Reviews

Having a Caribean cocktail with the stunning Yvonne De Carlo is always a welcome treat. Watering down a highball glass full of shiftless men (with one exception) who she encounters along the way is a daunting prospect. De Carlo's "Bahama Mama" is the swivel stick that stirs the island economy. She inherits a hefty sum of cash and quickly enlists Zachary Scott to accompany her to the Bahamas where she purchases a resort/casino. All of the female characters seem to be harboring dark secrets. The male characters, however, come off as clueless (Duff doesn't even recall having a past relationship with Miss De Carlo.) or righteously noble (Arness has the hots for De Carlo but would rather see her return to the mainland, before losing her dignity and money chest.) Arness' character is steadfast against the vice of gambling. He's always preaching against the evils of the roulette wheel. Sleazy Kurt Kazner, yet another investor, has eyes for the female lead, too, but also has ties to some unsavory gangsters. Duff's memory returns and he begins to woo the sultry Yvonne, but Duff's mother is an impediment. She dislikes show people (Decarlo is a singer) or anyone else she feels is beneath her son's station in life. Tough courting rules. Along the way, Decarlo sings and dances up a tropical storm. Her three musical numbers slyly comment on the action taking place on the screen. One reggae-riff, while she's in a drunken stupor, is a highlight. Multiple scandals pop up along the way; secrets are revealed. Duff's meddlesome mother is in the center of things. It all leaves you guessing and a bit perplexed. Set during the Christmas season, the exotic scenery and super bright day-glow colors leap (lords a leaping) from the screen. This film was written by the same woman who penned the Christmas classics Beyond Tomorrow and Christmas in Connecticut. Flame of the Islands completes the yuletide trilogy in fine fashion.

An unrelenting Rudolph Mate film noir that tunnels deep into the underside of urban bleakness, but crests at the top of the genre's ring of royalty. Edmund O'Brien is Frank Bigelow, C.P.A., and all around swell fellow. But Bigelow--a great noir name--has a small problem. Perhaps a little indigestion and heartburn from a night of carousing? No--more serious. He visits a doctor and he tells him he's been poisoned. Luminous poisoning. We know this because the good doctor turns off the light and the test tube glows in the dark. Bigelow gets a second opinion. Same results. He's told he has a week to ten days (tops) to live. Bigelow turns tail and spends the rest of his life (and the movie) seeking his killer. Bigelow bounces and careens off the city landscape like Roger Rabbit on speed. The despair and cynicism of a modern metropolis is bored into like a doctor's syringe that is thrust into a patient's bone marrow during a spinal tap. At the Fisherman's Bar in San Francisco, Bigelow is slipped a Mickey Finn while chatting up a female hipster. From that very first lethal sip from a spiked drink, his humdrum occupation and clingy girl friend are all but a distant, fog-shrouded memory. His journey through Los Angeles' dark streets and its even darker denizens, puts his life in serious peril. He doesn't care. He doesn't have anything to lose. He no longer has to be polite or gentlemanly toward women. He has no trouble manhandling the broads he comes in contact with if it may help his cause. One has a great line: "If I was a man I'd punch your face in." Or something like that. Composer Dimitri Tiomkin's somber and, at times, quirky score (punctuated by wolf calls on a slide flute whenever the lead character spots an attractive dame), works fine in the long run. But Bigelow's run will be short. His penultimate line of dialog in the movie is simple but filled with confusion and regret: "All I ever did was notarize a bill of sale." Never has film noir been so fatalistic-- but true.

The Geiger counter is off the meter in this Roger Corman effort. Red hot. Searing. Out of the radioactive mist stagger seven survivors. One, a man, has suffered radiation poisoning. The other six characters are relatively intact. But exposed. Beefy Richard Denning performs his best fireman's carry of the infected man, plucking him out of the lethal, contaminated fog. They all arrive safely in a valley protected by a natural barrier of mountainous lead. Or something. It's best not to think too much about such matters. Stumbling into a place where there are very few people, natural shields and a house with supplies, is alway a plus in this type of genre film. Mike Connors arrives and soon cracks thick skulls with Denning. They both want to take charge. He also has the hots for the daughter of the military man, in whose house they've all crashed. The gruff, older gentleman has only enough supplies for three people: his daughter, her fiancée and himself. The fiancé never makes it. Or does he? The Captain views the others as uninvited guests--extra mouths to feed. The daughter takes pity on them and allows them to stay the night. And longer. Softy. A stripper and prospector (complete with burrow) fill out the remaining cast. The characters fight, argue, dance, bicker, swim, fight (some more) and plan for the future. The father even marries off his daughter to Denning. His philosophy: start making babies as soon as possible. But what if the radioactive rains come too fast? Well, then they will all be pushing up daises. The surrounding hills are populated by mutated humans in different stages of decay and rot. The fog creeps and slithers around the rim of the valley like mustard gas. The movie does convey a spooky atmosphere very well, and violence and religious overtones are present and applied liberally. All you need for a rainy Saturday afternoon of viewing. But keep clear of any radioactive pellets cascading from the sky. They're killers. Now whatever happened to that fiancé?

