The Window (1949)

The Window (Ted Tetzlaff, 1949) Film noir is that darkened crusty under-belly of American cinema made in the jaded post-World War II era of film-making, where the pre-war rose-colored glasses were slapped off people's faces exposing the corruption of power (no matter how menial their power is) and how common folks with a conscience might become prey to the whims of Fate. Those films were suspicious of innocence (somebody's always guilty of something) and sneered at respectability because no fortune was ever made without a little larceny. The ambiguous Raymond Chandler phrase describing them that I always loved was that they took place where "streets were dark with more than Night." Some corruption of the Soul and Nature lurked where the halogen-lights couldn't reach and permeated them beyond the fact that they were B-movies that didn't have the budget for a lot of fancy studio-lighting.

 

They were usually black and white, but the subjects were always shades of a dusky gray.

 

The darkest of these that I hold dear to my heart is Kiss Me Deadly, where even the hero is such a low-life degenerate that the Universe conspires to destroy the world in a purifying nuclear fire-ball.

 

But, the sickest, most twisted one is this new one to me, RKO's The Window, made in the streets of New York's Lower East Side during the winter months of 1947-1948, but not shown in theaters until 1949 (because new studio owner Howard Hughes considered it "unreleasable"). When it was finally allowed to see the light of the projector, it became a huge hit for the cash-strapped studio.

Nine year old Tommy Woodry (Bobby Driscoll) is what the spin-doctors would call "a fabulist." And what the internet would call "an entrepreneur." He lies. Well, he makes things up...just like an entrepreneur. His latest whopper is that the family is moving out "way out West" "Texas" "Tombstone" "to a ranch", but when the Landlord suddenly shows up at dinner to show the apartment to prospective renters, Tommy's parents (Barbara Hale and Arthur Kennedy) know the score. Tommy's been lying again, telling his lurid tall tales of cops and robbers and cowboys and indians. The parents severely reprimand him and he's sent to bed. It's Summer, he's out of School, and New York simmers with a heat wave. He sleeps...barely...with the window open and the constant awareness that one boy's ceiling is another man's floor; the movements of the upstairs Kellersons (Paul Stewart and Ruth Roman) are constantly creaked and groaned to him in his room.

It's too hot to sleep in there, so he decides to sleep out on the fire escape, but climbs to the next level to take advantage of a rare breeze and he wakes up when there's some activity in the window of the Kellersons. What he sees is a guy seemingly passed out on the kitchen table and Mrs. Kellerson taking cash out of the guy's wallet. The guy wakes up out of his supposed slumber and attacks her, only to be caught up in a fight with Mr. Kellerson. Soon, the guy falls to the floor, stabbed in the back by a pair of nearby scissors administered by the Mrs.

Seems the Kellersons are in a not-so-neat little game of bait-and-switch-blade with the Mrs. luring sailors to their place, knocking them out before they get too demanding, and either rolling them, or—if they're too much trouble—killing them. Tommy has just enough time to tell his Mom what he saw—she tells him to go back to sleep, he had a nightmare—before he goes back to retrieve his pillow below the murderous couple take the body up the fire escape and across the roofs to dump it in the abandoned tenement next door.

Tommy is scared to death. He knows the Kellersons are bad, but when he tells what he saw to his Dad (as Mom was no help!), who has just come home from his night-shift, he gets another lecture and a useless case of the guilts. All the while, in his bedroom alone, he hears the Kellersons' footsteps on his ceiling, and he's left thinking: "I'm the only one who knows. As long as the Kellersons don't know that I know, then I'm safe. But, I need to tell someone." So, the next morning, he climbs out of his bedroom window, goes down the fire escape, and tells the police.

And they don't believe him, either! But, there is one detective (Anthony Ross), who decides to get the story, so he decides to see the Woodrys and see what he can discover. What he finds are frustrated parents, who are embarrassed that their kid has dragged the authorities into his little white lie that is getting bigger and darker by the hour. Something needs to be done about this, and if time-outs won't do it, some advanced shame may be the key to stopping Tommy's lying ways.

But, detective Ross isn't done digging yet. He goes a flight up and talks to the Kellersons, posing as a building inspector, which puts both the upstairs neighbors a bit on edge: the husband just casuals his way through it, but she's visibly jittery. Ross concludes it's just a false alarm, even though there's a suspicious stain on the carpet. And the Kellersons are starting to feel that things are starting to close in on them.

