MAN WHO COULD READ MINDS

By Bruce Dettman

One year during the late 1950s my parents and I paid a visit to my mother’s cousin Maxine who lived in Bishop, California (my brother, seven years my senior, was allowed to stay home to feed my dog, gorge himself on Bireley’s orange soda and burgers from the local fast food stand, and play marathon games of poker with his pals—God, I was jealous!).  My mother and this particular cousin had not seen each other in years, not since they had been girls in Galena, Illinois—where, for the record, Ulysses S. Grant had once worked as a clerk in a hardware store—and they were looking forward to the reunion. Problem was, they were not girls any longer and apparently had little in common. My mother liked stylish clothes, bourbon and I Love Lucy. Maxine liked her children and ironing. It was not a good mix. As I recall we stayed three of an intended five day trip, made some lame and transparent excuse and headed home. For some reason, however, my father wasn’t up for a long drive that particular day. He wanted to play some golf and I wanted to swim and my mother, prone to heat strokes, wanted to get out of the sun so we stopped for the night at the Hacienda Hotel in Bakersfield. This was one of a small chain of large, Spanish styled hotels in California. They were rather lavish for their day and we were all suitably impressed. My father got in his eighteen holes, my mother was able to relax and not have to cook and not only did I spent a long day at the pool but at one point actor James Whitmore, the first celebrity I had ever seen (I knew him best from fighting the giant ants in the sci-fi classic Them), came out of his room long enough to do a couple of laps and then vanish. I wanted an autograph, of course, but who carries a pen and piece of paper in a pool? By the time I had jumped out and begun my search for one he was gone. I was pretty upset.

That night, as was the custom of the time when kids went out with their parents, I was forced into putting on my bow tie, sports jacket and slacks (which I knew made me look like the world’s biggest dork) and accompanied them to the hotel restaurant. While my father sampled several martins (I was allowed to eat his onions) and my mother her single grasshopper, I sucked a Roy Rogers through a red straw (I hated when these drinks were called Shirley Temples) and undoubtedly wished I had my homemade Superman suit on beneath my dress clothes. Unfortunately, over the years my mother had learned to check my suit case for this so I was out of luck.  It was just me and that damn bow tie.

There was a small floor show scheduled that evening, two acts for the patrons to enjoy while they were wolfing down their dinners, an ice skating bit and a mentalist. For the first, a large board was removed in the front of the room which exposed a rectangular sheet of ice. A pretty woman in a short skirt and man emerged from behind some drapes wearing ice skates and for fifteen minutes or so did some routines, spinning and twisting about, none of which particularly interested me save for the fact that the woman was rather pretty and wore a skimpy red bathing suit. Then it was over and time for the mentalist which I thought could be sort of cool since I had never seen one in person, only on Ed Sullivan. First, however, there was a problem. Somehow the staff forgot to put the plank back over the ice. Timing being everything in life, a woman, who had obviously had a few too many champagne cocktails, suddenly emerged from a back table, strode over to the ice, and apparently thinking it to be a small dance floor stepped, with her generous high heels, upon it. I recall seeing her upended almost if in slow motion, an image of a billowing, parachute-like skirt blocking out most of the small five man orchestra, and then the sight of her crashing, rear end first, onto the cold surface. The only thing hurt in all of this was her pride but audible gasps filled the room, gasps and, I have to admit, my laughter.

There was just too much of a Three Stooges look in this episode for me to control myself. Oh, my parents did their best to put a halt to my non- stop guffaws and when coming up from air I even noted a few pretty intimidating dirty looks from the adults at other tables, but the fact is that I simply couldn’t stop  myself. The scene of this dingy woman trying to dance on a floor of ice was just too much for me.

Eventually the victim in question was helped back to her seat, the crowd settled down and the mind reader/mentalist, whatever, approached the front of the room. I don’t recall much about him except that he was in a tuxedo and wore a turban like Sabu in the movies. I also recall that his assistant was a tall willowy redhead in who wore mesh stockings. But that’s all I recall because I still couldn’t stop laughing. Now I didn’t fear my father but I sure respected him—as I did most adults—and under normal circumstances I would have somehow put a lid on my giggles even if it had meant shoving napkins down my throat, but this time not fear, obedience or threats had the slightest effect on me. No matter how hard I tried the image of the big woman landing on her keaster would not go away—and neither would my loud, near hysterical laughter.

Then I heard the mentalist. He was looking our way with a gaze that would have intimidated Dracula and was speaking directly to my father.

“Sir,” would you mind doing something about this boy here. I am trying to do my act.”

The next thing I knew my father had grabbed my arm and taken me out in the lobby.

“That does it, Buster,” he said. “Here’s the room key. If you’re lucky we’ll bring you back some dinner.”

So I missed the mentalist and had to settle for a tepid hot dog for dinner and an episode of The Perry Como Show. I didn’t mind all that much and eventually my father dropped the disappointed/aggravated routine and had a good laugh over the whole business. Even my mother finally broke down and giggled.

Point is I never did catch up with a real mentalist or mind reading act and had to make do with impressions of these characters on TV shows, one such example being the second year Superman episode The Man Who Could Read Minds.

For a change this episode, directed by Terry Carr and written by Roy Hamilton, begins on location with the police headed by Inspector Henderson (an exasperated Robert Shayne), on stakeout in one of the city’s residential neighborhoods. A thief known as The Phantom Burglar (Richard Karlan) has been operating in the area for sometime and so far Metropolis’ finest have been unable to catch him, a fact that The Daily Planet has mentioned too many times for the Inspector’s tastes.

Later, Lois and Jimmy (Noel Neil and Jack Larson) spot the Phantom leaving the site of yet another burglary. The impetuous cub reporter tangles with him with the usual results when he tangles with someone in the series. He gets his clock cleaned.  A car chase follows and it could have been curtains for the entire Daily Planet staff, Editor White (John Hamilton) included, but Clark sees what’s going on and Superman is not far behind. There is, by the way, an absolutely terrific shot of Reeves standing before some boulders just before he takes to the sky. The Man of Steel never looked better. It is odd, however, that following his successful efforts to save his friends (“You seem to make a career out of helping us,” a grateful White comments) he is unable to spot the Phantom’s car from the air.

