BEAST FROM HAUNTED CAVE (1959)

Right up front, the producers acknowledge their gratitude to South Dakota for their cooperation in making this film (only for the extended television print). Specifically, the use of their snow. No Hollywood fake snow in this one. The film will eliminate seventy-five minutes from your life. Double-billed with The Wasp Woman, many Dakotans may have been expecting another “comedy” from this grammatically challenged “Tonto-esque” titled film. But many probably came away skittish about hitting "plenty big slopes" given the spooky creature. The “special effect beast” is handled with restraint, relying mostly on ominous shadows, a claw, and a prehistoric scream that sounds like someone tightening their vocal cords while inhaling to get a high-pitched screeching effect. Lessening the embarrassment are undefined facial features as it supernaturally floats about, sometimes superimposed in the corner of the screen. Strange. This paced film, produced by Gene Corman, Roger’s kid brother, has the Corman touches. The random graphics splashing on the screen are typical of the Corman brothers. But accolades are due for being primarily a heist film with the science-fiction premise almost as the film's sidebar. Never mind the salacious, misleading poster, designed to attract an audience.

A Corman always pads their films, and there is plenty of ski footage, supported with misplaced music. Alexander Laszlo’s recycled score, in part, is from other Corman movies. From a Hammond organ to soap opera strings to a cool jazz segment (see note below), the music is certainly disjointed. And totally expected. The film was distributed by Filmgroup—the Corman boys—for Allied Artists Pictures. Charles Griffith’s script of clipped and witty banter, however unlikely, is quite suitable for the drive-in crowd. After a decade of papier mache “monsters,” this one relies more on imagination. The squeamish element is that the beast spins its live victims in a web-like cocoon, placing them in various cave locations until it can return for dinner. Certainly more creepy than Roger’s laughable wasp head on Susan Cabot.

The handsome Michael Forest is undeniably the most familiar face in the film. His long list of television appearances allowed him a great deal of notoriety and variety. He and his four co-stars were Corman regulars, professionally accounting for themselves. Forest is the level-headed element in this film, a ski instructor/guide in snowy Deadwood. In a turtleneck sweater, a prop pipe with his own cabin, he seems too classy, too perfect, to be in this film. He is persuaded to guide a group of four on a multi-day cross-country ski tour to his cabin. The group’s leader, Frank Wolff, has in his possession an unappreciated girlfriend, Sheila Noonan, a free spirit with sarcastic wit, a drinking problem, and insights into her life's bad decisions. She also slurs her lines as if her mouth is actually frozen in the authentic weather. This is Noonan’s second of four roles in her nearly one-year film career. She tries to thaw “Mr. Perfect,” who keeps her flirting at arm’s length for a while. Noonan wants out of her bottomless pit and reveals that her three skiing companions are gangsters. The other gang members consist of Wally Campo, a nutty little guy, and Richard Sinatra, Francis Albert's real-life cousin. 

Prior to the ski tour, the thieves set off a diversionary explosion in an abandoned cave as cover for stealing gold bars from the town’s bank vault. Forest becomes a hostage in order to get the gang close to their escape plane when it arrives. How the pilot could possibly land among thick evergreens and yard-deep powder is not clearly spelled out. But nothing goes as planned, thanks to that stringy spider-beast awakened by "heap big cave blast." Cocooned bodies are suspended in various locations, with the victims helplessly staring out into space. The beast’s lair provides temporary blizzard shelter for the remaining cast. Emphasis on temporary. Chaotic editing makes for a confusing climax in which a final gangster fires two flare guns, giving “haunted beast plenty big sunburn.” 

Note: The extended print for television broadcasts is responsible for ten minutes of extra footage to pad the film. One of those scenes happens before the opening credits roll, focusing on a cutting-edge Polaroid Land Camera. Most viewers were glued at this point. The two guys in a 1960 Corvair station wagon (top image) are casing the town's bank. One will note jazzy saxophone caper music. The brief music snippet may remind one today, humorously, of the chase music later expertly written for the famous cat-and-mouse jazzy chase sequence in the film “Bullitt.” But this is Laszlo, not Lalo. I digress. In the background is a white 1961 Ford Thunderbird. For a film released in October 1959, both vehicles seem a bigger mystery than a cave beast. As the original length version indicates, the only mode of transportation for the gang is a 1959 Ford. 

