THE DAY MARS INVADED EARTH (1962)

This independently made black-and-white CinemaScope science fiction film was backed by Robert L. Lippert and had its premiere in the cinema capital of the world, Minneapolis, Minnesota. The seventy-minute film is best viewed during daylight hours when there is a lower chance of dozing off. The film was released by Twentieth Century Fox as the bottom half of a double feature, Elvis Presley's Kissin' Cousins. Ouch! On the positive side, there are no embarrassing alien monsters to groan about. Hauntingly dull best describes the film.

Kent Taylor halfway through reading the screenplay

The film was directed and produced by Maury Dexter, and it was the second and (thankfully) final script written by Harry Spalding. The film stars B-movie regulars Kent Taylor, Marie Windsor, and William Mims. Taylor is the anchor of the film, but not his family. He is just too brilliant in his position at NASA to be there for his kids' birthdays, April Fool's Day, Armed Forces Day, Memorial Day, or even Easter. It could explain Windsor's lackluster performance, who seems sedated throughout the film.

Marie Windsor cannot believe she signed the film's contract

Taylor is in charge of a probe surveyor craft to Mars. The robotic probe is destroyed on the surface by some unknown force, and that same force makes Taylor's face get all blurry. More than this, there are double Taylors, with at least one showing up for a rare family Christmas at the Windsor family's lavish, 46,000-square-foot mansion. Taylor's entire family eventually gets all blurry-faced, and when he goes looking for his wife, she is in two places at the same time. The footage of Taylor or Windsor wandering through acres of the well-groomed estate is covered by a “sleep-inducing” soap opera score.

William Mims, a family friend and future blurry face, is a cohort of Taylor. He is invited to the mansion, and their conversation turns to the four extra “people” at the estate. His wanderlust being strong, Taylor later stumbles upon his duplicate. The Taylor martian tells him that they are without physical bodies and possess energy-generated intelligence. Sort of a hologram without the film's special effects department able to show that on screen. The Martians travel to Earth by two-way radio waves, preferably the FM band with its lack of static. Speaking of static, the Martians do not want any. Turns out they are not the social animals Hollywood usually envisions—they want no more illegal Earthling visits.

This film puts “provoking” into “thought-provoking”—mostly wondering if one can sit through the film. Spoiler alert: there is a bit of clever writing after the entire human cast has been reduced to ashes at the bottom of an empty swimming pool—in proportioned silhouette forms. The water jets are opened, and the ashes disappear down the drain without a trace. Like one's money disappearing in a crooked hedge fund. The five aliens pile into the Plymouth station wagon and drive off to an unresolved ending. Spooky.

Note: Most of the film was shot at the Greystone Mansion, located in Beverly Hills since 1928. It has been used in countless films over the decades and is currently a public park and set aside for special events.

JOHNNY STOOL PIGEON (1949)

It is safe to say this seventy-five-minute American crime drama, directed by William Castle with a screenplay by Robert L. Richards from a story by Henry Jordan, is essentially unknown. The film was produced by Aaron Rosenberg and is a typical effort from Castle before his more infamous “horror” projects. But thanks to the professional casting of Howard Duff and Dan Duryea, it may satisfy the fans of television's Dragnet. The middle section stays fairly upright thanks to the film's bookends of action. Well-equipped for the role, Duff works for the US Treasury's narcotics bureau. Echoing Dragnet with a no-nonsense, low-key delivery, his periodic voiceovers fill in any gaps for those who might have dozed off. With handgun drawn, peeking around a brick building, the suspense-filled opening sets up an attempt to crack an international drug ring. But he is going to need help.

Duff wants to suspend Duryea's three-year stay in Alcatraz to become the title character. Not surprisingly, the movie perks up with Duryea's first appearance. To convince him he desperately needs his help, Duff wants him to identify a corpse at the morgue. Duryea is sickened to see that it is his estranged wife, a victim of drug pushers. Though still holding out hope of revenge, he agrees to train Duff to become a tough-talking drug dealer with substantial connections.

