THE TWONKY (1951)

Remembered by only the buffest of old-time radio buffs, Arch Oboler was one of the medium's most famous writer/directors. His most popular series, Lights Out!, presented atmospheric horror, while Arch Oboler's Plays was fantasy with a social conscience.  Oboler's style -- which might be described as heightened reality, the way regular people would talk if they had a good writer giving them pointers -- and the programs themselves were  undoubtedly a prime influence on Rod Serling's Twilight Zone many years later.

Oboler made the occasional foray into movies during this time (including the previously-discussed Gangway for Tomorrow) bouncing back and forth from film noir to anti-fascist dramas. In 1951, perhaps intrigued by the then-burgeoning television industry, he wrote and directed The Twonky, a low-budget sci-fi picture that over 60 years later remains a fascinating misfire.

The Twonky tells the story Professor Kerry West dealing with the new television that his wife has given him. Without even being plugged in, the TV starts quite literally taking over West's life. Giving the concept of "portable TV" a rather ominous twist, it even follows him around the house to keep an eye on what he's up to. Cops, colleagues and varsity football players who try to destroy the cathode-ray monster are knocked unconscious, only to awaken in a hypnotic trance babbling, "I have no complaints... I have no complaints... I have no complaints" like your average couch potato parked in front of a 50-inch 3D HDTV with his pretzels and Pabst.

That The Twonky is an allegory of the power of the television is as obvious as the nose on the face of Hans Conried, who plays Prof. West. But its real accomplishment is predicting both the 21st-century nanny state and the dumbing down of America with eerie accuracy.

For it's not enough that the TV insists on doing everything for West -- it does what it believes best for him, like replacing classical music with military marches or helping him play solitaire. By way of explanation, the talking TV identifies itself (in the typical take-me-to-your-leader patois) as a representative of the Bureau of Entertainment, which sounds like something straight out of 1984 -- or 2013.

Having taken charge of West's leisure time, the TV eventually prevents him from thinking for himself, going so far as to change his class lecture topic from "Individualism as the Basis of Great Art" to "Passion Through History."  And when its tyrannical behavior eventually drives West to drink, the TV zaps him back to sobriety. "I may be wrong," West screams in retaliation, "but it's my kind of wrong. It's my God-given right to be wrong!" That notion probably seems shocking to anyone growing up these days. In fact, if The Twonky were a new release, the TV would destroy West's cigarette rather than lighting it as it does here. And the New York City Council would be the first to lead the cheering.

"Twonky," by the way, is simply a slang dreamed up by one of West's colleagues, Coach Trout, for something inexplicable. Trout eventually comes to the conclusion that the TV is a robot from the future that fell through a time portal. Having landed in 1951 Los Angeles, the robot took the form of something that would help it blend in. The robot, he believes, was constructed to regulate every thought according to the dictates of the superstate -- a rather heavy idea for a movie many people probably blew off as being one step above a kiddie matinee.

A television wandering around the house sounds a little stupid -- OK, very stupid -- but it's pretty creepy here, despite (or because) of the rather humble special effects. That's not some Pixar creation walking into the kitchen or up the stairs; it's a real -- make that phony real -- Admiral TV.
Some years later, a Twilight Zone episode worthy of a horror movie featured a similar concept concerning a gambling addict and a slot machine. But here, the scare factor is undercut by a bassoon & flute-heavy score reminding us It's only a joke, folks. Someone more tech-savvy than me should post a remix The Twonky with Bernard Herrmann's music from Citizen Kane and Vertigo. It could be the stuff of nightmares. 

But even that wouldn't do anything to improve the dialogue or direction. Oboler made the unfortunate decision of wrapping The Twonky's spooky package with a whimsical ribbon, undercutting whatever message he might have tried to get across. Whimsey was the bete-noir of Oboler's unofficial protege Rod Serling as well, as demonstrated by the atrocious Twilight Zone episodes starring Carol Burnett and Buster Keaton respectively. (You haven't lived 'til you've heard a laugh track on The Twilight Zone. Nor do you want to.)

The Twonky's cast does what it can with the material provided. Hans Conried's name is often preceded by "the great" for a reason. A solid character in movies, radio and TV for six decades. Endless voice-over work in cartoons. A face and delivery you recognize immediately. Known mostly for comedic roles, Conried could have made his Prof. West  a compelling dramatic part had he been allowed. As it is, his off-the-charts reaction to the crushing of his independence is still quite moving at times, whether it deliberate or not. His plaintive cry, "Why is it when a man tells the truth, he's accused of drinking?", could have been just a comedic line in other hands. When delivered by Conried, it becomes the apotheosis of the sane human in a world gone mad. Yes, this is the great Hans Conried.

