Gorath

Back on earth, high-ranking Japanese officials are peeved at not having been consulted about the decision to reroute JX-1, but after some thought, they magnanimously decide that, yes, maybe the right decision was made without them (useful information about the possible destruction of the earth was obtained, after all).  Once everyone is on the same page regarding the need to do something about Gorath, the bean counters weigh in with their penny-pinching take on the situation:  it’s going to cost a lot of money to save the earth.  It’s decided the job is too big for Japan to take on alone, and before you can say UNICEF, the project is a United Nations operation.

Considering contemporary attitudes about the United Nations, when even a generous assessment might find it ineffectual, at best, and part of a sinister cabal plotting world domination, at worst, Gorath’s vision of a world united is probably the most unlikely piece of speculation in a fairly improbable science fiction film.  The belief that the world’s scientists might come up with a course of action that every nation on earth would follow and get behind, seems a little wide of the mark also–especially given the plan that’s ultimately proposed.                                                                                                                                                                                                       
 Here is what the best and brightest recommend:  giant nuclear jets built at the South Pole that will push the earth out of Gorath’s path.  Seriously.  But before anyone can point out that the earth’s rotation might be a problem, cargo ships are deployed to the South Pole, and an impressive array of miniatures begin to clear land and build the gigantic jets.  After a few minutes of watching tiny flatbeds, cranes, dump trucks, and bulldozers move across frame, Gorath begins to look less like a motion picture and more like a Tonka Toy commercial.

Once the jets are ignited and blasting away, all that stands in the way of earth’s survival is–you probably guessed it–a giant walrus.  Possibly freed from an icy hibernation by the heat of the nuclear reactors, it rampages through the UN’s command center.  Upon learning of the existence of the giant walrus, the annoyed but blase reaction of the chief scientist is, “I didn’t think an animal existed down here that could give us any trouble.”  Perhaps when you belong to a country that has taken on Godzilla, Rodan, Ghidorah and dozens of other giant monsters, it’s a little difficult to get worked up over an oversized walrus.  A hover-jet is dispatched to locate the walrus, and, two laser blasts later, the problem is solved.

Gorath streaks by, missing the earth, causing only enough destruction with its gravitational pull to satisfy the apocalyptic expectations created by fear-mongering scientists.  While certainly not on a Roland Emmerich level of spectacle or even Irwin Allen, for that matter, the flooding of a couple of miniature cities provides the minimum cathartic experience of mayhem promised by the film.

Unfortunately, without massive maneuvering jets in the eastern and western hemispheres, the earth can only continue in one direction.  Amid the world-wide celebration, it’s lucky no one overhears the following exchange between two scientists:

“Now we face our biggest job.  We must put earth back on its original course.”

“We’ll need twice the nuclear power to put it back in its proper orbit.  I’d say it’s a bit like walking on water.”

It’s not exactly clear what the scientist means by this last line, but it doesn’t sound very encouraging.

*                                        *                                          *

I was eleven in 1966 when I first saw Gorath at a theater in downtown Los Angeles.  It was on a triple bill with Dr. Strangelove and another film I’ve since forgotten.  To be honest, at the time, I liked Gorath and Strangelove just about the same.  The great thing about going downtown to watch movies was that anything could turn up on a double or triple bill.  Current releases played with films that had opened five or ten years earlier.  A classic might share marquee space with an exploitation or foreign film, or just about anything for that matter, as long as it was printed on cellulose acetate and could be run through a projector.

Over the years, Dr. Strangelove has slowly moved to the top of my personal list of all time favorite films, and Gorath, admittedly, has dropped a rung or two, but I still enjoy its can-do, single-minded optimism and complete disdain for any fact that might get in the way of its goofy, visually bold premise.  Rotation be damned–we’re moving the earth!

It was the best of comics.  It was the worst of films.

The Spirit Movie:  A Tale of Two Storytellers

Early in The Spirit, there’s a no-holds-barred, over-the-top slug fest between the Spirit and his long time nemesis, the Octopus.  As they pound on each other with toilets and ridiculously oversized wrenches, it’s impossible not to notice that the orangish industrial sludge they are covered with looks disturbingly like some kind of excrement.  Sadly, this would be entirely appropriate, since the one thing Frank Miller’s film succeeds in doing is taking a giant dump on Will Eisner’s creation.

But here’s the surprising thing:  Will Eisner and Frank Miller were good friends, and there’s no doubt Miller had nothing but the best intentions when he made The Spirit movie.  That said, he seems to have little or no faith in the original comic.  The humor, humanity, fun, and sheer joy of visual storytelling have all been stripped away.  Miller, in a desperate attempt to give The Spirit a kind of “edge cred,” has retrofitted the comic with an ill-fitting contemporary “attitude,” pumped it up with exaggerated, over-the-top action, and injected it with a terminal dose of “irony” steroids.

From the first frame of picture, Miller’s Spirit is at odds with Eisner’s comic.  This is a film that cries out to be set in the late 40s, but instead is updated to take place in some kind of yester-today, a place where Miller can pick and choose the elements he wants:  cell phones and high-tech weaponry from the present, classic cars and tough guy dialogue from the 40s.  It’s not really the past, not really the present, but an unexplained mix of the two, with only one real purpose:  it makes life easy for a writer/director who can’t decide how to tell his story.