But, the damage has been done: what Tommy knows has gotten out of the bag, and he no longer has control of the information. Suddenly, everything he thought he knew about his parents and cops has been proven absolutely false, and as the situation starts to get out of control, Tommy realizes that his life may be in serious jeopardy, and to his terror finds out that it is absolutely true. He must rely on himself to get out of trouble, as the adults (with all the power) are doing nothing to help him, and—in their efforts to work out what they perceive as problems—end up putting him in harm's way.

For Tommy, it's a right of passage (one could say this is also a perverse kind of "Coming of Age" movie) as he has to grow up, and take matters into his own hands. Even so, for all the lessons learned, ultimately the only way he can get out of his nightmares is—ironically—to take a leap of faith and trust that a group of adults will do the right thing...for the first while in a long while.

Watching The Window, I was constantly amazed how cynical it was, how relentless and mean-sprited, but also how diabolically smart. It sets up a trap for its young protagonist (Bobby Driscoll is brilliant in this, with a child's eyes, but an adult's questioning eyebrows) and keeps making it worse and worse, until he is forced to take action for himself, and not go running for the aid of his immediate authority figures. It's a shadowed lesson in self-actualization when everything around you is turning against you.

And here's another thing: The Window not only has the adult themes of murder, deceit, and sociopathy, but dares to invade the protected space of kids, and adding to the usual suspects of noir sins on the rap sheet, it includes child neglect and child abuse, leaving one particular bowery boy with nowhere to run to—his parents don't believe him, the police don't believe him, and all his authority figures let him down. The only adults who live up to his view of them are the murderers, who have no qualms about murdering a child to save their own skins.

And, as opposed to other film-noirs, it rather boldly includes the purest form of shame—which Tetzlaff shows with the kid's face away from the camera. All noirs have an element of shame to them—all those black silhouettes must have SOME use. The folks in them know they did something wrong, they compromised their ethics, their standards, or their conscience, and are just self-aware enough that they don't need an audience judging them—they mutely judge themselves. But, in young Tommy's case, it's like some hellish retribution for his fibs, putting him through an adult version of Hell, far beyond his years to comprehend.

Even though I watched it with a growing sense of horror, it's become one of my favorite film noirs, and also one of my favorite films.

Air Force

Air Force (Howard Hawks, 1943) The day starts out like any other for the crew of the "Mary-Ann" the B-17 "Flying Fortress" no. 05564 of the 48th bomber wing out of Hamilton Field, California: they are assigned to fly to Hickam Field in Hawaii. The date, December 6, 1941.

They're a motley crew: The pilot is Michael Aloysius Quincannon (John Ridgley), his co-pilot Bill Williams (Gig Young) who's sweet on the sister of bombadier Tom McMartin (Arthur Kennedy); Monk Hauser Jr. (Charles Drake) is the navigator and son of a pilot from the Lafeyette Escadrille; master sergeant Robbie White (Harry Carey Sr.) is the crew-chief, aided and abetted by his assistant Weinberg (George Tobias) a native New Yorker (as he's only too glad to tell you); "Minnesota" Peterson (Ward Wood) is the radio operator and the rookie on the flight is his assistant, Private Chester (Ray Montgomery), who is wide-eyed, wet behind the ears, and only too eager to be on the plane; in marked contrast to him is gunner Joe Winocki (John Garfield) who was washed out of flight school by his instructor Quincannon and has no love for the air force...or the mission...or his pilot.

Winocki is the bad apple in the barrel. the fly in the ointment, the wrench in the works. Hawks likes his groups to run like well-oiled machines, but there's no drama without a bit of sand in the gears. Winocki doesn't really fit in, or his attitude doesn't allow him to fit in. 

His bitterness informs his posture and every remark that comes out of his mouth. He grates. He's an outsider (self-imposed) that goes against the grain of the collective. He's not a professional, that important term in the world of Howard Hawks, and if he's going to fit in—become part of the crew—he'll have to change, and in a turn-around that would impress Sergeant York.

He even has a crack on his lips in the most dramatic part of the movie—when the crew gets in radio-range of Hawaii, they hear, instead of landing instructions from the tower...nothing. A turn of the frequency and they intercept Japanese radio transmissions backed by the sound of gunfire. "Who're you listening to...Orson Welles?" he snears, before White shuts him up.