Timeless. Movie feels as if it was made ten, or even twenty years ago. Or maybe in the future? A revenge tale, competently steered by Director John Singleton, hits on all cylinders. Although this crackerjack, high octane thriller has a high body count, it is, I think, a very sweet film of brotherly love toward each other and their adoptive mother. The four Mercer brothers--two white, two black--reunite for their mother's funeral. She has been murdered, execution-style, by a couple of street punks. Hired guns. Mark Walberg is perfectly cast as the lead. He's one of the few white actors who would be believable in such a role. His timeout during a high school basketball game (to search some souls for information on the killing) is staged and plotted well. You believe he's a tough guy who takes no crap. Singleton's choice to shoot the film in the winter, the period between Thanksgiving and Christmas, in a decayed Detroit, is the spot-on right thing to do. When was the last time you saw a car chase in a snowstorm? Sweet direction there. Sofia Vergara spins a keen turn as one of the brothers' girl friends. One small quibble: the scene where Walberg cuts the rope of a bad guy repelling off the face of a project, should have include the baddie firing away when falling backward, a wink-and-a-nod to Sharkey's Machine. The complicated corruption narrative has you engrossed from the start. Why would anyone kill a sweet old lady, anyway? The whos and the whys are properly addressed before the film ends. The last confrontation between the evil gangster (he forces a henchman to eat his dinner off the floor) and the good-by-default Bobby Mercer (he loves hockey) lead to a quirky climax on a frozen lake. Fish bait? Simply catch the movie with a comfy comforter and a cup of cocoa in order to find out why--and to warm you up a bit. It's a cold movie to watch. This flicker might give you a bad case of frost bite. No snow job there.

On a personal note: The name Bobby Mercer (the more common spelling) always brings a smile to my face. The former major leaguer--ex-Yankee, Giant, and Cub--Bobby Murcer, was my favorite baseball player when I was growing up. He passed away last year at the age of 62. A piece of my childhood died that day. This movie resurrected it for about two hours. One last thing: I think the writer should have used the "Murcer" spelling simply because if you change the "c" to a "d," it spells murder. An apt description of what takes place throughout this movie.

A frantic 1960's romantic comedy that is still a vibrant look at a New York City that has all but vanished; however, the movie HAS shown signs of wear and tear of late. I like Redford but I don't get Fonda. She's all over the place; her nervousness bothers me. She handles the dramatic parts in the script fine, but displays a shrill, manic nature in performing the comedic elements. She's, ultimately, too over-the-top for my tastes. I wish the director would've simply yelled "CUT!" once or twice. Charles Boyer, on the other hand, is a godsend from above. Literally. He lives in the building's attic, one flight above the newlyweds. Boyer is fit--looking much younger than his stated age at the time--and his acting chops are sharpened to a razor-thin cut. The small, quirky (the radiator is skyward) N.Y.C. apartment set serves an important purpose: It's the unofficial arena for our trio of thespians to do battle. Joined (later) by Fonda's understanding mother and an agitated telephone repairman, Neil Simon's sly narrative is finally completed. Numerous public conveyances are used to provide color in this movie. The old cars, Checker Cabs, N.Y.C. buses and even the Staten Island Ferry, make classic appearances before the film's final fade out. The ferry takes the two couples--minus the phone guy--to sleepy Staten Island, so they can experience an authentic Albanian restaurant, complete with belly dancing and homemade brew. It's the highlight of the film.