A discarded item leads the intrepid reporters to a local club, the Tip Top Café, where a mentalist named the Swami Amada (Lawrence Dobkin) appears nightly. The routine, which includes his assistant, the lovely Lora (Veola Vonn), revolves around the blindfolded mind reader pretending to see items certain members of the audience have selected for Lora to holdup. Hip to the routine, Kent explains that using a hidden microphone, certain phrases are used to tip off the mentalist who then pretends to identify the objects. What he doesn’t note is that Lora secretly gets the impression of the house keys that a particular couple offers up for identification. Real keys are then made from these wax impressions which gives their partner in crime, the so-called Phantom (actually a criminal named Monk) access to the soon to be robbed homes.

When Lois and Jimmy make the connection between the break-in and the victimized couple they had earlier viewed at the nightclub they decide to return to the club and offer themselves up as potential victims. Note that while other paying customers of the club drink and smoke, Lois and Jimmy just have ice water which I’m sure doesn’t please the management but perhaps there’s a heavy cover charge. In any event, Jimmy, with the help of a phony mustache and sideburns, pretends to be a rich south of the border visitor, Don Alvarez Ortega, with Lois along a his guest (for once Noel Neill gets out of her Lois Lane duds and sports a more chic strapless outfit) and a hotel key dangled as bait. After the show the reporters race to the hotel where they plan to surprise and arrest the crooks but the tables are turned and the hunters soon become the hunted. No worries though. Clark, who has heard from a copy boy of their disguises, puts two and two together and shows up (as always) in the nick of time.

This is an enjoyable episode, solid and well directed, with good performances by all and a satisfying if somewhat transparent plot. Jack Larson gets to do some comedic bits which he has said to have enjoyed and even has a few moments on the dance floor. Noel looks great and there’s a pleasing supporting cast led by the versatile Lawrence Dobkin who had a long and successful career as a radio then film and TV actor and later as a respected director.

If it lacks the sort of hard edge and suspense-laden drama that characterized the crime shows of the first season, it at least avoids the juvenile trappings and buffoonery of the villains which would later, and regrettably, become a staple of the series.

May 2009

THE STOLEN COSTUME

By Bruce Dettman

Whatever their faults—and I would be lying if I didn’t admit that they had their share—my late parents were generous with my brother and I, and not just in the weekly allowances we received (provided the lawns were mowed, the cars washed, the trash burned, the garage cleaned, etc.), or the gifts we were given at Christmas and on our birthdays, but in the time they spent with us. My father, although not a professional carpenter, knew his way around a woodshop and often spent his precious Saturdays building things for us. In particular I recall him creating a wonderful shield with the drawing of a fire-breathing dragon on it when I was going through a brief knight in shining armor period (I think this lasted about two weeks before Zorro took over). To his credit—and to my mother’s as well—they went the extra mile for their kids. This even included my dad escorting me to the monthly Cub Scout meetings at the local elementary school which I know he loathed and which forced him to give up his beloved beginning-of-the-weekend martinis and a chance to stay up late on the couch watching old movies (hopefully with his two favorite female movie stars Ava Gardner and Maureen O’Hara).

But of all the gifts I was bought or the things that were built for me in that wonderful garage, the one thing that eclipsed all others was my fourth grade Halloween costume, my Superman suit. I had wanted to ‘Trick or Treat’ as Superman for years but in my backyard recreations of the Man of Steel’s exploits I had been content, like most of my contemporaries, with a towel tied around my neck. This just wouldn’t do for Halloween, however, and yet I was not crazy about the Superman costumes they sold in stores. The manufactures of these outfits just hadn’t gotten the look right. What it looked like was a costume and I wanted something more realistic, something as close to what George Reeves wore as I could possibly get. It was obviously time for my father to put down his martini shaker and his Time Magazine and for my mother to hold off pasting stamps in her S&H Green Stamps booklets and help me out on this thing.

And they did just that.

My mother went to J.C. Penny’s and returned with some long underwear in my size. My father then dyed them the proper shade of blue. This completed, he took them out to his shop where he had made a stencil of Superman’s “S” emblem and traced this on the fabric. For the Man of Steel’s trunks we used a red swimming suit which when coupled with an old yellow belt of a neighbor’s was perfect for around my waist. My boots were long red stockings which my mother sewed leather soles on. Finally, she cut and sewed a red cape for me and once again my father stenciled on the “S.” As soon as the paint was dry I was set. Nothing in my mind had ever been so grand.

My wearing it, of course, did not end at Halloween. That was just the beginning.  From that time on the suit was never far from me. In fact, it was usually worn beneath my street clothes. On one occasion I tried to bring it to school under my jeans and shirt but somehow Mrs. Tootle, my fourth grade teacher, busted me and warned that I’d be in big trouble if I wore it to class again. No matter. School might be out, but in addition to wearing it when I was at a play I had it on beneath my sports coat and slacks when my parents and I went out to dinner, to visit their friends or to other events. I was even busted once by my brother, when I wore it to relative’s wedding, mainly because I also put on my glasses to attend and these were normally only for reading purposes. He peaked under my shirt, laughed and just shook his head in that ‘God, my squirt of a kid brother is such a little moron’ look that I had come to know so well but at least he didn’t say a word to my mom or dad.

Eventually, of course, I grew out of the suit, both physically and in terms of what I was doing in my life. There was always a place in my heart and memory for Superman but he was no longer the center of my existence as he had once been. The years rolled by and the suit was at first relegated to a corner of my close closet and eventually my mother retrieved it for dusting purposes. What I wouldn’t give to have saved it for posterity.