Then there’s the look of the film.  Eisner was famous for adapting and changing the tone, style, and storytelling techniques used to create the wide variety of stories that appeared in The Spirit comic.  In contrast, Frank Miller seems trapped within a single cinematic style he is incapable of altering or modifying.  His is a more graphic approach (both in comics and film), embracing the two-dimensionality of the image, often eliminating backgrounds altogether, depending instead on bold, striking compositions.  This approach works fine for something like Miller’s Sin City but is completely inappropriate for The Spirit.

One of the reasons the original comic was drawn in a “cartoony” style was to emphasize the “acting” and to show the range of a character’s expressions and reactions.  By contrast, the characters in Miller’s Spirit are exaggerated freaks:  one-dimensional, one-note stereotypes stuck in a single emotion, without the ability or need to express anything except their one defining characteristic:  crazy, maniacal bad guy; sexy love interest;  idiotic henchman.

As for the character of the Spirit, Miller has mutated him into a kind of Batman/Wolverine hybrid, a super strong hero who can self-regenerate after being mortally wounded.  In contrast, Eisner’s Spirit is a smart, funny detective, and the only concession made to the super hero genre was to give him a secret identity.  Other than that, he’s just another guy.

Putting aside whether the film is a faithful or even a representative adaptation of the comic, the movie itself is hamstrung by lazy writing.  In scene after scene, the Spirit and the Octopus go mono-o-monologue with one another.  Individually or together, they break into unmotivated rants and recollections, providing unasked-for character motivation and backstory.

Samuel L. Jackson as the Octopus almost gets away with his maniacal rants, since this is tried and true (if not particularly original) evil madman behavior.  He also has a right-hand babe to act as an audience.  Unfortunately, Gabriel Macht as the Spirit isn’t so lucky.  He comes off as slightly addled when, unexpectedly, the Spirit reveals his deepest secrets to a stray cat, or even worse, simply talks to himself.

Finally, late in the film, the pointless appearance of Nazi iconography signals the moment the film is completely out of ideas.  A stone eagle and a swastika provide the background for the Octopus as he struts around in SS drag, carrying on about how he and the Spirit really aren’t all that different from one another.  But why the Nazi paraphernalia?  To help distract from yet another backstory filibuster?  Or maybe it’s a ham-fisted attempt to comment on the Octopus’ plan to become not just a superman but a god?  More than likely, the black uniforms and swastikas are there simply because they look sinister and cool.

Frank Miller’s film can be forgiven many wrongs:  unintentionally trashing a great character, making a movie that seems designed to disappoint both Spirit and Sin City fans, even pretty much killing the possibility of someone else making another Spirit film for a very, very long time (if ever).  But here’s the real problem:  it’s hard to imagine someone seeking out Eisner’s creation on the printed page after seeing this film, and that would be unforgivable.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                          Fortunately, every Spirit story Will Eisner ever told is collected in a set of 26 hardback books.  The Spirit Archives contain some of the best visual storytelling ever done by anyone, in any medium.  Maybe Frank Miller should take another look at it.

Since the film has a running time of only 67 minutes, much of Poe’s life ends up being quickly sketched in or covered by voice-over narration.  The troubled existence of a tortured writer; the dark, paranoid wellspring of Poe’s creativity; even his struggle with and eventual surrender to alcohol: all of these are de-emphasized in an effort to tell the larger story of Poe’s two great loves, which, surprisingly, turn out to be himself–and you guessed it–copyright law.

Eddie (as he is improbably known to family members) is more than willing to give anyone he meets an earful about what a brilliant writer he is, and if his assessment isn’t met with immediate approval, the thin-skinned, self-promoter storms off in a huff.  The opinions of other characters in the film range from Thomas Jefferson’s “you show promise” to a unanimous thumbs down from a group of printers who decide the publishing fate of The Raven.  But none of this phases Poe.  For him, it’s all Poe, all the time.

Have you ever wondered what two renowned writers like Poe and Charles Dickens would talk about if they met?   Well The Loves of Edgar Allan Poe finally answers that question.  They’d talk about copyright law, of course!  At length.  And in great detail.  As might be suspected, Poe doesn’t restrict his discussions of copyright infringement only to the famous; he talks to everyone about it–particularly employers and publishers, who, on the whole, don’t share his enthusiasm for the subject.  Predictably, Poe has a hard time holding onto a job and ends up talking about copyright law with grocers and landladies, a group that would much rather discuss when he’s going to pay his bills.

If Poe was alive today, he’d tell you himself just how great this movie is, and if you tried to record it, he’d give you a good tongue-lashing about copyright infringement.

Companion piece to the Dogville Shorts review in Cinema Misfits, episode 18.  For those who doubted such a series could exist, go ahead and stare in disbelief and wonder at the stills and clips.  And for those who just can’t get enough of Dogville (and you know who you are, even if you won’t admit it), we offer Nancy’s appreciation of the series.

Ah, the Dogville Shorts.  I clearly recall stumbling across one of these gems on a hot summer afternoon about ten years ago.  It was quietly tacked on the end of a TCM film offering, and when it appeared, unbeknownst and unexpected by me, my first reaction was unmitigated incredulity.  Was it the heat, I pondered.  Was I dreaming?  Did I need to adjust my medication?  Or could this be real…dogs of all shapes, sizes, genders, and breeds, dressed as humans, acting out parodies of popular film genres?

Real it was, and real they are.  While film preservationists may mourn the miles and miles of celluloid treasures lost over the decades, at least the Dogville series has survived.  Whether that survival signifies good or evil depends upon individual taste (or, perhaps, lack of it).  I, for one, love them for any number of reasons, including their role in cinema history, the crazy productions, and their sheer silliness.  Oh, and the dogs!

