THE WALKING TARGET (1960)

A California State Prison warden opens this crime drama like so many movies before it, warning the prisoner, Ron Foster, that the 260 grand he hid after a robbery five years before will bestow upon him the film's title. Reluctantly, he signs the prisoner's release, and Foster finds himself in the arms of his former girl, Merry Anders, right out of the gate—literally. He cools her jets by asking where she has been for five years. Not one visit. Not one cake. This lady has never used an oven. Like her current favorite boyfriend, Robert Christopher—whose faux excitement of reuniting with Foster is short-lived—she has ulterior motives. They want that money. Unlike these two, Foster later reveals he has a beating heart.

Outside the no-fault cast, a bit of stunt driving in Ford Motor Company's models features prominently, and the matched studio prop car scenery out the rear window is logical and authentic. Less so is the obvious, poorly edited stuntman choreography during two fight scenes. Taking the sting out of any crime film, the misplaced music played under closing credits by an otherwise competent score by Paul Sawtell and Bert Shefter, befits an old Bob Hope comedy-mystery from the past decade.

Attesting to the warden's astute judgment of character, a number of people are on the ex-con's heels, most notably Harp McQuire. He plays a detective, a condescending, tough-talking, wisecracking detective cliché. He stands out in the film for being the only unintended levity in the film. He loathes Foster until the contrived cafe ending. Barry Kroeger, not surprisingly, plays a mob boss with only three scenes to his credit. That is all he needs to establish his character. Weasel Christopher now works as his inside man. Anders essentially disappears from the film past the halfway point.

A flashback explains where the money was cleverly hidden. Neither of Foster's partners in the heist survived, one leaving behind a widow, Joan Evans—in her final film—whose physical presence is her acting weak point. Foster's deep remorse for the robbery's outcome has weighed heavily on his conscience. He tracks her to an Arizona cafe she operates to give her the share due to her late husband. She wants no part of the stolen money. Soon, everyone knows where she is, and a cafe confrontation between Kroeger, Christopher, McQuire, and Foster ignites. Humorously, before going into the cafe, Kroeger instructs his henchmen, “Check the silencers to make sure they're working.” I expected them to place the guns to their ear to confirm this. The bullets are unrealistically quiet, with three or four cast members going down just as quietly. Because of return fire, McQuire gets tabbed, but the rapid closing suggests he survives.

Notes: Director Edward L. Cahn churned out numerous films like this one. Decent crime films possess all the elements that should make for a memorable movie. Unfortunately, the premise had been done so often—usually, with the grit this film lacks—it has been universally forgotten. This tidy film is produced by Robert E. Kent Productions—as Zenith Pictures—for Edward Small, the executive producer. Small or Kent could produce realism in their pictures in spite of stale scripts and a low-visibility cast. Foster and McQuire team up again after their earlier Robert Kent Production, Cage of Evil. Talk around the office water cooler probably did not include this film, though television's Foster or Anders might have garnered mention. This film marks three in a row with director Cahn in Foster's sparse movie career. The seventy-five-minute film was distributed by United Artists.

YOU HAVE TO RUN FAST (1961)

The hunting season is about to start in the sleepy mountain town of Summit City, and a gangster has the perfect wall for the head of Craig Hill. The actor plays a doctor during an era when their door was always open. In the middle of the night, two mobsters, judging by their attitude and vocal tone, bring in a fellow they “found” on the side of the road. They are rather murky about their background and quickly leave Hill with the badly beaten victim, who does not survive the dawn. The police arrive, and Hill is informed that the dead man is a detective and the no-good Samaritans were bogus.

So begins a rather nifty—what should have been—television episode. But this suspenseful crime drama was never edited down from its seventy-three-minute run time. It is well-acted with a "blistering pace" for a routine premise of someone assuming a new identity in another town for his own survival. Dr. Richard Kimball may have had his own ideas after seeing this film. Expect the makeup department's budget to include the obligatory black-rimmed glasses, powdered gray wig, and mustache to facilitate Hill's transformation.