KANSAS CITY CONFIDENTIAL (1952)

 

This is the first of three films teaming director Phil Karlson with John Payne in his career-changer. This film noir has captivating segments, though one may need to overlook an idealistic screenplay by George Bruce and Harry Essex. With commendable casting choices, great camera work, and an enhancing score, ninety-nine minutes never seemed so short. It was produced by Edward Small with distribution by United Artists, and it paved the way for a few "confidential" films in the Fifties. Despite some uniqueness, nearly seventy years have given it some humorous and less-than-believable scenes. Worthy of a more in-depth review, it necessitates two words I rarely want to use: spoiler alert.

Robbery mastermind, Preston Foster, with an unimaginative character name of Tim Foster, checks the timing of a floral delivery truck driven by Payne and the all-important armored bank van from his third-story office across the street. Foster puts a lot of stock in the preposterous idea that both vehicles will always arrive at precisely the same time. He checks off the time on a desk-sized stakeout map as confirmation. The large map is assumed to be a scaled architectural blueprint, yet this map is a simple outline drawing of building squares that are directly in front of the bank. A hand-drawn note on a paper napkin would have sufficed. It would suggest an exciting robbery to come by way of a rudimentary robbery so often used. But the clever setup and robbery are dispensed with right up front. The bulk of the film concerns the aftermath.

Foster hires three lowlifes for the opportunity of financial freedom if they help pull off the heist: ironically, three stereotypical villains of the era, Jack Elam, Lee Van Cleef, and Neville Brand. To their amazement, he knows their backstory specifically. Their dialogue is concise and effective. A chain smoker by birth, Elam’s character is a nervous wreck, constantly in hiding from the electric chair. He is the first to meet Foster, and it is a dandy scene. The mastermind wears a rather creepy, perhaps leather, mask when he meets with each of the three. At gunpoint, Elam angrily demands that the mask be removed. Elam is in no position to make demands. Instead, Foster slaps him back and forth several times in "burst out laughing" choreography by Elam as he jerks his head left and right in a precise metronome fashion. Van Cleef is much cooler during his prospective job interview. Quite the ladies' man—they are entranced by his eye slits—he is told not to be late, which means stay away from women. Brand is an emotionless gum-chewing killer who has nothing better to do than look numb. 

CINCH UP YOUR SUSPENDED DISBELIEF BELT

First class all the way, Foster (as Foster) has thought of everything, supplying the trio with one-size-fits-all masks, identical delivery uniforms, airline tickets for their Mexican rendezvous, and a floral delivery truck that will only contain the foursome. Foster needs the bank money to recoup his losses. It seems unfair that the artist who painted the floral company's logo on the side of the truck will get no cut of the loot. And no jail time for being an accessory. As it speeds away, awkwardly amusing is a bank guard, who, without really aiming, fires several times at the van in a crouched position with his gun at knee level. His firing range instructor has repeatedly scolded him about his ineffective stance. Slickly, the van is driven inside a big rig trailer parked at a prearranged loading dock. Once again, director Karlson has Payne, a reformed ex-con, a victim of mistaken identity, as his truck is spotted. Without a single shred of evidence, he is assumed to be part of the robbery. One sadistic detective tries to beat Payne into submission. He hates him on pure assumption before gathering any facts. So very 2020-like. Foster’s clever plan dictates that everyone keep their masks on to hide their identity from each other. One of the film’s clever devices. Each is separately ordered to get out of the semi's trailer in the middle of nowhere and told to stay south of the border until the heat is off. Probably about two years! Think about that for a moment.

