THE BROTHERS RICO (1957)

This well-acted crime film noir was directed by Phil Karlson, who stepped away from another John Payne project to helm this fine one. The ninety-two-minute film was produced by William Goetz and distributed by Columbia Pictures. It is all accompanied by a solid, if not unique, music score by George Duning. Cinematographer Burnett Guffey creates some dramatic visual effects. Karlson's trademark realism of location shooting places the viewer in the action. For the transportation historian, it is an eyeful.

Richard Conte plays the eldest of two brothers, Paul Picerni and James Darren. Without flaw, Conte excels again in a role in which he is well acquainted as a guy caught in the middle of a serious life dilemma. An “Italian moment” between Conte, his mother, and his grandmother is loaded with authenticity. In the old days, he was an accountant for the syndicate but has used his financial expertise to become the owner of a legit and prosperous laundry company. No one launders money there. Picerni's monetary greed will have him outfitted with the latest in concrete footwear by the mob if caught. He confesses to a shocked Conte his responsibility for a recent hit. Baby brother Darren was the driver. Added to the turmoil is Conte's wife, played by Dianne Foster. Their opening scenes can be an uncomfortable ten minutes, as if watching through a hidden camera. In a later scene together, she is unreasonably irate because Conte suddenly must catch a flight to Miami for a face-to-face with the syndicate boss, Larry Gates. The couple was supposed to sign adoption papers instead.

Gates has been somewhat of an uncle to Conte. The cordial Gates hides his ability to turn up the heat if double-crossed. This becomes painfully obvious to Picerni in the adjoining room. Hitman William Phipps is giving him a serious “Martinizing.” Gates strongly suggests Conte find his missing little brother as the bulk of the film takes flight to New York, Phoenix, and El Camino, California. Everywhere he goes, guys in fedoras are there before his arrival. Darren and his expectant wife, Katherine Grant, are not universally thrilled with Conte's surprise appearance, assuming he has been tracked. Darren does a good job. His final scenes are first-rate as it quickly becomes apparent Conte was not actually the first to discover his whereabouts.

Conte is alone in thinking “Uncle Larry” is sincere. Even “Mama Rico” no longer trusts him. Ending up back in Miami, the lone Rico has learned the truth about Gates, and their final confrontation is an exciting, life-altering experience for the latter. Conte testifies against the syndicate, successfully shutting it down in one of the most rapid film closings of the decade. A letter from the DA vouches for him, assuring the Ricos a successful adoption from the Bayshore Children's Home. Conte will have more dirty laundry to clean.

Notes: In addition to William Phipps, there are other genuine performances by the “theatrical mob members” Harry Bellaver, local crime boss, and Rudy Bond as Bellaver's “secretary” henchman. Cast as another underworld informant is Richard Bakalyan, with two brief appearances. Both Dianne Foster and Katherine Grant have little to do in the film, yet both are second- and third-billed, respectively. 

FILM BRAKE: SECURITY INVESTIGATOR

DANGER MAN (1960-61)

This original adventure series centered on the exploits of an internationally famous security investigator whose services are only available to governments or their high-ranking officials. The Danger Man strove for realism, dramatizing credible Cold War tensions. Beyond the fast pace, some inventive plots, and exotic locales, the gravitating force of the series was undoubtedly the American television debut of Patrick McGoohan. With his distinct, clipped delivery, intensity, charm, coolness, and physicality, he makes this series quite compelling in spite of some scripts that are less so. McGoohan's British stage acting abilities could be quite intimidating to fellow actors, not unlike John Drake's pointed truths to convince someone about saving their life or country. The series did not feature silly gadgets of secret agents yet to come. Rather, Drake utilizes his intelligence and quick thinking. If he used any spycraft tools, they were generally credible. The family-oriented McGoohan preferred that Drake carry no firearms. In one episode he confesses, 'I never carry a gun. They're noisy, and they hurt people. Besides, I manage very well without.' He knows how to fire one, though—a gun knocked free from a combatant's hand might provide him leverage. His final demand for the role was no outright seduction of female co-stars. Drake is focused on the business at hand. The punctuated jazz score by Edwin Astley provides another dimension of coolness and would often burst into a scene, half debilitating the dialogue. Expect a Drake-ism once granted a favor or request—the gracious—“I'm obliged.”

After the opening scene teaser, McGoohan provides a voice-over as he leaves a building in Washington, DC, before speeding away in his convertible British sports car:

“Every government has its secret service branch. America, CIA; France, Deuxième Bureau; England, MI5. (The line, "NATO also has its own" is not always used.) A messy job? Well, that's when they usually call on me or someone like me. Oh yes, my name is Drake, John Drake.”

