BEYOND THE TIME BARRIER (1960)

On a test flight, Robert Clarke pilots his X-80 (Convair F-102 interceptor) through a time barrier then returns to the airbase finding it deserted with buildings showing decades of neglect. He wanders alone from one building to another. What the...hey! Check out his expression below. Doh! He looks off into a distant forest to see a dark projected painting...uh...futuristic city. He is soon captured and taken to an underground city called the Citadel. Triangles are the dominant architectural theme in this dystopian society. A fantastic city right off a 1938 Popular Science magazine cover. Tall beacons use the pulsating sound effect of the Martian's laser ray appendage from the original The War of The Worlds. The not-so-special effect of what sounds like a sophisticated party favor slide whistle is used for an elevator’s ascent and descent. This was probably not included in the budget.

Vladimir Sokoloff, in one of his last movie roles, plays the Supreme of the Citadel who is suspicious of any outsiders. His muted granddaughter, played by Darlene Tompkins has the singular ability to read minds and affirms Clarke is quite a catch. The Supreme trusts her telepathy. Planning to stay at least overnight, Clarke is provided sleeping arrangements in an open-concept area the size of a small airport terminal. The bed is an enormous, double-queen-sized mattress placed on the floor. A servant brings him dinner, for which he is grateful because he has not eaten since who knows when. He takes a bite out of something and proceeds to explore his surroundings. He is stuffed and never eats again. Clarke and Tompkins get along triangularly. So well, she slaps him for what he is thinking after their first kiss. At least she is not sterile like all the others. 

Wait?!

Apparently, America’s nuclear bomb testing in the Seventies damaged the Earth's atmosphere, letting dangerous cosmic rays fall back to Earth, causing a plague of massive mutants and stupendous sterility. Tompkins somehow escapes the latter part and the Supreme hopes Clarke can regenerate their society. Nudge, nudge. Wink, wink. Speaking of sterile—unfortunately, not mute—Boyd “Red” Morgan’s performance as the Captain is just that. A former NFL player and Hollywood stuntman, his delivery lacks any professionalism. What better film to showcase his talent.

To help him understand the year 2024―no wonder he was starved―the Citadel’s complete history is stored in a Zenith record player console cabinet painted in sterile white. A chronicle only a few geniuses could ever possibly interpret. Tompkins pulls out shoulder-width portrait images, which Clarke, without hesitation, nails the detailed story behind each. She nods excessively in approval. He is so dreamy! Oh, he has more questions. She brings out another portrait to remedy his curiosity. She nods excessively. I was getting a headache watching her head shake so enthusiastically.

Other time-travelers are revealed to be living in the Citadel, which conflicts with Clarke’s plan. Each wants to return to their time and will stoop low enough to make it happen. One traveler releases underground mutants who look hilariously harmless with choreographed attacks resembling a Kung Fu gymnastics event. The bare-footed bald mutants, with pant legs, slit from ankle to knee, laugh maniacally. The Supreme helps Clarke escape, albeit alone, via the X-80 and return to his airbase with a hard-to-fathom story to log. Time travel is risky business. In a popular Twilight Zone twist, Clarke ages, mysteriously, only on his return trip. He warns them about the dangers of nuclear testing and, of course, man-made climate change.

Note: This American-International film will not be on many must-see lists. Directed by Edgar Ulmer, of “Detour” movie fame, every penny of its $125,000 budget can be accounted for. And much of the expense went into hiring actors. Handsome Robert Clarke, with his commanding voice, is well known for his low-budget science fiction movies of the Fifties. He was a busy actor on television who seemed to love acting, no matter what the project. This film being a good example.

THE VIOLENT ONES (1967)

The first thing of note about this Madison Productions, Inc. production, aside from the production company name itself and a misplaced detail of a steam locomotive whistle in 1967, is a driving score by Marlin Skiles befitting a major military operation with tanks rumbling through the North African desert. Yet what we see is a sheriff’s 2-door Impala Sport Coupe---first-class all the way---being driven within the speed limit through town and country. A lengthy segment that eats up enough film to include all the credits and then some. The film was not expected to be a Golden Globe nominee, but the star and director, Fernando Lamas, managed this drama fairly well despite some unlikely sequences and a clichéd script. Perhaps to ease some directing complications, there is plenty of driving in this film. Used once during a road sequence---perhaps to break the monotony---is a strangely-used, and totally ineffective, vignette. This ninety-five-minute film is about twenty minutes too long.