Shelly Winters has already met Duff and Duryea. During this era, she was ensconced in “high school dropout” roles, here as a helpless pawn to mob boss John McIntire, who could play genial or despicable, but rarely in the same film. One of his operatives is a junior hitman played by Tony Curtis, who appears to be puzzled about something during his scenes. The climax provides the other bookend of “thrills” as Duff's undercover is blown—never saw that coming. In the end, Duryea is deserving of a reduced sentence, and Winters. Duff's final voice-over wraps the film.

SHACK OUT ON 101 (1955)

This movie surely got lost on its opening weekend, but no need to apologize for their efforts. You will enjoy this rather unconventionally titled film. One might think this is a filmed stage play as ninety-five percent of the film takes place in a diner [set] along California's Highway 101. The viewer gets hooked in the first five minutes, and past this point, the plot slowly unfolds. A story not about the life of Pie, but centering around a common theme during this period: national security. This slow-burn film has an interesting mix of humor and mystery during the “who do you trust” era. Condense this down to under sixty minutes, and you would have one of the better Alfred Hitchcock Hour episodes.

All the diner's patrons interact with numerous one-on-one conversations. There is Lee Marvin, a character who swings from lecherous slob to comical buddy. Everyone's cliched short-order cook. If Marvin seemed to be underappreciated mid-century, he did not go unnoticed. He is quite versatile here, handling a pivotal dual role. He has a lot cooking, but it is not chili. Keenan Wynn, the sarcastic eatery owner, does not like Marvin's attitude and apparently his cooking. Their verbal jabs is the daily routine. He and Marvin have the funniest scene during their weight-lifting challenge. It is full of sarcastic insults as each tries to "out man" the other. Lean and lanky, Marvin is hilarious.

Throw in smokey-voiced tenor, Frank Lovejoy, with a few secrets; throw in a naive waitress, Terry Moore, and you have a reason to show up at the diner. Despite her top billing, this is Marvin's film. If you are expecting Whit Bissell to show up, then you will not be disappointed. He plays the D-Day buddy of Wynn’s character. Len Lesser (Seinfeld’s Uncle Leo) and Marvin seem to have a long-standing relationship. Their odd mock "boxing match" at arm's length with opposite ends of a towel between their teeth would seem to have a childhood history.

Note: This eighty-minute suspense drama was directed by Edward Dein with a twisty screenplay by him and Mildred Dein. It was produced by William F. Broidy Productions and released by United Artists Pictures. The ever-present Paul Dunlap offered up the music score, starting off with a jazzy jukebox number.

THE THREAT (1949)

The film opens dramatically during a night prison break and a constant barrage of machine guns blazing willy-nilly, hoping the guards might hit something moving other than the opening credits. It is an attention-grabbing scene often used during this era. All of which is unknown to Detective Michael O'Shea, recuperating at home from a broken rib. A phone call from the police inspector, Robert Shayne, informs him about the breakout of a notorious homicidal criminal, who had sworn to kill those who placed him behind bars. O'Shea, being number one. Rather than obey his wife's wishes, he goes into action without a single grimace from that rib injury. But before he can even start his patrol car, he is kidnapped by the cold-blooded killer. Few films start so compellingly. That cannot be said of the ending.

Typical of O'Shea's B-movies, one would never call him truly tough, especially when compared to Charles McGraw, in another evil role. With gasoline prices hovering around thirty cents per gallon, the criminal trio is happy to burn the police car's tank as they make the rounds delivering “death warrants” on a District Attorney and nightclub singer, Virginia Grey, in a familiar role at odds with a man who thinks she squealed on him. Like many in today's films, it is another criminal who does not comprehend why he spent time behind bars in the first place, preferring to blame others for his despicable lifestyle.