The suit, not mine but Superman’s, is of course the main focus of The Stolen Costume from the first season of TAOS. Based on a script from the Superman radio series with a television adaptation by Ben Peter Freeman and directed by Lee Sholem, this is the story of a petty thief nicknamed T-Ball (Norman Budd) who while pursued by the police breaks into Clark Kent’s apartment and inadvertently stumbles upon the secret closet where the reporter keeps his Superman duds when not wearing them. As it turns out, as part of an insurance policy requirement at the Daily Planet, Clark has to have a doctor’s physical and obviously cannot have on the suit at this time. Don’t ask me why a doctor wouldn’t find something unusual about the reporter’s “super” body during the examination. In any case, the wounded T-Ball takes the outfit to his two underworld pals Connie (Veda Ann Borg) and Ace (Dan Seymour) before dying. Ace thinks the costume is a phony but Connie believes it’s the real McCoy, particularly after she tries unsuccessfully to cut and burn it. The cigar chopping Ace is a bit slow on the uptake but when she explains to him that everyone figures that Superman has a secret alter ego he buys into her theory that at the moment he’s being “the other guy.” All they now have to do is find out who the “other guy” is and blackmail him.

Meanwhile Kent has returned home to discover that his irreplaceable suit is gone. Near frantic he contacts a private detective pal named Candy (Frank Jenks) but there’s a problem, a big one.  The reporter wants his pal to help find the suit but he can’t tell him what he’s supposed to be looking for. From this point on most of the dialog between them sounds like an Abbott and Costello routine:

“And they took something. I want to find out who it was and get it back.”

“Get what back?”

“I can’t tell you.”

“Why not?”

“I just can’t, Candy!”

Poor Candy. It isn’t bad enough that he’s been given an impossible job to do or that he’s nearly blown up by a bomb rigged by the charming Connie and Ace, but then the two get it into their noggins that he is actually the Man of Steel despite Connie’s hardly brilliant observation that “He [Candy] don’t look like Superman to me but I guess when he gets the costume on he looks different.”

Kent gets wind of this, realizes that Candy is in danger but can’t save the day in his working duds so he races over to his apartment in his reporter civvies, breaks down the door and knocks his friend cold before he knows what’s going on.

Unruffled, Ace and  Connie still think they’re holding the winning hand and try to blackmail Kent but he’s having nothing to do with it (“I don’t make deals. Save your breath.”)

He does, however, have to do something about them.  But what exactly?

Here now we have what is probably the most controversial moment in the history of TAOS, how Superman deals with Connie and Ace, the only people in the world (besides Ma Kent) who know his true identity. As he says, he hasn’t figured out a permanent solution just as yet (regrettably the amnesia formula from the final season’s The Big Forget hasn’t been created yet) so, since he can’t allow them to run their mouths, he must take temporary steps to silence them. His solution is to fly them to a remote, snow-covered mountain top from which there is no escape but which has a cabin for them to stay in. He warns them not to try and get away and flies off promising to return soon with more supplies.

Of course Ace and Connie want nothing to do with this place (Superman, they figure, is not going to return despite his promises) and waste no time in trying to escape. Back in Metropolis Superman had warned them to bring some warm clothing in preparation for their trip but they don’t seem to have counted on such severe conditions and certainly not the prospect of some mountain climbing on a steep and snow-covered mountain.  Connie in fact is wearing high heel shoes, not exactly Sir Edmund Hillary gear. Ace climbs down first and is successful for a moment but then it’s Connie’s turn and that’s the ballgame. No screams though. Guess even producer Bob Maxwell vetoed that.

As a kid I recall finding this scene not only startling but slightly traumatic. It certainly wasn’t what I expected and left me with an odd sort of uneasy feeling, not because someone had died on the show—murders were common during that first season—but because Superman was somewhat complicit in their deaths. Even though Ace and Connie had discovered his secret identity and were certainly crooks themselves did he have a right to strand them on a mountaintop where escape was impossible? Wouldn’t he have known they would have tried the impossible and died for their efforts? What about innocent until proven guilty?

It’s a question the Superman community has grappled with for years and which Freeman’s script stays clear of addressing. What did Superman really think about all of this? Did his ethical principles take a backseat for once as he weighed the possibilities and made a decision based on what was better in the long run for the world? Or did he truly think Ace and Connie would wait for the TV dinners, sleeping bags and subscription to the Book of The Month Club that he was going to bring them?

It’s hard to say—hard then, hard now.

April 2009

SUPERMAN WEEK

By Bruce Dettman

For a very short period in my life I actually liked parades. This is when I was quite young and my father would take me downtown on Veteran’s Day or Memorial Day to watch the bands and the soldiers from World War II (and sometimes even World War I) move by the small but exuberant hometown crowd. There were horses and bands and lots of pretty girls and usually some toothy public officials in convertibles waving stupidly at everyone. My father would swing me up on what I thought then were the broadest shoulders in the world and I would sit there until all the attractions had moved by us. Then we would go across the street to a combination café and ice cream parlor (which on the outside had a stenciled drawing of the little Langendorf Girl biting into a piece of buttery bread) and he’d treat us both to cones—he strawberry, me chocolate. Good memories.

A few years later, however, my appreciation of parades turned a corner, a decidedly unpleasant one.