No one else in The Twonky comes with 100 TV antennae of Conried, although Billy Lynn, as Trout, is certainly something. It's difficult to say if he was the most subversively subtle character actor of his time or the brother-in-law of the casting director (he has only a handful of credited roles). What's not up for debate is that Lynn has the worst teeth in movie history outside of Lon Chaney's Phantom of the Opera.  

The Twonky went unreleased for two years after its 1951 production. It could very well be due to its overall shabbiness.  Much of the audio sounds like it's emanating from a cave, thanks to the indoor-location shooting. The static direction and cinematography is what you would have found on syndicated sitcoms of the time. What is definite is that The Twonky's promotion was piggybacked onto Arch Oboler's Bwana Devil, the movie that started the original 3D craze in 1952.

As anyone who's seen Carnival of Souls or The Honeymoon Killers can attest, a movie's low budget can actually create a genuinely disconcerting ambiance. No, what ultimately works against The Twonky is, ironically, what its evil TV is a proponent of: not trusting people to think for themselves. Had Oboler gone the dramatic fantasy route of his great radio plays, The Twonky could have been one of the most interesting, unnerving low-budget sci-fi movies of the '50s. The taglines on the poster promise much and, occasionally, glimpses of greatness are seen. By the end, though, the film pulls its punches, settling for comedy rather than the serious, even prophetic ideas it lays out. But what can you expect from a movie called The Twonky anyway? 

It wouldn't surprise me if a seven year-old Steven Spielberg saw The Twonky at his local movie house one Saturday afternoon. In 1971, his first feature, the made-for-TV movie Duel, was about a monstrous truck... that seems to have a life of its own. There isn't one second of humor in its running time. So successful was Duel, Universal Pictures released it theatrically in Europe. Let this be a lesson to moviemakers everywhere: When inanimate things come to life, it's scary.

 
                                                       
                                                          ***********


 

THE MYSTERY OF THE LEAPING FISH (1916)

A  good pipe and a hypodermic needle is all a man needs.

The 3-reel comedy The Mystery of the Leaping Fish is the kind of movie that the word "bizarre" was created for.  Critically-reviled in its day and all but disowned by its star, Douglas Fairbanks, the short was rediscovered by a more welcoming audience during the early days of home video. Not so much for its quality, mind you, but its quantity. Like, in kilos. For this is the birth of drug humor in motion pictures.

Every person in Hollywood today is wondering,
How do I get my hands on that can?

You think Cheech & Chong took a lighthearted approach to drugs? 
They're like the Moscow Art Theater compared to Douglas Fairbanks, who, as detective Coke Ennyday, shoots up regularly as Jay Carney obfuscates. No other movie in my memory makes mainlining such a source of zany comedy. Ennyday's regular reaction to shooting up cocaine is to giggle like a madman, swing his arms wildly and dance a jittery two-step. Put him at the elbow of Liza Minnelli and he would've fit right in at Studio 54. 

Ennyday, sporting a phony mustache which he turns upside down or removes depending on his mood, is hired by the Secret Service to investigate an unnamed "gentleman" living the good life without any visible means of support. If that's a crime, somebody call the cops on Anthony Weiner.

And it's even better on toast with jam!

Ennyday discovers his prey has been smuggling opium inside the Leaping Fish floatation devices rented at the beach. Always up for a new thrill, Ennyday decides to taste the opium, which appears to have the consistency of vintage Nutella. And instead of knocking him out as opium is wont to do, it sends him into a frenzy that lasts for the rest of the movie. Was nobody concerned with realism while making this movie?!

Ennyday's sweetheart, whose job is inflating the Leaping Fish, is kidnapped by the smuggler and his Asian henchman. Tracing them to a Chinatown laundry, the detective subdues the smuggler with a hit of cocaine, which sends him literally flying to the ceiling. The cops arrive. Ennyday saves his sweetheart. Fade out.

But wait! In the positively meta epilogue, we see Douglas Fairbanks (as himself) in the office of a movie producer, to whom he has just read the script for The Mystery of the Leaping Fish. The producer advises him to stick to acting. This was the last time anybody said no to a movie star. 

Kim Kardashian's favorite mode of transportation
when trying to avoid paparazzi.

You'll notice that nowhere in the preceding paragraphs did you find the word "funny." For The Mystery of the Leaping Fish doesn't evoke laughter as much as it does open-mouthed disbelief. It's not just the drug gags that make you shake your head. Ennyday's front door is set up with a closed-circuit camera connected to his television -- in 1916. He travels in an ostentatious check-print auto (to match his clothes) with his butler perched on the backseat blowing a horn. Cops literally drive around in circles at the climax. The whole movie seems to be an elaborate private joke concocted by Fairbanks and his pals over a few drinks. When you consider that the scriptwriter was Tod Browning -- who went on to direct Freaks -- it all starts to make sense.

I've got a photo of me doing the same thing.