After the police find the bogus floral van, Payne is released with the police chief's feeble apology. Not from the violent detective, though. “Thanks for nothin'!” is Payne's seething reply. Payne gets a bead on Elam from an informer. He needs to only follow the cigarette butts. Elam grabs Payne in another Hollywood “confrontational alley.” He demands to know why he is being followed. He growls, “You’ve been giving me the fisheye all evening!” A funny apropos coming from Elam. Payne claims innocence and then walks away, later picking up Elam's carcinogenic scent in his hotel room. The first item of business...slap Elam. Payne finds a mask in his suitcase. Elam gets slapped again. Payne’s breathy taunting pre-dates the “Dirty Harry” character by nearly two decades. Payne is on Elam like a bad stink as they await their flight to Mexico. The authorities spot Elam, who reaches for his gun. His frequent-flyer club membership is canceled. But it gives Payne an opportunity to pose as Elam. The viewer knows his charade is understandably limited. This is the halfway point in the film, and one is still pretty sure Colleen Gray is in this movie.

Since the robbery, Foster (as Foster) has been enjoying his retirement as a pipe-smoking fisher of errant men. A longtime friend and insurance investigator, Howard Negley, shows up by invitation. We finally learn that Foster is a veteran cop, explaining his background knowledge of his accomplices. He informs Negley that new “evidence” will help him crack the two-year-old bank robbery with the credit—Foster's double-cross of his three stooges—going on his resumé. It is the first mention of his daughter, Gray, who has been waiting for her cue to enter the film while studying her script and bar exam. Despite her short screen time, being the singular female lead, and her notable work in earlier films, it probably accounts for her star billing, whether negotiated or paid for. She grows fond of Payne during the same southern flight. Purely scripted coincidence. She eventually mentions his “undercover” name to dear old Dad. His eyes suddenly get suspicious, knowing full well she could not have been charmed by “Fisheye Elam.” 

Payne is pummeled by the pugilistic team of Cleef and Brand, the latter having met Elam before. There is another usage of the specific violent and painful act as  Cleef’s left and right palms bang hard against Payne’s ears. Cleef repeatedly refers sarcastically to Payne at this point as “pal-zee,” after being decked by Payne earlier. As luck would have it, Gray shows up during a pummeling pause, and the two thugs, sweating profusely, cordially leave. Gray assumes a serious “conversation” was taking place. She and Payne have little to say to each other. At this point, every male identity starts to unravel. Gray is relieved to learn the truth about Payne as Negley sets the record straight. Confidentially, of course.

Note: Elam wants to buy some cigarettes at the airport. I always thought it strange that some of those height-challenged machines had a large mirror, usually round, on the front. Apparently, for men to nonchalantly check their fly.

CONVICT’S CODE (1939)

 

The less-than-famous Motion Pictures for Television, Inc. production offered up this sixty-two-minute, essentially forgotten film, directed by Lambert Hillyer and distributed by Monogram Pictures Corporation—known after 1953 as Allied Artists Pictures Corporation. It had no chance of garnering fans in a year of monumental productions. Hillyer chewed through one movie after another, ending his career with the successful television series, Highway Patrol. There is not much to say about this budget-constrained, well-acted crime film except that the plot is revealed in the first ten minutes. There is nothing about the cinematography or music score that has not been seen or heard before. Capitalizing on a Thirties trend, there may be scenes between two characters explaining what has happened or what is about to happen, so the viewer will not be confused or left behind. However, confusion is not an issue with the obviously spelled-out screenplay by John Krafft.

THE FIRST TEN MINUTES

Former college football great “Whizz Tyler,” played by Robert Kent, has spent the last three years in prison for a robbery he did not commit. Released on six-year parole, Kent is bent on finding those who railroaded him, like racketeer Sidney Blackmer, for starters, whose secretary sounds like Betty Boop over the intercom. Blackmer bet heavily on a crucial college game and lost a bundle. He hires the parolee, an assured way of getting him out of his hair over the slightest parole violation.

Speaking of violations, Kent’s parole officer runs down his restrictions for the next half dozen years. The usual, like not changing his residence, associating with known criminals, driving without a driver’s license, and no guns or boozing. No one ever said he was a whizz at comprehension, as he racks up more than enough violations to send him back to the slammer. But the only witnesses are the movie-goers. Finally—the real stickler—he cannot marry unless the potential bride is approved by the parole board. Get! Out!