Produced at the dawn of the sound era, the Dogville films, through their very existence, reflect the insatiable appetite filmgoers at the time had for talking pictures.  That’s clear enough from the films’ tagline, “All Barkies” (a play on the era’s ubiquitous “All Talkie” promotional slogan).

In 1929, MGM hired two second-string directors, Jules White (who now lives in infamy as the producer and director of the scores of Three Stooges movies) and Zion Myers to turn this oddball conception into a reality.  White and Myers usually shared directorial credits and provided many of the voices for the canine stars.

Ironically, these shorts are, in one way, actually more watchable than many of the features of the day as the “actors” voices, and all other sounds, were dubbed, freeing the four-footed thespians from the movement restrictions that sound enforced on their two-legged contemporaries.  They fly airplanes, drive cars, fight wars, go to nightclubs…all with a freedom of movement human actors on film had to wait years for.

There are those who might demur at the viewing of these shorts, and that’s understandable.  Dogs don’t usually walk upright and wear waistcoats and evening gowns.  Clearly, there are times when wires and harnesses are involved in order to achieve the onscreen antics of these pups.  Nevertheless, I think it’s highly doubtful that the canines are mistreated.  After all, they were obviously trained animals, and were therefore valuable assets both to their owners and the filmmakers.  Their mistreatment at the hands of White and Myers or anyone on the crew would have been senseless.  These pups were their bread and butter–or kibbles and bits, as it were.  Perhaps that’s a naive assumption to make, but I’m willing to make it.

I’ve been a dog lover all my life, and have seen scores of hounds who have, by virtue of negligent ownership or lack of any ownership at all, suffered far more than any of the celluloid pooches in this series could have.  In addition, there is currently at least one Great Dane out there who is forced to live with the indignity of being featured in this summer’s atrocious Marmaduke.  Now that’s a form of animal cruelty that no one can justify.

The entire Dogville Collection is now available through Warner Brother’s Archive Collection

Faced with the prospect of making a mummy movie, there are really only two choices.  Either (a) go the Stephen Sommer’s route and jettison altogether the idea of a slow-moving, ancient Egyptian prince wrapped in bandages, or (b) don’t make the movie at all.  Really.  This should always be the default choice.

Curse of the Faceless Man, however, chooses to go down the cinematic road less traveled–and by less traveled, I mean gone down once and only once.  It’s not enough that the “faceless man” of the title is ancient and slow–no, this particular mummy is also made of stone! This not only makes it the slowest mummy in film history, but for the first half of the film, even when the Faceless Man does manage to move, he is only capable of modest, sustained activity for minutes at a time.

Late in Curse of the Faceless Man, three doctors sum up the situation this way:

1st Doctor:  (referring to stone mummy)  It can not be alive.

2nd Doctor:  Not the way we know life.

3rd Doctor:  It is not dead.  Not dead as we know it.

Unexpressed by anyone, but probably occurring to all of them, is the following:

1st Doctor:  But it is slow.

2nd Doctor:  Yes.  Slow as we know slow.

3rd Doctor:  Old-lady-with-a-bad-hip-using-a-walker slow.

Absent a monster with the menace that can drive the story forward, Curse of the Faceless Man instead is powered by backstory.  Six people with various doctorates spend the majority of the film standing in cramped rooms, speculating wildly about  the possible origins and abilities of a stone mummy unearthed at a dig in nearby Pompeii.  Occasionally, Tina, the fiancée of one of the doctors, joins them.  As it turns out, Tina has a psychic connection with the Faceless Man, which is more than can be said for the connection she has with her stiff of a boyfriend, Paul.

Much of Curse of the Faceless Man plays like an extended sequence from What’s My Line? First there’s a series of questions,  hypotheses, wild guesses, and then–Ding!–someone gets it right, and the film advances to the next scene.

“The mummy is energized by light!”

Ding!

“The mummy tried to pin a brooch on Tina.  2000 years ago that was how a man showed his love for a woman.”

Ding!

“The mummy is an ancient Etruscan slave.  He must have been in an Egyptian temple, and when Vesuvius exploded, the vats filled with special embalming fluids were toppled and poured down on him.  He was flash-baked like a clay figure in a kiln and his body encased in a layer of stone.”

Ding!  Ding!  Ding!

The endless speculation could be forgiven if it were an excuse to showcase lots of scenic photography in Pompeii.  Unfortunately, this isn’t the case.

One man digging a hole stands in for an entire archeological excavation.  A plaque on the front of a building that is clearly the Griffith Observatory proclaims itself to be the Museo Di Pompeii Napolli.  Finally, in a desperate bid to convince the audience they are somewhere other than Southern California, the same boxy European cars turn up in scene after scene–inexplicably driving down roads not in Pompeii but in Griffith Park or on the Pacific Coast Highway.

Eventually, the film dispenses–not only with the idea of rising action–but the idea of “action” of any kind.  Freed from the twin burdens of character development and believable dialogue, the filmmakers decide to deliver the exposition in the most direct and economical manner possible: a reel-to-reel tape recorder.  Having hypnotized and regressed Tina back to an earlier life, Dr. Emmanuel (one of the many “doctors” in the film) invites Paul, Tina’s fiancée, to his office so he can hear the recording.