No. They're listening to Pearl Harbor, dying.

Quincannon and the other pilots get through to Hickam, enough for them to warm them off to land somewhere else. The squadron splits up, and "The Mary-Ann" makes its way to Maui, but not before they make a pass over the Harbor at Oahu and gaze out their windows at the devastation. The shots of the carnage are overhead shots of burning models. Far more representative are the darkened faces of the crew, their faces only illuminated from the fires below as they look out in disbelief.

It's a bit surreal, almost "Twilight Zone-ish:" taking off near San Francisco, the U.S. was at peace, and seven hours across the Pacific later, they're landing in the middle of a war they weren't expecting and, not having any armaments on these flights, for which they're unprepared. And under the worst of conditions. The Maui area on which Quincannon makes his landing isn't an airfield, it's just bare ground and the landing is inelegant and damaging, impairing one of their landing gear. The crew gets out, and split up—determined not to be stuck there, one group sets about to fix the gear, while Williams and Hauser do a little scouting of the vicinity. What they find, unfortunately are Japanese snipers who follow them to the B-17 and start firing on it—there's just enough time to get back in the air and head back for Hickam.

The airfield is a jumble of destruction, but the crew get ample opportunity to get intel, visit McMartin's sister who was injured in the attack, and pick up some mail from the soldiers to get home, and a fighter pilot Lt. "Tex" Rader (James Brown), who was involved in that accident, winning him the suspicions of McMasters and Williams. Then they have to get to Wake Island. On the way, they listen to President Roosevelt declare war on Japan, determine that McMasters sister will pull through. But, the reception at Wake isn't warm, Wake knows that their time is limited before they're overrun; they want the "Mary-Ann" off the island and in the air to the Philippines.

Williams and Quincannon listening to the declaration of war.

They take mail from Wake and one piece of contraband—a dog named "Tripoli" which has a running gag that the mutt barks every time he hears the name "Moto." Of course, it's against regulations, but the crew warms to the dog, even rigging up an oxygen mask for it when they get to higher altitudes. They then finish their grueling odyssey of "7,000 consecutive miles" to land at Clark Field in Manila, where the news is grim, and the "Mary-Ann" becomes involved in aerial combat for the first time on their journey...and in the war.

The third act is mostly action, for the first time in the film. Overall, the emphasis is less on combat—in these early days of the war—but more on perseverance despite hardship, playing on the American self-image of "stick-to-itiveness" that allows them to last no matter how much punishment they take. In that way, Air Force is a companion piece to They Were Expendable, John Ford's tribute to the Navy during the darkest days of the Pacific war, where victory is uncertain, but survival is the nearest thing to victory that can be achieved. Certainly, it added to recruitment efforts with its gung-ho spirit and its dramatic manipulations to seek revenge.

Of course, you expect that in a war film—while the war is going on, and certainly from movies of that time period. The basis of Air Force has its roots in some reality—there really was a a squad of B-17's that flew out of San Francisco to the Philippines on December 6th only to find their first stop at Pearl Harbor destroyed. The rest of the movie is fanciful, and even extends to outright lies about "treacherous" Japanese citizens forming sniper squads and using vegetable trucks at Pearl Harbor to damage planes on the ground (the Japanese bombers had an easy enough time of that as the planes were all grouped together on the ground—take out one and you took out a lot of them). There weren't any fifth columnists in Hawaii, not one—only victims of the attack. But fear, rumor, and suspicion make better stories than truth. All of those elements led to the internment of Japanese-American citizens during World War II—but only on the West Coast extending out to Salt Lake City. Truth is usually the first casualty of a war.

The Man from Laramie

The Man From Laramie (Anthony Mann, 1955) "Hate's not becoming on a man like you." Hmm. 

 

Then, they shouldn't have put this star and director together again, as hate, obsession and (sometimes) disfigurement were the order of the screenplay. The last of the James Stewart-Anthony Mann pairings (the others being Winchester 73, The Far Country, Bend of the River, and The Naked Spur, all superior disturbing Westerns), The Man from Laramie is a continuation of the director/star collaborations produced in the 1950's that pushed Stewart's psychological boundaries in the Old West by pushing the physical and story boundaries traditional in movies about the Old West, that tended to keep things "White Hat/Black Hat."* 

 

The work of Mann and Stewart tended to smudge the distinctions a bit, making the hats more of a dirty gray, not too far from the morality of men in a new territory, finding their ways and their fortunes.