During this period, when I was ten or eleven, my mother’s father came to live with us following the death of my grandmother.  My grandmother was a lovely and wonderful lady who both my brother and I loved dearly. Although she looked the way grandmothers always seemed to look back then—matronly, I suppose you would say—she was lively, very warm and always good fun. Professionally, she had accompanied silent movies on the piano as a young woman, and one of my best recollections of her was one afternoon when the two of sat down on the piano bench and she played for me all the signature themes for the westerns, serials and action films she had helped bring to life on the big screen. When she died I was heartbroken. My grandfather, however, was a different matter. When I got to know him better I realized that not only was he a rather stingy and self-centered individual, but that he had not really treated my grandmother very well during their marriage (his idea of showing her a good time on her birthday was to take her hunting). In addition, soon after his move into our house he began to act rather peculiarly. At first he would just talk to himself but this quickly escalated into a situation where he began conversing with assorted imaginary friends, invited strange people into his room, gave away his social security check to complete strangers on the street and got up every night between two and three a.m., dressed and tried to walk the 3000 mile trek back to Chicago. Each night there was a loud confrontation in our house and I doubt if any of us got a complete night’s rest for the three years he was with us. Nowadays, of course, Alzheimer’s Disease would immediately be considered as the cause for his eccentric behavior but back then people just saw their parents or others getting old and pronounced them as being “senile,” a catchall term for the mental changes that often accompanied the aging process. I think one time my mother took him to our family doctor who pronounced him physically fit for a man of age and that was that. Meanwhile the James Thurber antics and behavior—funny when written by James Thurber but not so amusing when you’re actually experiencing them—went on. Eventually I began to dislike him intensely, particularly when I couldn’t get him to stop feeding my dog pork bones, several of which almost killed him. This business culminated for me one afternoon when my mother had taken me shopping for some school clothes, a chore I was not too pleased with in the first place. As it happened that day there was some sort of minor parade going on downtown—I don’t recall what it was all about since it wasn’t a major holiday of any sort—and my mother and I stood for a second on a street corner watching the small bands and local celebrities and finally a military group marching by in their spotless uniforms. There was one member of this latter group, however, who was neither spotless or in a uniform of any kind but rather who was highly conspicuous in the bright green pajamas he had failed to remove before leaving the house and who was also wearing a straw hat.  It was my grandfather. In the past he had come to believe that any parade with military personnel involved should include him since he had been in the First World War, but up to this moment someone in the family had always managed to curb his desire to join in. This time, however, he came on the event by himself and instantly got into the middle of the thing and began marching.

My mother was horrified, embarrassed, and completely unable to cope with the situation. Standing frozen, all she could say was “Bruce, get your grandfather out of there this instant.”

I tried to protest. I wasn’t going to make a fool out of myself. As a child I was incredibly shy and hated any interaction with crowds or audiences of any sort.

“Get him out of there!”

It wasn’t a request, not even an order. It was a command I couldn’t ignore.

People were laughing and pointing at my grandmother but he didn’t seem to notice.

I edged into the middle of the road and took his wrist.

“Grandpa, this parade isn’t for you.”

Over time he had come to dislike me as much as I he and he quickly shook loose of my grip.

I tried again and that’s when the tirade began. Just about every swear word and colorful epithet imaginable was leveled in my direction. He refused to move and parade gridlock began.  I don’t even remember how long it went on before someone officially connected with the parade came over and got him to go over to my mother. I had been embarrassed before but nothing like this.

Since that episode I have never been able to see a parade, whether in person or on TV, without cringing.

It seems that Superman didn’t really want much to do with parades either, even one dedicated exclusively to him as a gesture of appreciation by the citizens of Metropolis, in Superman Week. Written by Peggy Chantler and directed by Harry Gerstad, this is a fairly benign tale with a bit of crime thrown to spice things up just a bit.

The whole thing centers around “Superman Week,” seven days built around scads of events designed to thank the Man of Steel for all the good deeds he has done not only for the local community but for the whole world. Lois (Noel Neill) mans the phones receiving RSVPs (one would think a big operation like the Daily Planet would have some clerical staff to handle this sort of thing but Perry White wants his top female reporter to do it) from heads of state wishing to acknowledge the many things Superman has done for them in the past (saving some sacred elephants, a palace during an earthquake, a burning temple, etc).

Meanwhile, a local criminal kingpin named Si Horton  (Herb Vigran), wishing to get rid of Superman once and for all, receives a visit from Jimmy Olsen who has masqueraded as a phone repairman to see what the notorious gangster might have up his sleeve. Unfortunately, Jimmy is made to drink a truth serum and subsequently reveals to Horton the fact that Superman is vulnerable to Kryptonite, the only known piece being at the bottom of the Metropolis Bay where he threw it at the conclusion of the second year’s The Defeat of Superman.

Jimmy later reveals his unintentional indiscretion to Clark who is understandably upset by this. He has a plan, however, and quickly puts it into action. He pretends to have retrieved the Kryptonite and allows Horton to get his mitts on it. Impersonating a sculptor named Vanderglas who has created a bust of Superman, Horton subsequently imbeds the piece in the work of art and lures the Man of Steel into what he thinks is a full-proof trap. Superman pretends to be effected by the phony Kryptonite then rounds up both Horton and his assistant (Paul Burke).

This mess having been cleaned up, Superman now has only one order of business to take care of, one that very much interests the always suspicious Lois since a TV show has been scheduled in which Superman is to be interviewed by none other than Clark Kent. Jimmy and Lois sit down to watch the show but are in for a disappointment as an off-screen Kent, in a pre-recorded tape, asks his questions of Superman which he humbly and graciously answers. Why no one else, a director or technician, is in the studio or why Superman brings along the sculpture and puts Clark’s hat and glasses on it—as if this would fool anyone—remains a mystery.

The show closes with Superman riding in a parade and the citizens of Metropolis showering him with confetti and adoration.

It’s a harmless and remarkably budget conscious little episode with that claustrophobic look that all the color episodes seem to have in common. All the interiors and furniture look pretty much the same, almost interchangeable, the music is highly forgettable and never adds to what little dramatic tension there is, and the criminals seeming more dingy than dangerous.

However, there are worse and less painful ways to spend an afternoon than with this show, well, like watching a parade for instance.

