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 final review of seven Lippert films.

MOTOR PATROL (1950)

This hour-long film opens in obviously low-budget fashion, yet as an honorable tribute to the motorcycle patrol officers of Los Angeles. I felt like standing to salute during the opening score by Ozzie Caswell—reminiscent of a college marching band or a football newsreel—as motorcycles leave the station in parade fashion. This main theme returns to close out the film. Later, during overlapping scenes of night patrols, he uses a couple of bars of situational comedy music. Certainly worthy of issuing a ticket. There is some location shooting, but expect a lot of back-screen projected scenery during the studio motorcycle “chase” segments. The speedy, climactic cycle chase is especially funny as the hero's fedora is surely stapled to his forehead. Motor Patrol is produced by Robert L. Lippert and Barney A. Sarecky for Lippert Pictures and directed again by Sam Newfield. Fast-pacing was a Lippert signature yet this movie definitely played better in the mid-twentieth century. Other Lippert signatures are the occasional abrupt editing.

As each motorcycle peels off from the "parade" to its intended patrol area, the film quickly shifts to the Los Angeles Police Academy's firing range. First up are the female traffic cops aiming at parking meter silhouettes. You can believe that if you want. The male officers only get a tiny dot on a board. The location provides the perfect opportunity for Newfield to introduce the main cast, Officers William Henry and Don Castle, plus Detective Reed Hadley. Richard Travis innocuously appears later as another detective. Yes, Lippert regular, Sid Melton, does his shtick as a bar owner where everyone knows his name: Omar. The leads work well enough in this dialogue-heavy screenplay by Maurice Tombragel and Orville Hampton, but expect some amateurs in the supporting cast.

Once Officer Henry's character is established, one gets the distinct feeling his days on the force are numbered. The apparent hit-and-run accident he was investigating was simply a cover for an automobile theft racket. Henry pays the price for getting too well-informed. Castle, engaged to Henry's sister, is asked to infiltrate the gang of pre-owned vehicles. The gang employs a tow truck driver—a familiar face from his Warner Bros. days—Frank Jenks, who is suspicious of the new guy. Things really heat up during the final aforementioned motorcycle pursuit. 

HOT CARS (1956)

This sixty-minute American crime film stars John Bromfield in the best of his four Bel-Air Production films (see below) in a modern-day setting, again playing a man out to prove his innocence or regain his self-esteem. The film is fast-paced with a high degree of believability. The acting is not forced with everyone doing a fine job without [hardly] a single unintended laugh-out-loud moment. Based on “Hot Cars” by H. Haile Chace, it is directed by Don McDougall, and written by Don Martin and Richard Landau. It was produced by Howard W. Koch. Uncharacteristically, I spend more time discussing this storyline because of the twists and characters in the film. 

The opening jazz band score by Les Baxter sets the tone for the film while the viewer watches a 1955 Mercedes-Benz 190SL convertible being test driven. Under superimposed screen credits, we watch Bromfield pull the sportscar to the roadside so the potential buyer, and stereotypical bombshell, Joi Lansing, can take the wheel. She provides the only curves—nearly all hairpins—in the film. Building customer relations is foremost in his mind so they stop at Santa Monica's “Jack's at the Beach” bar for a drink and chat, hoping to close the deal. Before the drive back to the dealership, he irresponsibly—an unintentionally funny moment—asks her, “What good is one drink without one for the road?” Though the salesman seems to now have a heavy foot, they safely return to the dealer lot. But she drives away in her own 1956 Chrysler New Yorker convertible.

Bromfield's perpetually irate boss, Robert Osterloh, an auto-shyster of the first order, is savvy enough to know his clientele. He blasts him for wasting time with a high-class dame who has no interest in used cars. Bromfield is straddling the unemployment fence at this point. Enter Ralph Clanton, who appears to be interested in an old MG roadster for only $700. But “Honest John” Bromfield tells him it was used on the racing circuit, has been rolled three times and will be nothing but trouble, in the hopes of getting him into a more expensive car. Clanton appreciates his honesty but drives away. Wanting to unload the dumpster roadster—and on his last nerve—Osterloh fires Bromfield. Clanton re-enters the picture by calling straight-arrow Bromfield about working for his own dealerships. The whole MG thing was just a test as was Lansing's coy attitude to open the film. As soon as Bromfield discovers the hot car racket, he walks out.

