HIGHWAY 13 (1948)

Robert L. Lippert Productions churned out countless low-budget films. This project's budget came in under Sixty grand and Sixty minutes. It was distributed by Screen Guild Productions. Top billing goes to Robert Lowery, sans mustache. He is supported by Pamela Blake (below right), and Michael Whalen whom Lippert tapped into more than once, and everyone's favorite sardonic curmudgeon, Clem Bevins (below left), who plays her uncle. Whalen and Maris Wrixon both have pivotal roles.

Trucking was a popular movie theme during the early years of overland shipments with engines that could increasingly go the extra mile. It was a noisy, physical job to pilot a tractor or single-axle truck during the 1940s and 1950s. Sabotage was a sure bet premise. This film is not subtle about addressing this as the opening scenes use a constant barrage of trucks—at least one miniature—crashing over a cliff on a mountainous section of “jinxed” Highway 13. Out of sequence is a sedan that enthusiastically powers over a cliff. The driver, Whalen, survives, but his wife, the heiress to the trucking company, does not. After a period of recovery, he returns to the office and expresses to the owner his concern that the rash of driver eliminations is more than accidents. He seems sincere. He later meets the truck driver who found his wife after the fiery crash. Lowery. Imagine his surprise to see that Walen survived.

Bevins, whose age seems to always be pushing ninety, regularly checks the trucks over before the drivers hit the road again. Adjacent to the studio garage set is a diner set where Blake takes short orders. Lowery is a regular customer and after their back-and-forth teasing quips, it is apparent they are planning a future together. As per usual, Bevins is likable as “Pops” with disparaging remarks about coffee's effect on him. Not entirely on the up-and-up, however, he starts spreading rumors that Lowery may be responsible for the rash of crashes.

Walen hires a private detective to pose as their newest driver to investigate the sabotages. Expect the usual sped-up truck sequences as they power around a curve like a sports car. He and Wrixon try to pin his “accidental” death on Lowery. The climax involves an unconscious Lowery, a stowaway Blake and truck pilot, Bevins. With a strong bit of suspended disbelief, you might accept the unlikely and clichéd final sequence.

Note: One interesting historical element is the lost art of using a manual choke lever on the dashboard. Before electronic fuel injection, a manual choke provided a way to get the right mixture of fuel and air in the carburetor. It was mainly used during cold starts, especially in winter. A full choke at start-up, however, might “flood” the engine with too much fuel, making it nearly impossible to start immediately and a short waiting game ensues until the fuel drains from the carburetor. Once underway, pulling the choke all the way out would provide enough fuel to keep a vehicle slowly rolling without a foot on the accelerator pedal. Lowery does this early in the film (albeit a studio prop truck) as he opens the door, places his left foot on the running board and stands to get a better view of an accident ahead. Bevins also uses the manual choke in the movie's climax for his stunt double to jump from a moving truck.

SO’S YOUR AUNT EMMA! (1942)

This comedic American film stars ZaSu Pitts, and Roger Pryor, in his third of fifteen films, here, as a sports writer. Aunt Emma (Pitts) is a spinster living with her decidedly unmarried sisters. Life is very simple in their small town. Quiet, except for her caustic siblings. Pitts sees a newspaper headline about a boxing match that reminds her of a past love, a prize fighter. Turns out the headlined boxer is his son. After hearing radio comments about his lifestyle and lack of training, she feels compelled to visit him in New York City and give him some advice on what it takes to be a successful boxer. There is potential for a wacky screwball comedy, but there are few laughs in this dull, slow-paced waste of Pitts' talents. Her performance is so subtle one wonders if the director, Jean Yarbrough, had any input at all. Thankfully, the film runs just two ticks over an hour. Pitts could be quite funny as a timid character, with forlorn eyes, and a crestfallen delivery. This film did not capture most of those qualities.

There is kidnapping, murder, a postponed wedding for Pryor, and two dim-witted gangsters who jump to assumptions. They introduce the only remotely funny element—Pitts’ ever-present umbrella. The clincher for them is that she appears to be muscling in on the young boxer's handlers. She is immediately taken to be the infamous “Ma Parker” who was known to carry a gun under her own umbrella. Never mind that the real Parker died in 1935. The myriad of intertwined characters does not provide much clarity. Once Pitts finds out about their assumptions, she decides to learn how to talk tough and play the role—not very convincingly but she is courageous.

In the end, Pitts becomes the unlikely trainer for the wayward boxer back in her hometown. With her Ma Parker attitude, she puts her two nagging sisters in their place as well.

Note: The film's title might suggest this is one in a series of popular "Emma" adventures. In reality, it was based on the story, “Aunt Emma Paints the Town” by Harry Hervey. The screenplay was written by George Bricker and Edmond Kelso. It was produced by Lindsley Parsons and distributed by Monogram Pictures. The most notable of the supporting cast includes Warren Hymer, Dick Elliot, and B-movie stalwart, Tristam Coffin.

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 is best viewed during daylight hours when there is a lower chance of dosing 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 kid's 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 dosed 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 under-appreciated 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 manly 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 out so compelling. 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 slow down 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 eatable—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 do not phase him in the least when he drops down from the rafters onto McGraw. Welcome to the land of make-believe.

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 peaked 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 even 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 to figure 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 through 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. 

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.