I've always felt that the title of this movie would make a good fit for an alternative rock band's moniker. Ray Miland, the father of the nuclear family depicted here, believes strongly in the survival of the fittest. He's right. No going back. He does a steady, practical job in protecting his family at all costs: from the mountain marauders roaming the back roads after a radioactive mishap to coping with his family's fears after a bomb--the size of Los Angeles--has been detonated back home. The film opens up with a harsh close-up of a (now) vintage car's chrome, push-button radio on the dash. This simple image will stick in most viewers' thoughts long after the movie ends. The title soon follows with an atomic blast of block lettering, signaling the start of the film. All other credits will happen after the movie finishes. Unusual. Nice nostalgic touch: movie is preceded by the now defunct Orion Studio's lovely, spinning logo. The movie, however, is loaded with ugliness. The violence is NOT graphic but remains a player. There is a definite suggestion of rape (twice) in the screenplay. I'm not a fan of the film's score. The tinny, juvenile jazz score, I feel, is too intrusive and lacking in any sought of positive punch toward the action. Too much brass. I was impressed by the matte shot of the nuclear blast. Clean special effect. There is the ubiquitous presence of a working phone booth out in the middle of nowhere. Acting honors go to a youthful, empathetic Frankie Avalon and the young lady who plays the rape victim. William Bouchey's civilized doctor gives some sage advice. And the two soldiers at the end of the picture deliver their lines smartly and on pitch. Overall, the film holds up pretty well for modern audiences.

Working secretly from a basement in an U.S.C. science building, a trio of scientists crack open a window into the future. Endeavoring to open their portal can be a tricky proposition: in light that it is next to scientifically impossible to pull off. Accidentally, the two-dimensional view screen gives way to an actual exit to another world. Danny, the meddlesome errand boy, takes the initiative and vaults himself into a devastated, futuristic time zone. (A neat special effects trick is employed here: when an actor, entering the portal, steps off to the right side of the window, disappearing for a few moments, only to reemerge, with the help of rear projection, back into the background of the scene.) The two male scientists soon follow. Mutants respond to their intrusion as only mutants can: they attack. Two of the disfigured fellows even attempt to leap into the lab, but the female scientist repels them with a handy fire extinguisher. Smashing good tactic. In the nick of time, and just before the portal closes, she also takes the plunge into the future. This is a surprisingly good special effect. It works so well that they utilize it again, later on in the movie. The rugged terrain is photographed by the legendary cinematographer, Vilmos Zsigmond, but, at the time of filming, a new comer. He renders off some excellent tracking shots through barren canyons. High shots. Long shots. And even some shots that follow directly behind our group as they search for missing Danny. Confrontation ensues. Mutants don't like stone throwers so they retreat. When Danny is found up ahead, they take sanctuary in a cave protected by an invisible force field. The tunnel dwellers soon arrive and escort them to more comfortable surroundings for some well-needed answers. John Hoyt, the leader of the council, and looking fit and dapper, gives them some answers and asks them some questions of his own. For a movie geared to kids, the film has some frank talk about sex. Reyna, Danny's girl, is a looker and has the right amount of sweetness for us to buy her as Danny's girl. There are many bright touches along the way, and an ingenious time-loop that makes sense for a change. The battle sequences between the mutants, humans and worker-androids, are violent and fiery. Blood flows. Some androids and mutants lose limbs. Rightfully so. Terrific movie to watch with the kids on a lazy afternoon in the summer. Show them how things used to be. They'll be stunned. Trust me. I was.

Not yet, anyway. Motto: keep the smaller venues in play. Unapolegeticaly old fashioned and drenched heavily in the spray of cinematic clichés, this time capsule of a family drama clicks on all cylinders. I, however, might be a wee bit biased. I think I saw the Gold Cup Hydroplane Race depicted here on "Wide World of Sports," back in 1971. I was eight. It's one thing to recall the first moon landing, and another thing, entirely, to recall a long ago boat race in Indiana. I must be nuts. But it does create an odd, nostalgic feeling for me. The young boy, played by the kid from the new Star Wars films, emotes excitement well, but is lacking in conveying sorrow or remorse. He does, however, have a nifty Schwin bike: high handle bars, banana seat, and a sweet gear shift. Watching him peddle that two-wheeler through Madison, the Grass Roots blasting on the soundtrack, stirs memories from anyone who was around that boy's age, back then. Like me. The underdog "Miss Madison" team from the small, backwater village of Madison, a location the racing circuit wishes would gracefully fade away, somehow pulls it all together to compete in the big race. Along the watery way, the team suffers through a lack of funds for repairs, blown engines and the death of a skilled driver. It's all quite routine--but, ultimately, well done. The movie had the misfortune of spending four years on the studio's misfit shelf. Fitting. It's better than that. So crank up the air conditioner full blast and enjoy the final blow out.