But the salesman and his devoted wife suddenly have an urgent financial dilemma thrust upon them when their ill son needs surgery. Caught between a rock and a hard place, Clanton accepts Bromfield's decision to return just as the always authentic Dabbs Greer enters the film. The detective asks the salesman to keep an eye out for any suspicious cars. Later that night, a shipment of hot cars is unloaded onto the lot and in near panic, the semi-driver—a real hep cat—tells Bromfield, “Cut the [dealership] lights, man!” The next day, Greer returns to look at a Chrysler, one of the hot cars yet to be moved behind the dealership. Bromfield's initial fear is unfounded because the detective simply wants to buy the car as an anniversary gift for his wife—she always liked Chryslers. Greer and his wife return, ready to sign on the dotted line. Bromfield is well aware the hot car will not remain a secret very long. In hopes of dissuading Greer, he tries a couple of stalling tactics then suddenly requires a larger down payment. Clanton's operative finally shows up with a pre-arranged sales receipt for the car. Greer is very suspicious and unhappy with the last-minute flip-flop with pointed comments leveled at Bromfield. The detective is too intimidating for the hot car henchman, who shortens Greer's script.

Two police officers want to question Bromfield about the murder but he cannot be found at home. When he does return, his wife pleads with him to tell the truth. The three men pay Lansing a visit and she denies ever meeting Bromfield yet he can prove they met. While in another room, he describes her bedroom furnishings—ahem—which have suddenly been “renovated.” Now a legit suspect, the salesman has an easy escape with the intent of tracking down the assassin. It leads to an exciting and authentic roller coaster climax at Ocean Park Pier in Santa Monica. The two men receive and give punches while being filmed from a coaster car in front of them. Quite a ride for the viewer. Jockeying for position, the henchman is thrown during a high-speed loop. Also thrown for a loop are Clanton and Lansing, who have been on law enforcement's radar for some time.

Notes: Bel-Air Productions was a joint venture between the director, Koch, and the independent producer Aubrey Schenck. These low-budget productions were all distributed through United Artists. Bel-Air usually offered realism on the cinematography front with its location filming. This movie is an eyeful for the automotive historian as it was filmed at Big John's and Johnny O'Toole's used car dealerships in Culver City, California. The film thanks both for their cooperation with an ending acknowledgment.

Bromfield starred in three other Bel-Air Productions of the period, more amusing, less tidy, and generally inferior to this film. Check out The Big Bluff, Crime Against Joe, and Three Bad Sisters.

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 sixth of seven Lippert films.

WESTERN PACIFIC AGENT (1950)

This sixty-five-minute, Sigmund Neufeld Productions crime drama was directed by Sam Newfield, a frequent partner with Lippert Pictures. It was written by Fred Myton, based on a story by Milton Raison, and stars Kent Taylor, Sheila Ryan, and the less familiar Mickey Knox. The film opens with title credits over Western Pacific train footage. Told in flashback by one informed passenger to another, it centers on railroad detectives during “The West Coast Kid” case. It suspiciously appears like a Western Pacific promotional film. After the film's climax, they return to close the film. At any rate, their encapsulated synopsis offers the benefit of shortening the crux of the film. I was impressed overall with how efficiently this one has been pulled together with its element of potential danger and intrigue—a mechanical drawbridge plays a key role at both ends of this film.