Hill wants no part in being confined under police protection, and their eyewitness gets out of town fast. It is one year later, and he is hardly recognizable without the makeup department's help. Now managing a sporting goods store in Summit City, Hill has taken a room at a lodge run by Willis Bouchey and his daughter, Elaine Edwards. A wheelchair-bound World War II veteran, Bouchey is his usual film character, barreling out wisdom to Hill about making something of himself rather than just running a seasonal hunting store. Awkward. Bouchey is also an expert marksman and is quite pumped about the hunting season when the public floods the small town in the likes of Fairmount, Indiana, during James Dean weekend. This is a rare film for the small-screen Edwards, who is on the verge of getting serious with Hill. But his “survival secret” offers setbacks. Yet, like Kimble, it becomes impossible to hide his Hippocratic oath for long. 

How the gangsters get a bead on his remote location is a near miracle. Hill's old “passport” photo does throw them a few curves, but the townsfolk unwittingly provided the thugs with needed information. Unlikely the two guys in suits, wingtips, and fedoras are avid game hunters, it soon becomes apparent to Hill that there are bullets with his namesake on them. Hill departs fast into the wilderness to dodge mob bullets. Wanting to hunt anything moving, Bouchey grabs a high-powered rifle with a scope and wheels himself to a window conveniently located directly opposite all the filmed action. He kills a five-point buck. No. He kills one of the gangsters about to fire on Hill. In an amazing bit of time-saving editing, the boss is actually captured in his car by the doctor who has been crouching in the back seat for who knows how long. It was the day the running stopped.

Note: The film was directed by Edward L. Cahn and produced by Robert E. Kent. They were frequent collaborators for films of this nature. Decent but forgettable. United Artists distributed it for the "renowned" production company, Harvard Film Corporation. The bits of location shooting will reveal that the Ford Motor Company volunteered its wallowing automobiles for the film.

BLUEPRINT FOR ROBBERY (1961)

Jerry Hopper directed a couple of notable films, including The Atomic City, Naked Alibi, and one notable for not being any better than the original, Never Say Goodbye. His talents were better served in the smaller medium, where he kept very, very busy. The film's screenplay is by Irwin Winehouse and A. Sanford Wolf, based on the 1950 Brinks' express office robbery in Boston. The eighty-seven-minute film was produced by Bryan Foy, with Paramount Pictures releasing this film with opening and closing “exposé” narration. 

Sandwiched in between his work on many popular shows was this film, a low-budget crime film where the heist's dry run to test the theft's feasibility is tediously slow. Seeing the British-born senior, J. Pat O'Malley—the film's legendary thief—scooting under electronic sensors on his stomach or back confirms this. Yet the film's focus on this tension is fairly captivating, and the music score by Van Cleave pays off throughout the film. The acting is first-rate, and I imagine the film garnered some talk over hot dogs after its premiere. In hindsight, this film remains unknown because of all the heist movies to follow. But those films owe a lot to this film, what with its smattering of humor and detailed-to-the-minute robbery plans. The robber's masks are creepy if not startling, and the robbery goes without a hitch. But the aftermath proves crime—during this era—does not pay. 

There is a brief humorous spot for television's future “Mrs. Cunningham,” Marion Ross (below), initiates a bit of levity early in the film. Barney comes to the prison dressed as a priest simply for easy entry to convince O'Malley—scheduled for release—to help in the robbery. Ross sits down beside him—both staring straight ahead—and she slowly inches closer as she tearfully confides in the man underneath the rental cloth about her marital “faux-pax” before visiting her incarcerated husband. Father Barney, taken aback, calmly musters up his best advice, which she takes to heart. Overhearing his assumed heartfelt consultation, the guard also puts his faith in the cloth on the man and unlocks the main door to the cells.