ALL YOU NEED TO KNOW AFTER TEN MINUTES

Blackmer is loved by everyone who does not really know him. A criminal manipulator, he does, however, have a beating heart. Anne Nagel adores her older brother. Personally, I was annoyed by her occasional monotonous pattern of pitch with words perfectly released as if she were cognizant of over-enunciating. Her steely-bright “esses” sting her words. I digress. Blackmer’s first assignment for Kent is to make a delivery to Nagel’s home, and he takes a shine to her right off the car's running board. There are inconsequential scenes in the movie at this point, and then the film wraps up briskly as Kent levels with Nagel about being framed. Being the gentleman he is, he does not reveal the person responsible. Knowing how much his sister loves the parolee, Blackmer tries to stop his bull-headed associate from following through with the “Whizz” hit. Everyone gets what and who they deserve in the end. Knowing the bloodline with a known criminal, Nagel hopes she gets a good marriage approval rating from the parole board.

Note: There are two actors of note, though for different reasons. Maude Eburne plays Kent’s landlady. An exhausted pessimist with a nasal delivery. Her performance may be the only fondly remembered moment in the film. She is the levity, whether intentional or not. The other is Ben Alexander, who plays Kent’s long-time friend and newspaper sports writer. Alexander would later gain fame and weight as the first television partner to Sgt. Joe Friday on “Dragnet.”

5 AGAINST THE HOUSE (1955)

Directed by Phil Karlson, this production helped usher in the heist film. It was produced by Stirling Silliphant and John Barnwell for Columbia Pictures with a screenplay based on Jack Finney's 1954 novel of the same name. George Duning's score adds the right amount of heft when needed. For the most part, the eighty-three minutes play out logically until the nonsensical ending. Karlson's realism is evident right from the opening night scene in Reno, Nevada, as a campus foursome arrives and has their car parked on an upper level by a nifty hydraulic parking garage system. There is plenty of genuine comic dialogue, but the script's humorous quips wear a bit thin, in part due to the film eventually taking a darker turn. Enrolled to further their matrimonial studies are Brian Keith, Guy Madison, Kerwin Mathews, and, for the film's levity, Alvy Moore, appearing to be the only age-appropriate student, judging by his mannerisms, physique, and crew cut. Moore was actually thirty-four. If you can get past the age absurdity, you are nearly halfway there. 

Returning to campus after their Korean War duty, pre-law students Madison and Keith are somewhat the "fathers" to the other two collegians. Madison is the straight arrow of the two. Capitalizing on some early roles, Keith's script dictates a volatile nature, this time due to battle shock and a metal plate in his head. He refuses further treatments in the VA's psych ward, however. During this era, a metal plate worked its way into a number of post-war actors' heads. But there are five against the house. Enter Madison's girlfriend, Kim Novak, now reunited. To his astonishment, she has become a singer at a Glendale nightclub. He had no idea she could sing and never suspected her voice would be dubbed. To be kind, the chosen studio singer matches Novak's vocal range accurately enough. Thankfully, there is only one number to sit through.

Due to a sizable inheritance, the wealthy Matthews—perhaps paying cash for each semester—is obsessed with a plan to rob Harold's Club in Reno, just for the exhilaration. All the money would be quickly returned—how is never addressed—ensuring that no one involved would be guilty of a crime. Right. Matthews purchases a used trailer and car to pull it and then fabricates a cash cart—entirely from memory—identical to the ones used at the club. The complex operation depends on Madison's participation—and a gullible audience—if it is to succeed. Throwing a curve into the plan is Madison's intention to marry Novak in Reno. The entire “wedding party” takes the seven hundred twenty-mile drive to Reno. Before long, Madison realizes something is up and forces the trio's hand. The happy couple want no part in it. That will not do, according to the unbalanced Keith, who now has no plan to return the money or share it. Losing all sense of reason, he threatens to bring them all down for their part if he gets caught.