Fairbanks' career was ascending at the time, so just why he thought playing a cocaine addict in a drug comedy was a good move is a mystery greater than that of the Leaping Fish. Being the kind of guy who not only couldn't stand still but also enjoyed the occasional dangerous stunt -- like a handstand on the edge of a cliff  -- perhaps this was one of those "personal" projects he had to "get out of his system" before going back to, you know, good movies.

If I have my way, this will soon be a
common sight at Coney Island.

By the way, the Leaping Fish were a real craze in Los Angeles at the time, and ripe for reintroduction for swimmers today. (Memo to self: check on patent expiration date.) Ennyday makes them float faster, of course, by injecting them with cocaine, but I seriously doubt that would work in real life.

As with many movies shot on location at the time, The Mystery of the Leaping Fish provides a fascinating look at how provincial a city Los Angeles was decades before freeways and the post-war population boom transformed it into a sprawling mass of houses and traffic. The brief exterior shot of L.A.'s Chinatown shows an area as dusty and unpaved as in the days of Jesse James. What was once simply just another comedy is today an artifact of a time and place that no longer exist.

Some modern day viewers consider The Mystery of the Leaping Fish one of the most hilarious pictures they've ever seen. I've watched it a few times over the years and have laughed at two things: 

1. Ennyday's telescope doubles as a hat. 
2. Ennyday's sweetheart is identified only as The Little Fish Blower. 

It's coke time.

Neither of these are necessarily worthy of Oscar Wilde or even Olivia Wilde, but with a movie like this, you have to get your fun where you find it. Not that The Mystery of the Leaping Fish isn't worth a half hour of your time. But maybe it works best if you have a clock similar to the kind Coke Ennyday uses, to remind you when it's time to laugh.

Meta postscript: Alma Rubens, who plays the smuggler's girlfriend, died in 1931 as a result of heroin addiction.  

                                                ********************* 

MR. ROBINSON CRUSOE (1932)

Mr. Robinson Crusoe presents an artist at the end of his rope, both artistically and personally. Having been one of the biggest movie actors in the world just three years earlier, Douglas Fairbanks had seen his star fall dramatically with the introduction of sound. Convinced, rightly, that the new technology, along with his advancing age, would no longer suit the brand of derring-do his fans had become accustomed to, he tried his hand at Shakespeare (The Taming of the Shrew with wife Mary Pickford), sophisticated comedy (Reaching for the Moon) and travelogue (Around the World in 80 Minutes), all to less than stellar results.

So it's no surprise that his fourth talkie was little more than a low-budget 70-minute home movie/vanity project, Mr. Robinson Crusoe. Writing the treatment under his usual nom-de-scenario, Elton Thomas, Fairbanks updated the classic story to that of millionaire Steve Drexel sailing to the Dutch Indies with his friend William Belmont. Drexel, tired of civilization, decides to jump ship and live like Crusoe on a deserted island. If he's still in one piece by the time William returns from his tiger hunting trip, he wins $1000. If not, well, Belmont loses a friend but saves a grand. Good trade-off.

I wouldn't get too comfortable, Mr. White Boss Man.

Any Robinson Crusoe needs a Man Friday, and this is version no different. Unfortunately for Drexel, this Friday is a proto-Civil Rights activist who wants no part of playing Rochester to the white man, especially when said white man almost drowns him in an effort to correct his attitude. For reasons unexplained, Friday wears a necklace made of radio tubes, cuing Drexel to ask, "You killed a radio operator, hunh? You should've killed a radio announcer." Someone should have killed the writer.

The dame's wearing only a cloth and grass skirt,
for God's sakes -- do something!

Soon after Friday takes his leave, a native woman escaping her wedding ceremony shows up. "Friday's gone," Drexel observes, "you must be Saturday." (The level of wit in Mr. Robinson Crusoe is staggering.) Drexel brings his conquest up to his home-built bachelor pad, which contains all the usual comforts , including a radio made of Friday's necklace, copper, a shell for the speaker and some wood for the base. (Bose, take note.) He and Saturday immediately set up house, although he refuses to sleep in the same bed with her. Considering that Saturday is quite willing and good-looking, the reason for Drexel's non-reaction can only be speculated. Saturday, by the way, is played by Spanish actress Maria Alba, who looks about as "native" as Jean Harlow.

"Yeah, you were supposed to be the
entree. Funny, hunh?"

Just to give you an idea of the kind of friends Drexel has, Belmont and Carmichael stop off at a nearby island and convince the natives to invade Drexel's pad. They're to pretend to be cannibals and, after capturing Drexel, start to roast him over a fire, whereupon Belmont and Carmichael will "save" him. All this to welsh on a lousy $1000 bet while spending a good six figures on an ocean voyage. I don't understand rich people.

Hey guys, there's a half-naked woman there,
and all you have are eyes for are each other.