The low-budget melodrama, set in a New Mexico border town, concerns three apprehended white men: Aldo Ray, Tommy Sands, and David Carradine. One is guilty of rape and the death of a local girl. Lamas, no fan of gringos, is the deputy sheriff who interrogates each individually, starting with a big smile and cordial questions as if he intends to release them once he hears their story. In reality, he is waiting for each one to say something to set him off so he can verbally assault or slap each one around. Also on his conscience is the possible lynching of the three prisoners by the townspeople. The “mob” seems particularly uncommitted to string up anything as they sheepishly gather in small groups around the jail, quietly discussing what to do next.

With a lynching imminent, Lamas and his chained-together prisoners escape out the back as no one covered that exit. I mentioned the mob was not very committed. However, a very committed carload of locals tries to bump Lamas’ two-ton truck off the road. Traveling around twenty-five miles per hour, the sequence is not very believable or plausible. They constantly lay on their horn as if taunting them like high school rivals. The truck moves off-road, and their slow, synchronized chase in the desert is pretty silly. Not being a fair fight, the truck maneuvers to ram the car, flipping it over. The truck soon runs dry, with their subsequent escape through the desert on foot being tedious and time-consuming for them and viewers alike. Seizing an opportunity to overwhelm Lamas, the four-man choreographed fight scene is supported by solo piano and percussion, looking a bit like a halfhearted Keystone Cops routine in slow motion.

All three prisoners eventually feel their lives slipping away from dehydration, and each one's story begins to reveal the murderer through a process of elimination. An injured Lamas gets flanking leg support as he proudly hobbles toward a nearby town. The three now appear to be buddies as if they were successful in their defeat of Rommel. 

DIAL 1119 (1950)

Some today find this film a sort of lost treasure, but it is not innovative. It is well-acted with enough mystery to hold the viewer in suspense for the usual Hollywood hostage staging. The script bounces around the subject of mental illness in mid-century fashion. Critics of the day generally seemed to like it. This MGM features a powerful opening score by André Previn, suggesting a winner. But despite an obviously low budget, the movie still lost money at the box office. There were no big-name stars to draw an audience, and it is almost entirely filmed on a studio backlot. I also wonder if audiences accepted a nice-looking boy, Marshall Thompson, in this early lead role. He gets on a bus with its scrolling destination sign above the canted windshield to Terminal City, a name associated with New York's Idlewild Airport. That might have been an omen, yet hardly justifies shooting the bus driver with his own personal security device.

Initially, Thompson appears only to be a chronic sleepwalker. His cold, unemotional search for his former psych doctor, Sam Levene, goes nowhere, and he eventually wanders into a bar where we meet a slice of society with their own personal foibles. Virginia Fields, Leon Ames, and Keith Brasselle (bartender) are the more notable actors, along with the bar owner, William Conrad, who knows each patron well, holding contempt for a few regulars. On the bright side, his bar is equipped with a state-of-the-art, remote-controlled television monitor suspended over the counter that would be the equal of most sports bars today. This had to cost a pretty penny. And for what? Wrestling. And the newsbreak about an escaped mental patient whom Conrad recognizes at the end of the counter. When he calmly goes to the back to call the police, Thompson is right behind him, putting Conrad’s life on permanent hold with a bullet. This instantly gets the attention of all the patrons, and the previously invisible young man becomes larger than life itself. This innocent-looking, unassuming, and perspiring man happens to have no regard for human life. Especially his own. This initiates the stereotypical hostage situation with the police plotting their next move to end the situation.

Through clichéd interaction between the killer and hostages, Thompson lays out his mental disqualifications, blaming the military for teaching him to kill. The Army was referring to the enemy, by the way. In his eyes, all the patrons are pitiful excuses, and he is not impressed with their petty problems. His comments put the patrons in a reflective, albeit terrifying mood. His only demand, other than having the patrons not move a muscle, is that he talks with Dr. Levene. Though unadvised repeatedly by the police, Levene sneaks inside the bar where Thompson confronts him about his historically bad advice. The doctor’s blunt assessment quickly reduces Thompson to a frightened child. He shoots Levene when pushed too far (below).