They pull off the ideally timed theft with the help of a nervous William Conrad, in charge of the club's cash cart, during Western costume days. Matthews has a reel-to-reel tape recorder hidden inside the duplicate cart that plays a threatening recording on his (remote) command, psychologically making Conrad think “the guy in there” will shoot him if he does not play along. How Matthews turns the recorder on and off, or how Conrad could not be aware of the cart's lack of weight, is the very definition of suspended disbelief. Madison catches up with the fleeing Keith, and their special bond results in a tearful, emotional collapse of the latter in the same garage where the film opened. The police are there to arrest Keith, and everyone else is preposterously ignored for their part in the scheme. The viewer assumes Keith will not squeal on the other four and his metal...er...mental condition will result in a light sentence. Apparently, Conrad will keep silent when asked about his cowardly quarter-hour experience.

Note: This is certainly an entertaining film and generally got positive reviews at the time. But as time tends to enhance old films, this unknown noir has been raised to a higher level by some. The acting is commendable, but Keith is the only standout performer, eliciting a wide range of emotions. Novak's early film role seems well-matched to the one-dimensional Madison. However, the posters defy any thought of her in a supporting role. It is more like four against one.

FORGOTTEN FILMS: TV TRANSITION

Though typically overshadowed by Hollywood's A-list, there were respectable performances by numerous actors and actresses who never became major film stars. A common occurrence was their transition to the new medium of television, often becoming familiar faces in homes across America. These periodic posts offer insight into their transition.

Steve Brodie: John Stephens (1919-1992)

Most would remember Steve Brodie from his early film noir roles as a tough, sometimes heartless, gangster. These personas carried over into westerns as a hired gun or a despicable drifter. His contract with RKO Pictures got him noticed with 1947 proving to be a pivotal year in such films as, Out of the Past, Crossfire, and Desperate, the latter of which he had a lead role as a newlywed on the straight and narrow after a prison sentence. It was a fairly exciting film in which he tries to distance himself from a past acquaintance, Raymond Burr, who is now a powerful gangster. Keeping his wife out of harm’s way was his priority. He was opposite Lawrence Tierney in Bodyguard (1948) followed by a freelance project for a dandy Richard Fleischer film, Armored Car Robbery (1950). He was on the right side of the law as a police lieutenant in the remake of M (1951). Though television kept him busy, he never left films totally behind with a supporting role in, Three Came to Kill (1960) opposite Cameron Mitchell, as an electronic “genius” who hates “stinkin' jets” as they roar overhead.

Brodie signed on to popular westerns of the era, Cheyenne, Wanted--Dead or Alive, and Rawhide. He played Butch Cassidy in the Warner Bros series, Bronco. His only recurring role was as Sheriff Johnny Behan on The Life and Legend of Wyatt Earp (1960) then Everglades, (1961), as Captain Andy Benson. He made the rounds in modern detective series such as 77 Sunset Strip, Hawaiian Eye, and Perry Mason in the early Sixties. On the lighter side, he had an appearance on, The Beverly Hillbillies (1965) and The Wild World of Batwoman, 1966. He found only occasional work in the Seventies. His career ended in the Eighties—coming full circle—with three forgettable low-budget films.

Note: Stephens, a native of Kansas, took his stage name from the daredevil, Steve Brodie, who claimed to have survived a jump from the Brooklyn Bridge in 1886. Typical of actors of his era, he jumped from job to job just to get by, resulting in a hard-living, hard-drinking life away from the cameras. However, whether on stage, on film, or on television, he never embarrassed himself and usually added a memorable dimension to his films.

THE CREATION OF THE HUMANOIDS (1962)

 

This eighty-four-minute American science fiction double feature was directed by Wesley Barry for Genie Productions Inc. and released by Emerson Film Enterprises. Who knew? The Eastman color is rich and dense with cinematography work by Hal Mohr, enhancing the simplistic and colorful set designs, highly interpretive as if for a modern stage play. But Shakespeare, this is not. Most of the "lowly budget" was spent on paper to print the massive scripts that rival Congress's pork projects. Jay Simms created the most talkative film of the Sixties. Through its knee-deep dialogue, it attempts to convince the viewer that humans and humanoids share many similarities. This film is a real technical head-scratcher, so it is pointless to divulge any of its fictitious jargon. 