The monkey saves the day -- as they always do in these things -- by turning on the radio, which scares the natives -- as they always do in these things. Drexel escapes and captures the natives in his trap. Belmont and Carmichael show up and are impressed by Drexel's surroundings. (Noticing the radio, Belmont exclaims with admiration, "The man is Mussolini!" Whatever you say, dude.) Escaping a further influx of natives, Drexel, his friends and Saturday sail off to safety on their yacht. By the climax, Drexel has sold off Saturday to the Ziegfeld Follies as a hula dancer. I was hoping she'd break free and climb the Empire State Building, but that idea was a year away.

It probably didn't take Fairbanks long to write the treatment. Much of the first half of Mr. Robinson consists of him: 1) Creating Rube Goldberg-type devices to make his life more

We're not laughing at you,
we're laughing with you.

comfortable, and 2) Laughing. Laughing, in fact, is his first reaction to everything. Using animals as slave labor? Laughter. Listening to radio reports of traffic deaths and suicides back home? Laughter -- no kidding. He gets a real howl out of trapping a goat, who appears to have been drugged for its movie debut. This was well before the Hollywood branch of the ASPCA ruined all the fun animal abuse entails. 

More hilarity ensues when Belmont and Carmichael observe island natives. Carmichael explains that the village is preparing for an engagement ceremony, which will climax with the groom-to-be knocking out the front teeth of his beloved. Belmont chuckles, "Oh well, we do the same thing. Only we wait until after the ceremony." You just don't hear that kind of witty repartee anymore. Special note must be made of all the natives' clothing, which appears to have been come from a nearby Target.

After big-budget productions like Robin Hood, Zorro and The Black Pirate, a sorry little effort like Mr. Robinson Crusoe must have disappointed Fairbanks' remaining fans. He tries hard to combine the athletics of those classic adventure pictures and his earlier, modern-dress comedies (for Fairbanks made his mark as a physical comedian). But factors like age -- he was 49 but seems older -- and cigarettes worked against him.
 
Too, the movie wears its low budget on its ragged sleeve. Much of the first scene on the yacht was clearly shot in a studio with a very unconvincing back projection. The dialogue spoken on the location shooting is echoey and distracting thanks to poor post-production dubbing. The entire production must have looked old-fashioned even in 1932. The onscreen prologue is itself straight out of the silents. The "glories and freedom of a primitive paradise" could just as well refer to Fairbanks' Hollywood heyday as it does a deserted island. (Just to drive it home, co-star William Farnum was a former silent star as well, best known for The Spoilers, made in 1914.) One nice touch: circulating prints of Mr. Robinson Crusoe still contain the original exit music following the closing credits, the perfect accompaniment as you make your favorite tropical drink to forget what you just watched.

There's a sad, desperate air to Mr. Robinson Crusoe, with Douglas Fairbanks still trying to pretend it was 1925, when he was King of Hollywood and his namesake son wasn't yet more popular than he. His athletic grace comes to the fore from time to time -- but is that him making his climatic escape on a combination zipline/catapult? I think not. It kind of makes sense that his island-wear is a duplicate of Peter Pan's. Douglas Fairbanks had become a middle-aged boy who, sadly, refused to grow up.

 

     

**************

THE KEEPER OF THE BEES (1935)

The novel upon which The Keeper of the Bees is based would likely have my wife swoon, "Oh, I loved that book when I was growing up!" Lightly allegorical, vaguely ethereal, The Keeper of the Bees demonstrates how a chance meeting between two strangers can affect not just their own lives but those of everyone around them, all for the better. It's about dropping masks and embracing love -- without being stung. It's also as complicated as heart surgery in a blackout.

"I knew Rin Tin Tin. Rin Tin Tin was a
friend of mine. And you're no
Rin Tin Tin."

Army veteran Jamie McFarland, given six months to live, is hitchhiking to Chicago when he's picked up by Molly, who is immune to his attempts to pick her up. After being kicked to the curb, Jamie tries to follow her, only to have a dog tug him to its sick master, Michael, an elderly beekeeper. Before taken to the hospital, Michael makes Jamie promise to care for the bees until he returns. Jamie receives help from a neighborhood kid nicknamed Little Scout, and Margaret Campbell, the housekeeper.

"I don't have to change
diapers? Where do I sign up?"

While out for a walk one evening, Jamie runs into Molly, who tearfully admits she needs "the protection of a man's name."  Jamie offers to marry her -- he's only got six months to live, after all. Molly accepts, but only if they go their separate ways immediately after the ceremony, never to communicate with each other again. How many husbands would pay good money for that kind of marriage?

Just don't expect the
same salary as guys, kiddo.