March 2009

THE BOY WHO HATED SUPERMAN

by Bruce Dettman

When I was in elementary school, fourth grade I think it was, a boy named Terry was enrolled in our class for about half a year. Most of the kids in my school came from middle class homes. No one was particularly rich, but things seemed pretty good for nearly everyone. Most of us were sent to school in nice clothing and no one appeared to want for the current toys or comic books. Terry was a bit different though and not just in the fact that his attire appeared somewhat older and was probably hand-me-downs. For one thing, he was originally from back east, from New York, I would later learn, and seemed to have a peculiar sort of accent, sort of like the Bowery Boys whose old films I often caught on television. For another he had a bit of an edge. He tried to come across as tough and to intimidate some of the other kids and when this didn’t work he was sullen, introspective and unapproachable. He was bigger than me and I immediately summed him up as someone I didn’t want any trouble with. In other words, I kept my distance from him. Then one day as I was reading the latest issue of Green Lantern on one of the playground benches he sat down beside me and we started to talk comics. It really was the only thing we had in common—he didn’t play sports or like westerns—but it was enough to create a kind of bond between us. One day I even had him over to my house to check out my collection. I don’t know what sort of domestic environment he came from, but I recall that he seemed a bit ill at ease at first, particularly when my mother (who often dressed like June Cleaver) came in with some refreshments. Still, once we got into my two boxes of comics he relaxed and we had a pretty good time. I think he came over a few times after this and then suddenly he moved away without a word to anyone, even the school it seemed. One day he was there and the next he was gone. No one knew exactly where or cared one way or another except me. He was different in a lot of ways but having a different sort of friend can sometimes be satisfying and I had enjoyed our comic book afternoons.

Years went by, about five of them. After grade and junior high school a lot of us who had gone all through elementary school together scattered. There were eight high schools in our district and many old friends ended up going to different campuses. Often, despite living in the same town, we never saw each other again.

One night in my freshman year a couple of my friends and I went to the movies, I think to see a double feature of The Angry Red Planet and Gigantis, The Fire Monster.  It was about ten o’clock when we got out (Note: we always went to the movies on weekend nights and even walked home by ourselves—this was before parents thought Jack the Ripper was lurking on every corner) and as we walked through the lobby we realized that a pretty large pack of kids was following us and making threatening comments. Once outside they began to surround us but somehow my two friends took to their heels and escaped while I found myself alone and unable to get away. There must have been half a dozen of them, all wearing knee-length sharkskin raincoats over dirty jeans, with socks and pointed Italian shoes, their hair greased up into a style then referred to as jelly rolls.  At that point they began to taunt me, to poke and prod me and to tell me in no uncertain terms what they were going to do to me in just a couple of minutes. It was a pretty dicey moment. I could see no way out, just angry faces and fists moving my way. Then I realized one of these faces was familiar. It was Terry’s face, a bit older but still his face. Our eyes met and I could tell that he recognized me as well. He looked just as mean and intimidating as the rest, however, and in a second I realized he wasn’t about to admit that we had once been friends. I was trying to get ready to try and defend myself as best as I could. I was pushed harder and I could feel my anger increase along with my fear. Then suddenly I heard Terry’s voice.

“Let’s split. Too many people around. This guy ain’t worth problems with the cops.”

They all stared at me, gave me a few more pokes, called me some names then turned and as a group jay-walked across the street. I thought maybe Terry would glance over his shoulder at me but he didn’t. He just disappeared into the darkness with all the others and that was that. I never saw him again although years later, after college, I was told that he had been murdered in a nearby park. Something about a drug deal gone wrong.

I thought of Terry when I recently watched The Boy Who Hated Superman from Season Two. Not only was there a slight physical resemblance between he and Tyler MacDuff, who portrays the title character Frankie in the show, but you can clearly see that without the timely involvement of Jimmy Olsen (Jack Larson) and the Man of Steel a similar violent fate could have befallen him

George Blair directs this time out from a script by David Chantler which obviously reflects society’s then mounting concern with the growing juvenile delinquency problem reflected in such films as The Blackboard Jungle.

Frankie has a chip on his shoulder about as big as Metropolis. He can’t stand anyone except for his uncle known as The Duke (the legendary Roy Barcroft), a career criminal in the state pen who has brought up his nephew to embrace all his anti-social and criminal beliefs. Frankie particularly hates Superman—he doesn’t even want to hear his name mentioned—because he believes his uncle’s imprisonment is a direct result of the Man of Steel’s interference during a botched caper. Clark and Jimmy want to help out Frankie, however, and when the surly youngster is up before a judge in juvenile court Kent agrees to let him stay at his place. As it happens, Jimmy is also temporarily bunking there since his mother is away (apparently Jimmy can’t stay by himself—perhaps the aftermath of the problems he had in The Woman in Black) so it’s the three bachelors under one roof. Actually, Frankie wants nothing to do with the deal (“I don’t need any of that junk”) but agrees to be amenable to the idea when he realizes that Kent has assembled some further damaging evidence against his uncle which he wishes to get his hands on. To this end, Frankie pretends to soften up for Clark, pretending that he might just wish to check out a career as a reporter. At the same time he attempts to indoctrinate Jimmy into the fast life which the cub reporter pretends to go along with until Lois and Clark have had it with his new insolent routine and call him on it. Eventually, in his dealings with two other criminals whose help he needs to break the Duke out of jail, Fixer (Leonard Penn) and Babe (Richard Reeves) Frankie ultimately learns the truth that his uncle set him up and has no intention of taking him to South America with him.        

The gang at the Daily Planet give Frankie (his first) birthday party, an act which greatly moves him and he, now knowing that he has been betrayed by The Duke, calls the Fixer and says to cancel his uncle’s scheduled breakout but it is too late to change things. Kent overhears this conversation while the lights are out, switches into his Superman duds and puts the kibosh on the Duke’s plans (by placing a car over the manhole the criminal was going to climb out of) then returns to the shindig with no one the wiser. Frankie is a changed boy now. He feels so great he doesn’t even hate Superman anymore; a fact which Clark explains will make Superman very glad to hear.

This was one of those so-called human interest tales that you watched as a kid hoping for a bit more action but it never really comes save a slight demonstration of super strength at the very end. I found it dull in my youth and haven’t changed my mind much when I recently watched it. George Blair’s direction simply lacks pizzazz and the story needs some spicing up. I also wish Roy Barcroft, the greatest serial villain of all time, had been given more to do.

