Category: 1963

Bob Hope Presents the Chrysler Theatre (1963) s01e03 – Seven Miles of Bad Road

Once you get past Jeffrey Hunter (at thirty-seven) playing a character about fifteen years younger–and some other significant bumps, Seven Miles of Bad Road isn’t entirely bad. It shouldn’t be entirely bad, even with those bumps, but it’s an episode of “The Chrysler Theatre,” shot on limited sets with limited imagination from director Douglas Heyes.

Heyes also wrote the teleplay, which tries real hard. Heyes is talking about big issues–he’s talking about men, women, post-war, youth, age, responsibility, regret. There’s subtext about race and class and all sorts of things. Heyes doesn’t know how to direct any of it. He doesn’t know how to direct his actors. Neville Brand–as Eleanor Parker’s abusive husband–is simultaneously good and bad in the part.

The overbearing Jerry Goldsmith music doesn’t help.

Parker and Hunter have their problems due to Heyes’s direction, but they’re effective. Parker’s got a couple fantastic scenes.

The Twilight Zone (1959) s05e03 – Nightmare at 20,000 Feet

Nightmare at 20,000 Feet races. Director Donner and writer Richard Matheson pace out the episode perfectly–though it being a “Twilight Zone” episode means they can also utilize some of the series’s credit formula to great effect.

The episode has a few phases. Introducing William Shatner and Christine White (they’re married, he’s just recovering from his mental breakdown while on an airplane), putting Shatner in the window seat, him seeing the gremlin. Those events all happen in the first phase. Second is him trying to get help with the gremlin, third is him taking it into his own hands. These phases take place inside a three act structure. It’s an intense story, made more intense through the direction and then Shatner’s performance.

Shatner does fantastic work, as the viewer has to believe they’re going crazy with him. There’s a hesitation; Shatner, Matheson and Donner make sure the viewer gets past.

This post is part of the Favourite TV Show Episode Blogathon hosted by Terence Towles Canote of A Shroud of Thoughts.

Hud (1963, Martin Ritt)

Every once in a while in Hud, it seems like Paul Newman's eponymous lead character might do something selfless. Not redemptive or nice, but selfless. It's not the point of the film and not one of its promises–it's just visible how significant it would be for Brandon De Wilde, playing Newman's orphaned nephew.

Hud fires on all cylinders. Director Ritt and cinematographer James Wong Howe compose a breathtakingly gorgeous film. It's hard to imagine the skies as having color; in Howe's black and white photography they are an infinite gray. It's a very small cast–Newman, De Wilde, Melvyn Douglas as the patriarch, Patricia Neal as the housekeeper who both Newman and De Wilde desire–and the black nights keep the cast claustrophobically close. Newman and Douglas's dysfunctional relationship can't be escaped, with De Wilde growing up in it and Neal the outside observer.

The screenplay, from Irving Ravetch and Harriet Frank Jr., gives Douglas these wonderful monologues, full of sincerity and wisdom, while it gives Newman monologues of selfishness and cynicism. They're dueling ideologies and it becomes clearer and clearer as the film progresses they're in direct reaction to one another. It's a brilliant script.

As for the cast, the last cylinder–except perhaps the sound design and Elmer Bernstein's score–all of actors are phenomenal. The film has a relatively short present action but De Wilde goes through a visible transition as things move along, whereas Newman and Douglas more reveal themselves as the film progresses.

Hud is a singular motion picture.

4/4★★★★

CREDITS

Directed by Martin Ritt; screenplay by Irving Ravetch and Harriet Frank Jr., based on the novel by Larry McMurtry; director of photography, James Wong Howe; edited by Frank Bracht; music by Elmer Bernstein; produced by Ravetch and Ritt; released by Paramount Pictures.

Starring Paul Newman (Hud Bannon), Melvyn Douglas (Homer Bannon), Patricia Neal (Alma Brown), Whit Bissell (Mr. Burris) and Brandon De Wilde (Lonnie Bannon).