Months pass. Michael, the old beekeeper, dies in the hospital. Jamie and Little Scout inherit the property. Jamie's health is renewed by the simple life he once shunned but now loves. But now Little Scout faces a crisis, being outed by friends... as a girl. Jamie assures her that girls can assume the same leadership positions as boys. (Remember, this is a work of fiction.)

A phone call from the hospital alerts Jamie that "Mrs. McFarland" is dying after giving birth to "his" child. Expecting to see Molly in the maternity ward, Jamie discovers a total stranger instead. Nevertheless, he leaves with the baby... just as Molly (Jamie's real phony wife) swings by the hospital to visit the now-passed mother.

Shortly after Jamie returns home with the baby, Molly arrives. The truth is revealed. The woman whose name Molly signed on the wedding license, Louise Campbell, was her cousin -- and Margaret's runaway daughter. Molly had been trying to protect Louise's reputation by giving her a husband, if in name only.  It appears that Jamie and Molly will marry eventually, this time with her real name on the license.


There's something of a spiritual feeling running through The Keeper of the Bees, like a light mist drifting across the story and its characters. Michael (the beekeeper) plays a Godlike role in his care of the bees and setting in motion the events that will lead the others to a happy end. Too, the Archangel Michael is the patron saint of soldiers -- like Jamie.  And only after dropping the uniform of war for a life of peace does Jamie become restored whole -- reborn, you might say. As his true nature comes to the surface, so do those of Molly and Little Scout.

"I've got the
script and
I'm confused."

But not Margaret, who overhears Molly and Jamie discussing the circumstances of Louise's death. Yet when told a moment later that her daughter was killed in a car accident -- a more acceptable death than illegitimate childbirth? -- Margaret (played by Emma Dunn) goes along with the ruse. She thus becomes the only character in The Keeper of the Bees choosing to live some kind of a lie, even as she looks forward to helping to care for the infant she now realizes is her granddaughter.  

  

Little Scout (Edith Fellows) brings her own set of conundrums. Like -- where the hell are her parents? Do they know she's dressing in male drag? Isn't there a school in this town? And was Harper Lee  aware of The Keeper of the Bees before creating a small-town tomboy named Scout in To Kill a Mockingbird?

To be sure, unintentional chuckles are scattered about. Jamie asking the stricken Michael, "Where are the aromatic spirits of ammonia?" -- apparently a common household item in 1935. Molly walking the cliffs at night in heels. Little Scout and her friends playing with a loaded rifle. Margaret ordering Little Scout to get two bottles, four nipples and a quart of high-quality olive oil for the baby. I don't recall my wife giving me this shopping list when we brought our daughter home. (And so you don't get the wrong idea, Margaret rubs the olive oil on the baby -- another thing we inexplicably forgot to do.)

Had it been made at one of the A-level studios, The Keeper of the Bees would have featured stars like Cary Grant and Claudette Colbert. Instead, Monogram Pictures picked up the movie rights, doubtlessly in an effort, like Little Scout, to play with the big boys. Neil Hamilton and Betty Furness, one-time contract players at the majors now freelancing on Poverty Row, play Jamie and Molly. Perhaps it's for the best. They don't come off as movie stars -- all the easier to get lost in the movie's subtle charms. Even the dog is a little scruffy around the edges just like, you know, real dogs. (Thirty years later, Neil Hamilton would gain everlasting fame as Commissioner Gordon on Batman -- a series about two guys whose whole raison d'etre depends on literally wearing masks and living a lie.)

As delicate as the pollinated flowers that sustain Jamie's apiary, The Keeper of the Bees requires an audience willing to go with its gentle flow. It's a quiet movie, literally and figuratively -- Neil Hamilton is particularly soft-spoken -- lacking today's bombastic scores that artificially cue one's emotions. Margaret's repeated axiom, "Have faith," might just be as well aimed at the viewer: Have faith that you can watch a movie lacking cynicism. Have faith that life can be lived the same way. It's apt that the opening credits are seen inside a frame. The Keeper of the Bees is, in its own way, a little work of art.

                                         

                                                    **************************

CONQUEST OF THE AIR (1936/1940) and VICTORY THROUGH AIR POWER (1943)

There was something in the air in the early 1940s -- Messerschmidts, primarily -- that must have caused studios on two different continents to release documentaries involving the history of flight in peace and war. From Britain came Conquest of the Air. Hollywood's contribution was Victory Through Air Power, a Walt Disney movie whose lasting fame is right up there with Moon Pilot, Savage Sam and Nikki, Wild Dog of the North.

It's no secret that for many years -- oh let's just come out and say it: decades -- the UK film industry was far behind Hollywood's both technically and creatively. So Conquest of the Air -- originally released in 1936 but re-released in an expanded version four years later to cover the war with Germany -- doesn't differ much from something you'd have slept through in history class. Flat black & white cinematography, crude historical recreations, monotonous narration and hollow audio dubbed-in after the fact take up much of its 70-minute running time. (That some scenes are slightly better than others testifies to five directors being involved.) 