Counting up their tally after the getaway, they stole far less than anticipated, with some useless bonds and newly printed marked bills which simply have to be burned. So be it. With Gist's nerves at bay and the loot under his watch, he suggests Barney and Price lay low by taking a vacation. It is the turning point in the film. Not using his brain's full potential, Price decides to go into a sporting goods store after Barney tells him to stay in the car. He selects some fishing and hunting gear with no intention of paying. The greedy crook knocks out the salesman and heads back to the car as a policeman happens by and tries to convince the two about a great spot for camping. Out crawls the moaning salesman. The vacation (below) ends behind bars, though, being only an accessory, Barney would seem to be railroaded. Gist is unconcerned as he had figured they would be out in a few months. Not the three-year sentence handed down.

O'Malley rents a clerical robe to visit Barney. The scene follows through with an earlier established premise that the old mentor and the “son he never had” confide in each other. The old codger is soon questioned about his parole violation and his ill-fitting clerical collar. No one will ever call him a stool pigeon, and it looks like life behind bars. With good intentions, Barney does something unforgivable. Their falling out comprises the sensitive climax.

Note: There are no big-name film stars in this one, as if Hopper flipped through his Rolodex for some of his television connections. O'Malley is perhaps the most well-known for his numerous television roles. In kind, many Boomers would recognize Robert Wilke. What they may not recognize is that he is not a despicable Western outlaw, but a detective. Robert Gist, a frequent player in television westerns as well, particularly Have Gun - Will Travel—adds the only spark to the film outside Jay Barney. Barney spent an innocuous career on the tube. Another key player in the big heist is television actor, the furrow-browed Sherwood Price. Finishing out the television casting call is Robert Carricart, Joe Conley—later snagging a recurring role as Ike on The Waltons—and Henry Corden, more often than not in sitcoms with his trademark black, thick-framed glasses. Unseen, he carried on the voice of Fred Flintstone after Allen Reed's death. 

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.

Rudolpho Acosta Pérez (1920–1974)

Though born in a small disputed area in Mexico with Texas, the section of land became American soil and character actor, Rudolpho Acosta, officially became an American citizen. He delivered dialogue with conviction, whether being charming or pointedly ruthless, and it was best put to use on the small screen. But with his strong facial features, he achieved his greatest success primarily as a Mexican bandit, Indian warrior or outlaw in western films in the US. There were numerous Spanish language films to his early credits—famously as a romantic idol—along with some English language films in the early Fifties. His first credited American role was in One Way Street, 1950, then a minor role in the forgettable The Bullfighter and The Lady, 1951, starring the “logical” choice for a Matador, Robert Stack. He was among the cast for Jeff Chandler’s Yankee Buccaneer, 1952. Acosta never let a casting call go unanswered during this period.

Acosta was soon seen on the Warner Brothers lot for Sugarfoot, Bronco and Maverick. His three indelible performances on Cheyenne, 1958-61, are of particular note for inhabiting his characters so authentically. During the same time frame there was Disney's Zorro and CBS's Have Gun – Will Travel. He was given two roles in the modern-day setting of The Sheriff of Cochise/U.S. Marshal series, 1956 and 1959. Sprinkled among the Westerns were roles on The Farmer’s Daughter, 1964, The Man from U.N.C.L.E., 1965 and The Fugitive, 1966. Acosta did not get a recurring role until the first two seasons of The High Chaparral, 1967. His tenure was short—being dropped from the series—unfortunately due to his abuse of alcohol consumption. 

He finished his career guest-starring in Cade’s County in 1971, a one-season hope that Glenn Ford might generate an audience. He worked again with David Janssen on his next series, O’Hara, U.S. Treasury, 1971, and again with Richard Boone in his final series, Hec Ramsey, 1972. His final roles were his two appearances on Ironside, 1971 and 1973, as a police chief and police sergeant. But who knew? He was nearly invisible throughout his career as a supporting player. Acosta never left Spanish language films entirely, but American television benefited his career most as his characters became more intimate with the viewer. I cannot attest to his Mexican films, but he excelled in his mature years in America. Acosta died young at fifty-four of liver cancer.