Mickey Knox's one-dimensional hate performance is something a lot of actors can pull off, so I was not that impressed. The psychopathic killer intercepts a big cash payroll by raising a drawbridge, halting a rail agent's progress. Two murders later, he is stuck with bags of traceable bills. Money that is intended for his father's general store. When he tries to warm up to his father in hopes of a handout, the father knows his lying son too well. Knox angrily storms off, hops the next freight and sits in on a couple of homeless camps to hide. But word gets around quickly within a loyal band of hobos.

A Lippert levity regular, Sid Melton plays a nervous simpleton who absorbs information literally, not clearly processing what he hears. Some might suggest Melton's character has no place in this film, but that is shortsighted. Similar characters have become common in a number of modern, team-oriented adventure films—like the socially awkward computer geek. Melton had a natural delivery for such a character and it may be Lippert's best use of the comedian. His first scenes with Taylor are the funniest. I suspect his dry, deadpan delivery is a problem for most Millennials. Deadpan is hard to recognize on social media.

Melton is the first to come in contact with the marked bills and Knox. Taylor becomes increasingly perturbed with having to clarify things to Melton over and over. So it seems to make little sense for Taylor to ask him to tag along to help with identification. But Melton's assistance pays off. Taylor and law enforcement, including a ballooned sheriff, Dick Elliott—right out of a Warner Bros cartoon—corner Knox in a shack. During the shootout, he yells back at the police in true comedic parody form, "Come and get me, copper!" Knox's father approaches the shack but he is wounded in more ways than one. Knox escapes, taking with him a bullet in the leg to the harbor drawbridge. But the bridge is ascending. The music score accelerates the climax to an exciting level. The futility of Knox's escape is no secret to the audience. What goes up must come down.

Note: American railroads peaked in the Thirties with the colorful streamlined passenger trains being the epitome of first-class travel in their effort to woo passengers away from the increasing popularity of the airline industry. Finally, as a general rule, the always-open boxcar door's invitation to hop a freight was common for decades. By the end of the Sixties, most railroads cracked down on boxcar hitchhikers.

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 fifth of seven Lippert films.

ROARING CITY (1951)

This oddly-titled low-budget crime film was surely forgotten a week after leaving the theater. As noted elsewhere online, this movie has two distinct halves unrelated to one another except for the three main stars. This film and two others from the same year, Danger Zone and Pier 23, were meant to become part of a thirty-minute television series, but wisely, the Networks saw no future for them. Each plot has slightly confusing twists, but both stories are wrapped up between the male leads to explain what transpired. As a film, it eliminated commercial breaks. It is directed by William Berke, produced by Jack Leewood, and distributed by Lippert Pictures. Not helping on the excitement level is an innocuous score with its travelogue opening by Bert Shefter. I could not assess what all the roaring is about in this film.

At just under sixty minutes, this is an ordinary murder mystery on one hand, yet it stars Hugh Beaumont on the other. He played Dennis O'Brien in the two aforementioned films as an unlicensed private investigator eking out a living along the San Francisco pier, renting boats and hoping the next phone call gets him a paying assignment. Vintage radio fans would remember this premise from a previous series, Pat Novak, For Hire, starring Jack Webb. Both characters narrate the story, rent boats, and deliver hard-boiled pulp fiction dialogue and one-liner quips. Beaumont does not corner that market. Most of the actors provide quips to the point of overkill. Beaumont remains cool and collected but he is not an acerbic Novak, who was always on the cusp of decking someone. Beaumont is more Jim Rockford and would seem to avoid violence except in self-defense. Like Rockford, there are enough knocks to his head to follow concussion protocol.

Beaumont opens the film with a drowsy—slightly inebriated—voice-over about San Francisco being a "conservative town." How times have changed—I digress. There is the ever-present dialogue bringing the viewer up to speed. Here is the gist: a crook wants Beaumont to place some bets in his name on a boxing match that has been rigged. But when the “losing” boxer wins, things start to unravel, especially for Beaumont, who is suspected to be part of the thrown match. He gets tangled up with a brunette for the boxing story, then accepts an assignment from a two-timing blonde in the second half,f which opens in a diner. Upon her departure, Beaumont's voice-over says, “She left a trail of perfume that was two parts garden and one part chloroform.” Richard Travis plays the licensed detective who always thinks Beaumont is guilty of something, like Jim Rockford.