Sleeper. "Dreamer" Tim Matheson, an actor I've always liked, is obsessed with exiting--even a ripped open hunk of flesh and a blood soaked bandage is little obstacle--the lower ranks of minor league bowling, and earning his pot-of-gold: his name on a P.B.A. card. Susan Blakely, an actress I've always liked, scores a three-strike turkey as Dreamer's pushy love interest. Old reliable Jack Warden is Matheson's surrogate father, a man who's own gargantuan-sized bag of dreams rivals those of Dreamer. A gaggle of goofy locals hang out at Warden's glitzy bowling emporium, a cheery place where no one is turned away. Comfy. Dreamer's route to stardom is cluttered along the way with squabbles with Blakely, unscrupulous P.B.A. executives and a past opponent with a vendetta. Real-life professional bowler Nelson Burton, Jr. and ABC commentator Chris Schenkel provide much needed color and authenticity. The tournament final is filmed in a crisp and clean style. A couple of promising scenes begin well but fall flat, otherwise the movie unwinds a refreshing look at a slice of life usually not projected on to the big screen. The kind of "little" film that Hollywood has, sadly, almost abandoned.

Unofficial sequel (methinks so, anyway) to Yvonne De Carlo's Fort Algiers, this hot and heavy desert drama arrives at the end of Miss De Carlo's initial leap into a Hollywood film career, 1945-59, just before her semi-retirement, and prior to her reemergence as "Lilly Munster," the antithesis of Donna Reed's more perfectly molded vision of motherhood. In this one, American Mature is running guns to the Tuareg tribes, while a French garrison, led by Dolenz, tries their very best to thwart the rebellion and any colonial retribution residue to follow. A love triangle soon erects itself between De Carlo, Dolenz and Mature. It's all very civilized and modern. Dolenz doesn't put up much of a fight. I would. De Carlo is definitely worth fighting for. John Dehner, who played a good guy in Fort Algiers, turns around and becomes the demented, evil Emir in this one. Another sadistic rebel has a scar running down the entire length of his face. Dehner tests one of Mature's automatic weapons on the fellow with the hideous scar. He dies. He later will turn up planted in the Emir's vegetable garden. Nice one. Green thumb? Spiders are cleverly enlisted to torture and kill the French. An Iman is rescued, secreted and forgotten along the way. Strange stuff: a long trek across the sands reveals some legionnaires impaled on spears, like shish-kabobs at an oasis barbecue. It's all a bit convoluted and thematically tangled. But, for the most part, highly recommended for folks who enjoy a few Camels with their Tuareg coffee.

The best episode from the most underrated television series from the 1970's, the aptly titled, "Man out of Time" entry, sings a story that can only be described as wonderfully compelling. Science Fiction doesn't have to be dumbed down for the masses. "Logan's Run" (in my opinion) never did that. This teleplay proves it. A man from the past drops in for a visit with Logan, Jessica and Rem. He's coy at first. Evasive. He tells the trio--who wonder where the heck he came from--that he's traveled here in this matter scrambling thingamajig, from somewhere in the western provinces or something. After a few greetings, and a visit from a patrol of Sandmen, they come to a consensus that they will search for "Sanctuary" together. Pool resources. An elderly fellow soon arrives and escorts them to the village HE calls "Sanctuary," a seemingly popular destination for (time) travelers. The people of this enclave are friendly but scientifically backward. They worship at a temple the man from the past use to work in when it was a science lab. He grouses about "Project: Sanctuary" being a failure. The others are bemused and perplexed at his assertions. He knows he will soon have to leave and return home to the past. He's on a strict timetable. When he does return home to his time with the new found knowledge of what is to come, will that be the catalyst he needs to stop the hostilities from occurring in his time? But will that also negate the births of Logan and Jessica, and the design and production of Rem? Tune in and see for yourselves. It's a gasser of a tale. "Logan's Run," the series, deserves a DVD release.

Arresting Allied Artists adventure borne out of the ashes of Monogram Pictures, a Poverty Row stalwart better known for its economical Westerns and Bowery Boys' sagas, than for its epics made on a high budget or shot in a widescreen process. This outer space tale-of-woe begins with a quartet of explorers--led by Rod Taylor and Hugh Marlowe--returning to Earth from a lengthy jaunt to the Red Planet Mars. And somewhere between those two points of interest, their rocket ship slips through a rip in the fabric of time, slinging them hundreds of years into the future. Back on the post-radioactive world they once knew very well, the spacemen find themselves battling hairy, one-eyed mutants who reside in high-rise caves. In another cave, earthbound, they encounter a race of people, untouched by radiation, living in an advanced underground society. A cut above most films of this ilk, World Without End (a superb title) showcases the traditional mix, for that time, of vibrant, mini-skirted females and timid, cowardly males. In fact, the head of the tunnel dwellers is aptly named "Timmek." The lead female role is authored by the very healthy and overheated Nancy Gates. She is called "Garnet"--a precious red gem--and falls instantly for the older Commander Marlowe. In one scene, she offers to take him to an "old tunnel" exit, where they can gaze at the moon from a protected cliff. It's a sweet, sexy scene played out by a modern man and a post-modern woman. After he kisses her in the moonlight, she returns the gesture with a heavy dose of feminine gusto. She rocks. He then rebuffs her feelings of love and thoughts of marriage. What was he thinking? Everything is resolved by the final fade-out. Marlowe dispatches the mutant chief to The Happy Hunting Grounds, somewhere in the heavens, with an assist from the old peacemaker: the bazooka. Can a fresh batch of little ones be far behind?