SECRET SERVICE INVESTIGATOR (1948)

Directed by R. G. Springsteen and released by Republic Pictures, this sixty-minute American crime film possesses a twisty screenplay and story by John K. Butler. It is filled with concise dialogue and a few quips for the star, Lloyd Bridges, to deliver to Lynne Roberts, who works in the classified advertising department of a local newspaper. Discovering who he is—a World War II hero in the Army Air Force—she gushes over him. With every compliment, Bridges' chest gets puffier. But his assumptions are just that. She will be thrilled to tell her young son that she met his hero. Ouch! This fast-paced outing gives Bridges one of his earliest lead roles, and he is fine with a coolness, a winning smile, and a commanding delivery. He will have another connection with the Secret Service one year later for his film, Trapped, playing a counterfeiter released from prison to help—reluctantly—the Secret Service trap counterfeiters.

Needing work, he cannot believe his good fortune when Roberts shows him an ad requesting his services. The lead takes him to an apartment where two await his arrival. Trevor Bardette and Roy Barcroft introduce themselves, respectively, as an inspector and a detective with the Secret Service. They also introduce Bridges to an unconscious man lying on a bed. He is startled to see that he and the man look more than similar. Bridges also plays the Dan Redfern character. The Secret Service wants Bridges to pose as Redfern to help them retrieve counterfeit plates from evil, condescending George Zucco. The movie takes a twisty route as Bridges is spotted on the train by Redfern's wife, June Storey, and her brother, perennial bad guy, John Kellogg. Storey's amorous reunion with her "husband" quickly goes cold because Bridges' hair color is different. More than that, he is not missing a thumb. Bridges is suddenly all thumbs and is knocked unconscious, with brother and sister taking the plates.

Once back in San Francisco, Bridges discovers Redfern is no longer among the living. The real Secret Service agents arrest Bridges, and his story is so involved that the Inspector believes no one could make it up. Throughout the film, Bridges is the most honest guy in any room. He calmly tells everyone the truth, and it pays off. Sort of. He is asked to be an actual Secret Service Investigator and continue his charade as the dead Redfern. The plates change hands more than once until Zucco identifies them as fake. The double-crossing gangs of Zucco and Bardette are at odds. An intense fistfight between Bridges and Bardette seems to go on forever in the exciting, slightly convoluted climax. Shots ring out, shortening the future of at least two. After the gunpowder dissipates, Bridges and Roberts start planning their wedding.

Note: Bridges was churning out film after film in supporting roles before achieving leading man status. He was about as busy as anyone in Hollywood in the 1940s. He made up for any lack of matinee idol looks with loads of charisma. His career began to accelerate in 1950 with The Sound of Fury. Bridges became a household name for US television viewers. Joining some peers in "Airplane!" helped rejuvenate his long career.

STEP DOWN TO TERROR (1958)

Bicycling is a joy for most youngsters. The freedom to roam outdoors is inherent and often enhanced as an adult with the added adventure of touring. As with any transportation choice, however, there is a risk of serious injury. Just ask the main character, played by Charles Drake. His childhood head injury from being hit while riding his bike scrambles his brain, eventually resulting in a dual personality with uncontrollable behavior. The thought-provoking title of this seventy-six-minute film is subtly illustrated underneath the title above. In this first remake of the Hitchcock classic, Shadow of a Doubt, it does not offer the same dark and creepy vibe. 

This American crime film is directed by Harry Keller and produced by Joseph Gershenson for Universal-International Pictures. It was written by Mel Dinelli with input from Czenzi Ormonde and Sy Gomberg. I find no credits for the music score, so I assume it is from Universal's stock library. But the opening is powerfully ominous and at least deserves a mention. Besides Drake, the film stars Colleen Miller in one of her more visible roles and a relative newcomer to the big screen, Rod Taylor. Everyone is first-rate in this rather overstuffed story. 

It is no surprise that Drake's opening caustic verbal attack on his landlord indicates he has a problem, an underlying anger much deeper than just being irate about his landlord for popping in unexpectedly. However, he is all smiles in a phone booth when next we see him, suggesting a highly respected, sweetheart of a guy coming home to visit mother, sister-in-law Miller, and her seven-year-old son. When a family member disappears without a trace for six years, it would seem to arouse some sort of suspicion. But the unassuming relatives are ecstatic to have him home. The script throws suspicion his way in due course, perhaps subconsciously hoping his mental nightmare will finally come to an end once and for all. Drake embodies a psychopath in subtle fashion despite his handsome, winning smile and straight-arrow appearance.