Note: It is a delight to see Ed Brophy as Beaumont's roommate, not playing a well-meaning buffoon or sidekick. Like Pat Novak's legman, Brophy has a fetish for strong drinks. With a convincing British accent and multi-syllable dialogue seeming lifted from Shakespearean theater, he amusingly plays "ex-Professor" Frederick Simpson Schicker in low-key fashion.

THE FLYING SAUCER (1950)

This American, independently made Soviet spy drama was written, produced, directed, and starred the average-looking Mikel Conrad, not Comrade. So, most of the blame falls on his shoulders. In truth, he does a decent job of capturing his character, but he is never in Micky Spillane territory. Occasionally, one person in charge of all aspects of a film can make an impact. Allen Baron is a great example with his 1961 crime film, Blast of Silence. The result here is lackluster filmmaking. The film is not a thriller; it is science fiction, but not in the typical sense. Do not expect flying saucers to destroy totem poles in Juneau, Alaska. This is a mystery, and that is its strongest compliment. Denver Pyle, Roy “B-movie” Engel, and to a lesser degree, Russell Hicks, are the best-known faces, while much of the cast turns in solid collegiate performances.

Intelligence officials learn that Soviet spies have begun exploring a remote region of the Alaska Territory, concerning worldwide reports of flying saucers. Conrad, raised in that region, is recruited because his credentials as a wealthy American playboy are best suited to handle an undercover assignment to assist a Secret Service agency. He is not excited—too much work. Then he admires his reflection in a mirror and is introduced to the pretty female agent, Pat Garrison. Many frames are eaten up by bucolic Alaskan scenery, slow motorboat navigation across a vast lake, a seaplane flight, and a picnic, all of which include no dialogue. The crescendoing music score is better suited for an epic film. Yet the grandeur is lost in a wash of grays. 

Conrad is to pretend he is suffering from a nervous breakdown—trying to control this film perhaps—with Garrison acting as his private nurse. The charade seems to be a moot point throughout the film. The lodge's caretaker, from his first frame, is one of the more obvious villains. “Mr. Terrific,” clad in plaid, is highly skeptical of flying saucer reports until he hears one slice over his Alaskan lodge. Probably a meteor, he thinks. The saucer is real, an invention of American scientist Roy Engel, whose mechanic, Denver Pyle, is a greedy communist spy with a plan: get in on the ground floor of the Soviet Frisbee cartel. Conrad has to deal with Soviet agents in Juneau, a conniving barmaid, and his own drunken stupor, an avalanche, and the rescue of his phony private nurse—all of which approach mundane. Conrad, Garrison and Engel see light at the end of a secret Soviet tunnel just in time to spot Pyle being "saucered." The Soviets would learn a lot from reverse engineering, so Engel installed an after-market accessory. At a certain altitude, the saucer explodes with small "Pyles" scattered about.

Note: This seventy-five-minute science fiction film was distributed in the United States by Film Classics Inc. It is the first feature film to deal with the era's hot topic of flying saucers. I imagine those who bought tickets for this international spy yarn were ticked off that it has nothing to do with the poster. The single saucer in this film is more akin to a reconnaissance drone. Flying disks were first given the film's title in 1947 by a private pilot who reported nine silvery, crescent-shaped objects flying in tight formation. Some chose to take him at his word.

FILM BRAKE: EMERGENCY!

 

I believe it is safe to say this is the only series that involves two composers of two different Route 66 themes. Nelson Riddle wrote the theme for Emergency! and for the previous decade's hit show, Route 66. Emergency! cast member, Bobby Troup, wrote the hit song, Get Your Kicks On Route 66, famously recorded by Nat King Cole. 