Stewart's Will Lockhart rolls into the town of Coronado with his small transport business delivering merchandise to the general store.  Along the way, he stops from his day job to indulge in his hobby—seeking revenge for his younger brother whose cavalry unit was ambushed by Apaches who were brandishing repeating rifles, too many to be acquired on raids. The Apaches are another story. He's after the man who sold them those rifles.

Coronado, though, is hardly welcoming. He can't take a few steps into the street without being warned to leave the town the same way he went in—under his own power. That advice, with intentions good or bad, stems from the town's controlling interest, a cattle baron by the name of Alec Waggoman (Donald Crisp), one of those autocratically protective father-figures who like things the way they are (once they have them), are suspicious of any changes, and is a bit blind to how others see it. They're NIMBY's with the biggest backyard in the frontier.

He's particularly near-sighted when it comes to his entitled son Dave (Alex Nicol, in a thankless performance, rather dimly performed), a bully who's next in line to run the ranch—probably into the ground given his business acumen—and (as John Wayne used to put it) "if he lives." To prevent those eventualities Waggoman has installed the only picket-wire he might approve of, his chief ranch-hand Vic Hansbro (Arthur Kennedy, who often provides the counter-balance in the Mann-Stewart westerns) as a nanny to keep Dave under control.

But Vic, with so much responsibility to the Old Man, always seems to be a day late and a dollar short, unable to keep Dave from single-handedly destroying Lockhart's business, burning his wagons and killing his mules, a rather contrary manner of getting him to leave town, by destroying the means. And, of course, it just inspires Lockhart to get all-cussed and motivates him to stick his nose in everybody's business and his fists in Dave's mid-section. Things don't get any better when Lockhart decides to take a job ranching for Waggoman's rival Kate Canady (Aline McMahon), a crusty woman-rancher who won't give an inch on territory or principle, or one hoof of cattle to the larger concern.

From any angle Lockhart is caught in the middle, guaranteeing a rise in tensions and an escalation of grievances. And if the elder Waggoman wanted peace and quiet, he should have looked for the anarchy running wild in his own midst. So, there's that familial element running through it. And Mann and Stewart, through their collaborations, were exploring psychological depths that weren't mentioned between the gun-shots in the standard shoot-'em-up. 

All of their westerns involved Stewart's character going through a trial by fire—he's actually dragged through a campfire in this one—facing humiliation and crippling at the hands of the Waggoman's, the confrontations with the clan making up the best part of the film, with only Stewart's rather half-hearted interplay with Waggoman's niece (Cathy O'Donnell) seeming like time wasted, although it provides one more conflict for Lockhart to be distracted by. 

Mann's use of location shooting is always imaginative and compositionally interesting, and he uses the Vistavision format to get as much horizon into the frame as possible. Certainly worth a look-see, just don't go expecting Shakespeare.**

Maurice Thomas' Stewart portrait for some of the film's poster art.

* The two also worked on the non-westerns Strategic Air Command and The Glenn Miller Story.

** Curiously, Shakespeare is on a lot of people's mind when they see this film, comparing it to "King Lear."  Um, okay, not the "King Lear" I'm familiar with, although there's a thematic string in there (actually there's a Shakespearean string in just about everything, isn't there?).  Actually, there's more "King Lear" in "Bonanza" than here (except that everybody gets along).   And, of course,  the movie Legends of the Fall has more than a bit of both in it.

Bend of the River

Bend of the River (Anthony Mann, 1952) "Any man can make a mistake." 

Take Glyn McLintock (James Stewart). He's scouting a trail for a wagon-train of farmers, led by Jeremy Baile (Jay C. Flippen) in the Northwest territories when he comes across an impromptu necktie-party and and on the end of the rope is Emerson Cole (Arthur Kennedy), the guest of dishonor. Maybe it's his own sense of honor and justice. Maybe it's the itch he feels in his neck. But he rescues Cole and finds that they're like two peas in a morally questionable pod: both men have reputations loud enough to follow them through the virginal Oregon territory. They think the same, completing each other's sentences, they fight the same, pulling each other's fat out of the fire many a time—the two of 'em together are deadly. But put 'em at odds—over a girl or a deal—and the results could be equally deadly if the modicum of good shared between the two doesn't delay the inevitable.