McGoohan never appears to use a stunt double during choreographed fistfights. This is an endearing quality of the thirty-two-year-old Irish-American, proving he is all about credibility. Assuming no visual miscues by me, he is clearly seen as the guy doing the flipping of an assailant in judo fashion, getting knocked across a room. Throwing the most violent, unimaginable haymakers and uppercuts do tend to send the Drake character to near science-fiction level. He might use a fake identity to infiltrate a Communist regime in Africa, Central America, or a small European country. He is not infallible, and assignments do not always go as anticipated.

The show did not set CBS on fire—not all of the thirty-nine episodes were above average. Some scripts can be rather complex, with a myriad of characters, hopping from one country to the next or trying to take in all of McGoohan's rapidly delivered dialogue. The humor is restrained—a flippant hero has no place in this series. A few episodes make one wish there was a bit more, however, as McGoohan could deliver some dandy dry sarcasm. One would like to double the number of episodes with his five-time costar—the ever-so-British—Richard Wattis, as the bespectacled Mr. Hardy, an intelligence agent requesting [demanding] Drake's services. Though there is no real animosity between them, they initially conflict when discussing an assignment. Their sarcastic banter is a needed delight.

The idea for the Danger Man series originated with Ralph Smart, an associate of Lew Grade, head of ITC Entertainment. It is filmed at MGM British Studios, England, UK, and in foreign locations. The series aired in America as a late-spring replacement for the departing Wanted Dead or Alive. American financing for a second season failed to materialize, but the show continued in the UK as the hour-long second and third seasons. After a three-year Drake disappearance, the show returned to America as Secret Agent, along with a new guitar-led theme performed by Johnny Rivers.

FRIGHT (1956)

This gullible talk-fest with a sleep-inducing pace and a puzzling title was directed and produced by W. Lee Wilder, the younger B-movie brother of Billy, who turns out another questionable production in his nearly forgotten career, one of six films for Planet Filmplays. His son, Myles Wilder, penned the original story and screenplay, which addresses hypnotism and reincarnation. The future comedy writer could have had a lot of fun with this film two decades later. These sixty-eight minutes were distributed by Exploitation Productions, a credit that does make some sense. The only thing alluding to fright is the use of a Theremin as it oscillates its way into the anonymous score by Lew Davies in his first and final film. Putting aside the disjointed opening score, the cinematography in the opening sequence suggests an exciting crime drama as the authorities chase a murderer. Savor these first three minutes or so. After this, any fright—other than that lady in the poster—comes to a grinding halt.

Through long-distance hypnosis and simple word associations with an escaped murderer, Frank Marth, psychiatrist Eric Fleming is able to prevent his plunge into the East River from the Queensboro Bridge. Accomplished over a distance of about five city blocks thanks to a microphone, speakers, and a searchlight burning Marth's retinas. In the gathering crowd is Nancy Malone, whose indirect hypnosis provides Fleming another opportunity to perform his magic. After a few consultations, he unveils her belief that she is the reincarnated spirit of a Baroness. The moviegoer suffers through her dual personality. Likewise, the non-charismatic Fleming has a dual-acting personality—credible one moment, then lackluster and stiff—indicating his inexperience in this, his second feature film. Malone does not burn up any film frames either, as both seem to be in the midst of a final rehearsal. I suspect Wilder shares a chunk of responsibility for this.

Malone could be nuts, but she is not joking. Her subconscious is taken over by the long-dead Baroness—as the legend goes—who had an affair with a Crown Prince. Not exactly undying love; they made a vow to die together rather than live apart. Fleming wants the genuine Malone back for himself, and since “Mithter Marth” is scheduled to be executed anyway, he hypnotizes him to play the Crown Prince. The film's convoluted journey preposterously concludes by reuniting the imaginary lovers one last time. The Crown Prince of Marth is expected to shoot—with what sounds like a cap gun—Baroness Malone. Her reincarnated self falls to the floor, releasing the hold on her, and the genuine Marth is quickly ushered back to his cell. It takes a death row murderer to get away with a reincarnation killing. I hoped I had been hypnotized by the end, but alas, I woke up entirely on my own.

Note: Some posters made it a point to include under the main cast, “featuring an all-star New York Broadway cast.” Not sure that mattered after the premiere. A bit more significant today is witnessing the beginnings of four future television regulars. Fleming is well known for the popular western, “Rawhide,” though his full potential was never realized due to a fatal freak accident. Malone went on to a prolific television career as an actress, director, and producer. Marth set a non-stop pace in lead and supporting roles. The versatile actor could not be typecast and went on to appear in just about every major American prime-time show during the Sixties and Seventies. Finally, Myles Wilder went on to write for many successful television comedies during the same decades. His father, however, never progressed beyond the hokum in this film.

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.