Known only by McGraw's alias, an unsuspecting Don McQuire is hired to pick up a load in his moving van at a designated location. He gets a bit suspicious after seeing what is loaded into his van: a police car. This weighs heavily on McGuire's conscience. The van is later abandoned and unloaded, and he tries to beg off and return with his van. But all seven end up at a dilapidated shack in the desert, thus beginning the brief slowdown in the film. Suspended disbelief is needed when they enter the dusty, cobweb-infested shack that appears to have not been inhabited for twenty years. McGraw growls out a command for Grey to make some sandwiches. Pretty amazing she could find anything edible—certainly nothing to spread on or meat to place between two slices of rock-hard, moldy bread. Those “sandwiches” do appear to be simply two slices of bread. Yum. 

Not fully grasping the gravity of the situation, McQuire again demands to be set free, swearing not to rat on the gang as he heads for the door. McGraw, stone-cold, calmly addresses him by name. Knowing he will probably be shot, he angrily takes his seat back inside. McGraw uses O'Shea to send a misleading message to Shayne over the police car's radio. But he uses a “code name” that only his wife will understand. The gang stays put until the arrival of their escape plane, leading to their portion of the loot. The hostages are rightfully concerned that there is only room for three passengers upon takeoff.

This RKO Radio Picture film is a hard-hitting sixty-six-minute crime drama from a screenplay by Dick Irving Hyland and Hugh King from King's own story. Edited by Samuel E. Beetley, it is supported by a music score by Paul Sawtell. Though not the first film noir that comes to mind associated with Charles McGraw, this obscure film is a good one to finish out the 1940s.

Note: O'Shea's police training seems to get the upper hand on McGraw from the adjoining, locked, hostage room, but the killer starts firing randomly through the door, hitting O'Shea in the leg. Already known for his high threshold for pain, the bullet in the leg nor the broken rib fazes him in the least when he drops down from the rafters onto McGraw. Welcome to "make-believe" shack.

TWENTY PLUS TWO (1961)

This American mystery film is directed by Joseph M. Newman and is adapted from Frank Gruber's 1961 novel of the same mysterious title. Ten years into Gerald Fried's career is a period-specific jazz band score. The prolific television composer's opening theme here suggests a private eye caper. Close enough. The film was released by Allied Artists Pictures (uh-oh) and stars David Janssen, Jeanne Crain, and Dina Merrill, with a dandy performance by Jacques Aubuchon. Fans of Janssen will be pleased, if not the entirety of the film. His downplayed trademark acting skill is well suited for this role. This film is sandwiched between Janssen's television success with the Richard Diamond series and his phenomenal hit, The Fugitive. There are touches of both characters in this film, from his potential smile twitch at the right side of his mouth, a general awkward nervousness, and his occasional glib humor. I have centered my comments only on the actors and the production. There are no spoiler alerts except this one: far left, the poster suggests Ellie Kent is an integral part of the film. On the contrary, she has an uncredited bit part, and a viewer's sneeze will make one miss her entirely. 

Set ten years after his Korean War service, Janssen plays an investigator [privately] specializing in locating lost heirs and perhaps bringing closure to any unresolved issues. His interest is piqued by a teenage girl who went missing a decade prior—perhaps dead or alive. It leads to encounters with a detective associate, the mother of the missing girl, and a former flame. Surprisingly, such a talkative film holds one's interest thanks to Janssen's performance and a well-paced script. Not all “talkies” come off this well.

The early scene between Janssen and Aubuchon—tailing him everywhere—lays down the personalities of both characters. Aubuchon needs his services to locate his brother, who may be using an assumed name. His sophisticated demeanor and superior attitude are amusing and off-putting to Janssen, whose humorous counters to his proposal are subtle highlights. Just who is using assumed names in this film is something Janssen needs to unravel. This in itself provides most of the script's twists.

Coming off his role in The Magnificent Seven is Brad Dexter, once again at his smarmy best. No one, including the viewers, trusts this guy. Crain is the past flame of Janssen, who insists on rekindling those dying embers. Her "Dear John" letter, while he was in the war, still stings after ten years. Time to move on, you two! One wonders why her character is even in this film, but she has a connection to Janssen's investigation.