First (blast) off, the Martian women are decked out in some of the shortest mini-skirts you've ever seen. Marguerite Chapman, who plays the Martian scientist, and, not surprisingly, falls for the leading human-about-town and space explorer, has a wardrobe that defies gravity, either here or on Mars. She could charm the spacesuit off any astronaut, too. The female scientist from Earth is given an outfit that must have shrank in the Martian laundry. Although the film's science is a bit screwy and contrived, the movie's plot makes up for it by heightening the drama, tension and its pulp fiction convictions. Mars is dying. There's no getting around this inevitable conclusion. The chief of the Martian council has decided to relieve the earthmen of their repaired spaceship in order to launch an invasion of Planet Earth. So much for outer space benevolence. I bet they regret being taken to this leader. The movie bops along at a healthy pace. And the ending is served up with the speed of an empty buffet line. I enjoyed the special effects (there are some imaginative matte paintings on display), art design and those female martian costumes. The acting is fine for a group of second-tier thespians. Kudos to Monogram Pictures for creating a plausible and well preserved Saturday afternoon adventure. Finally, in the name of diversity, something the 50's was not known for, one of the Martians in the greeting party turns out to be a black man. He's the one wearing a chocolate space suit. I kid you not.

Well, not really. But, nevertheless, there seems to be quite a traffic jam snaking its way through Dick Powell's life and apartment. Does anyone knock? Or call ahead? In Mr. Powell's last appearance on the silver screen (he would soon slide over to the small screen), the former juvenile crooner turned hard-edged gumshoe actor, finds himself entangled in one of the most bizarre babysitting assignments ever. Debbie Reynolds plays the swooning teenager placed in the charge of bachelor Powell. He's a screenwriter and she's a piece of work. Incorrigible, really. Also on hand is the Amazon-like, Anne Francis--all 5'8" of her. She's his fiancé and is striking to look at: her famous facial mole comfortably in place, face impeccably made up and her blue eyes popping like fireflies kissing an electric bug zapper. She's definitely a sight for sore eyes. The plot, as it is, revolves around Debbie trying her best to break up the upcoming marriage between Dick and Miss Francis, and steal Powell for herself. Nothing new. But expertly rendered off. Oh, did I mention that the proceedings occur between Christmas and New Year's Eve, the twelve days of Cristmas falling firmly into play. Director Frank Tashlin has the seasonal colors lords-a-leaping off the screen. I love the fake white Christmas tree adorned with blood red balls. All of the apartment's holiday decorations signal a sobering degree of suburban chic. There's a wild dream sequence involving Debbie trapped in a bird cage and Anne spinning a spider's web. Have I mentioned how lovely Anne Francis was? She's a knockout. In the end, the movie is pure farce and slightly perverted. Otherwise, this film might be the perfect package to open up on a Christmas morning. The RKO logo is in color and the film is narrated, strangely, by an Oscar statuette. So enjoy. Pass the eggnog and light the yule log, please.