As they listen to Tina’s flat, emotionless voice, the camera stubbornly holds on a tight shot of the tape recorder, only occasionally cutting away to reaction shots of Dr. Emmanuel and Paul.  Although both of them look concerned, only Paul adopts a pose like Rodin’s “The Thinker” to let us know he is also thoughtful.

The following is an example of how possible unused footage might have been edited together.

TAPE RECORDER  (Tina’s Voice):  The skies have been dark since yesterday when father returned from the senate in Rome.  I feel that something terrible is going to happen.

CUT TO:

DR. EMMANUEL  AND PAUL

Paul starts to speak, but Dr. Emmanuel holds a finger up to his lips–gesturing for silence.

CUT TO:

TAPE RECORDER  (Tina’s Voice):  There’s been no rain.  No clouds.  Just the grey light over Pompeii that depresses me as I look through my window at Vesuvius and remember the curse placed upon my family by the slave Quintus Aquarius.

CUT TO:

PAUL

He appears deep in though, possibly weighing what action to take.  Then the camera tilts down to a pad of paper on the desk.  On it is written:  Drop off suit at cleaners.  Pick up cat food from store.   Check out Stabian baths.

CUT TO:

TAPE RECORDER  (Tina’s Voice):  I fear the slave and his strength, for he is the most powerful gladiator in all the empire.  He has threatened to escape his cell and take me from my house.

CUT TO:

PAUL

Seated at the desk, he is totally preoccupied with assembling a five-masted schooner inside of a glass bottle.

CUT TO:

TAPE RECORDER  (Tina’s Voice):  Yet, how can I return his love?  I am an aristocrat.  He is a slave.  It is not…  There–is that a rumbling in the ground?  The house shakes.

CUT TO:

DR. EMMANUEL AND PAUL

Dr. Emmanuel hands a gun  to Paul.  Paul spins the cylinder and holds the gun up to his head.  There is a moment’s hesitation, followed by a look of disappointment as the hammer comes down on an empty chamber.  Paul hands the gun back to Dr. Emmanuel.

TAPE RECORDER (Tina’s Voice):  I hear shouts in the streets.  It is a volcano.  It is Vesuvius.  Our house is falling above me…

Faced with the problem of reuniting the mummy and his reincarnated lover, the decidedly undramatic but ultimately time-saving decision is made to have Tina come to the Faceless Man.   In a hypnotic daze, Tina frees the stone mummy from his restraints and then faints–setting off what seems to be a kind of Pavlovian response in mummies:  the Faceless Man immediately takes her up in his arms.  Putting one stone foot in front of the other, he begins the slow, unbelievably tedious journey to the beach–15 miles away!

Hoping to maintain the breakneck pace that’s been established, the film cuts to a shot of the local inspector, Paul, and four other doctors gathered around a phone–waiting for it to ring.  The doctors look spent, drained of all hypotheses and backstory, unable any longer to advance the plot through either word or action.  The police force is sweeping the countryside in an attempt to turn up the Faceless Man, but all the inspector and the doctors can do is wait…

Until finally the phone rings!

Having dispensed with the idea of  ”rising action,” the film, in a heady disregard for audience expectations, turns its back on anything that might conceivably pass for a climax.    The Faceless Man, reliving his actions on the day Vesuvius exploded and destroyed Pompeii, hits the beach at exactly the same moment as the boxy European police cars.  The inspector, Paul, the doctors, and the entire police force of four men, spill out of the cars and race across the sand.  The Faceless Man backhands a policeman in the face, and with Tina in his arms, heads into the surf where he….

Well…where he begins to fizz and dissolve like a giant Alka Seltzer tablet.  Really.  In nothing flat, the stone mummy is gone.

As it turns out, Tina remembers nothing of what has happened, and in a completely unexpected turn of events, Paul passes up the opportunity for a long-winded explanation, instead deciding it’s “just as well” that Tina has no memory of  the Faceless Man.

One can only guess at the fate that might have awaited Tina if Paul and the doctors hadn’t arrived when they did.  Actually, that isn’t quite true.  It’s fairly obvious what would have happened.  The Faceless Man would have carried Tina into the water.  He would have dissolved.  And Tina, finding herself alone on the beach at dawn, would have been forced to thumb a ride back to town.

Not the most horrible fate imaginable, but certainly inconvenient.

One reason Curse of the Faceless Man is such a disappointment, is because it was written by Jerome Bixby and directed by Edward L. Cahn, the creative team responsible for It! The Terror From Beyond Space. While It! is a classic example of a B-movie overcoming the limitation of a low-budget with talent and imagination, Curse of the Faceless Man is, at best, perfunctory and, at worst, lazy and amateurish.

Not every effort can be a home run, but this isn’t even a bunt.

In any case, Curse of the Faceless Man remains a cautionary tale for anyone who might consider making a mummy movie.  The lesson?  Don’t.  That’s all there is to it: don’t.

THE LOST MISSILE

Jerome Bixby wrote many science fiction and horror films, but one of the oddest he ever penned was The Lost Missile.  While more fun and entertaining than Curse of the Faceless Man, it is also weirdly wrongheaded in its bizarre story choices.

A missile from somewhere in outer space (we never learn where it came from or why) circles the earth, leaving a charred and ruined swath of destruction in its wake.  Unfortunately, the threat posed by the missile is so arbitrary and unlikely, it’s impossible to take seriously; it doesn’t even work as a metaphor for nuclear war.  In some ways, the film seems a bit ahead of its time in foregrounding women’s issues and concerns, but unaccountably, it manages to do so in a way that makes them look silly and selfish.