The revolver that Conrad kept behind the counter is spotted by Fields, whose character seems to know her way around firearms. She wounds Thompson, who then tells her she had no right to do that. The patrons disagree wholeheartedly with his assessment. After a seventy-five-minute running time, all hope was seemingly gone with the words, “The End” approaching. He slowly escapes out the back entrance and well covered by armed police. Welcome to Terminal City.

CITY OF FEAR (1959)

This is a decent, eighty-one-minute Columbia Pictures film that hides a limited budget from a week's worth of filming. Director Irving Lerner creates a fast pace from a script that lacks total believability. A creative score by Jerry Goldsmith adds excitement, bringing the crime thriller up a notch or two. The middle of this thriller is filled with the usual angst in trying to track down an escaped convict. An eighty-four-hour search unfolds with the police, a nervous environmental authority, and a scientist working in concert to find him and his stolen canister. A suspense drama that bears a striking similarity to so many later television disaster-of-the-week movies. For the automobile historian, there are in-car cameras that put the viewer in the back seat. Several competent actors with familiar faces lend their credibility. The director brings together Vince Edwards, Cathy (aka Kathie) Browne, and screenwriter Steven Ritch from Murder by Contract, the prior year.

A night scene opens the film with a speeding ambulance driven by a known drug pusher, the aforementioned escaped convict, wanted for murder, and especially a stolen canister from the prison hospital. The driver is annoyed by the constant moaning from his mortally wounded partner, who dies in transit. Edwards actually stars as Vince, whose only interest is a sealed canister that he figures is worth a million dollars of experimental heroin. In reality, it is a radioactive synthetic, cobalt-60. Unless in a lead container, it is highly contagious. It appears in this film as aluminum. Opened, it could wipe out a city, according to the film. See my note below on cobalt-60.

Edwards’s acting solidifies the movie as he becomes completely drained from fits of coughing, sweating, and feeling stupid for not getting a seasonal flu shot. The character is as one-dimensional as can be mustered. He is despicable in every scene, trusting no one who does not appreciate the beauty of a stainless steel canister. Edwards feels rotten and wants to be left alone. With the canister. Which cannot be opened without special tools. Few things can put one in a bad mood more than not being able to open a simple jar from the supermarket.

Waiting two years for "Geigerman" is his girl, Patricia Blair, who thinks she might have better luck opening the canister. “I'm tellin' ya' honey, it can't be opened!” When later questioned by the police, she repeatedly denied any contact with Edwards amidst profuse sweating and a “smoker's" cough. We find out about a nervous shoe store owner, Joseph Mell, who has profited from Edwards’ past drug deals. Driving a 1958 Lincoln "Land Yacht" is a dead giveaway that the Buster Browns could not be moving that well.

I found the rapid ending not well thought out, but at least funny. When Edwards stumbles out of a diner and collapses, the authorities keep their distance. They fail to convince Vince that there is still a chance he could survive. Slim. At best. They actually ask for the canister. Bad idea. Though Edwards may be barely breathing, they immediately cover his body with a blanket and place a “high radiation area” sign of caution on top of it...carried in the trunk of an officer's patrol car just in case. I burst out laughing. The police captain then says to the scientist with relief, “Come on. I want to go home.” Someone will be by later to shovel him up, I guess. Dead or alive.

Note: Beginning in the 1950s, cobalt-60 was used to treat cancer and to sterilize medical equipment. It is a byproduct of nuclear reactor operations. Most exposure to cobalt-60 takes place intentionally during medical tests and treatments. Such exposures are carefully controlled to avoid adverse health impacts and to maximize the benefits of medical care. However, mishandling of a large industrial source of cobalt-60 could result in an external exposure large enough to cause skin burns, acute radiation sickness, or death. A small container would unlikely wipe out 3 million people. The bigger mystery, then, is why the drug pusher thinks heroin is kept at a hospital.