I doubt if my old friend Terry would have thought much of it either. He liked things tough and mean and dangerous.

Up until his end at age 19.

February 2009

PERILS OF SUPERMAN

By Bruce Dettman 

I was not quite old enough to enjoy serials, cliffhangers if you prefer, on the big screen. By the time I was going to the movies in the mid to late 1950s they were already pretty much a dead issue. Not only was the studio system that had once fostered them as a part of the multi-layered package theatres traditionally booked for their patrons (two full length films, a cartoon or two, a newsreel and short feature) quickly eroding to be replaced by independent production and performers, but television, the new kid on the media block, was overnight taking up the slack in terms of juvenile entertainment and adolescent thrills. Why go the movies and spend that precious quarter when you had Zorro, Captain Midnight, Roy Rogers and yes, even Superman in your very own living room?

My first contact with cliffhanger was one afternoon when my older brother introduced me to the Buster Crabbe/Flash Gordon trilogy that one of the local stations was airing. The Crabbe/Gordon trio of cliffhangers, produced by Universal Films, was probably the most famous the genre ever produced and I thrilled to the inner stellar exploits of Flash, the planet Mongo’s stunningly evil ruler Ming the Merciless, Flash’s girlfriend Dale Arden (though I readily confess to being more interested in Ming’s evil daughter Aura), his scientific pal Dr. Zarkov and a host of supportive players such as Thun the Lion Man and Prince Baron. I was totally captivated not only by the bigger than life characters and storylines but by the whole serial framework and couldn’t wait for the next installment to be shown when I would learn how Flash had been able to save himself from a giant octopus, fire breathing dragon or a horn-headed gorilla. When the three serials were over I found myself craving more cliffhangers but where to find them? Fortunately, early television was an incredible repository of old material from earlier days of Hollywood and as luck would have it one of the local San Francisco kiddie show hosts, a guy called Fireman Frank (but who his trio of puppets – Carl the Carrot, Dynamo Dudley and Happy --sarcastically referred to as “Skinny In The Pit”), who had a four hour live TV show on Saturday afternoons, began to showcase a serial installment each week. Because of this I was able to view quite a few of some of the very best cliffhangers, most, like The Mysterious Dr. Satan, Zorro’s Fighting Legion and The Crimson Ghost produced by Republic Studios.

Not content simply to watch these wonderful cliffhangers, I also felt compelled to duplicate as best as I could the action I had been watching. To this end I created my own cliffhanger scenarios, each performed twice just like in the movies, the first time where it seemed I had been destroyed, the second showcasing how I had really survived my brush with death. The wonderful thing about being a kid is that the adult world, which at time can be just a few feet away, can so easily be erased from your world, totally dismissed from your consideration. While they might have glanced my way with curiosity, I don’t recall any of our neighbors--who were usually within sight trimming the trees or watering their lawns--ever commenting on my jumping twice over the top of our backyard shed, bailing out of my father’s parked car or pretending that our booth-like front porch area was actually a room closing in on me.  In short, I had a great time with serials, both watching them and then emulating them in my own backyard versions.

I do wonder, however, what George Reeves thought about the genre when he elected to direct Episode 103 of The Adventures of Superman titled The Perils of Superman, co-written by Robert Leslie Bellem and producer Whitney Ellsworth as the next to last installment in the series final season. After all, just before being cast as Superman, Reeves had appeared in what many – myself included – believe to be one of the worst serials ever produced, Columbia’s 1949 disaster Adventures of Sir Galahad. Reeves charm and Reeves charm alone, was the only thing that even remotely saved this bottom of the barrel mess from being a 100% failure with its cardboard swords and impossibly bad special effects courtesy of skinflint producer Sam Katzman. It certainly wasn’t the best professional experience for the actor and revisiting the cliffhanger formula probably didn’t provide him with his best career memories. Nonetheless, The Perils of Superman emerges as one of the best of the final season shows, thanks not only to the entertaining concept, but Reeves’ deft and energized handling of the spirited material.

The storyline is a pretty simple one even by Superman standards. A crook (Michael Fox) in a lead mask (looking quite a bit like the similarly hooded villains from the second seasons The Man In The Lead Mask although the design is a bit more shark-like) visits the Daily Planet and calmly explains that the Man of Steel has ruined too many of his enterprises in the past and that to get even he is going to strike back at all his friends. The mask, he adds, is locked in place so even Superman can’t discover the wearer’s identity (well, unless he pulls the whole thing off, head included - I guess this didn’t occur to anyone). To further confuse matters, he has engaged a whole group of lead-headed men to walk around the streets of Metropolis, something the police can’t seem to do anything about.

There is some momentary consideration given by the Daly Planet  staff to hiding out until this whole threat business blows over but Editor Perry White will have none of it and Jimmy and Lois agree. Clark, however, is worried -- and not just because he seems to be wearing a new hat that is too small for him -- but because he senses that these are no idle threats and that these masked guys mean business. And mean business they do. The rest of the show, the majority of it really, showcases the various devices the bullet-headed characters have devised to get rid of Perry, Clark, Lois and Jimmy, all of which hearken back to the glory days of the movie cliffhanger. Lois is stretched out a railroad track awaiting death from an on-coming train. Jimmy’s car breaks are marinated in acid, a fact he discovers as he drives down a dangerous windy road. Perry is tied to a log in a lumber mill as a huge twirling blade moves his way. And Clark is suspended over a vat of acid and eventually dropped in as his captors gleefully watch. As soon as they are gone, however, Superman emerges from the corrosive bath and heads out to save his three friends. He manages to reach Perry and Lois in time but can’t quite get to Jimmy who at the last second manages to bail out of his death trap of a car before it shoots over a steep cliff. Jimmy is hanging from a convenient branch when Superman pulls him to safety. But let’s face it, without that branch Jimmy would have been toast.

