is not treated properly. Wolheim acts tough, but the old softy takes it in stride. Herbert hanging on for dear life between two rail cars during the climactic, dusty, record run to Chicago certainly cures him of wanderlust. 

IMPACT (1949)

The first fifty minutes of this Harry Popkin Productions film are the strongest. The implausible premise prevents keeps it from being an A-list picture. The pacing is more encouraging, however, as it sets up the impact on a husband whose wife hates him beyond his understanding. In this twisty script, Brian Donlevy is first-rate as a highly paid automotive production manager and loving husband. Helen Walker delivers a convincing performance, too, as many viewers would have wanted to reach out and slap her had the film been released in 3D. In a role before her career shift to television, Ella Raines adds a freshness to the film and more than enough encouragement for Donlevy's character. The musical score by Michel Michelet does a great job of enhancing the mood of most scenes with a restrained theremin when appropriate. Charles Coburn plays a police lieutenant with an intermittent, debatable Scottish accent whose mounting evidence convinces him that Walker is surely guilty of something. 

Walker's New England dialect works best when she is syrupy-sweet. It falters when she is angry. She is as devious and fraudulent as they come. She arranges her current male interest—call him “Fling Boy”—to pose as a family cousin and rendezvous with her husband. Fling Boy's cryptic conversation along a dark, dangerous and curvy mountain highway is awkward for Donlevy. Before a brief stop, the fake cousin had manufactured a slow leaking tire, later selecting the worst possible spot to fix a flat—on the narrow curve of a studio set. One passerby parks right in the middle of the road to offer aid. Surprising that this is not an accident-prone area. Fling Boy makes his move. Donlevy gets a concussion from a tire iron and rolls down the embankment.

Speaking of impact, Fling Boy escapes in a panic with Donlevy's Packard but he is pancaked by a gasoline semi, sending both cascading over a cliff. All done with obvious miniatures with resulting flames like those from a small gas fireplace. A Bekins moving van stops to put out the flames with a single extinguisher. Perfect for a toy semi. Conveniently, the moving van's rear loading doors had been open. Furniture and carpet hanging on for dear life. The film got no endorsements from Bekins. Donlevy climbs aboard to the next town. His phone call to his wife's relative reveals dear old cousin does not exist. Donlevy's subtle changes in facial expression are perfect. His six-year devotion to his wife has been foolishly wasted. It is a powerful scene as he emotionally breaks down in tears.

The headlines assume Donlevy is dead. But Walker cannot figure out why Fling Boy is not at their rendezvous point. Coburn uncovers her affair with Mr. Boy. Donlevy becomes a three-month resident of the small, rural town while Walker becomes a resident in a prison ward. Raines runs the town's service station and is taking a hammer to an engine amid Donlevy's grimaces. His impressive quick work as a mechanic gets Donley hired on the spot. In her second scene with Donlevy, she does her best Princess Leia with her hair twisted into stereo headphones. His decision to stay in tiny Larkspur, Wherever, may not make a great deal of logic, but he simply wants to disappear and his "death" made it easier. Raines is cast for a reason: to help transform his thinking and provide a happy ending. As their friendship grows, Raines convinces him to return to San Francisco and tell his story. It does not go as she expected.

After discovering who was burnt to a crisp in that Packard, husband and wife meet in the squad room as the music comes effectively to a crescendo during a close-up zoom of Walker's face. One can see the wheels turning in her warped mind as her facial expression changes from shock to loathing. Having developed into a liar, she accuses him of plotting to kill Fling Boy and then go into hiding with Raines. Right,  Donlevy convinced Fling Boy to deliberately crash into a semi. There is zero logic in killing the fake cousin as Donlevy knew nothing of the affair until he arrived in Larkspur. Walker's script of implausibilities is silly but no one noticed. Not even the director. Donlevy's convoluted story is no less hard to believe and he is arrested while Walker is released. Even knowing what the viewer already knows, the closing courtroom scenes still provide a few twists. Thankfully, Walker becomes a hypocritical idiot on the stand as she continues to bury herself with uncontrollable, outrageous denials. But it is her handwriting analysis that dooms her. Diverting blame, she plans to sue the Parker pen company, believing it was their fault all along. 

