THE ATOMIC KID (1954)

A crowd mentality suggests a person will typically do things in a crowd—no matter how small—that they would not do alone. I probably should have watched this silly science fiction film with a couple of friends due to my lack of laughter. I mustered a couple of chuckles, however, due to comedic visuals. The film has not aged well. The B-movie garnered lukewarm reviews when it was released, too. It is an absurd twist on actual early Fifties atomic bomb testing in the Nevada desert and two lame brain prospectors stumbling into ground zero—maybe the only science fiction film of the era that is meant to be a comedy. The thirty-four-year-old “kid,” Mickey Rooney, and his seven-years-older partner, Robert Strauss, have gotten lost in the desert searching for uranium. Rooney confesses to Strauss that he threw away the compass. It was broken. The needle only pointed in one direction—north. A line that defines his dimwit character. They cannot agree on the purpose of a 500-foot tower with a “cabin” on top. The duo comes off as a once-popular, decade-long comedy team in their final film insult before calling it quits.

Seeking rest and food, they are encouraged by a lone house in the distance. The abandoned house with a mannequin family is there to give the researchers a vague idea of what an atomic explosion can do. The duo is unaware that the Nevada desert is set aside for nuclear testing. Parked beside the abandoned model home is a new Mercury with the key and a tank with gas. I cannot explain this. Strauss, the one with big ideas, takes the car to get help, heading straight for a trench filled with military men. Having no clue why they are wildly waving their arms at him, he sheepishly waves back. Under protest, he is dragged to the safety of the trench. Staying behind in his search for a peanut butter sandwich, Rooney absurdly survives the atomic blast in an enclosed pantry. Do not try this at home. He emerges from the obliterated house seriously singed, hair smoking, and with a toasted sandwich. His voice is sped up electronically, giving him a cartoon delivery. The officials who arrive wonder if he is a 5' 2" alien. Only one-third into the movie, it is the film's funniest scene.

During Rooney's treatments, his real-life "mid-point" wife of eight, Elaine Devry (Davis), plays his attending nurse. He becomes a national phenomenon for surviving an atomic bomb blast. Somehow. After weeks of medical supervision, he needs to escape his hospital room. Way too freely. The FBI plans to follow him because their intel says the Soviets want to kidnap the kid. The two selected FBI agents cannot believe their assignment. They are left with the responsibility to pick up the atomic hitchhiker because no one else stopped. Some funny lines from the agents. Rooney arrives in Las Vegas and bumps into Devry there. Because of radioactivity exposure, he can clear out every slot machine he walks by. Outside the "inconvenient" radiation exposure, Rooney does glow in the dark when his romantic impulses increase around Devry. Perhaps the first film to use this gimmick in this manner.

In bug-eyed, bombastic Strauss form, he sets his sights on money-making deals about the peanut butter brand Rooney was eating at the time of the denotation. The kid's newfound fame could make him a fortune with a book and product endorsements. The dunderhead he is, he unwittingly teams up with a Soviet spy. Now radiation-free, Rooney unconsciously helps them capture the "head spy" by accidentally falling on him from an upper-story office window.  

Devry developed a thing for the little guy, and they get hitched. Tired of all the attention, the newlyweds take back roads across the Nevada desert, stopping at an isolated house for directions and maybe a cold drink. But the mannequins inside are of no help. Panicked, they accelerate away from another atomic test site.

Note: This eighty-six-minute film was distributed by Republic Pictures and produced by Mickey Rooney Productions from a Blake Edwards story. The music score by Van Alexander puts the odd in periodic as it flits from a symphonic string quartet during a lighthearted moment to a driving march theme during Rooney's physical tests. The film includes many familiar faces in comedy films or television: Joey Forman, Paul Dubov, and Stanley Adams. Peter Leeds and Hal March deliver funny,  sarcastic remarks as the two FBI agents. Not missing out on a single casting call is Whit Bissell.

NEVER TOO LATE (1965)

Family-themed films of this era that open with bucolic scenes of small-town life—in this case, Concord, Massachusetts—that also have a title vocal covering the scenes make one wary that it may turn into a suds-fest. Yet this film's category is comedy. The title song was written by David Rose with lyrics by Jay Livingston and Ray Evans, and sung in the unmistakable tone of Vic Damone. The film starts off strong with Paul Ford's trademark sarcastic delivery—mostly to his live-in son-in-law—projected through his prominent nose. The first thirty minutes are consistently the funniest, and one may conjure up future shades of Archie Bunker. Unfortunately, there are about seventy-five minutes left.

