It Came From Outer Space

It Came From Outer Space (Jack Arnold, 1953) Before there was E.T., there was an un-abbreviated "IT."

Writer and amateur astronomer John Putnam (Richard Carlson) is spending a quiet night in his desert home making lovey-dovey talk with his squeeze, teacher Ellen Fields (Barbara Rush)—frankly, she has the most earning power in this relationship—when he decides to take a look at the night sky. Well, he doesn't need a telescope to see what's coming our way. A big old flaming something-or-other comes streaking over the desert hills and crashes at the base of the desert foot-hills.

Because he is so in love with his girlfriend, he decides to charter a helicopter from buddy Pete Davis (Dave Willock) to rush over to see what crashed. Hey, nothing to worry about!

Little does he know that the thing is an alien space-craft, and one of its bug-eyed occupants (we'll call it "IT" for now) has exited the craft and started exploring the landing area, leaving a shimmering trail of...criminy, is that glitter? Do the "IT's" shop at Joann Fabrics?

You knows he's a 1950's writer because of the patches on his elbows.
You know she's a 1950's teacher because she wears pearls.

No matter. John, Ellen, and Pete land by the crash-site at the old Excelsior mine (owned by Stan Lee, maybe?) and, interested as he is, he abandons his girl-friend and scrambles into the crater. There he finds a huge glowing orb that pulses with whatever energy or heat-waves are emanating from it. He sees what would appear to be a door at the front of it, figuring that, at that point, it's not a meteorite, but some sort of craft or device and, peering into it, he sees equipment. But, he doesn't see that he's being observed. As the door moves, it creates a small avalanche, and Putnam, no dummy, beats it out of there.

"Hmmph! Compensating for something?"

Putnam tells Ellen and Pete what he saw down there and they're a little skeptical—he should probably get used to that feeling, because over the course of the movie, nobody is going to believe what he says and they're going to think he's a kook. Doubling down on that begins almost immediately with the two most skeptical people anyone could find in a town—the sheriff (Charles Drake) and the local newspaper publisher (Alan Dexter). Putnam, still agog over what he saw, thinks nothing of telling them exactly what he saw, never once thinking "These guys could either lock me up or make me look like a loon in the paper."
For a writer, he doesn't have much imagination. But, neither do police or newspapermen.

"Our town needs a soccer team..."

Of course, the sheriff is predisposed to think Putnam is a flake—he's had designs on Ellen for years (not that he'd let that get in the way of his job! *cough*) and things get a little uncomfortable between them...in front of the newspaper-guy, and so Putnam is persuaded to leave before things get worse and more people find out. But, on the way home, teacher Ellen gets a real education about maybe believing in what John saw down in the mine. But, now there's an IT blocking the road and they just avoid hitting it and trashing the car. When they get out to take a look—they get out and take a LOOK??!—the IT roadblock is gone, leaving only a trail of glitter like a "My Little Pony."

1950's prototype highway cameras...

After such a weird occurrence, Putnam and Ellen return to the Excelsior mine, where they find a circus of reporters, TV crews, police and scientists who are swarming all over the site. This might have been helped by that responsible newspaper publisher "fake-newsing" a front page headline that reads "Star Gazer Sees Martians." Way to vet, "Hearst." Putnam has microphones shoved in his face, but he and Ellen escape from the Press, but only after he is informed by one of the scientists that the craft is not radioactive. Good thing they're not in the Nevada desert in the '50's. They take a jaunt along the highway and scan the countryside with binoculars to see if they can see anything.

"I'm going to do a show called WHAT in the 60's?"

Along the way, they run into a couple of telephone linemen, Frank (Joe Sawyer) and George (Russell Johnson), who are working along the highway. Putnam stops and asks Frank if he's seen anything...ya know..."unusual." No, says Frank, but he's picking up weird signals over the wires. The two love-birds continue their searching while the two phone jockeys move down the line and have a close encounter—too close. George gets out of the close and while we get the IT's perspective through a "Jell-O" filter, he's enveloped by a noxious fog and collapses. Poor "Professor."

"John, why are all those people wearing red and blue glasses?"
"I don't know, honey, but I'm glad I brought my pistol!"

Not finding anything up the road, Putnam and Ellen start worrying about the linemen they've left behind. They back-track and find the men's truck, abandoned, with some blood on the door. Putnam grabs his pistol (naturally) and the two start searching through the scrub, following the glitter to either find the ITs or Elton John. They don't get too far before they find George. But, George is, frankly, acting weird or—given that Russell Johnson is a pretty good thesp—acting badly. Speaking in a halting monotone, he has none of the personality of George and all of the personality of Al Gore. He is vague and unhelpful when asked about where Frank might be, but Putnam sees beyond a boulder an outstretched hand. Is it Frank?  He doesn't intend to ask George or he'll probably get a lecture on carbon footprints, so they smile and act "normal" and get the Hell out of there.