ARMORED CAR ROBBERY (1950)

This sixty-seven-minute RKO Radio Pictures project is a dandy and hardly unknown to film noir geeks or fans of the lead actors. Suffice to say it is nearly flawless in execution and Charles McGraw got noticed. Naturally, there are a couple of clichés that may bring a chuckle or two from Twenty-First Century viewers. Directed by Richard Fleischer, it displays his penchant for realism with his early trademarks of location filming and attention to police procedural details. The latter point is well displayed when the authorities comb the area for clues as to where the robbers abandoned their getaway car. That scene is also enhanced by a lean screenplay with no wasted dialogue. The cinematography is outstanding as well. The score is not memorable, but at least it does not get in the way of the actors.

You do not want to get on the bad side of Detective Charles McGraw. He makes no compromises with criminals and also appears a tad weary of a daily routine of trying to apprehend them. The opening, low camera close-up of him on a phone call sets up his persona. Ruggedly handsome with a face chiseled from stone and just about as animated. He plays it exactly how his character should be. His gravelly voice helped define his film destiny, though. He had no fear of competing against the likes of Danny Kaye for a musical comedy. Today, his voice and maturity may have had him auditioning with the likes of Liam Neeson.

He and fellow partner, James Flavin, are called to the less famous Wrigley Field. The one in Los Angeles used by the farm team of the Chicago Cubs. Both detectives are miffed it is another false alarm. In reality, it was William “He’s got Bette Davis eyes” Tallman who called in the fake alarm in a pre-robbery timing to discover how long it takes for the police to get there. Assuming they left on time and there was no heavy traffic to delay them, I guess.

Tallman enlists three petty criminals to help him with the armored car robbery when it stops in front of the stadium. Steve Brodie thinks an armored car robbery will not work. Risky. He says it might work if it were run by Tallman, yet he only knows him by reputation. Awkward. Doug Fowley is married to Adele Jergens (above) who is in love with Tallman. Gene Evans finalizes the four losers in the robbery. The detailed robbery plans of who is where and when are not described in the film. Smartly, we discover the end result as it happens. What mastermind Tallman could not foresee is that McGraw was on patrol nearby and responded to the emergency call rather quickly. Evans pulls his sputtering jalopy purposely behind the men unloading the armored truck and fakes a look under the hood. He sets off an explosion of tear gas. In an exchange of bullets, Flavin succumbs, then Fowley gets seriously wounded. McGraw jumps in his car in hot pursuit of the bandits, but an evasive maneuver damages his tire. 

Tallman was adept at playing despicable criminals before he turned over a new leaf, went to law school, and met Perry Mason. He has no sympathy for the mortally wounded Fowley. To help him forget this pain and give them a chance to get through a clichéd roadblock, Tallman angrily slaps his face a few times. After the officers look over their car and give them the go-ahead, Brodie cannot get the car started. A tension "device" used countless times in crime movies. Once at their hideout, Fowley, gasping for life, demands a doctor and his share of the loot. Tallman gives him a final parting gift. Three bullets. He later gives Brodie a lesson about who is boss. After punching him in the stomach, he violently takes both hands, clapping them hard against both sides of Brodie’s head, potentially rupturing his eardrums. It is shocking and perhaps the first time this violent act was used on film. It was used again by the director in a John Payne crime story.

Jergens plays her usual role, though her employment changed from film to film. This time, she is a burlesque queen. Brodie stops in the burlesque house in hopes of getting his money from her. McGraw is there with handcuffs, and both men miss the entire performance. With no fear of the murder wrap, Brodie spills the truth about Tallman. McGraw’s young new partner, Don McQuire, volunteers to take Brodie’s place and meet “the queen.” A solid plan, except Tallman knows his partner is locked up. His gun is there to meet McQuire outside the establishment. Jergen's wired car allows the detective to audibly send location points to the tailing patrol car. Tallman is suspicious of these hints and tells him to get out, whose life is then saved by Jergens, preventing Tallman from firing a second time. Or third. Or a fourth, just to be sure.