The production itself has its problems. One is the year that the young girl disappeared from school. It is not consistent throughout the film—like the film editing. I have not spent enough time figuring out how the Twenty Plus Two title fits into this film since I have not read the book. Who has? Perhaps it is the year of the missing girl's birth advanced to what would be her current age: twenty...plus two. Except that Merrill is thirty-eight! There is a ten-year flashback in the final third of the film set in Japan that might have been less of a surprise had the film used the alternate title, It Started in Tokyo. During this flashback, Janssen's acting persona comes off as much younger—an awkward young adult—something Merrill does not accomplish. This brings up a problem early in the film when Janssen and Merrill are seated on a United Airlines flight.

He cannot quite place where he has seen her. She apparently has no clue who he is. This makes sense until that late flashback blows this whole scene to smithereens. How a highly trained investigator is unable to recognize the woman with whom he had a pivotal fling simply because of her altered hair color is beyond reason. Maybe the hint of "crow's feet" emanating from her eyes threw him off. The suspension of disbelief should not have to stretch this far. It is kind of like Richard Kimble "dying" his hair black for four years. Oh, wait.

Note: On the positive side, whereas low-budget film companies were notorious for switching aircraft mid-flight, United Airlines provided all the airline footage. So the Douglas DC-8 remains constant throughout the film. 

TWELVE HOURS TO KILL (1960)

Twelve Hours to Kill is an unimaginative premise hampered by a tired script and a poorly directed lead actor providing eighty-three minutes to kill. This might have played better a decade earlier. Distributed by 20th Century Fox, it gains its B-movie status more likely due to the director, Edward L. Cahn, infamously known for his mediocre films. It is written by Jerry Sohl, based on a 1959 Saturday Evening Post story by Richard G. Stern, Set Up for Murder. The prolific Paul Dunlap handled the music score adequately.

The Greek actor, Nico Minardos, in his first lead role, provides no spark to the film given his lack of direction or experience. He plays an immigrant amazed by America. Nico witnesses a mob hit outside his apartment and then hesitantly reports it to the police. They find it hard to convince him that he could be just as dead in America as in Greece. No way! Not making a solid commitment as to what to do, he flees to a small town by train and finds himself offering a seat to Barbara Eden, whose destination is the same, her hometown. She is the most optimistic and trusting person—nothing fazes her—sounding a lot like the Jeanne some will dream about in the near future. Dramas were not the light comedienne's strong suit, and her character also stretches believability. 

Both leave the train hand in hand as if on their first date. All googly-eyed. She may find out too late about his lack of commitment. Also waiting at the depot are a pair of thugs, Richard Reeves and Gavin MacLeod. The latter seemingly lifted from a comedy skit, while MacLeod, as was often the case early in his career, is a heartless gangster. Eden drives an adorable 1959 Simca Aronde Océane. The standout element in this movie. Spotting the suspicious duo, Minardos asks for a ride. She is happy to do so for her favorite total stranger. She quickly learns of his "death dilemma," and being the take-charge kind of person she is, tries to help. Not so much. 

Not surprisingly, the mobsters find Eden home alone and, right out of the Hollywood playbook, they get rough with her. After this encounter, viewers never see her again but assume a reuniting with her only love, the Simca ...er...Minardos. The movie moseys along as two detectives, Grant Richards and Russ Conway, try to locate the Greek—one with no interest in his safety. There is a soft closing as the "ever kind and wise" Art Baker, the police captain, exposes the double-crossing cop and gives MacLeod a choice before going to jail: one will kill him en route. He chooses wisely.

THUNDER IN CAROLINA (1960)

 

Dirt track racing footage and the roar of eight cylinders with no exhaust system play heavily under the opening credits in this Howco International Pictures' shoestring-budgeted story about some “good ‘ol boys” racing in South Carolina. This is my second Howco-distributed film review, yet this one is not embarrassing. It is the oft-told tale of a former bootlegger who has risen through the ranks to become a top driver but is in the middle of a multi-year losing streak. Directed by Paul Helmick and written by Alexander Richards, this ninety-two-minute double-billed release was produced by J. Francis White. Helmets off to cinematographer Joseph C. Brun and his capture of early highway and dirt track racing. 