Drake gifts Miller with an expensive ring engraved with the initials of no familial connection. Another lie appears to explain it. His heinous life starts to unravel—loosened by guilt—and he is helpless to stop it. Taylor, two years away from fame as H.G. Wells, is a lead policeman on the trail of the philanderer. Miller first finds his revelations preposterous until he tells the origins of the ring's bogus engraving. It leads to a serious falling out with her brother-in-law. Drake is “Uncle Charlie” only to his nephew, who has nothing to fear from him, being overly protective of the boy's safety on his bicycle.

The inane climax is the film's weakest element—ironically involving a bicycle. Drake avoids hitting the Schwinn with a slow speed turn—sped up to a humorous Herman Munster level—with his DeSoto convertible—windshield flattened—ending up completely upside down in tall grass. As if positioned there by a crane hired by the studio. Hmm. Miller absorbs her family's dark secret at the hush-hush funeral. Perhaps a commissioned statue in honor of the town's "ideal" native son. 

RAIDERS FROM BENEATH THE SEA (1964)

No, this is not a science fiction creature film, though fiction may describe it best. The music by Hank Levine is the anchor of the film, sending it beneath the sea, immediately signifying that the next seventy-three minutes may be better spent elsewhere. The music is often substituted for dialogue, which makes it hard to decide the lesser of two evils. Coupled with the other disjointed cues is the guitar-dominated music that cashes in on The Ventures' popular sound. This is also not a beach party film. A drum solo for whenever a 1964 Chrysler appears is very strange. More than likely, the only leitmotif written for an automobile. The character with a weak heart has his own theme when having an attack—a fake theremin sound. Though not the worst film of the mid-Sixties, the problem lies with the directing and producing by Maury Dexter, as he capitalizes on the essence of "strangulated" budgets. The production company for this "dead fish" crime film is Lippert Pictures. Harry Spalding's screenplay is guilty by association, which limits the audience's ability to invest in the characters. Twentieth Century Fox did most of the investing.

The very tall Ken Scott has the cardboard lead. His wife is played by the very short, curvy (corrugated) Merry Anders. He is the landlord of some Catalina apartment houses. His younger brother lives in the same apartment house and helps with maintenance when he is not drunk or peeping at Anders while she is soaking up the sun. It defines his character, and he is half responsible for the obligatory sultry saxophone.

Scott has big plans for a heist of a million dollars—speaking of obligatory—from a Catalina bank. One may note some brief dialogue pauses, giving the impression that some actors have just requested, “Line, please.” Scott and his former pal, Russ Bender—the guy with the theremin heart—approach the bank in scuba gear like creatures from beneath something. They casually escape by walking hilariously down the street to the beach. Neither whistling a random tune. A policeman stops them for not obeying city ordinances about scuba gear, oxygen tanks, and flippers anywhere near pavement. One cannot see their assumed red faces from his chastisement. 

Two other accomplices assist in the getaway boat. Scott is supposed to attach the money bag to a hook dropped from the boat by his brother, but the retrieval line gets snagged on his scuba suit and is pulled up into the propeller. That is kind of a cool concept and—more importantly—signals the film's end is near. Anders' facial reactions, suggesting she is watching Scott's distant underwater demise, are unconvincing. Feeling her best effort to work up a tear has passed, she walks away from the camera.

Note: Outside of the "stage acting" of the five leads, Levine's misplaced music cues are certainly glaring and a target for criticism. The opening music sounds to be lifted directly from the 1962 hit song, "More," the title theme to the odd, Italian travelogue vignettes for the film "Mondo Cane." The opening bars simply invert a note or two. Kai Winding, the Danish-born American trombonist and jazz composer, arranged his own chart hit for the song in 1963. His unique use of the French electronic music instrument, the Ondioline, is echoed in this film by the more common Hammond organ.