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The Great Escape (1963, John Sturges)

While The Great Escape runs nearly three hours, director Sturges and screenwriters James Clavell and W.R. Burnett never let it feel too long. Part of the quick pace comes from the first half hour being told in something like real time and another big part of it is the aftermath of the escape taking up the last hour. So for ninety minutes, the audience is getting to know and like the characters. It gives the escape aftermath a breakneck pace, even though Sturges doesn't do much different.

The Elmer Bernstein score also plays a large part. It's frequently upbeat and congratulatory to the characters (and sometimes the audience), but Bernstein also bakes in the possibility of tragedy. The music can go from light to dark in a second and the film trains the audience to prepare for such moves.

Also contributing to the film's relative brevity is how the script pairs characters up. Usually it's a strong personage with a weaker one, but the actors do such a good job–and Sturges often sticks with scenes of characters' frailties until they're uncomfortable–the pairings are never hollow. Even Steve McQueen, who gets a huge solo set piece at the end, starts off with a sidekick or two.

Most of the acting is spectacular. Richard Attenborough might give the best performance; him or James Donald. They both have the most responsibility and it clearly weighs on them. But James Garner, McQueen, Donald Pleasence, Gordon Jackson, Hannes Messemer–also all excellent.

It's an outstanding picture.

The Terror (1963, Roger Corman)

It might be too easy just to call The Terror terrible or to go into the various puns one could make with “terrible” and the title. It’s not a surprisingly bad film at all. It’s an expectedly bad film, given it opens with a pointless scare attempt. Boris Karloff shows up in the first scene-walking through his spooky castle-and then disappears for about twenty minutes. Corman apparently just wanted to get the horror “name” in the first scene.

After the opening titles, which are deceptively classy-Ronald Stein’s music starts off strong before going bad as Corman uses it all the time-Jack Nicholson takes over as protagonist. Nicholson’s a French soldier in Germany or someplace, trying to get back to the rest of his regiment. Oh, I forgot, it’s a period piece-mid-1790s, I think. A period piece set in Germany, filmed on the California coast, starring Nicholson who doesn’t even try to hide his disinterest.

The Terror is a great example of when low budget filmmaking doesn’t have any inventiveness. The script is unnecessarily talky. Leo Gordon and Jack Hill’s dialogue goes on and on, probably to pad things out. Then there’s all the excess scenes. The Terror, at seventy minutes, should be lean. Instead, it’s bulky.

Karloff can do this kind of garbage with his eyes closed, but Nicholson isn’t able to fake it. Without a compelling lead, there’s just nothing to this one. It’s a dreadful film.

Very pretty scenery at times though.

Dementia 13 (1963, Francis Ford Coppola)

The first half of Dementia 13 is surprisingly good. From the first scene–pre-titles even–Coppola establishes some great angles to his composition. He keeps it up throughout with close-ups jump cutting to different close-ups; excellent photography from Charles Hannawalt makes it all work.

During that first half, the film is basically an old dark house picture, with conniving daughter-in-law Luana Anders trying to worm her way into her husband’s family fortune. Even though Anders is technically a villain, she’s the viewer’s way into the house–and Coppola is always up front with her. Everyone else is a suspect, not her.

Sadly, the second half refocuses on Patrick Magee as the annoying family doctor who decides to solve the mystery. Why is he solving the mystery? It’s unclear, maybe because Coppola just needed someone not staying in the scary castle to do it.

Magee’s awful too. Anders is great, however. Also quite good is Eithne Dunne as the family matriarch who Anders has to con. Eventually Dunne falls away too, with Coppola sharing Magee’s spotlight a little with Mary Mitchel as another daughter-in-law to be. Mitchel’s okay, but her character is thin.

I’ve forgotten there’s an axe murderer on the loose too. Coppola doesn’t do well with those scenes. He does all right with the tense, suspense sequences, but the violence? It doesn’t work.

Good music from Ronald Stein helps too.

Dementia 13 doesn’t deliver on Coppola’s promise; Magee’s too weak a protagonist.

1.5/4★½

CREDITS

Written and directed by Francis Ford Coppola; director of photography, Charles Hannawalt; edited by Stuart O’Brien and Morton Tubor; music by Ronald Stein; produced by Roger Corman; released by American International Pictures.