This American television medical drama from Mark VII Limited and Universal Television is aimed to be more realistic than the two previous decades of medical shows, centering on the new field of emergency medical system (EMS) paramedics. Famous for his insistence on realism and not theatrics, it was created and produced by Jack Webb along with Robert Cinader. Additional creative credit went to Harold Jack Bloom. Pioneering EMS innovator, James O. Page, served as a technical advisor, always on the set to make sure everything was authentic. Resisting the comparison to modern medical dramas, the show still remains an impressive display of intelligent production, with money well-spent where it counted. 

The earliest episodes were on shaky ground with sometimes stiff and cliched performances, delivering the occasional clipped banter or tight closeups ala Dragnet. The show hit its stride by the third season, not focusing so much on interpersonal relationships, but the seamless blend of action, drama, and comedy (best showcased at Station 51). Yet it never ranked in the Nielson top 25. Networks were having a problem with 1970s action shows blended with comedy. Emergency! was not Medical Center any more than Jim Rockford was Steve McGarrett of Hawaii Five-O. Loyal viewers kept the hour-long show running from January 1972 until May 1977. After the regular series ended, there were six two-hour television movies produced during 1978-79 as the seventh season in an attempt to bring closure to the series. See "Notes" below.

Unlike many action dramas today with multiple plots, Emergency! fans' attention span was most impressive. The show only had two areas of interest: the rescue and the hospital. If an area of heavy brush needed clearing in order to access a crashed automobile "placed" in a ravine, the production filmed a bulldozer clearing the brush. It was mesmerizing at the time, sending the message that rescues can be tedious and with potential danger. Though both lead actors underwent some paramedic training for their roles at Station 51, arrival to film an "emergency scene" sometimes offered the unexpected. Some ad-libbing was inevitable to make their characters believable. The producers were able to balance out their budget despite the high cost of the rescue scenes. On the other side of the coin, the hospital scenes were inexpensive to shoot. With the back and forth locations during an episode, they were able to split the cost for each episode. 

 

Anyone binge-watching today may find a few emergencies a bit too extended with repetitive, four-note, bass guitar licks or flutes in the background that made it seem even longer. The repeated footage of the rescue vehicles leaving the station or in transit will also be obvious, with certain neighborhoods apparently having more than their share of emergencies. Automobile accidents are obviously staged using "pre-crashed" vehicles. Crash stunts were not the point, it was how the paramedics coordinated their efforts with the hospital. The show evolved to include more spectacular 1970s-style pyro-technics, and the paramedics were involved in some exhausting stunts, using few or expertly hidden stuntmen. As a general rule, if you could not see their faces, it was stuntmen. 

The producers used fictitious names for the stationhouse and hospital, yet not all the actors were fictitious. A few were employed by the Los Angeles fire and police departments and used their real names. The balance of lead and supporting actors in the series can be found at the link below. Though Randolph Mantooth (Johhny Gage) and Kevin Tighe (Roy DeSoto) had prior credits, this was their first lead roles -- both seemingly appearing out of nowhere. These lead characters are a huge factor in making this series successful. Gage is a self-absorbed, die-hard single guy while DeSoto is married with children and has been in the paramedic program longer than his partner. These ordinary-looking guys tease, argue, and get on each other's nerves like brothers, and it is this partnership (they are best friends in real life) that makes the series memorable. There is not a situation or subject that Gage is not an "expert." He will have ideas about moonlighting on his off days for extra cash or butting in to resolve everyone's personal dilemmas to the amusement or ire of DeSoto and the firemen because he rarely knows what he is talking about. As per Barney Fife's earlier precedent, Mantooth's character became the breakout star of the show.

Notes: The series used a variation of Riddle's theme during some emergency runs. Beginning with the third season, big band composer and arranger, Billy May, came aboard to provide the show's incidental music with a jazzy, brassy, 1970s-style driving rhythm during emergency runs. Other times, his music is simply overbearing and highly repetitious. On the "B-side" is Gerald Fried's score for the last two movies. His music themes rarely fit a given scene as if he never saw a single frame from the movie. When it is not silly, much of the music is totally out of sync with the visuals.