Ford plays a successful New England lumber company executive in his early sixties, living a humdrum life with—for the purposes of this film—his similarly aged wife, played by Maureen O'Sullivan. Ford's myopic ideas about life are funny in the beginning. After the wife reveals to the family she is pregnant, the film gets less funny—hit and miss—as the story slogs through a sagging middle of a mature subject matter for its era. There is little to laugh about late in the film as it becomes a silly melodrama. Ford is not supportive of his “good news.” One ends up disgusted with him and irritated by O'Sullivan's breathy, aloof delivery. However, both pale in comparison to their daughter, Connie Stevens, who tries too hard to be funny or cute, fully aware that cameras are rolling. Her on-screen husband, Jim Hutton, is no less over-the-top by the midway point. Her desire is to start a family, but he wants to wait. Their squabbles are uncomfortably drawn out in clichéd fashion. All better played in a stage environment (see the Note below).

Accompanying this frustrated quartet is the town's mayor and Ford's next-door neighbor, Lloyd Nolan, who seems to be doing a parody of Joe Biden—assuming some sort of time warp has taken place. There is an overall resemblance, but it is his personality that suggests the current President—ironically a Democrat—where everyday conversation sounds politically motivated with a full cadre of faux-niceties—when not pointing his index finger. Yes, Nolan does that, too. I digressed there. He and Ford are long-time friends and past political rivals. The mayor awards a significant contract to Ford—sort of a congratulatory gift—to the expectant couple. Nudge. Nudge. Rounding out the cast are the family's physician, Henry Jones, and his on-screen wife, Jane Wyatt. As a confidant to O'Sullivan, Wyatt thinks she needs relief from her husband's “Nineteenth Century” commands. It is she who suggests O'Sullivan see her husband about sudden fatigue.

Ford is beginning to long for humdrum. Being a father again at his age is embarrassing as the townsfolk chide him about his unexpected treasure. He complains about turning eighty at his child's future college graduation, his wife's wardrobe spending, and their child's room renovation. Standard Hollywood fare includes the obligatory drunk scenes as Ford and Hutton return home and set up a prank on the mayor's lawn involving a spotlighted toilet. “Mayor Biden” threatens to cancel that lumber contract; O'Sullivan catches the next bus out of town, and Ford is actually stunned. And scared. And in pursuit.

Note: Warner Bros. Pictures distributed this film based on the 1962 Broadway play of the same name by Sumner Arthur Long, who also wrote this screenplay. Ford and O'Sullivan reprise their roles. Nearing their height of popularity, Hutton and Stevens are cast to bring in the younger moviegoers. And given the play's success, I imagine those who saw it live anticipated the film. After O'Sullivan comes to grips with her late pregnancy, the uplifting music and her brisk pace suggest a modern, liberal woman. Just the kind of characters that producer Norman Lear would gravitate to in the next decade. Along with the director of this film, Bud Yorkin, their future partnership changed the landscape of television, and this film foreshadows their concept—viewers tossed between hilarity and conflicting social issues—leaving one perplexed as to when laughing is appropriate.

THE CLAY PIGEON (1949)

 

This American film will not be included on anyone's top ten film-noir list, but there is little to fault here. Though never a dull moment, there are occasional clichés and implausibilities as the film wraps. Anchoring this B-movie is Bill Williams' rather bland vocal performance and delivery. Barbara Hale holds her own, however. The real-life husband and wife were in their third year of marriage when RKO Radio Pictures released this film. It is a tidy sixty-three minutes of suspense, competently directed by Richard Fleischer with a screenplay and story by Carl Foreman based on a true story. The cinematography of Robert De Grasse should be noted, specifically his positive-negative effects during one flashback.

An intriguing opening scene has a former World War II prisoner-of-war patient, Williams, awakening from a coma at a naval hospital. He overhears the doctor and nurse mention his court-martial for treason, and he shoots straight up in bed—face in the camera. He is accused of informing on fellow inmates in a Japanese prison camp. His amnesia makes for a foggy past and a perfect candidate for deception—hence the film's title. Not convinced of his guilt, he escapes from the hospital and contacts two people he hopes will help him recapture the truth.