Oh yeah, that'll work.

The most fascinating fact Conquest of the Air presents is that there were a lot of idiots back in the pre-Renaissance day who thought that if they strapped on 50 pounds worth of phony wings and jumped off a tall building, they could fly. I mean a lot of idiots. Like generations worth. The only one who begged to differ was a budding Superman who thought a cape would do the trick. I think they're still scraping pieces of him off a piazza somewhere.

One odd directorial choice is keeping the face of the actor playing Leonardo DaVinci away from the camera at all times. Was the budget too low to afford a phony beard?

"Get-a your tootsi-frutsi ice cream!"

Then there's Laurence Olivier playing foppish hot-air balloonist Vincent Lunardi with the zaniest Italian accent this side of Henry Armetta. Olivier might have killed onstage in his salad days, but he ignored the "less is more" flag waving on the movie set. I mean, he makes Lionel Barrymore look like Warren Oates. On the other hand, with his two-minute cameo he's the only memorable actor in Conquest of the Air, so maybe he knew what he was doing. Attention must be paid and all that. 

"We should begin our descent
in approximately 144 hours."

Where Conquest of the Air really shines is the documentary footage of early flying machines. A weird contraption -- it looks like a Volkswagen Beetle -- spins over what appears to be Central Park, just waiting to be declared illegal by Mayor Bloomberg 75 years later. Interesting facts abound -- the narrator is astonished, for instance, that it was possible to fly from London to South Africa within a week. Today, it takes that long just to get through Security.

The footage of the Hindenburg explosion nicely illustrates, I'd say, the pros and cons of using hydrogen for fuel. (Although I think it was a conspiracy involving the Illuminati, the World Bank and the Fox Movietone Newsreel wanting an awesome exclusive.) British war planes are shown getting ready for battle while the narrator sadly reminds us that peaceful usage for flying will be on the shelf for the duration. Winston Churchill reminds his fellow Brits that their war with Germany was going to be won by air power.  

Nobody had to tell that to Col. Billy Mitchell, who, in the 1920s, urged the U.S. Army to focus on air power in future combat and was court-martialed for his trouble. Russian-born-turned-naturalized-American Major Alexander DeSeversky was so impressed by Mitchell's arguments that he published Victory Through Air Power not long after our involvement in the War. Walt Disney, in turn, was so impressed by the book that he decided to make a feature-length adaptation. Today, the jokers who run the studio would ask, "Where are the vampires?"

As with Conquest of the Air, Victory Through Air Power opens with a history of Man's attempt to fly. Unfortunately, its silly animation appears to be aimed at your average mentally-challenged two year-old chihuahua. Stung by the failure of Fantasia three years earlier, Disney was now moving into the middle-of-the-road crap that had already neutered the once-anarchic Mickey Mouse.


So what follows couldn't be more of a contrast -- a live-action lecture by DeSeversky interspersed with chilling animation that brings to life the perils of underestimating the Axis' strength. As with Billy Mitchell, DeSeversky seemed to have been in possession of a crystal ball few took seriously. Among the very first words he speaks:

As soon as the airplanes that are already on the

drafting boards of all the warring nations take to the air, there will not

be a single space on the face of the earth immune to attack. [...]

The distinctions between soldiers and civilians will be erased. And I believe

that it is only a matter of time before we here in America will suffer

our share of civilian casualties.

Major Alexander DeSeversky
explains it all to you -- with a really big globe.

Give that guy a Purple Heart for Prognostication. 9/11, drones, Syria, Chechnya -- it's all there in Technicolor. As obvious as it seems now, this was heady stuff in 1943. It makes you wonder who the Pentagon is ignoring today.

DeSeversky was blessed with the gift of taking rather complex military theories and presenting them in such a way that the average idiot (e.g., me) could understand. His soft Russian accent has just enough of a lulling effect to draw you into what he's saying without putting you to sleep -- except to audiences in 1943, but more on that later. 

Uh oh.

The animated sequences that accompany the lecture aptly bring to life the need for air power over the more conventional ground combat. Whether talking about Germany or Japan (Italy gets short shrift here, apparently being the kid who goes along with whatever his big brothers suggest),
DeSeversky explains clearly how our goals will be reached with current warfare techniques vs new thinking. The war

I prefer my Japanese octopus
on sticky rice.

with Japan, for example, would last until 1948 by merely hopscotching from base to base until finally reaching Tokyo. Or we could shorten the war via "long range air power" -- bigger planes with more fuel. The ultimate solution, he believed, would be building airbases in Alaska from which our bombers could take off. Brilliant thinker that he was, DeSeversky never considered a weapon like, oh, the atomic bomb to get the job done. 