Cool Jackets. Cool Script. Cool Poster. What more do you need? A story would be nice. Technicalities. Blown up from a 16mm print, Director Stephen Verona's earthy look at 50's teenagers warrants another viewing. I saw this movie many moons ago, as a skiff made from nostalgia begins to creep over me like fog from the shores of Coney Island. In the 70's, as a kid, I was heavily into the music and the culture of that period. Three quarter's of our greasy gang, "The Lords of Flatbush," went onto bigger and better things. Two of them became superstars. One died. When I saw the do-wop trailer on the DVD, I was transported back in time to when I was eleven years old again. It also brokered memories of those Crazy Eddie's commercials: the one, in particular, with the five greasers singing do-wop in a high school boys' restroom, which played endlessly on New York City's local television stations back then. My favorite scene (in the movie) is the one involving the verbal exchange between Henry Winkler's character and the owner of the candy store. It's the best acted scene in the picture--and the most poignant. We find out that Winkler has the smarts and the talent (he's an artist) to escape the neighborhood. I'm a sucker for this kind of stuff. A young Sly Stallone is excellent as well. He has many of the flashier scenes in the film. I believe he wrote that showy, somewhat out of place, scene, toward the end of the picture, with Perry King and Stalone's pigeon coop featured prominently. It's more than a little obvious. Afterall, he did get screen credit for writing "additional dialog." Stalone's whiny fiancé is a riot. Her accent--devoid of "r"s--is right on pitch. Susan Blakely is a tease. The worst sought of turn-off for a teenage boy. King deserves better. If you are looking for a slick coming-of-age flick here you may wish to skip this movie. However, with an open mind and some wistful thoughts, you may be entertained for ninety minutes. Go for it.

Arch Oboler's apocalyptic earth-shaker still packs a mighty punch. Searing at times, this thoughtful, loquacious drama follows the struggles of a poet, a pregnant woman, a banker, his bank teller and a mountain climber, as they search for safety, viands, and a new beginning. You have to hear the mountain climber's roundabout explanation on how he survived. It defies logic. They all surface at the director's home, a "Frank Lloyd Wright" creation embedded into the mountainside. Oboler, I believe, intentionally mixes disparate influences into the narrative: European Neo-Realism, art house/independent film fair and 50's-style television/anthology convictions. No fooling around. And it all comes together in the end. The death and destruction of society is handled with little commotion. The special effects are limited but effective. The director simply scatters some skeletons here and there and topples over some vehicles. The metropolis is lifeless and intact. It's coldly effective. I like how the older banker is given more dimensions than usual: his money worthless, he wishes only to see the ocean one last time. Wistful. He is an empathetic character. The black man is the saint here. He is hardworking, quick-minded and a decent man who doesn't deserve his fate. The foreigner is a lost cause, a traveler who doesn't wish to plant any roots. Not in this limited colony, anyway. He is smart--but evil. At all costs, stay far away from him. The poet is the avid reader and philosopher. He sees himself as the best choice for leader. He clashes (often) with the adventurer. The pregnant woman is mankind's final hope; the "Eve" to the poet's "Adam." The child she is carrying is you-know-who. It all ties together in one smooth swath of cloth. Or does it?

A classy "Soundie" (some were not) from the 40's, reveals a barely 20 year-old Yvonne De Carlo lamenting about a yearning, burning love she is experiencing. Clad in a tight-fitting blue/green night gown, the color of her eyes, she saunters and sways over to her bed, snaps off the "lamp of memory" on her night stand, and drifts off to a blissful dreamland. There, she awakens, her spiritual body lifting away (a neat effect) from her physical body and moves, slowly, across her bedroom floor. She exits through some double-doors onto a balcony--where she engages a Latin gentleman for a salsa/rumba affair in the courtyard below. After their dance is completed, she retires to her feminine abode, where she awakens (once again) to the impression that the lamp of memory will burn forever. This short subject is 2 minutes and thirty-five seconds of a young, elegant and fresh-faced Miss De Carlo dancing up a storm. Look for it on the internet. It's there. That's all folks! Goodnight!

In case of fire: break fast for the nearest watering hole, hold your nose and jump feet first away from the dock. And drowning would be preferable. Cornel Wilde should heed my advice if he sees fit to continue to fraternize with this lady, Gene Tierney. She is the most physically striking woman he has ever seen. But, also, the most disturbed. And by far. "Ellen always wins," says Ray Collins, Wilde's lawyer, agent and family friend. But he is of little help. Wilde sees only sky rockets. Not the truth. Tierney is like an injured black widow spider: spinning, snaring and torturing all those who enter her web. Chilling. Their initial meeting is in a smoking/club car on a train. Blue/green interiors and sleek, almost perfectly lined clothes and props, drench the viewer's eyes. It's a hypnotic effect. Soon after, the lovely Jeanne Crain, a cousin, enters the picture as a competitor for Mr. Wilde's affections--a classic love triangle having been erected. I think water is used many times in the film to cleanse the characters' sins away. We get hints of incest along the way. Abortion. And even murder. Rain arrives to wash away any bad karma or spiritual residue that had been built up around the immaculate homes and set pieces depicted in the film. It seems to me that every stick of furniture and prop was pulled from a Spiegal Catalog. Clean as a whistle. Every locale in the movie is named or located by a body of water: Warm Springs, Spring Lake, Bar Harbor, to name a few. There was one scene, however, that put everything into proper perspective for me, boiling the love triangle down to a concentrated brew. When Jeanne Crain startles Cornel Wilde, who is hammering away on his typewriter and new novel (as she is tending to roses growing above on a trellis), her appearance is cautiously watchful. Heavenly. She is his angel. Gene Tierney, on his other shoulder, soon arrives via water. She emerges from the dark depths like a sea monster from hell. A beautiful one. Simple metaphor--but effective.