Williams' first stop is the widow of one of his POW buddies, whom he greatly admired. Hale knows who he is, and the newspaper headlines fuel her dislike of him. There is an intense physical struggle between the two that is well-played and believable. Though somewhat implausibly—after confessing to being a nice guy—he gags and threatens her at gunpoint, while he calls his best friend, Richard Quine, another ex-POW. I will just say he is pretty irate to get the call, as if he has something else planned. Overhearing Williams's sincere conversation, Hale starts to change her opinion. Her gag order is lifted. Expect the obligatory roadblock out of town with Williams—not yet sure she can be trusted—pointing a gun and saying something silly like, “Don't try anything.” This is never believable. Those flashbacks help clarify his past for him and the audience. Williams needs to be eliminated before he recovers his memory. Leave this to thugs Richard Loo and Robert Bray.

Note: Williams and Hale hide out in a trailer park while he fully recovers from another blackout caused by the initial hit on the head during the Japanese prison camp. The scene is filmed at the Paradise Cove location where Jim Rockford will eventually park his trailer for the popular comedy detective series, The Rockford Files.

GUN CRAZY (1950)

This movie fits into the “human-noir” category, where childhood can be a dark affair affected by circumstances, psychological issues, or the influence of others. Any number of B-movie actors could have brought justice to each character, yet it turned out to be the defining film for both John Dall and Peggy Cummins. A superstar couple may have clouded the natural interpretation of the script by these two. Though the acting is compelling, it is the cinematography that stands the test of time. This film is based on a 1940 story of the same name from The Saturday Evening Post by MacKinlay Kantor. The film's premise could be adapted for any decade. He also wrote the screenplay along with Dalton Trumbo. The story features a gun-shooting husband and wife on their brief crime-spree honeymoon. It never consistently hits the bull's eye, but it still racks up some points.

I found the opening backstory about Dall's childhood obsession with guns drawn out more than necessary when narration over key filmed segments would have sufficed. Victor Young's opening score fits these scenes, which may be the only rushes the prolific composer ever saw. His music seems absent during the balance of the film. The opening does make it clear Dall is crazy about shooting guns. Peggy Cummins, on the other hand, is just plain crazy. In her first scene in this film—clad in Spandex-like pants borrowed from television's Lone Ranger—she appears to be far more dangerous without a gun. She is a crack shot in a traveling carnival, and Dall is enthralled. He has found his shooting-mate for life. His psyche is triggered, then he betters her in an on-stage challenge, using a gun he has never fired before. He is that good. Dall's future is in her hands—though he tries to rein her in—they are both on an anticipated downward spiral. Her character flits from charming to disturbed in the midst of a robbery. What he does not know about her past—she occasionally has to shoot somebody—the FBI is well informed. Their “undying” love will have them running until death do them part.

Directed by Joseph H. Lewis and produced by Frank and Maurice King of King Brothers Productions, the eighty-seven-minute film took thirty days and 400 grand to make. It was released by United Artists. Without a doubt, the most engaging element of the film is the periodically astounding cinematography by Russell Harlan. His extraordinarily realistic in-car camera work has the viewer riding in the back seat on a typical day of robbery as Dall and Cummins seem to be unscripted, as their dialogue fades in and out as if they were ad-libbing. Harlan's famous one-shot bank robbery sequence from a car's back seat is another trend-setting example. These scenes appear out of place among other routine scenes, seemingly shot by another cinematographer. Yet his camera placement under the dash—shooting through the steering wheel spokes—appears likely to be a wacky experiment that actually worked. Also of startling note are the extreme close-ups near the end as we watch the quivering lips of the sweaty couple. As to be expected during the first century of film, the editing by Harry Gerstad slips in a “chase” with a studio prop police car that should have been left on the editing room floor.

At least two things are puzzling. When the gun-crazy couple is being tailed by the police, Dall shoots the patrol car's front tire cleanly through their own rear window with nothing to suggest he broke out the backlight before shooting. For another, I found the drive to the top of the mountains strange, where Dall spent time as a youth. Not so much the drive as the foggy swamp at the summit. I had no idea there were swamps on California's low-humidity mountaintops. 

Finally, seventy-year-old forgettable films may garner new fans when dissected through Twenty-First Century thinking. The proper way to interpret this film is with a mid-century mindset. The implausible scenes are invisible to these commentators, preferring to zero in on the duo's sexual interpretation that they feel compelled to give an "enlightened" reboot to, which was not even thought of (or appropriate ) to comment on in 1950. By this measure, some of today's forgettable films may one day be considered great after all the personnel invested in the film have died.

Note: Dall's movie career and his life were short. His only other notable films before settling into television were Alfred Hitchcock's Rope, two years prior to this film, and a significant role in Spartacus (1960). He died at the age of fifty. This is Irish-born Cummins's best-known and last American film. Her film career ended in 1961, but she lived a long life with personal involvement in other ventures. She died at age ninety-two in London.