The Lost Missile is one of a kind, and I do my best to make sense of it in my audio review.

Interview by Anonymous.

Early in 1968, Playboy magazine contacted me about the possibility of interviewing Stanley Kubrick.  It was an offer I eagerly accepted.  2001: A Space Odyssey had just opened, and critics, whether they loved the film or hated it, were united on one point: nothing like it had ever been seen on a movie screen before.

But was that true?

In 1965, with little or no fanfare, a movie containing many of the same elements as 2001 had been released.  I was in complete ignorance of this film,  but by the end of my interview with “Mr. Kubrick,” I would learn more about it and the film’s director, Bernard Knowles, than I ever cared to know.

For reasons that will soon become apparent, the interview was never published.  One editor at Playboy explained the situation to me this way:  “The god damned interview isn’t even with Stanley Kubrick!  And, oh yeah, if we publish it, he’s going to fucking sue us!”

It’s been many years since the interview took place,  and sadly, Mr. Kubrick is no longer with us.  The time seems right, however, finally to share this bit of lost cinematic history with the general public.  If nothing else, the interview possibly helps explain Mr. Kubrick’s reclusive habits in later years.

The Interview

Flap.  Flap.  Flap.  Flap.  Flap.

In the darkness, there was the sound of tail leader on a 16mm take-up reel spinning around and around.  I rose from my chair and flipped on the light switch–revealing Stanley Kubrick seated next to a portable 16mm projector on my desk.

KUBRICK:  Quite an eye-opener isn’t it?

I didn’t respond immediately, and in the silence, Mr. Kubrick tugged self-consciously at his beard–causing it to shift position on his face.  Anyway, that’s what I believed I saw.  I rubbed my eyes and, after a moment or two, was uncertain whether the beard had actually moved or not.

My lack of enthusiasm for the film seemed to catch Mr. Kubrick by surprise.

KUBRICK: Of course, the whole thing plays differently in a theater on a big screen.

PLAYBOY: I’m sure it does.

Our initial meeting had been cordial enough and the interview progressed in a satisfactory if not particularly remarkable manner…that is, until I questioned Mr. Kubrick about his influences.

PLAYBOY: Eisenstein.  Lang.  Max Ophals.  In the past, you’ve mentioned these filmmakers as being an influence on your work.  Would you add any others?

KUBRICK: Bernard Knowles.

If I had taken a drink of water at that moment, I might have done a spit-take.

PLAYBOY: Who?

That was when Mr. Kubrick directed me to turn off the lights.  The 16mm projector he had brought with him was threaded and ready to go.  For the next sixty-two minutes, it’s possible that I stared at the screen with my jaw hanging open.

In the darkness, the shaft of light from the projector must have revealed my expression.

KUBRICK: Amazing, isn’t it?

PLAYBOY: That’s one way of putting it.

The "amazing" adventure begins.

I was watching something called Spaceflight IC-1: An Adventure in Space. It was directed by Bernard Knowles, a filmmaker Mr. Kubrick seemed to rank along side Lang and Ophals.  Unfortunately, to make some sense of what follows, a brief description of the movie is required.

It is the year 2015, and the earth’s resources have been severely depleted by overpopulation, allowing an Orwellian government (apparently lacking any sense of irony, having named itself RULE) to take control in the ensuing chaos.  With earth facing an uncertain future, the decision is made to send spaceship IC-1 (IC for intergalactic colony) to the nearest inhabitable planet in hopes of reestablishing the human race.

Dr. Garth (left) the world's first "closed-circuit man."

The crew consists of four men, four women, three children (two boys, one girl), and a head.  The “head” is Dr. Garth, the first “closed circuit man.”  He feels nothing (emotionally or physically) and has a machine for a body.  In appearance, Dr. Garth can best be described as a head inside of an upside down fishbowl set on top of a filing cabinet that has the drawers turned to face the wall.  The remainder of the crew is in suspended animation, having been placed on the spaceship in cryogenic hibernation.

Spaceship IC-1.

The mid-section of spaceship IC-1 is a huge Ferris wheel like structure, a centrifuge that creates gravity by continually rotating.  Unaccountably, interior shots of the ship reveal a single hallway (the floor flat, not curved as might be expected), with two doors on the left wall, and another door at the end of the hallway.  There is also a stairway that leads to…  Well, it isn’t exactly clear where it leads to.

One year into a twenty-five year journey, the captain of spaceship IC-1 is informed that he is no longer able to conceive children.  The captain’s guilt and frustration at this turn of events (the mission of IC-1, after all, is procreation and re-population) drives him to act like a sort of Captain Queeg in outer space.

Mutineer checks on status of crew members in suspended animation.

Eventually, a mutiny takes place, and for reasons too tedious to recount, a crew member is revived from suspended animation.  The untested revival process transforms the crew member into a rampaging maniac who (conveniently for the mutineers) murders the captain, before he, himself, (even more conveniently) dies.

No longer subject to RULE’s overbearing dictates or the captain’s arbitrary, tyrannical authority, spaceship IC-1 continues on its journey to Earth 2, where, one can only hope, a free and democratic society will be established.

Flap.  Flap.  Flap.  Flap.  Flap.

KUBRICK: (agitated) Do you know what this film is?

PLAYBOY: Really bad?

KUBRICK: It’s a confession–at twenty-four frames per second!

"A Space Odyssey" or "An Adventure in Space"?