They're both likable bad men, looking for a good future away from civilization. It just depends how close their pasts follow them. Baile has his own ideas on the subject: "A man like that don't change." McLintock hopes he's wrong, but just in case, he's going to keep that kerchief around his neck tied tight. Daughters Laurie (Julie Adams) and Marjie (Lori Nelson) think that the right woman can change a man. Gambler Trey Wilson (Rock Hudson, very good in an early role) who's "fast on the draw, but soft" and "not the marrying kind," thinks that's long odds. But the time will come when the two men so evenly matched are going to have to choose sides. And when they do...

You see a lot of Howard Hawks' Red River in Bend of the River. That's because they share the same script and story-writer, Borden Chase. A lot of incidents and lines of dialogue reflect each other. Hawks joked his way out of Red River's volatile climax, but there's no chance of that here, even though both movies do share a heroine who gets hit, literally, with an arrow when they meet the man they're going to fall in love with. And where John Wayne found underplaying the line "One day you'll look back and I'll be there" most effective, James Stewart seethes it through his teeth. The Mann-Stewart Westerns had complicated psychologies with Stewart exploring his dark side in each of them (although not so much in their other collaborations in the '50's, The Glenn Miller Story and Strategic Air Command). Bend of the River is one of the best of them, with a vengeful Stewart picking off his enemies one by one, without a mind to the morality of an ambush.*

It is that razor's edge of sanity and judgement that makes Bend of the River interesting. At any time, one can imagine Stewart losing the veneer of good-guy and killing in hot blood or cold. It is that sense of real danger that Mann and Chase and Stewart bring to the conflict of being in a tight spot with no way out that makes Bend of the River one of the better Westerns ever made, and one that feels timeless in a genre considered past its time.

There's something you don't see every day: A cold-blooded Jimmy Stewart

* Oh, now here's a scary thought—the movie could play as a Westernized Rambo

Rancho Notorious

Rancho Notorious (Fritz Lang, 1952) The old-old story of Hate!  Murder!  and Revenge!

After hearing about this one for oh-so-many years, I finally got a chance to sit down and luxuriate a while with Rancho Notorious, a film that offers so many surprises—subtleties and Big Statements—that work-outs were had by both my jaw (dropping) and the remote, which afforded me the essential ability to go back and "look at that again."

Rancho Notorious offers opportunities a-plenty for both. You don't see very many movies where people are actively snarling at each other, but then there aren't many movies like this wildly expressionistic main-stream Western directed by the master of German Expressionism Fritz Lang. Preceding High Noon by a matter of months, it also has a song-based score, but an odd one, not so "on the nose" as "Do Not Forsake Me...", but one's that's haunting and echoes through your head like a warning (as it did mine) for days.

The song is "The Ballad of Chuck-a-Luck," (that was supposed to be the movie's title and there's a story for ya*) written by Ken Darby and plays over the titles and interstitially during the murder investigation that lasts the entire movie, each stanza ending with those words "Hate. Murder. And revenge."

So, what's the story, pilgrim?

Vern Haskell (Arthur Kennedy) is a ranch-hand in a small town in Wyoming and he only has eyes for Beth Forbes (Gloria Henry**), the girl who runs the counter at the dry-goods store. But, right after he comes a-courtin' two strangers come into town, with an eye to robbing the store, and when the one sees Beth, things go too far. She's raped and murdered by the outlaw when she screams and the two cowards escape.

Vern Haskell (Arthur Kennedy) doesn't like you

All Haskell wants is revenge, so he quits the ranch and, with a posse, heads in the direction the bastards left town. After hours of riding, the posse gives up, but Haskell refuses to stop, and soon comes across one of the men, Whitey, shot in the back by the other desperado, who only says the words "Chuck-a-Luck" to Haskell with his dying breath. Haskell travels on, gathering clues about the mysterious word that refers to a spinning "wheel of fortune" in gambling houses and a former dance hall girl named Altar Keane (Marlene Dietrich), who made a fortune on her departing spin of the wheel, and left town on the arm of the outlaw "Frenchy" Fairmont (Mel Ferrer), never to be heard of again.