I BURY THE LIVING (1958)

Albert Band brings his long list of B-movie credits into play for this United Artists macabre tale about a man who thinks he may be affecting people’s lives by using push pins. I note the excellent cinematography effects by Frederick Gately, below. Still, the score by the award-winning composer, Gerald Fried, sets the stage for a spooky tale using a harpsichord, a frantic tempo, and dissonant chords. The movie seems like an extended episode of television’s, Night Gallery. The viewer is sucked in right from the opening credits with a statement suggesting that some men (mankind) have the ability of great mental power over events—the old “man as God” thing—and that the dead are simply biding their time underground until released back into the unemployment lines. Do not be misled by the studio's poster. There is nothing scary about this film. It is spooky, ghost-believing science fiction at best. As is typical of low-budget “horror” movies, the ending is disappointing with the outcome as expected. It may have, however, elicited some talk around the office water cooler in the era. 

Richard Boone is appointed chairman of a committee that oversees a large cemetery. His acting skill shows restraint and does not go overboard with the character’s emotions. He is quite creditable and, as usual, improves this film. A thirty-four-year-old Theodore Bikel, the caretaker, does his best old man routine with a Scottish accent in one of the more obvious wigs from makeup artist, Jack Pierce, who may have lost interest in the film at some point. Bikel is not that convincing but he had a nice limp going there for a while.

Black pins mark the filled graves on a map resembling a Picasso sketch of the cemetery grounds. The white pins indicate unoccupied graves. Boone accidentally places two black pins where they should not be and both persons mysteriously die in an automobile accident—surely a coincidence. But it repeatedly happens either through experimentation or challenges from doubters. Boone believes he is cursed and he falls helplessly into a deep depression. 

The body count is up to seven from Boone’s pin-pushing spree. In an epiphany, he decides that if black pins give him the power of death, white pins might give him the power of life. He replaces all of the black pins with white pins. He discovers that certain graves have been dug but no casket in the plots. If you believe in this preposterous scheme, the climactic finish may spoil it. Hokum has an equally powerful force over people. I should mention that Bickel’s character is nuts.

Note: Some cinematography effects are artistically well done by Gately. The map causes much distress for Boone and near the climax appears to glow, consuming  Boone. At one point, after being struck by Bikel, an overhead light swings back and forth casting light and shadows across the pins in the map creating a dizzying optical illusion. Another has Boone’s silhouette superimposed on the map as an animated graphic illustration, eliciting an out-of-body experience for him. Watching this film may have the same effect.

THE DARK CORNER (1946)

It is hard to find flaws in this quintessential film-noir directed by Henry Hathaway. The opening theme may sound familiar. "Manhattan Melody" was used for many New York films of the Forties. Hats off to the sometimes witty and sharp, cutting dialogue by screenwriters Schoenfeld and Dratler, based on a story in Good Housekeeping by Leo Rosten. The cinematography by Joseph MacDonald is a textbook example of film noir. He puts the noir in film noir. A clever example is when we see William Bendix, in a white suit, juxtaposed with Mark Stevens' dark silhouette in an adjoining room, as if in a split-screen or a positive-negative effect. It also suggests that men who wear white are not necessarily the good guys. Not a big success during its first run but it has gained high praise in hindsight.

As a private investigator, Mark Stevens is a falsely accused ex-con trying to run a legitimate private investigator business. His character is on edge most of the film, disgruntled by an undeserved prison term. It is easy to figure out Stevens’ career potential, here billed as "the new tough guy." He is not a fan of compromising when he should be and he delivers a strong performance. He was on everyone’s radar after this film, catapulting him from "under the radar" roles at Warner Bros. Fred MacMurray, originally set to star, would not have pulled off the pint-up anger and edginess of Stevens, also in hindsight. Yet Stevens never made the A-list. Lucille Ball is somewhat the female equivalent in films. She is his newly hired secretary and best ally. They hit it off right from the start. Ball got lost at Twentieth Century Fox during this period competing with similar actresses with not enough uniqueness to draw attention. The new medium of television was around another corner where she will completely obliterate these roles and never look back.

Stevens is being tailed by William Bendix. After a brutal confrontation, Bendix falsely confesses he is working for Kurt Krueger, Stevens’ former partner and corrupt lawyer who set him up for prison. Stevens, with Ball’s help, attempts to uncover what appears to be Krueger setting up Stevens for another fall. But Bendix is in cahoots with Clifton Webb, a wealthy art gallery owner. Webb knows his pretty wife prefers the younger Krueger and his possessive nature will not let him share any of his valuable works of art. Whether inanimate or not.