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 career shift was to the new medium of television. These periodic posts offer insight into their transition.

Harry Rhett Townes (1914-2001) 

Harry Townes was an American character actor with lengthy credits on stage and television. Yet there was little transition to television for Townes, being involved in the earliest days of the medium. Townes seamlessly became a familiar face to viewers with a wide range of emotions that side-stepped being typecast. His characters could be so real he seemed to disappear within the scenery with his sensitive and genuine performances—whether unlikable or whimsical. Intelligent audiences were more than satisfied with his skill. Unknown to most viewers in the 1970s, the average-looking leading man put himself through seminary to become an Episcopal minister.

Townes performed in several New York and Broadway stage productions, including summer stock. His Broadway credits include Gramercy Ghost (1950), Twelfth Night (1949), Mr. Sycamore (1942), Tobacco Road (1942), and In the Matter of J. Robert Oppenheimer (1968). His two-year run in the part of a leprechaun in Finian's Rainbow sent him to London. He left the stage to enlist in the United States Army Air Corps during World War II. There was the occasional film supporting roles. Most notable is Spencer Tracy's, The Mountain (1956). He joined a popular cast in the Dick Van Dyke comedy, Fitzwilly (1967) and played a General in the WW2 yarn, In Enemy Country (1968), followed by a re-edited two-part 1965 Kraft Suspense Theatre political thriller episode released in 1969, Strategy of Terror. All three slipping most moviegoers' minds within ninety days.

Townes found his greatest presence with an endless variety of television characters from the 1950s through the 1970s. Somewhat following a similar path as David Janssen, Townes was most captivating on the small screen. There are simply too many excellent roles to mention but I have listed a few notable performances. An actor's actor was the draw for these popular anthology series, Studio One in Hollywood, Kraft Theatre, Playhouse 90 with nine roles on Climax!. In one of his two appearances on Alfred Hitchcock Presents, he played a sadistic murderer with a warped sense of advancing his brother's political career by eliminating the competition in, “My Brother, Richard.” His two appearances on The Twilight Zone are of note. One, in particular, is “The Four of Us Are Dying” in which Townes' character has the ability to change his appearance at a whim, a trick he uses for personal advantage. He co-starred with his good friend, Wright King, in the “Shadow Play” episode. Producers sought him out for multiple roles on popular series: seven times for Gunsmoke, five times for Perry Mason, and The Fugitive. He returned four times on Quincy M.E. to play doctors. He gained popularity with a younger audience for guesting on a two-part episode of The Incredible Hulk, "The First." Townes' defined the episode because of his performance. The mid-eighties cast him in four spots on Simon & Simon and a recurring role on Knots Landing as Russell Winston. Harry Townes retired in 1989.

Townes' Personal Quote: I guess we're never entirely happy with what we do; we would like to do better. I feel I was lucky to get the work that I did. You always feel thankful because there are so many actors for so few jobs that it seems God is being good to you when you get a job. Of course, I would have loved to have done better, we all would. But we always think we can do it better in one more take. On the whole, I'm satisfied, though. As long as the audience was satisfied, then I'm satisfied.

THE WALKING TARGET (1960)

A California State Prison warden opens this crime drama like so many movies before it, warning the prisoner, Ron Foster, that the 260 grand he hid after a robbery five years before will bestow upon him the film's title. Reluctantly, he signs the prisoner's release, and Foster finds himself in the arms of his former girl, Merry Anders, right out of the gate—literally. He cools her jets by asking where she has been for five years. Not one visit. Not one cake. This lady has never used an oven. Like her current favorite boyfriend, Robert Christopher—whose faux excitement of reuniting with Foster is short-lived—she has ulterior motives. They want that money. Unlike these two, Foster later reveals he has a beating heart.

Outside the no-fault cast, a bit of stunt driving in Ford Motor Company's models features prominently, and the matched studio prop car scenery out the rear window is logical and authentic. Less so is the obvious, poorly edited stuntman choreography during two fight scenes. Taking the sting out of any crime film, the misplaced music played under closing credits by an otherwise competent score by Paul Sawtell and Bert Shefter, befits an old Bob Hope comedy-mystery from the past decade.

Attesting to the warden's astute judgment of character, a number of people are on the ex-con's heels, most notably Harp McQuire. He plays a detective, a condescending, tough-talking, wisecracking detective cliché. He stands out in the film for being the only unintended levity in the film. He loathes Foster until the contrived cafe ending. Barry Kroeger, not surprisingly, plays a mob boss with only three scenes to his credit. That is all he needs to establish his character. Weasel Christopher now works as his inside man. Anders essentially disappears from the film past the halfway point.