Disney explains what an airplane is
to Major DeSeversky.

Typical for World War II animation, the bad guys are thoroughly raked over the coals in a way that would make today's p.c. crowd weep. There's something refreshing, even liberating, to see evil portrayed as evil. Now if someone would only do the same thing with Jeff Zucker, we'd be making progress.



Disney thought he was doing his patriotic bit by producing Victory Through Air Power. At the same time, he was first and foremost a businessman, which explains why he was hedging his bets when it came to promoting it. Posters, like the one a few paragraphs up, played up the war angle (albeit with the slogan, "There's a Thrill in The Air!", which would fit quite well with a Nelson Eddy-Jeanette MacDonald operetta). Others, like the one to the left, made it seem like just another Disney cartoon -- different, as one of the captions reads, but nothing that Donald Duck couldn't handle. 

If Louella says it's so, it's so.

Critics, recognizing something special, got behind Victory Through Air Power in a big way. Newspapers and magazines provided free promotion. Everything was in place for audiences to sit enraptured. Everything, that is, but the audiences.  Ultimately, all that Walt Disney had to show for his efforts were an Academy Award for Special Achievement and $400,000 in red ink. Coming on top of the almost $2,000,000 loss Fantasia suffered, Disney would later call Victory Through Air Power "a stupid thing to do."

While DeSeversky beams with pride at the Oscar,
Disney wonders how much he can hock it for.

It doesn't seem that way now. Victory Through Air Power is probably the most fascinating movie Disney ever made, a fine example of what live action and animation were capable of. It probably plays better on home video than it did on a big screen in the middle of the War when escapism, not a lecture on technological warfare, was the entertainment choice of the day. As with his other cinematic experiments, Disney put monetary considerations on the back burner, certain that audiences would appreciate what he was doing -- no matter how often he was proven wrong. 

The current Disney regime has certainly learned, though. Upcoming releases include Jungle Cruise (based on the Disneyland ride), Monsters University (a prequel to Monsters, Inc.) and National Treasure 3 (no explanation needed). Unseen and forgotten since its original 1943 release, Victory Through Air Power made its DVD debut in 2004 in a limited edition of 250,000 copies. Nine years later, unopened copies can still be found on Amazon. We're not going to be seeing Victory Through Air Power: The Drone Years any time soon.

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LADY IN THE DEATH HOUSE (1944)

Back in the 1940s, if a neighborhood theater manager wanted to put fannies in the seats, he couldn't do better than Lady in the Death House. The title alone is rich with promise. But there's also that fabulous poster with the blood-red silhouette, the woman in the lower corner looking on disbelief and a tagline hyping a whole new genre: soap opera noir.

Then there are the opening credits -- the shadow of an electric chair, the title spelled out in letters resembling electricity. And the great Lionel Atwill in the lead! All of this is what B-movie fans salivate for. You could probably watch it in your head without ever actually having seen it. A couple of unexpected twists, along with a cast game for anything, ultimately made this PRC release worth the time it took to tell its strange, convoluted story. Maybe because it's only 55 minutes long.

A typically-subtle PRC touch.

Convict Mary Logan is finishing up a letter to criminologist Dr. Charles Finch before she walks the last mile. The warden obviously didn't get the memo about shaving prisoners' heads before they're electrocuted. Judging by her bouffant, this prison must have a Rodolfo Valentin outlet on the premises. My wife would gladly kill me for this kind of pampering.
Just as Mary's ready to take the hot squat, we flashforward to Dr. Finch talking to a gaggle of reporters at his apartment. That's a common thing in old movies -- newspaper reporters hanging around their subject's living room, partaking in his liquor and cigarettes, no sense of competition among them. Nobody's taking notes because their hands are filled with booze and smokes. It's a wonder that cities like New York could afford 12 daily newspapers. 

"At least we weren't smoking.
Mayor Bloomberg would kill us!"

Finch gives the lowdown on how Mary wound up in the death house. One evening, Finch was at his favorite restaurant, the Grotto. Or, actually, the only restaurant set PRC could afford. (It's pretty funny when, in a later scene at the Grotto, Finch says, "Let's find a booth," when we know it's going to be the same goddamn booth we've seen three times in the last 20 minutes.) He had struck up a conversation with Dr. Dwight Bradford when they were distracted by a typical accident you see when dining out: a woman's dress catching on fire thanks to a flambe knocked over by her drunken date. Bradford uses Finch's coat to put out the flames, because, well, who wants to ruin their own coat?

"But honey, I'll bring them back!"

As you might have guessed, this immediately leads to true love. Unfortunately, the only thing standing between the couple and the altar is Bradford's job: he's the executioner at the state prison. Not that he particularly enjoys it; it simply pays the bills while he's working on a formula to revive the dead. (That prison must execute a hell of a lot of people to finance a hobby like this.)  Here's the beauty part: Mary can't abide by his perfectly legitimate government job, yet has no trouble with him trying to bring corpses back to life. Dames!