The lovebirds attempt a getaway via a chartered plane. Tallman, not happy the plane has been recalled to the terminal, threatens the pilot at gunpoint. This is always pretty silly, and Hollywood still does it. If he shoots the pilot, they are going nowhere. Tallman grabs the suitcase of loot and, in his panic, does not see (or apparently hear) a taxiing DC-3. The suggested prop divides the cash and him in small denominations. A happy ending for McGraw. Well, not so much, judging by the grimace on his face. The happy part is when he shares a news article with McQuire, recovering from that gunshot wound. It is all about their success in the robbery. Both officers are mentioned at the bottom of the article, and as the young partner starts reading, he pretends his name is so minuscule he has to get really close to the page to see it. They both laugh.

Note: For a limited role, Don McQuire (above) does a fine job. He and McGraw hit it off by the end. Today, this movie might have had a sequel based on their chemistry if the studio gambled to make more money. But things were pleasantly different in 1950.

HOMETOWN STORY (1951)

Here is a sixty-one-minute visual slice of Americana. Though well-acted and providing no lulls, the movie will never be on anyone’s bucket list. It makes a better television drama than an MGM movie. Yet it turned a small, six-figure profit from its minuscule budget. Some suggest this project is a General Motors self-promotion film. Perhaps. What is more important is Louis Forbes’ opening piano score, which sounds frighteningly like a depressing medical melodrama in which viewers are going to need absorbent facial tissues. Elsewhere, the score seems lifted from a typical Fifties or Sixties sitcom with dominating flutes.

It opens with views of an All-American city below, from a DC-3 airliner. The downtown is a wonderful snapshot of post-war America, and its quiet tree-lined neighborhoods with white picket fences. No gas-powered lawnmowers or leaf blowers disrupt the silence. Harley-Davidson motorcycles are mostly used by patrol officers, all equipped with standard exhaust and not today's personal, noise-polluting aftermarket units.

Jeffrey Lynn plays a sore loser. He is a two-year Senator who was not re-elected and is quite defensive about it. Lynn inherits the senior editor position of the town’s newspaper from his uncle and plans to use this platform for political gain. Shame. Shame. He attacks one industry’s dumping of pollutants in the local river system, though its controller, Harry Harvey, provides evidence that their process does nothing of the kind. The parallels to today are obvious as Lynn starts spreading fake news about the evils of big corporations and their profits. Apparently, not coming to terms with the fact that most people in a business set out to make a profit. The CEO, Donald Crisp, visits Lynn and graciously offers his thoughts on how many people actually benefit from big industry profits. He hopes it will quell the negative editorials. But Lynn remains selfishly skeptical. Lynn's buddy and news reporter, Alan Hale, Jr., looking particularly handsome and oozing charm with a big smile, comes to blows with Lynn’s attacks and personal edginess.

Lynn’s seven-year fiancé—that is not a typo—Marjorie Reynolds, levels with him about why he lost the election. And maybe a wedding. Voters thought the celebrated war hero would make a difference, but they knew it was a mistake soon after pulling the lever. Ouch! Melinda Plowman's voice (Lynn’s baby sister) has been dubbed by sixteen fingernails across a blackboard. Judging by the vast age difference between brother and sister, she was probably a late “surprise.” While on a school field trip, her life is spared, ironically, by Crisp's big corporation’s heavy equipment, the rapid response of its workers, and the company's air transportation to the necessary hospital. Waiting for the results in the waiting room, Lynn humbly realizes he was born to run a newspaper and not people's lives, with no future political ambitions. Probably. We hope.

Notes: The humorous scenes centered around Hale's attraction to Marilyn Monroe's savvy character are delightful thanks to her trademark, deadpan delivery. Another funny scene of camera trickery comes up later. While gazing in Monroe’s direction, without looking, Hale throws his fedora like a Frisbee behind him, across the editing room, where it lands properly on a female colleague’s head. I suspect no viewer saw that coming.

It would seem every poster, then and today's DVDs, gives the false impression that the nearly unknown Monroe is a major character. One might think she is the hometown story. Far from it, her scenes total about four minutes in this, her third film spot. Ray Teal had nearly as much screen time, but he was not even credited. Admittedly, Teal's sweaters do not fit quite the same. And there was something about his walk. Also uncredited is the familiar face of Hugh Beaumont, feeling quite at home in an idyllic town.