A flashback explains where the money was cleverly hidden. Neither of Foster's partners in the heist survived, one leaving behind a widow, Joan Evans—in her final film—whose physical presence is her acting weak point. Foster's deep remorse for the robbery's outcome has weighed heavily on his conscience. He tracks her to an Arizona cafe she operates to give her the share due to her late husband. She wants no part of the stolen money. Soon, everyone knows where she is, and a cafe confrontation between Kroeger, Christopher, McQuire, and Foster ignites. Humorously, before going into the cafe, Kroeger instructs his henchmen, “Check the silencers to make sure they're working.” I expected them to place the guns to their ear to confirm this. The bullets are unrealistically quiet, with three or four cast members going down just as quietly. Because of return fire, McQuire gets tabbed, but the rapid closing suggests he survives.

Notes: Director Edward L. Cahn churned out numerous films like this one. Decent crime films possess all the elements that should make for a memorable movie. Unfortunately, the premise had been done so often—usually, with the grit this film lacks—it has been universally forgotten. This tidy film is produced by Robert E. Kent Productions—as Zenith Pictures—for Edward Small, the executive producer. Small or Kent could produce realism in their pictures in spite of stale scripts and a low-visibility cast. Foster and McQuire team up again after their earlier Robert Kent Production, Cage of Evil. Talk around the office water cooler probably did not include this film, though television's Foster or Anders might have garnered mention. This film marks three in a row with director Cahn in Foster's sparse movie career. The seventy-five-minute film was distributed by United Artists.

YOU HAVE TO RUN FAST (1961)

The hunting season is about to start in the sleepy mountain town of Summit City, and a gangster has the perfect wall for the head of Craig Hill. The actor plays a doctor during an era when their door was always open. In the middle of the night, two mobsters, judging by their attitude and vocal tone, bring in a fellow they “found” on the side of the road. They are rather murky about their background and quickly leave Hill with the badly beaten victim, who does not survive the dawn. The police arrive, and Hill is informed that the dead man is a detective and the no-good Samaritans were bogus.

So begins a rather nifty—what should have been—television episode. But this suspenseful crime drama was never edited down from its seventy-three-minute run time. It is well-acted with a "blistering pace" for a routine premise of someone assuming a new identity in another town for his own survival. Dr. Richard Kimball may have had his own ideas after seeing this film. Expect the makeup department's budget to include the obligatory black-rimmed glasses, powdered gray wig, and mustache to facilitate Hill's transformation.

Hill wants no part in being confined under police protection, and their eyewitness gets out of town fast. It is one year later, and he is hardly recognizable without the makeup department's help. Now managing a sporting goods store in Summit City, Hill has taken a room at a lodge run by Willis Bouchey and his daughter, Elaine Edwards. A wheelchair-bound World War II veteran, Bouchey is his usual film character, barreling out wisdom to Hill about making something of himself rather than just running a seasonal hunting store. Awkward. Bouchey is also an expert marksman and is quite pumped about the hunting season when the public floods the small town in the likes of Fairmount, Indiana, during James Dean weekend. This is a rare film for the small-screen Edwards, who is on the verge of getting serious with Hill. But his “survival secret” offers setbacks. Yet, like Kimble, it becomes impossible to hide his Hippocratic oath for long. 

How the gangsters get a bead on his remote location is a near miracle. Hill's old “passport” photo does throw them a few curves, but the townsfolk unwittingly provided the thugs with needed information. Unlikely the two guys in suits, wingtips, and fedoras are avid game hunters, it soon becomes apparent to Hill that there are bullets with his namesake on them. Hill departs fast into the wilderness to dodge mob bullets. Wanting to hunt anything moving, Bouchey grabs a high-powered rifle with a scope and wheels himself to a window conveniently located directly opposite all the filmed action. He kills a five-point buck. No. He kills one of the gangsters about to fire on Hill. In an amazing bit of time-saving editing, the boss is actually captured in his car by the doctor who has been crouching in the back seat for who knows how long. It was the day the running stopped.

Note: The film was directed by Edward L. Cahn and produced by Robert E. Kent. They were frequent collaborators for films of this nature. Decent but forgettable. United Artists distributed it for the "renowned" production company, Harvard Film Corporation. The bits of location shooting will reveal that the Ford Motor Company volunteered its wallowing automobiles for the film.