Heartachingly stunning in this gritty urban tale of despair and regret, Natalie Wood, as usual, acts up a tsunami. With her big brown eyes beaming and searching for the gentleman who knocked her up, she ventures into a large, packed-in-like-sardines, union hall. She finds him there. It's none other than Steve McQueen. He's a musician. She informs him that she is "going to have a baby." Shame. Shame. Blunt girl. He doesn't recall their tryst. Shame again. The dumbfounded look on McQueen's mug is priceless. She marches out into a bright sunshine. He follows. She whirls around and tells him that his responsibility ends at finding her a doctor--and it's not a obstetrician. It is 1963 (the year I was born) and she, that is, they, are in a world of trouble. A nice, unmarried Italian girl, you see, should never find herself in such a pickle. Never. They pool their resources together. They come up with the cabbage--400 smackers--but are then told by a very abrupt fellow that they need another fifty. They pay his parents a visit at a boccie ball court, somewhere near the East River. The noise from the FDR Drive is deafening. He secures the needed funds and they beat a hasty retreat when Wood's brothers catch wind of their affairs and chase them from the playground and into a building he is familiar with. They lay low for a while. This section of the film shows us that they have wonderful screen chemistry together. They listen to some music on the radio. They drink a little red wine. And they begin to fall in love--they just don't realize it yet. Whew! No more plot for now. I love the director's use of natural light and sounds, especially with the scene over at the boccie court. You hear every single vehicle that lumbers by. Nothing was re-dubbed later. The two leads are perfectly cast in this romantic fable. I know I should cover the starkly grim "abortion scene." But why ruin a beautiful picture with a dose of unneeded ugliness. Did I mention that Natalie was sweet? Heartachingly so.

Desperate, agitated Harry Stoner has recurring bad dreams and massive regrets about his past. World War II invades his restless sleep. And his nightmares have a thousand anguished fire bombs to lob. Meanwhile, his clothing line floats along aimlessly, wounded, between solvency and bankruptcy. And all the while, a raft of what-ifs drift through his mind like a toxic cloud of jaundiced smog. At times pea green, the Los Angeles air chokes the life out of all things living: "It's the pollution, Harry. It makes everybody crazy." So says Harry's business partner (Jack Gilford). He's the moral compass. Stoner lives a complicated life. His home life is mired in an open abyss of emotional torment. He attempts to close it by suggesting to his wife some ways in which they can spice up their love life. He is rejected. He looks somewhere else for solace. The highlight of the film is the one-night stand Harry has with a hippie chick. It's everything his life with his wife isn't: loving, caring, exciting and different. She's a good listener. The picture moves into darker territory when Gilford and Lemmon take in an x-rated flick, a Swedish affair, at the local art house. The picture leaves them less than compelled. But they are there to hire a professional arsonist to torch their establishment. "Watch the screen, Harry," the arsonist says in hushed tones. Director Avildsen has a deft eye for the material. Marvin Hamelish's score works well. I love the movie's poster of Harry Stoner gazing out toward the horizon. It's an understated gem. And the baseball metaphor hits a home run ("Hey mister, you can't play with us!"). Good game.

Once upon a time there were humans who made movies like Barbarella. It's hard to believe (now) that they ever existed. But they did. I was little then--but I remember them. It was a glorious time, the epoch of civilized art and film. These people were free, the shackles of the Hays Code having been removed, to express themselves any way they wished. And, boy, did they ever. Jane Fonda ("Could you please hand me a garment?"): stripping, flipping, writhing and somersaulting in weightlessness. She was liberated. Forget the thinnest of plots--there really isn't one to speak of here. That is, unless you count Jane's thirsty libido. In the end, the film is one long acid trip, fused with catchy, but silly, music and married to Daliesque images of light and shade. You must see the hungry dolls, "my pretty...pretty" Black Queen and the biting birds in the torture cage. It's all very strange. I swear.