Let me tell you about an Inconvenient Truth

Where do they go? The Sheriff's office. And why not? Just because he thinks you're a kook and has the hots for your girlfriend. What can go wrong? Putnam and Ellen convince Sheriff Matt to go with them because (gosh-darn it!) they have proof this time. And when they get there...the proof is gone. Even though it won't be invented for 15 years, someone has taken a Dust-Buster to the glitter. "But, we saw it, we tell you!" they argue, but the Sheriff just wants to get back to the office.

Too bad they weren't around 30 minutes earlier, when Frank woke up and saw two George's. The creature has taken on George's form, but reassures the two men that his kind would not take over their souls, their minds or their bodies. From now on in this post, we will refer to the ITs as "Xeroxians™." He tells them not to be afraid. It will only be necessary for a short time. We cut away before there are any questions about double Union wages for playing two parts.

Putnam and Ellen drive the Sheriff back to town, but they see Frank and George—or given their robotic walk and looks, their doubles. Putnam takes off after them and corners them, telling the Xeroxians that he wants to help, but asks where his friends are. He is reassured that they are alright, but to give the aliens time. "Give us time or terrible things will happen. Things you can only dream about." These guys sound like great Presidential candidates. Human beings must be like potato chips because the Xeroxians can't absorb just one. Pretty soon, they have a bunch of the township under wraps and unlike other alien probes, they're only violating their copyrights. Because he's a writer and amateur astronomer, Putnam decides to take the job of getting to the bottom of things rather than letting any professionals do it.

"Does this Jell-o filter make me look...?"

By any stretch of the imagination, It Came from Outer Space is not a great science fiction movie, although it does peg the ol' kitsch meter. So, it may come as a surprise that the story is an original treatment by Ray Bradbury, one the greatest lights in the night-sky of sci-fi. The screenplay is credited to Harry Essex, and the dialogue is sledgehammer subtle. But, the details are all Bradbury, most especially the concept that the Xeroxians are not invaders, but merely had to make an emergency landing on Earth, and are doing their best not to cause a distraction or garner attention to themselves. After all, they must think they've landed on the Planet of the Monkey-People and they're worried about being contaminated by our damn, dirty paws.

"Mischief Matters!"

Still, the psychology of the Xeroxians is a little contrived and very lucky for Earthlings. I mean, humans gets kidnapped and held hostage, sure, and their identities appropriated, but they're not exactly using their credit cards or something else heinous. However, on the Xeroxian side of the ledger, two of them get shot and immolated or dissolved, and they have no sense of regret or vengeance in any way displayed. Lucky Earthlings. Why, the Xeroxians don't even have a form a space small-pox that can cause lungs to explode to even the score.

"Who were those creatures?" "I don't know, but I wanted to thank them."

But, the Arizona Earthlings end up looking like doofi. There's not much tolerance displayed and a propensity to wave guns around, shoot first and investigate later. There's no sense of wonder but a prevailing sense of panic. And the Xeroxians? The worst you can say is they're dangerously middle-of-the-road—as in standing in it—and they have a lousy fashion sense. A black cocktail dress in the middle of the Arizona desert? Really?

Still, that concept of non-hostile aliens is something of an anomaly in the science fiction firmament (although The Day the Earth Stood Still did it two years earlier), especially for a xenophobic time as the 1950's. 

Next week, same space, same time—another sci-fi movie with an equally reductive term for "the other."

Camera-saving VFX from the 1950's: evidently (you can tell from the left) that it was shot using a mirror.

Put on your 3-D glasses, kids! 

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.

Harvey (1950)

Hallowe'en is over (but like things in most horror movies, it WILL be back), but it doesn't entirely leave, haunting as it does, so here is a review for a movie that is not quite "Hallowe'en dark," but deals with the supernatural...in spirit.

Harvey (Henry Koster, 1950) Mary Chase finished her play "Harvey" in 1944; she'd been working on it for two years, inspired by a neighbor who'd lost her son in the second world war—"could I ever make her laugh again?" was her spark of inspiration, and, having written a couple of Broadway flops, the work was slow going. She woke up one morning at 5 a.m. with the vision of a psychiatrist being followed by a large white rabbit.

That was Chase 's pilot light for the play which would become one of Broadway's longest-running hits, win the Pulitzer Prize for Drama in 1945, and become a staple of local theatrical troupes when a season of Strindberg, Ibsen, and Albee doesn't bring in the patrons. Long associated with James Stewart in the role of the "bubble-off-plumb" protagonist, Elwood P. Dowd, the play premiered and became a hit with actor Frank Fay in the part, which goes to show how infectiously pleasing the play is; Fay was a popular vaudevillian, but despised in real life for being a drunk, a fascist, and an avowed white supremacist, who (it is rumored) might have been the inspiration for the character of Norman Maine for "A Star is Born" after his 1928 marriage to Barbara Stanwyck saw her rise to stardom, while his career sank...that is, until "Harvey." (Fellow vaudevillian Milton Berle once said that "Fay's friends could be counted on the missing arm of a one-armed man"....ouch).