From the pessimistic Hollywood playbook comes the story that most of humanity has been destroyed by a nuclear war. Humanoids are an advanced type of robot that works closely with humans. They are created from man's unique ability to learn, his memory, his personality, and his philosophy. The uppity “oids” seem a wee bit condescending. Today, they may visually remind one of the future Ernst Blofeld, played by Donald Pleasence, in You Only Live Twice. Like Blofeld, they dress in “Communist” uniforms with their banded collars. These godless humanoids routinely recharge at stations they call "temples" and exchange information with a central computer known devotedly as "the father-mother." Their glowing eyes are creepily well done. 

"The Order of Flesh and Blood" (OFB) is obviously the humans. They are constantly assessing the humanoids whom they fear are planning to take over the world. A familiar premise. They do seem to be quick learners. One local OFB union leader is played by the towering Dan Megowan, who may be the only familiar face in the film due to his many television and film Westerns. There is a love interest, of sorts, which becomes a real eye-opener for him. The wardrobe for all OFB members is sleek “Bob Mackie” versions of a Confederate soldier's uniform of powder blue shirts combined with a reflective material, topped off by a period “Rebel” cap. Jazz hands! Certainly not standard issue during the Civil War.

Note: The film suggests humans should not judge humanoids too harshly. Their words might come back to haunt them. Increasingly, humans have difficulty recognizing themselves. A sly, thought-provoking ending comment by the film's research doctor intimates that identity is deeper than mere appearance. Amen, brother!

4D MAN (1959)

 

Jack H. Harris, from his original screenplay, produced this eighty-five-minute independent film for Valley Forge Film Studios. It was directed by Irvin Yeaworth and distributed by Universal International. The film's slightly off-kilter opening credits may appear at various spots on the screen with graphic arrows inserted randomly for a split second, stinging your eyes. Despite this, it is not a spy thriller nor a detective drama, yet the jazz band score disagrees. Its smaller budget is a well-kept secret thanks to bits of impressive special effects, suspenseful cinematography, and an engaging lead actor. The film is not consistently successful, eventually passing into the gullibility dimension. 

The premise of this imaginative science fiction film is explained by voice-over while we witness a young scientist, James Congdon, accidentally ignite a small fire after his experiment goes awry while adjusting what looks like a shortwave radio made in high school shop class. A funny transitional editing occurs as the small fire in a trash can consumes the building instantly by the next film frame, in scale model flames. The jazz band blasts in as if to celebrate the blaze. A music cue better suited for a spy barely escaping imminent danger. The university is not pleased with Congdon’s research results, and he finds himself instantly unemployed, although it had nothing to do with his misplaced range of acting skills.

Congdon reunites with his older brother, Robert Lansing, in his film debut, as a distracted and dejected scientist whose laid-back, moody trademarked acting style adds his own dimension to the film. His lab is in the midst of an experiment with what appears to be a huge sugar cube. The material is Cargonite, so dense that it is assumed impenetrable—perfect for a set of travel luggage. Once the lab equipment is activated, it sounds like there is a squirrel going nuts trying to break out of a wooden cage. Rounding out the main cast trio is Lee Meriwether, also in her film debut, getting early training for adjusting dials in a lab coat for her role a few years later on television’s The Time Tunnel.

Congdon is pleased to know Lansing has plans to marry Meriwether. The three have dinner in an upscale restaurant, with Congdon bringing drawing paper to do a sketch using the inside of the large menu as a drawing board. His sketch suggests penetrating a solid object utilizing an "amplifier" in conjunction with mental will. Never mind. She cannot take her eyes off him and suggests he join their research team. Lansing seconds the notion. The big band score explodes, and she invites Congdon to dance. There is no room for dancing nor a designated area, so the nearby patrons carefully guard their tables and everything on them. Just imagine impromptu dancing inside an Applebee's.