The criminals are captured (off screen) and the last scene has two of them (Fox plus Steve Mitchell) conversing behind bars about why their scheme failed. But even more troublesome to them is how Clark, who they both saw lowered into the tub of acid, has managed to survive. They can’t believe what they have seen and don’t even wish to think or talk about it. It just couldn’t have happened.

It’s really too bad that George hadn’t more opportunities to direct, both for his own series and in the future on other projects which was supposedly his intent. He displays a nice feel for the material and camera, creates good pacing and installs energy into the show which had been sorely lacking from many final season episodes.

Our loss.

January 2009

THE BIRTHDAY LETTER 

My mother’s greatest fear during the 1950s was strangely not an atomic bomb being dropped on our modest suburban home, but rather the thought of my spilling Welch’s Grape Juice on our beige wall-to-wall carpet. Even her immense terror of snakes—which caused her to bolt near hysterically from the room when I would gleefully point out shots of pythons and boa constrictors during viewings of TV’s Sheena of the Jungle or Jungle Jim—paled in comparison. I will never forget the expression of abject terror that would wash tidal wave-like over her face when she spied me moving through the kitchen with a bottle of Welch’s in my mitts. “Stay in that kitchen, Bruce! She would scream out. “You just can’t get that stuff out!!!”

To be fair she was also afraid of polio, certainly no laughing matter. This dreadful disease had been around for years but hit its high mark of destruction in the 1940s and early 1950s. As scientists struggled to come up with a cure via vaccine there were many rumors and postulations about the cause of the disease, stagnant water and colds being related in the public’s mind to the onslaught of the virus. Because of this, mothers everywhere were intent on keeping their offspring dry, not always the easiest of tasks as kids came in and out of the house, particularly in snow country. Being raised in California I was not too affected by this business, but my brother Bryan, seven years older and initially reared in the Midwest, tells tales of my mother ripping off his sweaters and jackets umpteen times a day as he went about the business of being a kid and playing outdoors. Finally, of course, doctors Salk and Sabine came up with cures, the first in the form of a series of much dreaded shots (I can still see my old family doctor nodding at his nurse—who stood ominously in back of me so I couldn’t see what she was up to—to prepare the injection, and my father holding me steady while I tried to escape from his clutches and the harpoon-like syringe coming my way) and later the most welcomed sugar cubes.

Still, despite all the publicity about polio and prevention in those days I only knew of one kid who had contracted the disease. His name was Jerry and he showed up one day when I was in second grade. The years have dulled most of my memories of Jerry except that he had dark, rather greasy hair, always wore short sleeve yellow shirts with brown suspenders, and, of course, had braces on his legs.

It is one of the oddest psychological quirks of the human species that because of ignorance, discomfort or just plain unreasonable fear, the people who deserve the most compassion and understanding from their fellow men often receive the least. This is particularly true in the world of children where a lack of experience in things, not to mention mainlining on many of the biases and prejudices of their own parents, make them acutely vulnerable to the irrational and prejudicial.  Frankly, my friends and I didn’t know what to do or think about poor Jerry with his braces and constant struggle to maneuver himself around. He couldn’t play dodge ball, do the things we did after school and besides he had a certain unpleasant attitude. Our response therefore was to ignore him, to shut him out. It is one of those things—some call them psychic canker sores—that still cause discomfort when you chance to reflect upon them later in life. Somehow they never quite go away. And probably shouldn’t.

So when I watch the first season’s The Birthday Letter and watch Isa Ashdown as Cathy Williams sitting alone at home talking to her only friend, her doll, with those braces strapped to her legs, I always reflect for a moment on Jerry and our horrific treatment of him. We aren’t exactly told that Cathy has polio, only that she is crippled, but it really doesn’t matter. I does strike me as odd now that her mother (Virginia Carroll) leaves Cathy, a crippled child, all by herself, but I guess ya gotta put food on the table somehow.

Cathy, however, is a resilient and intelligent kid who gets fed up sitting around waiting for her mother (no dad in the picture) so when she learns that a local county fair is going to be held she writes Superman in care of the Daily Planet and asks that he take her there so she can enjoy the various rides. Lois (Phyllis Coates) gets wind of this and with editor Perry White’s (John Hamilton) support tries to set up a special party for Cathy and to somehow get the word to Superman. Clark Kent, hearing this, tells Lois not to worry. Superman has never let them down, he reminds her.

Everything would have probably proceeded hunky-dory except that a criminal named Cusak (Paul Marion), involved in a counterfeit scheme, makes a phone call to one of his confederates but dials the wrong number and gets Cathy instead. He has just imparted some vital information to her regarding an upcoming meeting when he is murdered in the phone booth. Innocent Cathy just thinks it’s a wrong number and hangs up. Unknown to her, French criminals Marcel Duval (Maurice Marsac) and Marie (Nan Boardman) need to know what was relayed during the aborted phone call and when they manage to find out that it was Cathy who took the call they set out to get the information from her at any cost.

All of this sets in play the unfortunate introduction of their brainless associate Slugger played by John Doucette (why do otherwise intelligent criminals so often have moronic assistants who ultimately destroy their plans?). Doucette was a great face on early TV, one of my favorites of that period, in fact. He was versatile and effective in nearly all his roles. A great exception, however, was in this episode. I have no way of knowing whether it was part of the original script by Dennis Copper or the usually dependable director Lee Sholem, but the actor overdoes the part of a punch drunk ex fighter to such a staggering extent that it completely negates the pathos that could have been created in the concept of a brutal man gone wrong who is redeemed by a small child. Instead we have one humungous slice of ham that you could barely fit into a Jimmy Dean warehouse. Particularly painful is a scene where Slugger, pretending to be Superman (the real one is later blamed for the crime), kidnaps Cathy. It is one of the worst over-the-top performances in all of TAOS, but again I suspect it wasn’t Doucette’s idea or fault. Yet ironically, this show, for all the silliness of the Slugger character, is also one of the most controversial when near its conclusion a heartless Marcel and Marie remove the poor child’s braces so she won’t be able to go for help. This moment, coupled with the brutal murder of Cusak, was just the sort of stuff future sponsor Kellogg’s wanted nothing to do with and would soon be removed from the show.