But, "Frenchy's" in jail, so Haskell gets himself arrested, and once behind bars, ingratiates himself with Fairmont, and gets sprung on his coat-tails. The two make their way to the Flying C Ranch, also known...as "Chuck-a-Luck," a working ranch legitimate to the world, but in secret is actually a hideout-for-hire for any outlaw willing to offer up a 10% share of their loot to Altar Keane. Quite the little operation the lady has there, and at the moment, she's full up.

But she makes room for Haskell, whom she describes as "a man who stands in doorways." All the better to survey the room, looking for clues. Is it the guy who's fast with the ladies (George Reeves) with those tell-tale scars on his face? Is it the guy who keeps looking at him funny (Lloyd Gough, not credited due to The Black List), or the guy who's just funny-looking (wall-eyed Jack Elam in an early role, looking lean and mean). He decides to hang out at Chuck-a-Luck, picking up clues, laying low, making himself handy while not necessarily doing anything...illegal, until he can determine who's the right (by saying the wrong) man. It's a little bit like Poirot in spurs with a nasty disposition. Of course, today, Haskell would be expected to lay waste to the room and let God deal with the details. Here, revenge is tempered by justice and not hormones.

Russell Johnson and Marlene Dietrich in Rancho Notorious

Before we get onto the subject of Marlene Dietrich, we should probably discuss the wealth of character actors on the verge of hitting their defining roles: William Frawley, right before "I Love Lucy," George Reeves before "The Adventures of Superman," Mel Ferrer, only his fifth film and right before Scaramouche, Russell Johnson (Happy Birthday, sir), only his second movie, Jack Elam, Dan Seymour, John Doucette, the movie is top-heavy with great veteran character actors with recognizable faces.

Then there's Dietrich.  For those of a certain age (anyone born post-Blazing Saddles), one may not recognize what a force she was and continued to be throughout her career.  She was the preternatural "other" woman, capable of seducing men and (pre-Code) women, one is always hesitant to call her the first feminist, but she might have been in movies, and she certainly was before it became "cool," (and she always was in the role). Put it this way, you'd never see Dietrich in a western riding side-saddle. Rancho Notorious is her slightly softened (although barely—when was the last time you saw a dance-hall girl riding the town sheriff like a horse?), in partnership with a man, and acting out of love or loyalty (always hard to say which with her), but it's her ranch and her operation, and that's something you rarely see in even the most hard-core of Westerns.   And it's weird, but, in Westerns, Dietrich (sorry but it's a spoiler) always seems to take a bullet, as if the genre won't accept her (or any woman) as ruling the ranch. That would change, as film-makers got more bold.**

Rancho Notorious is one of those odd Westerns of the Mainstream that took a decided bend in the river to do something else with the form. There's no pretense at naturalism (Lang wouldn't toy with that until Clash By Night), but used the familiarity of westerns to work out some interesting conflicts about gender roles (Others on that list are Nicholas Ray's Johnny Guitar, Samuel Fuller's Forty Guns, and, to a lesser extent, Hawks' Red River).

It's not your usual oater.  It's something different and it's recognizable from the first watch.

* The story goes that Howard Hughes wanted to change the title from "Chuck-a-Luck" and Lang wanted to know why. "Nobody'll understand it" was the reply, even though it was a familiar gambling game in the Southwest. "Okay, so what's your alternative?" Lang asked. "Rancho Notorious." came the reply. "Rancho Notorious?!  Nothing's called 'Rancho Notorious' in this movie! You think anybody'll understand THAT?!"

** There was a shock for me: I remember Gloria Henry as the mother of "Dennis the Menace" on TV.  Her presence was only the first of a long line of TV stalwarts who were paraded throughout Rancho Notorious—"Hey! there's...fill in the blank..."

*** Ford's frontier women usually ran the ranch, but let the men think they did.

Fantastic Voyage

Fantastic Voyage (Richard Fleischer, 1966) There has been a lot of talk recently of re-making 1966's Fantastic Voyage, a fairly interesting (if preposterous) science fiction movie of the 20th Century Fox strain, that did its damnedest to dumb down physiology and biology and make it a race against time with what were cool 60's scientific touchstones like lasers, computer typography, and Raquel Welch in a tight wet-suit (more than she apparently wore in one of the posters for the movie—oh, those mad marketing boys). 