The film takes an embarrassing turn as the three have a picnic in a hillside park, after fashion, in the middle of nowhere. There is a children’s merry-go-round, and the studio mounts a camera in the center. We watch a giggling Meriwether and an aggressive-looking Congdon go round and round in front of a blurring landscape and an accompanying score grossly out of place. The frivolity ends with an attempted game of tetherball the size of a small shotput. Meriwether escapes with no eye injuries. Lansing looked as concerned as I was about these scenes. Quietly and in deep thought, Lansing decides to leave. Alone. His potential bride slips into an unknown dimension.

Congdon shares his 4D theories with "big brother." Rod Serling proposed there was a 5th dimension, but I digress. That restaurant sketch is unveiled in tangible form as a pencil through an inch-thick solid mass of steel. But for no apparent reason, after excitedly retrieving the object upstairs, Congdon takes a tumble coming back down. Really odd without a laugh track, so provide your own. Apparently, the one-off sample was mentally created by Congdon, willing the pencil through the steel with the help of an amplifier. Lansing begins experiencing painful headaches after his own 4D testing. His doctor is amazed at the electro-impulses of his brain. He speculates his mental capacity may be unlimited. No better use for an impulse than proposing to Meriwether. 

Lansing locates her at the home of a friend, where, as a favor, she is monitoring a younger-than-twelve-looking Patty Duke. Duke was an acting veteran compared to the leads in this film. Meriwether tells him marriage will never work because he is so wrapped up in research. Brooding, he storms off, later breaking into his brother’s locker at the research center. He attempts to push a pencil through a thick metal plate, but instead, his hand goes halfway through. The effect utilizes an excellent prop in the film. His brother later witnesses the feat and then disturbingly tells him the amplifier was never on, dude. Lansing went into the fourth dimension entirely by his own will.

Lansing begins to realize his miraculous electro-impulses allow him a great deal of latitude. High notes from an electric organ signify his 4D state. Another successful effect is the first time he puts his arm through a grocery store window to steal an apple. The glowing blue outline around his arm, where it intersects the glass pane, is nicely done. The next time, though, the audience is not being fooled by simple camera positioning for an edge-on window pane view, along with camera processing wizardry. His lust for power turns him into a bank robber with little fear of ever being incarcerated for any length of time. Oh, and it gets worse. His “special effects” rapidly accelerate the aging process. When seeking a doctor’s help, he inadvertently discovers that by simply touching the doctor, it rejuvenates his own life. The doctor is accidentally drained for all he is worth. An ironic twist on a doctor's final bill. The doctor’s ninety-year-old facial aging process is done with a smooth transitional effect. Now a very wanted man, Lansing litters the town with wrinkled people, including his self-serving boss, Edgar Stehli, who looked to be pushing eighty-five anyway.

Lansing hid the amplifier in a lab vault. He returns to retrieve it, apparently, on April Fool’s Day with humorous results. The belly laugh scene in the film. He pushes the open button, but Congdon pushes the close button from the control booth, preventing Lansing from accessing. He cannot figure out what is going on with that stupid button! He turns around to look toward the booth, but he and Merriweather have crouched down out of sight. He hears no snickering. Pretty funny, and it happens more than once.

Lansing is really bummed that he and Meriwether cannot agree on any dimension together. The century-old Lansing, still with a thick head of powdered hair, only wants a final kiss. She obliges. From her lab coat, a revolver fires. They quickly break away, yet are temporarily anchored together by a four-inch string of spittle. Without a doubt, the single most disturbing effect in the film. Strangely, no explanation for why Meriwether never ages. Perhaps the bullet interrupted the process. In a rage, he defiantly proclaims his invincibility and convinces himself he can even pass through a wall of Cargonite. Let’s just say he is only half right. 

Note: The film’s score was written and conducted by Ralph Carmichael. Though the opening jazz theme is cool, it does not fit a science fiction horror film. Unless the 4D man is a detective. As mentioned briefly above, his music does not support certain scenes and is inappropriate. His greatest strength would come to fruition during the next decade, establishing himself as the father of contemporary Christian music, a gospel award-winning composer, arranger, and conductor, writing popular songs of faith. He would occasionally arrange hymnal standards with his contemporary orchestra, causing quite a stir among pipe organ worshipers.