"You look guilty. That's good enough for me!"

Mary has a secret of her own: she's being shaken down by Willis Millen, a former associate of her late father, a two-bit crook, in exchange for not telling her boss her real identity. Millen is found dead in her apartment; circumstantial evidence points to Mary being the killer. (As a cop on the scene says, "This isn't one of those cases that depends on clues." Just the guy you want in public service.) Finch isn't convinced, and starts his own
investigation. 

A crazy slut, at that.

Finch is suspicious of Mary's younger, sluttish sister Susie. ("Although emotionally unstable," Finch admits in hindsight, "she was not vicious." No, just a slut.) He knows Susie is hiding something, but can't get her to talk even when her sister is sentenced to the chair. And fulfilling the fantasies of every guy who's been dumped by a woman, Bradford is scheduled to pull the death switch on Mary. High-five!

Had the makers of Lady in the Death House continued on this path, news of Mary's innocence would have arrived seconds after she got fried. Bradford would then drag her back to the lab and pull a Dr. Frankenstein on her. Mary's eyes would have blinked open and next thing you know, it'd be honeymoon of the living dead. Although I'm not keen on happy endings for crime films, I'd have found that acceptable.

Prisons had really cool lighting in those days.

But that's not what the boys in re-write went for. Instead, Bradford chickens out and not only refuses to execute his ex-honey, but tries to prevent anyone else from doing it, too. Finch finds the real killer (it isn't important how -- suffice it to say he was inspired by a flashing neon sign reading RICHARDSON ALE). Only the Governor has the power to cancel Mary's execution, but he's at a roadside diner with his driver and no security detail whatsoever. This being over a half-century before cell phones became pandemic, it's up to a radio announcer to order the Governor to call the prison before Mary goes the way of Reddy Kilowatt. 

All ends well. Mary moves to Chicago with Bradford, who gets a new job that doesn't involve killing innocent prisoners, freeing up his time to reanimate the dead. For some reason, this still doesn't seem strange to anyone concerned.

It's not just the plot of Lady in the Death House that gets you dizzy. It's constantly going back and forth in time, with opticals between scenes resembling a particularly hyper windshield wiper. Other times, the special effects department varies things a bit by wiping clockwise, then counterclockwise, often within the space of mere seconds. This is the earliest example of cinematic ADD I've ever seen. 

Low-budget movies like this, stuffed with no-name actors, give you a good idea of what "regular" people looked like then. Everybody, other than Lionel Atwill, looks just different enough to step in front of a camera, but not for an important production. They can memorize and recite their dialogue more or less convincingly. All the men wear pencil-thin mustaches, that apparently being the style of the day. Marcia Mae Jones, as Susie, really does look like a crazy slut and plays it accordingly. She seems wholesome in other photos online so maybe she's a better actress than I give her credit for.  And as for Jean Parker -- the woman who plays Mary Logan -- I recognized her from Laurel & Hardy's The Flying Deuces and nothing else. But when you're in a Laurel & Hardy movie, other credits are superfluous.

"It's Wednesday -- what
movie am I making today?"

And what would a PRC release be without an actor you know by face but not by name -- like Byron Foulger, the mousy guy who can switch from nice to nasty in the drop of a script. In Lady in the Death House, he's the creep who insists on testifying that Mary was the killer even though all he could see were silhouettes on a shade. (This movie is actually the best argument against the death penalty I've ever seen.) An actor around forever, his CV boasts 468 gigs from his first movie in 1932 to his final TV appearance in 1970. Did this guy even take a nap?

America's most debonair orgy-meister.

Lady in the Death House is a far cry from Lionel Atwill's glory days in movies like Murders at the Zoo where he sews shut the mouth of a romantic rival in the very first scene. But you'd never know it by watching him. As with other character actors of his time -- Henry Daniell and George Zucco, to name just two -- Atwill immediately elevates any movie he's in with his stage-trained polish, diction and charisma. He's a pro no matter how skimpy the budget or bizarre the script.

Atwill was once a reliable player in A-pictures -- the one-armed policeman in Son of Frankenstein, the not-so mad scientist in Dr. X among the best-remembered -- until a perjury conviction involving one of his legendary porn-fueled orgies made him actor-non-grata among the studio-head hypocrites who were guilty of far worse. 

Atwill spent his last years shuttling between low-rent jobs at Universal and PRC.  Always dependable for a good quote ("All women love the men they fear. All women kiss the hand that rules them"), he's kind of like Claude Rain's mysterious step-uncle. Perfectly civilized, a wonderful raconteur, but someone you wouldn't want to babysit your kids. 

But damn, could he throw a porn-fueled orgy. High-five!

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