The film is set (naturally) in the middle of the Cold War where Russian and American scientists are battling each other to develop a sustainable miniaturization process, presumably because they know small cars are in coming in the future. Seems they can only keep things shrunk for a limited amount of time and both sides want the secret! And, as there always is, there's ONE MAN in the world who HAS THE SECRET and BOTH SIDES WANT IT!* 

<Aside> Am I just perverse or whenever one of these kinds of plots comes along, and both sides fight to get Dr. MacGuffin, wouldn't it be fun if it turns out that the guy's a charlatan...or just simply wrong?** Maybe he just wanted to visit Chicago (in which case, the joke's on him)...or maybe the Russians just really wanted to get rid of him—"Here, this guy's single-handedly destroying our economy, let's give him to the Americans!!" Actually, I think some of that was in The Living Daylights</Aside>

Anyway, Dr. Benes has the secret, is defecting to the Americans and a botched Russian assassination attempt leaves him with a blood clot in his brain, and so, rather than giving him a shot of heparin (which would cost $70 in our time), our Best and Brightest Budget-Busters decide to inject a miniaturized submarine, The Proteus (designed by the Italian engineer Arturio Schlerosis), crewed by a team of experts to laser the blood clot, and book out of there before they de-miniaturize and give the guy a migraine the size of the military disbursement.

Welch, Kennedy, Pleasance, and Boyd (with William Redfield piloting above)

You read that and go "oh, that sounds so easy" but as with any operation, complications arise, even more than in your average Cialis commercial, and the crew must fight time, tides, detours (The Proteus didn't have Tom Tom), lack of oxygen, VERY LOUD NOISES, and a saboteur among them who's wrecked the laser-thingy. Who could it be? Let's see, it might be Dr. Arthur Kennedy (except he was creepy in the 50's, scholarly in the 60's) or pilot William Redfield (who would be creepy in the 70's), "Rocky" couldn't play evil even if you gave her a dueling scar and a moustache to twirl, leaving only Donald Pleasence, who if agent Steve Boyd knew anything about pop culture, was portraying every other bad guy and crackpot in movies during the 60's...when Steven Boyd wasn't.

The crew has a few hang-ups removing PINK insulation whilst in an artery.
Or is that plaque?

They all get shrunk down to one micron, and are then injected into Benes' blood stream via hypodermic, and try and make their way up to the brain and its offending clot. Arthur O'Connell and Edmond O'Brien monitor the problems of the crew in their control rooms with the obtuse monitors of blinking lights that go spitzin'/sparkin' if something goes wrong. Sailin' along the old blood-stream (which, gosh, who knew it resembles being in a lava-lamp?), the crew wax philosophic and squabble and brainstorm, and Fleischer and his actors all play this with straight faces, no matter how cheesy the sets—the ones involving full-sets look like a particularly tacky wall-paper pattern rather than a cell-wall, while the miniature traveling shots fare considerably better. And there are red blood cells and nasty white ones, and in a perverse science-fiction "Perils of Pauline" moment, Raquel Welch is attacked by...either anti-bodies or cellulite, I forget which.

Cruising a funky blood-stream in Fantastic Voyage.

It's crazy stuff, and I remember reading the Isaac Asimov novel tie-in, and admiring how he worked herculean magic to make all the stuff plausible in a practical sense—for example, he wanted to make sure that every last bit of the Proteus gets out of Benes in order to prevent his head blowing up (in the movie they leave the laser rifle, the ship, all sorts of stuff), conjecturing a time differential between the shrinkees and the shrinkers, and making the issue of getting more oxygen from the lungs a LOT more complicated than the movie ever thought to do (the Proteus crew CANNOT breathe normal air, it has to be miniaturized along with them, as explained by Asimov). It's goofy, but it was different from your typical space movie (while maintaining the tropes of sci-fi films). I still remember it somewhat fondly, while also not taking it at all seriously.

A Fantastic Voyage poster promoting
its subject of biology

*Excuse me, I went into copy-writing mode there.

** Actually, a variation of this "downer" ending was filmed—the Proteus crew did so much damage bumping into the defecting doctor's inner workings that he survives the process...but has forgotten his secret. Insert a Nelson Muntz "HAH-ha!" here.