Aside from the movie about the paramedic's retrospective of memorable rescues, there is no commonality between the movies and the series. The movies have lost their timeliness and are best bypassed today. Station 51 is nowhere to be found and the complete hospital cast only appears in the first movie. Gage and DeSoto become secondary cast members as they travel to observe paramedics in a couple other cities on the west coast, with a new cast that is dangerously close to amateurs. Perhaps the producers were thinking that watching any paramedics will be just as good. 

For more detail on the series, including the memorabilia and vehicles now in the Smithsonian Institution collection, visit HERE.

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 fourth of seven Lippert films.

TREASURE OF MONTE CRISTO (1949)

Though the opening narration tries to justify why this movie has "Monte Cristo" in the title, there is no mention of swords or high-waist tights. Well-directed by William Berke, and distributed by Screen Guild Productions, it attempts to bring Alexandre Dumas to modern-day San Francisco, complete with a prison escape of sorts. It is another fast-paced Lippert Pictures production making a likable film from a constrained budget. And it only removes a mere seventy-eight minutes from your life. One of the better Lippert productions, the film is centered around a descendant of the Count and his sizable fortune. As expected, some would like to intercept that treasure. The duped descendant tries to unravel reality during one of his most improbable weeks. The location cinematography by Benjamin Kline puts the viewer on the streets. He even uses a "gun cam" behind the gun's barrel of one detective firing bullets. A competent score by Albert "B-movie" Glasser is well-utilized.

Dashing Glenn Langan is the descendant, a Second Mate on the shipping freighter, Pacific Queen. After dropping anchor, he rescues an assumed damsel in distress, Adele Jergens—the real-life wife of Langan. He and Jergens never looked better than in this film. I doubt anyone in the theater believed her backstory about her mental hospital stay, so her guardian could control her wealth. But Langan does. Jergens wants an "arranged" marriage to deflect her pursuers. So it is off to Reno. He becomes the latest Hollywood simpleton completely unglued by a female's lying lips.

In the captivating opening scene, the Cristo fortune liaison is knocked unconscious while recovering in the hospital. Paralyzed, except for the ability to move his eyes, Langan visits him in hopes of discovering his point in the film. It sets up an unintended funny moment. Needing yes or no answers, he suggests the patient move his eyes back and forth, left to right, for the appropriate reply. But it appears he is simply looking at one side of the room, then the other, in terror of the strange noise of an attacker. Blinking would have had a less humorous outcome. While Langan leaves the hospital, the liaison is permanently silenced, with Langan set up to take the fall. The traditional flashing newspaper headlines inform the viewer of his sentencing to die quicker than his marriage ceremony.

It is rare to find Steve Brodie in an educated professional role, yet true to form, he is a crooked underworld lawyer with a studio caterpillar mustache passing himself off as Langan's best defense. But his scheme already included Jergens, and he plans to throw the case, removing Langan from any inheritance. Despite his limited screen time, he provides the only spark in the film. Something he often did.

From a story by Aubrey Wisberg and Jack Pollexfen, the screenplay is intelligent enough, once it gets past Dumas' original intention. In keeping with a number of Lippert productions, a bit of amusing obligatory dialogue is sliced in late in this film. Sid Melton, the weasel working on Brodie's behalf, abducts Jergens, ushering her into a waiting car. Rising above his comical looks, he assumes he might be worthy of her attention. "You know I'm single?" Her deadpan reply is, "I can understand that." She gets shuttled around again by Brodie, and she frightfully asks, "What are you going to do?!" He replies, "Two things, and you're the second."

Note: Langan's character was taken in as a young child by an Italian family. His “Papa” and two sons visit him behind bars on more than one occasion. Papa is played by Michael Vallon “witha-the-worsta” stereotypical Italian accent. In keeping with their criminal heritage, the two sons later spring Langan during a prison transfer, shooting out a tire on the police vehicle and arranging for his change of clothes from a well-planted panel truck.