Starring Luana Anders (Louise Haloran), William Campbell (Richard Haloran), Patrick Magee (Justin Caleb), Mary Mitchel (Kane), Eithne Dunne (Lady Haloran), Bart Patton (Billy Haloran), Peter Read (John Haloran), Karl Schanzer (Simon), Ron Perry (Arthur), Derry O’Donavan (Lillian) and Barbara Dowling (Kathleen).

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The Human Torch (1963, Donald F. Glut)

Sure, at one point the Human Torch appears to be a naked Ken doll painted red, but come on… it’s The Human Torch. I think it’s unintentional, but at times director (and star) Glut makes the Torch’s “flaming on” seem positively painful. Or maybe the rubber hand Glut ignited just melted fast.

The Torch short has a couple stand out elements. First (or second, chronologically speaking), there’s a great flying cut. Glut runs toward the camera, which tilts up with him as he takes flight and he disappears into the air. It’s a magical film moment, so magical I don’t even want to consider how he did it.

Second, he packs a lot into three or four minutes. He even figures out how to take away the Torch’s powers to make the struggle more human.

Torch is undeniably goofy, but Glut’s strong filmmaking instincts are very much on display here.

Stopover in Hollywood (1963, Will Williams)

Shockingly enough, Paramount Pictures produced Stopover in Hollywood. Watching the short, it’s hard to believe any studio put money behind the lame travelogue–especially since it doesn’t make any use of the Paramount studio. Just off the content, I would have guessed Marineland paid for it–and maybe the Corriganville Movie Ranch theme park–since those two attractions get the most in-depth screen time.

Otherwise, Stopover is a weak effort featuring a Marilyn Monroe “lookalike”, Lori Lyons, walking around (poorly) in high heels and a tight dress. She’s a tourist (and a loose one–she gets picked up at the end). Lyons doesn’t have any lines, but she’s unable to look interested in the things she’s seeing.

Stopover isn’t even interesting as a time capsule, since most of the shots are from cars and Williams’s photography is bad. The awful editor goes uncredited.

And Walter Kray’s an awful narrator.

1/3Not Recommended

CREDITS

Photographed, produced and directed by Will Williams; written by Williams and Larry Graburn; released by Paramount Pictures.

Starring Lori Lyons and Tony Winhall; narrated by Walter Kray.

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Big City (1963, Paul Weld Dixon)

Big City doesn’t have much ambition, so it should be hard to screw it up. But director Dixon manages. He’s not much for creative composition. City looks like a bunch of moving postcards, which is fine… it’s a travelogue after all. There is one sublime sequence of storefronts, but it’s not indicative of the rest.

So while Dixon is generally blame free for the boring composition, the narration is anything but. Neither the writer nor the narrator get a credit, hopefully because no one wanted to be associated with such terrible work. The narrator doesn’t just lack personality, he doesn’t even sound British. As for the writing… Big City seems to be written for the upper middle class. While the intended audience isn’t royalty, they can laugh at the morlocks.

Then there’s the music. DeWolfe’s grating music is an offense.

Big City is astoundingly bad; it doesn’t need to be.

1/3Not Recommended

CREDITS

Directed by Paul Weld Dixon; director of photography, Alan Pudney; edited by Peter Vincent; music by DeWolfe; produced by Harold Baim.

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The Nose (1963, Alexander Alexeieff and Claire Parker)

The Nose is an example of pinscreen animation. If I understand it correctly, thousands (over a hundred thousand, for example, in the case of The Nose) of pins are put on a board and moved and photographed under different lighting situations.

The result is startling. Directors Alexeieff and Parker are able to not just create fantastic transitions–the settings literally slide from one to the next–but also the most amazing movement of figures. The figure movement in The Nose is some of the most natural animation movement I’ve ever seen.

The story concerns a man who may or may not have lost his nose and, to a lesser degree, the barber who may or may not have found it. The nose–either in reality or dream–runs off and decides it wants to live away from the man’s face.

The story barely matters… Alexeieff and Parker’s animation is unbelievable.

3/3Highly Recommended

CREDITS

Directed and animated by Alexander Alexeieff and Claire Parker; screenplay by Alexeieff and Parker, based on a story by Nikolai Gogol; music by Hai-Minh.

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