Expect the customary studio prop cars against projected background scenery when necessity focuses on the actor's faces. But the vintage race footage at Darlington Raceway is certainly the big climax for vintage NASCAR fans during what has proven to be the start of a deadly decade of stock car racing. It is rather amusing as the race track announcer editorializes about the central character’s unethical driving during each pass by the grandstand. That precedes the veteran driver blowing a tire, ending with a crumpled car and a resulting broken ankle. A forlorn saxophone supports his continued bad fortune as he later hobbles with a cane and a plastered leg toward his unrecognizable mangled metal. I could imagine wagers at the body shop on whether it was an Oldsmobile or a Chrysler.

Rory Calhoun plays the veteran driver and raises the film up a few thousand RPMs for the independent studio. He is believable, but do not expect a southern accent, even though his character grew up in the South Carolina hills. Alan Hale (sans the junior and accent) is Calhoun’s former racing buddy and rightfully garners second billing. With his trademark smile and overconfident boasting, he adds the only acting spark. The director's simple solution keeps his right hand in his pocket at all times since losing the use of his arm in a devastating crash.

Everyone else gets the caution flag, particularly Race Gentry—credited here with his birth name, John Gentry—in his third and final motion picture. Given the movie’s subject, I thought his professional name was an inside joke specifically for this film. Calhoun shows up at his service station in hopes of seeing his old mechanic again. But that was three years ago…back when he was not dead. Gentry is rather cool to the “old guy” who comes off as someone expecting a handout—until he makes out his famous name on his race car. Calhoun also steps over the boundaries of ethical behavior off the track. Perhaps his personal life played a key role in this film as “Calhoun the Cad” immediately attempts to hit on Gentry’s wife—Connie Hines holds her own in her only film role—after only one glance. There are obligatory arguments between the husband and wife about their future together in true soap opera fashion. Hines would later gain notoriety as a co-star of the Mr. Ed television comedy. 

Calhoun cannot drive. Gentry wants to. So he teaches the eager young mechanic how to drive fast and smartly. His first driver training session is on curvy mountain roads and is a highlight in the early going. The sound of the 1955 hot rod echoing among the hills makes more noise than speed—reaching about 45 mph on a straightaway, it would appear. They catch the eye of Revenuers from their hidden speed trap. One can see the different suspension setup between their 1959 production car, as the stock car lies flat in the curves. A roadblock brings the training to a standstill. The revenuer recognizes the infamous Calhoun and suspects he is running moonshine again. After thoroughly searching the car and finding nothing suspicious, their total disappointment only generates more hate.

Gentry gains race experience throughout the summer season of the film, eventually qualifying with the big boys. Calhoun and Gentry have a falling out late in the film as the latter’s head gets too big for his helmet. That exciting race footage of NASCAR's Southern 500 is interrupted repeatedly with fifteen-second cuts of Hines pacing the floor amid soothing music from a radio. Then it is back to racing mayhem as Calhoun (sans plastered leg) battles Gentry for the checkered flag. Hines finally gets enough courage to arrive at the racetrack, getting her own checkered flag as she comes to grips with her husband's danger. She can always remarry if things go really bad.

Note: One race competitor is famed stunt driver, Cary Loftin, eight years away from stepping in for Steve McQueen in Bullitt. His controlled crash during his qualifying run and subsequent cut to flaming wreckage footage end his character’s life.

Periodically, the music score during Brun's racing scenes would be more fitting of a Western movie about a grand cattle drive. With cars three or four abreast, visually, that is not too far off. Finally, I am not sure why a song was written for this film, but Ann Stevens sings beautifully in her only professional credit, accompanied by her laptop Autoharp.