The film rights for the play were purchased for $750,000—a huge extravagance at the time—and not made until 1950, as the production was contractually bound not to be produced until after the play's stage-run had completed. Many actors were considered for the lead of Dowd ("Elwood P.")—Bing Crosby (maybe, but could get too folksy), Cary Grant (too aggressive), Gary Cooper (if we're thinking Capra, sure), Jack Benny (oh...the comic timing on that one), and James Cagney (a little too authoritative, maybe), but it came around to Stewart, who'd appeared in the Broadway version during Fay's sabbaticals. Josephine Hull as his sister Veta followed from the stage and manages to overshadow Stewart in her scenes, winning an Oscar doing so.

The film follows an eventful day in the life of Elwood P. Dowd, never married, frequent tippler, and affable to a fault, making friends wherever he meets, including with a 6' 3 1/2" tall rabbit named Harvey, a pooka spirit that no one but Elwood can see. Dowd's complacency with his imaginary friend is a constant burr under the bonnet of his sister Veta (Hull), whose main concerns are keeping up appearances and the encouragement of any "gentleman callers" to collect at the door of the Dowd estate that might make an attractive mate for her daughter Myrtle Mae, whom, of all the Dowd's is certainly the Dowdiest.

But, on this day, Elwood has hung a portrait of him and his friend and something in Veta snaps. She decides that she is going to have Elwood committed to the local sanitariun, but to the institution's administrator, Dr. Chumley (Cecil Kellaway), the calm mild-mannered Elwood seems completely sane, while his apoplectic sister, in explaining her situation, comes off as completely bonkers. She ends up being institutionalized, while Elwood is allowed to skip out and make his rounds. This causes enough complications in the lives of the institution's workers, particularly in the threatening of one of the examiner's, Dr. Sanderson (Charles Drake), that Elwood comes under scrutiny for his peculiarities.

It turns into an examination of who might really be the sane among us, calling into question what is "normal" and what is merely a tilted version of the world, with the experts seeming to be at a disadvantage. They come across as neurotic and with unsatisfied needs, as if poking around into other people's souls for so long has prevented them from taking much of a look into their own. 

It's a fairly straight-forward presentation of the play, with a bit of softening of Elwood as a drinker (the Hays Code did not encourage this for characters of a good nature). Stewart was well-versed in the play and gave director Henry Koster the suggestion of filming him off-center, allowing there to be physical space on the screen for the invisible rabbit to inhabit, but also to show the slightly askew demeanor of the seemingly normal Dowd—Stewart plays him so kindly that the visual imbalance only helps reinforce that his character is a bit "off." And, following, the play's dictates "Harvey" is never seen, leaving the audience to question...until the last possible moment...whether he "really" exists, or is merely a figment of Dowd's hazy imagination.

I've always been enchanted by "Harvey," even as a kid, but adulthood has made me entranced with the melancholy aspects of the story...of the fellow, devoted to his parents, who has filled the empty space in his life after their deaths with a wish-fulfillment of the same sort of closeness he had with them. I've seen it played for laughs—as in the movie—and I've seen it (on stage) played for pathos (only semi-successfully) and came to the realization (although that, too, might be imagination) that the fine tightrope that the presentation presents needs to be gingerly trod or else the whole exercise turns into a disaster. I've often contemplated that, and what a more modern version of "Harvey" might be like, even though it hearkens back to old world values and manners. Spielberg was actively trying to do a new version of it, first approaching Tom Hanks to star (who begged off, thinking it would be folly for him to try and follow Stewart's interpretation) and then, for awhile, Robert Downey Jr. was set for it—you'd think that would be a lock, but Downey insisted on script changes that Spielberg was not happy with. Spielberg chalked it up to casting issues and abandoned a remake.

Is "Harvey" a manifestation of Dowd's drinking or his melancholy ache for companionship? Either interpretation works. But, I always had in mind a different interpretation, a more modern one, that hinged on one particular actor who might be able to pull it off—Jack Nicholson. There's something about his persona that I've always thought might fit Elwood Dowd to a tee. Elwood's just a little aggressive ("I would like to invite you to dinner..." "Oh, that would be lovel-" "When?") and a bit vague and lost. Maybe Elwood smokes weed rather than drinks, or maybe he's experimented with hallucinogenics...which might explain the "Harvey" manifestation. But, also not entirely (as it should be). Elwood has no family of his own—he has his parents' family, and with his mother's death, he's more than a little adrift, with death as a seen presence of life. Maybe he's drawn to Harvey...or has drawn Harvey (depending on your point of view)...because Harvey can't die. Already being a spirit, he represents a friendly manifestation of death...that can never be lost to it. It's a win/win that can never be lost. No wonder Elwood's so cheery.

No, combine a bit of Nicholson's Southern lawyer in Easy Rider, his adrift musician in Five Easy Pieces, some of the impishness of McMurphy of One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest and you have a good starting point for a new Elwood, old and wise enough to know the rules of engagement in the modern world, but just not giving a damn. It's his little bubble-verse, damn it, and you're welcome to climb in (glad to have ya), but don't go round poking at the bubble...or it'll burst. I'd like to see that "Harvey." Heck, I'm always delighted to see this version of Harvey.

It's a win/win that can never be lost.