Confession?  I had no idea what Mr. Kubrick was talking about.  Besides, wasn’t the quote, “Truth at twenty-four frames per second”?  And how did Godard get mixed up in the interview?

KUBRICK: The living quarters inside the centrifuge.  The crew members in hibernation.  The god damn title, for that matter.  Adventure in Space.  A Space Odyssey.  Where to you think I got it all?

I hesitated before answering.

PLAYBOY: Spaceflight IC-1?

KUBRICK: Of course!  Bernard Knowles.  I tell you, the man’s a genius!   And I’m nothing but a fraud!  Hall 9000.  The “closed-circuit man.”  They’re one in the same.  Except Knowles captured the dichotomy of a dualistic future perfectly in a single, startling image.  Intellect vs emotion.  A being who is half human…

PLAYBOY: …half filing cabinet?

Mr. Kubrick stood up, planted a hand on either side of my desk, and leaned forward.

KUBRICK: My film is nothing but a sterile rip-off, hiding behind a huge budget, pretending to be something it isn’t–original!  Knowles’ film is alive with human tension, primal urges, and…

PLAYBOY: …soap opera melodramatics?

KUBRICK: Are you being intentionally obtuse?

Practically nose to nose with Mr. Kubrick, I couldn’t help but have serious doubts about the authenticity of his beard.

Then, as if on cue, the door to my office swung open–revealing a second Stanley Kubrick.

KUBRICK #2: Sorry I’m late.  There was a scheduling mix-up with the secretary…

Stanley Kubrick or Bernard Knowles?

Without warning, Kubrick #1 lunged forward.  I reached out to stop him but only came away with a handful of fake beard.

KUBRICK #2: (grappling with Kubrick #1) Let go of me, you crazy bastard!

The two Kubricks stumbled around my office, swinging wildly at one another, knocking over furniture, bouncing off the walls.

Abruptly, Kubrick #1 executed some sort of wrestling maneuver and, before I knew what was happening, had Kubrick #2 in a headlock.

KUBRICK #1: Admit it!  Admit you stole my movie!

KUBRICK #2: Ow!  Let go of my hair!  Who is this idiot?  Ooph!

Bernard Knowles or Stanley Kubrick?

In a blind panic, Kubrick #2 violently threw himself backward, pulling free, leaving Kubrick #1 holding his jacket.  Kubrick #2 didn’t hesitate and bolted for the door.

Kubrick #1: One way or another, people will know.  2001 is really my movie!

He looked straight at me.

KUBRICK #1: If you won’t accept the truth from me, you’ll accept it from him!

With that, Kubrick #1 dropped the jacket, grabbed the beard from my hand, and was out the door.

End of interview.

Coda

Later that day, I received a phone call from the police station.  The two Kubricks had been picked up fighting in the street and charged with assault and disturbing the peace.  Kubrick #2 had either lost his wallet, or what seems more likely, had it “lifted” during the altercation.  With both men claiming to be Stanley Kubrick, the desk sergeant asked me to come down and identify the authentic Kubrick.

Unfortunately, I only succeeded in making matters worse.  Faced with a line-up of bearded men, I misidentified Kubrick #1 (who it now seems clear was Bernard Knowles) as Stanley Kubrick, resulting in the real Kubrick spending the night in jail.

A week later, after tempers had cooled and apologies been offered, Mr. Kubrick agreed to a second interview, but only on the condition the first interview was never published and that someone other than myself conduct the interview.  It’s probably just as well my initial interview never saw publication since actual quotes from the real Kubrick would have amounted to little more than: “Ooph!”   “Ouch!”  and “Ugggh.”

Kubrick #1 was never seen again, and Bernard Knowles never acknowledged that he was the man impersonating  Stanley Kubrick and delivering a fraudulent confession.  To be honest, I have no solid evidence it was actually him, but just the same, it seems the most likely explanation.

I have to admit that, after all these years, I’m still unable to decide how I feel about Bernard Knowles.  Lunatic hack?  Or a visionary without any storytelling sense?

Use of holographic display 12 years before Princess Leia's plea for help in Star Wars.

Besides the similarities to 2001, IC-1 also anticipated a number of other science fiction films.  At one point in IC-1, a funeral is held aboard the spaceship, and it is strikingly similar to a scene 18 years later at the end of Star Trek: The Wrath of Khan.  There is also the use of holographic images, predating similar effects in the Star Wars movies.  Finally, the children on board IC-1 have psychic abilities, long before any number of such “gifted” children turn up in the books and films of Stephen King.

Spaceflight IC-1: groundbreaking film or cinematic sleeping aid?

I still have in my possession the 16mm projector and reel of film left behind by Kubrick #1.   Every now and then I set up the projector, turn off the lights, and watch Spaceflight IC-1 again.  Watching the film, I can’t help but wonder if more than coincidence was behind the similarities to 2001, and yet…

And yet, long before the mutiny takes place, I always start to nod off and then it’s only a matter of time before I’m sound asleep.

PLAYBOY: Z-Z-Z-Z-Z-Z-Z-Z-Z-Z-Z-Z-Z-Z.

As I was preparing my review for Holiday, I ran across an interesting item.  Apparently, the character of Linda Seton, portrayed by Katherine Hepburn in the film, was based on Gertrude Sanford Legendre (1902-2000), an unlikely debutante of the 1920′s who gave up her socialite ways to become a big-game hunter, a World War II spy, and an author.  In her teens, Gertrude shot her first elk in the Grand Tutons of Wyoming.  She went on to eschew New York society cocktail parties so as to hunt big game in such locales as Indochina, Africa, India, and Iran.  It was on a safari in Africa where she met her future husband.  They were wed in 1929, with the announcement proclaimed in August 20, 1929 Social News section of  the New York Times.