Jane Fonda (I bet) loves to watch this one late at night. Alone. A guilty pleasure? Perhaps. But just a hunch on my part. No longer constrained by the social concerns and politics of the sixties, she gazes at her past-self flickering away in the story's future, 40,000A.D., a woman of youth and beauty, and says simply: " God, you WERE a looker once." Perhaps I'm wrong about this scenario. I hedge. But maybe not. Maybe I'm soaring through velvet space toward infinity, with my good friend, Pygar (John Phillip Law), for wing support. Barbarella, on the other wing, is "a wonder...wonder woman." I'll bet Miss Fonda's last stitch of clothing on that thought. Double swear.

People smoke to past the time. Rod Serling loved his smokes, too. But when movie star Bunny Blake slips her latest "token-of-appreciation" on to her fourth digit, it has become clearly evident to all that something is amiss: the huge, gaudy gem on her finger has begun to stir and smoke, messages of desperation flickering across its stone's face. These cryptic waves of light and sound plot a collision course between two very different worlds: one of celebrity, one which isn't. Performing center stage is the clash of two titans: Hollywood versus Americana. I like the acting chemistry exhibited by the two sisters. Although they live completely different lives in the outside world, they have an unconditional love for one another. Their chats have a poignant and supportive feel to them. The smaller roles are handled well, especially the trooper. His final declaration is sincere, frantic and effortless in its delivery. In the end, Bunny Blake is a wayward traveler who commits a selfless act of kindness. Her exit--through the front door and into a needling rainstorm--signals a trip to a blissful thereafter. It rings so very true in a picnic grounds mapped-out in "The Twilight Zone."

Wait one garlic-picking minute here! Who put Vincent Price in an Italian art film? How did South Central Los Angeles materialize in Downtown Rome? What, no Bloods or Crips? Where did he purchase that Chevrolet station wagon? Richard Matheson, the man of prose behind this exercise in international horror, should be rolling over in his grave--if only he were dead. Robert Morgan, his protagonist, however, is alive and well and staking his claim to turf overcrowded with unwelcome creatures of the night. The rest of humanity is not so fortunate. As for Morgan? He has one rule: no vampires allowed!

I'm having somewhat of a good time poking fun at this dark, atmospheric tale sitting somewhere on the edge of the end-of-the-world genre. But I have crossed my heart and covered my eyes more than once in anticipation of my next cathartic viewing of this film. Vincent Price is wrapped tighter than a mummy on psych medications. He spends his days dispatching the poor, infected souls to limbo. He spends his nights listening to classical music, watching home movies of his family and friends, and drinking himself into a drunken stupor. His hangover the next morning doesn't hamper his chores: buy gas, stock up on groceries (garlic, mirrors), and clean the front lawn of corpses. Depressing work. Monotonous. But necessary for survival. The series of flashback scenes, peppered throughout the film, reveal a man's past filled with a loving family, good friends and a satisfying career. Life. And all this was erased by an infection carried on the solar winds. He was different from the others. And he knew it. They were a new breed--and they did not want to play with the last man on earth. Tragic.

Robert Siodmak's gripping heist film, Criss Cross, resides in a parallel world of time and space. It's an address located somewhere between reality and fantasy. A world where criminals, "you're the only crooks I know," exist and ply their trade unimpeded by the authorities. The one cop on the job, Steve Thompson's childhood buddy, Pete Ramirez, is torn between protecting his dopey, love-struck chum and collaring his sorry tail. He is a man with an impossible task--who is simply not invited to the party.

I love this film noir. I've seen it thirty times. The City of Los Angeles has (in my opinion) fifth billing, just behind the three leads and the super cool dialog. She is a city of steep hills, trolleys, nightclubs, the poor and the downtrodden. I never get tired of hearing the weird, repeated (for effect) dialog utilized by Yvonne De Carlo and company. I am obsessed, like Burt, with Yvonne's doomed ("I wished we'd never met.") words and sensual beauty. It's a timeless performance that survives today as the archetype of femme fatales. It's a layered, complicated character: she is not good nor evil. Somewhere in the middle, really. Deep down (I think), she is a practical woman (she weds to stay out of prison) who craved Lancaster and a stable home life. Instead, Burt blunders and sets into motion a series of events that hurtles the two of them down a road to oblivion. Generally, a place where most of these couples end up. Miss De Carlo, always a favorite of mine, was a superb actress and a commanding screen presence. You will not find three better acted scenes than the ones at the lunch counter, in the motel room ("see how he treats me") and at the seaside cottage. Her line delivery and physical movements are impeccable. If it had been up to me, she would have had a gold statue sitting on her mantle for this performance. It stands for all time. The final scene and "shot" in this film are unforgettable. Cue sirens!