WORLD FOR RANSOM (1954)

 

Sarcastic gumshoe Dan Duryea opens the film under duress from a local racketeer. Duryea yells much of his discouraged dialogue in his trademark high-register, whining voice. Truly the anti-hero, he complains plenty in this film. He appears to live a day-to-day existence, hoping that a positive turn of events is behind the next rickshaw. His pal and polar opposite, Patric Knowles, turns out to be a double-crossing coward. His wife is played by newcomer Marian Carr, whose breathy delivery is a bit annoying, as if a stand-in for Marilyn Monroe. As a nightclub singer, her single number has her in a top hat and tails, about midway between 1930's Morocco and 1982’s Victor/Victoria. Later in the film, she is constantly weaving fore and aft at the waist as if trying to get enough air to breathe. Also, a possible subtle scene-stealer. Carr’s career was a short one. The film has become an “also-ran” within the noir archives.

Gene Lockhart playing an unbalanced, criminal mastermind is a bit of a stretch. Though accustomed to playing unethical businessmen, his biggest character flaw here is his arrogant, condescending attitude. He wants the secrets to the hydrogen bomb and enlists two thugs to "Shanghai" Arthur Shields, a nuclear scientist. Knowles is in this plot up to his mustache, assisting the kidnapping by impersonating a military colonel. Lockhart meets with the ever-so-British Nigel Bruce—the Colonial Governor—and demands five million dollars, a sum that Knowles would sell his soul to get his hands on. It is Lockhart’s ransom of the century to prevent the nuclear destruction of Singapore and then some, but not the world. As a bonus, he “promises” to release Shields unharmed.

 

The climax is a fairly exciting standoff with a lot of gunplay at the kidnapper’s hideout. Duryea’s desire is to bring the errant Knowles safely back to his wife and, with the help of the Major, Reginald Denny, also rescue the scientist. Knowles is not handling the stress well, with multiple lies to save his hide. He shoots all his criminal associates, then turns his attention to Duryea. Self-defence is called for.

The ending between Duryea and Carr is not uplifting, though he gets his face lifted from being slapped a few times. It is the demise of their friendship. She actually had a thing for the scoundrel because he never questioned her (unknown) shady past. The closing scene, like the opener, has Duryea receiving wisdom from a female fortune-teller, an actress not even credited for an uncredited role.

Note: This film is the assumed continuation of the popular 1950s television series, "China Smith," starring Duryea as a mercenary adventurer. Its main notoriety is its director, Robert Aldrich, who would soon make his mark with an infamous Mike Hammer film the following year. Also, a carryover from television land is the competent—yet forgettable—score by Frank De Vol. The filming was finished well under two weeks and made the most out of a restrained budget. Distributed by Allied Artists Productions, it takes a while to get the blood flowing, perhaps due to extending a thirty-minute series into an eighty-two-minute movie. Add to this a slightly confusing screenplay by Hugo Butler during the opening scenes. Worth it all is some excellent cinematography work by Joseph Biroc and his use of intriguing points of view and lighting contrast in sweaty Singapore. 

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 career shift was to the new medium of television. These periodic posts offer insight into their transition.

Patricia Blair: Patsy Lou Blake (1933-2013)

Like numerous attractive female actresses of the era, Patricia Blair got noticed first as a model. The photogenic Blair signed a contract with Warner Brothers in the mid-Fifties, later being picked up by MGM in 1959. She appeared as a second female lead—a common occurrence—in such standards as Jump Into Hell (1955), an uncredited role in The McConnell Story (1955) followed by Crime Against Joe (1956) alongside John Bromfield and Julie London. She played the devoted girlfriend of escaped convict and heroin dealer, Vince Edwards, in City of Fear (1959), a well-produced thriller with unintentionally funny moments. He steals a canister of what he believes to be experimental heroin—worth a fortune and Blair is all-in. In reality, it is a highly contagious radioactive isotope. Next came the low-budget caper, Cage of Evil (1960), playing the self-serving love interest and temptress of police detective, Ron Foster. Her second-tier productions did little to strengthen her film career so it was back to the small screen.

Television was already a big part of her resume when she became a semi-regular for one season on The Rifleman (1958) as the spunky love interest and businesswoman, Lou Mallory. Adding her seemed like a last-ditch effort to advance the series. Unfortunately, the move spelled an end to one of the series’s strongest points—the singular father and son relationship. Her most popular recurring role was playing the wife of frontiersman, Daniel Boone, on the long-running, highly-fictionalized series starring Fess Parker. Outside of Parker's 165 appearances, she had the most credits with 118 until the show ended in 1970.

For the Texas-born beauty there were single appearances on the “DOA” comedy-western, Dusty's Trail (1973) starring Bob Denver and the more promising, yet short-lived, Petrocelli (1975). Her last television role was her one appearance in the popular comedy, Me and My Girl (1988). After retirement, she produced industrial trade shows, echoing the business savvy of Miss Mallory of North Fork fame.

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.