GERTRUDE SANFORD, EXPLORER, TO MARRY: Engaged to Sidney J. Legendre, Who Was Co-Leader in Abyssinia Expedition.  SISTER OF POLO PLAYER.  Fiance, Member of Old New Orleans Family, Is Well Known as Sportsman and Athlete.  Her Ventures in Exploration.

The brother?  The POLO PLAYER?  His name was Laddie.

During World War II, she worked for the O.S.S. in Washington and Paris.  She became the first American woman in France to be captured by the enemy.  After six months, she made a daring escape, ultimately boarding a train to Switzerland.  The train stopped short of the border, and even as she was ordered by a German guard to halt or be shot, she made a dash to the border–and safety.

After the war, she and Sidney settled in their historic home at Medway Plantation in South Carolina.  She went on to write two memoirs and established both the Medway Environmental  Trust, ensuring that Medway would forever be managed as a nature preserve, and the Medway Plan, an organization dedicated to providing medical help to war-damaged countries.  She ultimately became quite the grand dame of Charleston society, well known for her philanthropy.  She was also hailed for her lavish New Year’s Eve costume parties.  At one of the last of these affairs, she turned to her guests and raised her glass in a toast.

“I look ahead.  I always have.  I don’t contemplate life, I live it.  And am having the time of my life.”

Here’s to you, Ms. Legendre.

Fortunately, Lloyd has a plan.  He hits the streets with an acrobatic friend who has agreed to fake a series of spectacular falls.  After each fraudulent accident, Lloyd rushes forward and administers a series of bizarre chiropractic twists and stretches.  When the acrobat springs up and walks away good as new, Lloyd immediately hands out cards with the doctor’s name and address on them to a receptive crowd that has gathered.

Later in the film, Lloyd mistakenly believes his fiancée no longer wishes to marry him, and he decides to take his own life.  Although each effort meets with failure, he continues to try and commit suicide in a series of increasingly complicated attempts.  Not surprisingly, Lloyd eventually finds himself high above the city (as he so often does) in a precarious situation–in this case, it’s the skeleton of a high-rise building under construction.  With his life in imminent danger, all thought of suicide vanishes as he desperately clings to a suspended iron girder.

Now what about this mildly criminal, suicidal, cowardly character makes him a silent comedy hero?  While he doesn’t arouse the sympathy felt for Chaplin’s tramp or demonstrate the amazing athletic abilities of a stone-faced Keaton,  Lloyd still possesses the one quality a silent comedian must have if he’s to become a hero:  he challenges the status quo in some way (even if it’s inadvertently, entirely by mistake) and upsets the apple cart of daily routine.

Silent comedy, with its gag-driven imperative and its sense of economy and rhythm, demands that every situation be mined for every possible variation and laugh before moving on to the next set up.  An unintended by-product of this structure is that ordinary situations are injected with a dizzying variety of possibilities, revealing in the dull routine of life a world that is more playful, dangerous, and surprising than most people have the courage to challenge or even acknowledge.

The joke-driven logic of silent comedy also expresses itself in a kind of spontaneous, rapid-fire karmic justice.  The relentless set up/payoff, set up/payoff rhythm creates a world of instant reward and punishment.  Every action has a reaction.  Bad actions are ultimately punished.  Good actions rewarded.  Joke after joke after joke drives this point home.  Occasionally, there’s even a pause for a kind of comedic grace.

You know Harold Lloyd is the hero in Never Weaken because he’s the one moving forward, meeting each new twist and turn with ingenuity, giving himself over to the spontaneous, but always thinking on his feet–adapting, reacting, always moving forward.  At the end of the film, it actually doesn’t make much sense that Lloyd gets the girl.  He certainly hasn’t done anything in a narrative sense to deserve it.  But by his ingenuity, his inventiveness, and his insistence on never giving up, of hanging in there until the seemingly arbitrary casino logic of the possible finally pays off, Lloyd reveals himself to be a classic silent comedy hero.

And so he gets the girl.

But make no mistake about it.  Never Weaken isn’t about anything but being funny.  It has a single, burning question at its center: how many jokes can be crammed into a single 40 minute film?  Still, like all good silent comedies, Never Weaken can’t help but reveal a world of unlimited possibilities, surprises, and laughter.

This is either (a) a scene from early in Fargo or (b) toward the end of X-Files: I Want to believe.  If you chose (a) and (b), you’re correct!  The two films are remarkably similar, except for small differences like Fargo is funny and has surprising, interesting characters, while X-Files: I Want to Believe is deadly serious, with an established cast that’s dull and predicable.  The two films also feature female characters in law enforcement.  And there’s lots of snow…in both films.

Actually, that’s pretty much where the similarities end.

Surprising absence of aliens in X-Files movie.

In any case, forget about Fargo.  X-Files: I Want to Believe doesn’t even hat that much in common with X-Files: The TV Series or X-Files: The Previous Movie.  If you’re expecting government cover-ups, ETs, implants, and alien hybrids–you know, X-Files kind of stuff–this might not be the movie for you.