Webb suggests that Bendix plan an unannounced visit at Stevens' office and also talks Krueger into seeing Stevens the same night. After a brief struggle, Bendix gives Stevens his ether handkerchief, then murders the next person expected through the door, Krueger. The frame is set for the unconscious Stevens. Rather than pay off Bendix, Webb dispenses with him for his screen finale. It would appear Webb has tied up all the loose ends. Stevens starts putting two and three together and confronts Webb at his gallery. The condescending Webb is in for a big surprise.

Note: The film ends on a lighter note. While Stevens is being cleared of any wrongdoing at the gallery, two Brooklyn cops contemplate a Donatello statue. Not a word from either for quite a while until the first officer wonders, “Imagine anyone in their right mind ever buying a piece of junk like that?” His partner, lacking any sophistication replies in a Brooklyn gravel voice, “Shoeuh they do. That is ahht.”

COUNTERPLOT (1959)

Forrest Tucker and Allison Hayes together at last! A stale tale of murder, a conniving lawyer and an expressionless boy in one sleepy location, Puerto Rico. The United Artists film is, literally, a real sleeper with opening music by Paul Sawtell and Bert Shefter that has all the sentimentalism deserving of this movie. Jackie Wayne plays the young errand boy looking out for Tucker who is in hiding from an assumed murder. Judging by the dark makeup, Wayne is supposed to be a native "San Juanian." He seems to worship Tucker and he likes their “just guys” arrangement. No icky women around. Tucker frequently scolds him for not doing what he is told, however.

Nightclub singer and icky woman, Hayes, has a past with Tucker and Wayne thinks she is the reason for Tucker’s trouble. Upon her arrival, she and Wayne spot each other but he does not initially acknowledge her. His lie about Tucker’s whereabouts is not convincing. Hayes is soon addressed by another familiar face, corrupt lawyer, Gerald Milton, the San Juan Shyster. The burly actor with his clear, commanding voice never uses contractions when speaking. It reminds me of one who commands people to do their bidding. A delivery that is two-thirds sultan and one-third Tonto. Even though Hayes says she is back to perform at her former gig, he suspects she is in town to find Tucker. Their cat-and-mouse conversation reveals more about Milton than the location of Tucker.

Milton comes to Tucker’s legitimate aid, however, keeping his hiding place secret from the adhesive-mustached Richard Verney, a business partner of the man murdered. With a tempting offer to represent him legally, Milton gets Verney to spill his guts about who actually committed the murder. All the while being secretly recorded by Milton. In retrospect, Tucker decked Verney’s partner during insults and feared his fall to the floor accidentally killed him. Tucker fled. Watching from another room, Verney finished off his partner to inherit the (no kidding) Acme insurance policy against his death. He is killed with a most gentle, choreographed head pounding against the floor which actually looked like he was trying to wake him. Wake up, little buddy! Clearly irritated with most anyone, Verney delivers his lines with a tight-lipped, disgruntled delivery of his best bad guy impression. His tenor voice sounds amateurish as many of his lines trail off to a whining end.

Milton’s assistant and legman, Miguel Angel Alvarez, double-crosses him and tells Verney where Tucker is hiding. Milton struggles to get control of Alvarez’s gun. When The Shyster bends over to retrieve it, he gets a letter opener in the back. Milton is able to get two shots off with a final, 'You interfered. I make payment.' Him plenty dead, now. Meanwhile, to prevent Tucker’s death by Verney’s gun, the boy shoots him in the arm with Tucker’s gun. Tucker later tells the boy that today he has become a man...his first shooting. He pours a “shot” of whiskey for each of them and teases him to take the drink. The boy is confused. Hesitant. He quickly puts down the drink in embarrassment. Tucker laughs at him. We do not know what happens with the boy after Tucker and the icky woman get back together. But that laugh probably took the boy some time to leave it behind.

Note: One funny editing note. As Hayes finishes her song, accepting applause, the camera cuts to Tucker’s face and then back to Hayes who is now in a completely different dress. Therein lies the popularity of her club act. The ability to change clothes on stage so fast that no one can see her do it. David Copperfield would be incredulous!