To be fair, the TV series featured two kinds of stories: mythology and stand-alone.  The ongoing mythology stories involved malevolent aliens and the stand-alones could be about anything from bionic werewolves to government AI programs run amuck.  It’s disappointing the alien invasion story isn’t being wrapped up or even advanced, but since karmic-vampires or a sentient virus are always only a clue or unexpected revelation away, the absence of any kind of extraterrestrial threat can be forgiven.

A cool creature you won’t be seeing in X-Files movie.

What can’t be forgiven is the ridiculous beard Mulder has for the first third of the film.  He doesn’t look rugged or crazed or even unkept.  He just looks idiotic.  Then there’s the fright wig on Billy Collins.  And Scully–sure she looks fine, I’m not saying she doesn’t–but she is noticeably thinner than the last time we saw her, and, well, not so much like the Scully from the TV series anymore.  To be honest, it’s a relief when Skinner shows up and he’s not sporting a mustache or a toupe.

But goofy looking characters are only the tip of the iceberg as far as the problems in this film go, and they’d all be a lot easier to put up with if the payoff was some kind of trans-dimensional being or even a sasquatch, for Chrissakes.  But when all is said and done, what the menace turns out to be is…a clairvoyant, pedafile priest?  In a story about an organ harvesting scheme?  Which ultimately turns out to be a lame-ass Frankenstein story?

Really?

Another cool creature you won’t see in X-Files movie.

And let’s be clear: we’re not talking Boris Karloff or even Christopher Lee Frankenstein.  X-Files: I Want to Believe is a lot closer to something like The Brain That Wouldn’t Die.  The big difference is, Brain is a crazy but entertaining film about a hen-pecked husband whose wife has been reduced to a hectoring, demanding head screaming orders at him from a pan on a table.  X-Files, on the other hand, has a couple of thugs attempting to make some money off of head transplants.

As lame and  half-baked as the story is, the lame, half-baked dialogue is even worse.    A good portion of what Scully has to say consists of some variation of the following:

“This isn’t my life, anymore.”

“I don’t work with Fox Mulder, anymore.”

This isn’t my job, anymore.”

“Mulder, it’s over.”

In “head to head” comparison, Brain That Wouldn’t Die cooler than new X-files movie.

At some point, this starts to sound less like dialogue from a character and more like the mantra of a filmmaker who no longer wants to have anything to do with his creation.  If, however, Chris Carter  still harbors hopes of relaunching the original show or possibly a series of  TV movies and is only marking time with this latest effort until he can make that happen, then someone needs take him aside and have a little talk .

To paraphrase Scully, “Carter, it’s over.”

And no, I don’t want to believe.

I Promise to Pay

Shady, illegal loan sharks were a very real deal during the Great Depression, and I Promise to Pay pulls few punches in its depiction of this phenomenon, making it one of those rare Depression-based films that deal frankly with just how depressing…and bleak…the Depression really was.  This Columbia programmer presents a dire and realistic picture of the struggles of a lower-middle-class family of four, living in a two-room apartment and attempting to survive on $24 a week.  There are no screwball society matrons here, nor any splashy chorus girls or madcap heiresses.  Instead, it is a brutally frank depiction of ordinary people who are forced to deal with the hand life has dealt them, sustained only by the love they have for each other and the belief that honesty and goodness will win out, even though there is often little evidence to support the validity of that view.

Mary Lang (Helen Mack) comforts husband and loan shark victim Eddie (Chester Morris) as he recovers from a brutal mob beating.

As the leading man, Chester Morris turns in a strong, winning performance.  Best known for playing the title role in the fourteen “Boston Blackie” films of the 1940s, Morris is largely forgotten today, although he had a solid reputation as a leading man in the late twenties and thirties.  In I Promise to Pay, he strikes just the right note of optimistic sincerity and honest conviction.  While audiences may question his naiveté, his motives are clear as is his ultimate courage in the face of a truly menacing situation.

Leo Carrillo in happier, friendlier times

As good as Morris is, it is character actor Leo Carrillo who steals the show.  He portrays the loan sharking crime boss Richard Farra as a gangster who is at once menacing, sleazy, and utterly ruthless. He’s the kind of gangster who spontaneously buys a car simply because it matches his girlfriend’s hair or holds a meeting with his henchmen while being vigorously massaged by a beefy gent who tickles him at the end of the session, much to his delight.  It’s far from a nuanced performance, but Carrillo’s courage as an actor pays off in a performance that is completely compelling…and more than a little disturbing.  He is ably supported by a sinister and intimidating group of henchmen, most notably Harry Woods as the sadistic Fats and Marc Lawrence as would-be child-kidnapper, Whitehat.

The film’s third act is fairly predictable in its Capra-esque conclusion, a fact that might be contributed partly to the presence of the always reliable Thomas Mitchell as the sincere and determined district attorney bent on freeing his city from illegal loan shark rackets.  Nevertheless, the film moves along at a brisk pace and packs a lot of story into a mere 68-minute running time.  In these days, where movies often run over two hours, it’s refreshing to see how much the filmmakers of the thirties could do with only half that time.

ALL TOLD: A fast-paced, surprisingly stark depiction of the Depression era bolstered by winning performances, especially that of Leo Carrillo’s creepy yet compelling depiction of a ruthless, egomaniacal crime boss.

I Promise to Pay

Columbia, 1937

Directed by D. Ross Lederman

Screenplay by Lionel Houser and Mary C. McCall, Jr.

Featuring Chester Morris, Helen Mack, Leo Carrillo, Thomas Mitchell