In the end the whole crime angle is connected out to some stolen counterfeit bank plates (kept at the Lambert Electric Engineering Company, if you’re interested) which Superman retrieves from an acid bath after (again) almost giving himself away as Kent:

“This is a job for Superman…I mean I’ve got to find him!” he exclaims in a near panic as he heads for an exit.

The best part of the show for me is the conclusion when Superman—who finds her in her apartment reading a Superman comic—flies Cathy over Metropolis. He can’t cure her (as he does the blind girl Ann in the later Around the World with Superman) but he takes her on the equivalent of a rollercoaster and Farris Wheel of her very own. Whether scripted or not, there is something particularly warm and spontaneous about these few minutes that never fails to get to me. The child seems absolutely thrilled by the experience and concludes with what always appears like an unrehearsed kiss on the Man of Steel’s cheek with George Reeves nearly glowing in response. I have to admit that on a few low days in my life I have watched this episode until the end and then re-played those final two minutes several times.

Some fifty years later I now wonder if my old school mate Jerry ever watched this episode wishing Superman could have flown him through the skies.

December 2008

SHOT IN THE DARK

Personal memory is a funny thing, not always subject to what we may think of as the laws of the rational and/or predictable. For instance, why is it that some people have the ability to recall every baseball statistic on their favorite team or player yet is unable to remember their own social security number? Why can one person conjure up the most insignificant dates in their lives while others are hardly able to recall their own birthdays? I score highest on the memory scale when it comes to the movies and actors I watched growing up as a boy in front of our first TV, a coconut-colored Packard Bell with pretty awful reception. Somehow, with little or no effort, I can usually pick out actors of a certain era sometimes identifying them just from their backsides or their voices. This skill—if it can be called that—is not intentional on my part. I never made a concentrated effort to study these people. On the other hand, ask me if I remember how to divide a fraction or what the capital of Missouri is and I’m usually in big trouble. I’m also good at remembering the people I have met in my life. Show me a classroom portrait of a particular year in elementary school and I can pick out and name at least three quarters of the kids whereas many of my contemporary buddies are lucky if they remember a half dozen. I also know lots of people who can’t put faces on more than two of their elementary teachers whereas I can see them all clearly, Mrs. Moe (a wonderfully sweet old lady but feisty), Jones (southern and shrill), Gates (an impatient Hispanic harridan), Tootle (chucky, bespeckled, very patient), Elkington (my favorite, tall and skinny and very encouraging) and Markowitz (big-boned, Germanic, very creative but a harsh disciplinarian when crossed). For all of this, however, I have always remained frustrated by my inability to recall a certain relative, an aunt who died when I was quite young. She was my father’s younger sister and was killed in a horrendous car crash. She babysat me and I was apparently around her a lot up to the age three, but I don’t have a shred of memory linked to her and photographs do not help, only make this memory gap all the more frustrating. I can remember every other family member from great-grandparents and great-uncles to distant cousins but I can’t see my Aunt Shirley’s face or hear her voice. For some reason this has always troubled me. I’m not certain why.

I was thinking about this, about memory and things, when I watched the second season’s Shot in The Dark because it has been reported over and over again that child actor Billy Grey, who appeared in this particular episode, has absolutely no memory of the experience, a fact I find astounding. This might be personal bias on my part, but while I could understand a juvenile performer of the period with numerous credits under his or her belt eventually forgetting that they had a days work on such early and mostly forgotten video productions as Meet Corlis Archer, Cannonball or Steve Donovan, U.S. Marshal, the notion that being featured on The Adventures of Superman would not be indelibly stamped on the old cerebellum is hard to fathom. I don’t know how old young Master Grey was at this time—he looks to be in his early teens—nor how involved he was at such a tender age in his well-publicized pharmaceutical pursuits that he would freely own up to following his long stint on Father Knows Best, but one still imagine that working on TAOS would be something a bit memorable for him, comic book fan or not. In the show he is featured only in the early scenes, admittedly never sharing a moment with Superman, but he has lots of camera time with Clark and Jimmy. A few years before this he had a large part in the classic sci-fi film, The Day The Earth Stood Still and has been interviewed about it numerous times. It is an experience he seems to recall with enthusiasm and vividness even though he was much younger at the time. But not TAOS. As I said, memory is an odd thing.

In the show, directed by George Blair with a script by David Chantler, Gray plays Alan, a youthful amateur photographer who one night, snapping random pictures behind the Daily Planet Building, happens to take a picture of a figure in the dark. The developed shot depicts nothing short of Clark Kent turning into Superman (or perhaps vice versa). Oddly, this doesn’t seem to impress Alan or his ditzy Aunt Harriet (played by Gracie Allen clone Vera Marshe) as much as the fact that during this same period Alan has also been the victim of an attempted robbery tied to a man who wants the return of another photograph the boy once took of him. Because of this the aunt and nephew seek out Superman—who they now think to be Kent—to see if he can unravel the mystery. The fact that in the process they have seemingly managed to expose Superman’s other identity seems not to have made the slightest impact on them. In what has to be one of the series’ most unbelievable explanations, the reporter manages to convince everyone (except perhaps Jimmy Olsen who seems to remain a bit skeptical) that the photo of him turning into Superman is merely the result of a double exposure since Alan took a number of pictures in the dark that same evening.

This business dispensed with—at least for the time being—Clark and Jimmy set off to find out what’s behind the strange man’s attempt to get back Alan’s other picture which ultimately leads them to identify the individual as Burt Burnside, a confidence man known by the underworld as “The Tulip” (portrayed by our old friend John Eldridge whose mug shot is situated right next to a photo of actor Hugh Beaumont who would appear in the same seasons The Big Squeeze). In a subsequent confrontation Burt takes the photo from Kent but Jimmy manages to snatch it back and hightails for the Metropolis’ underground railway (34^th Street Station) and the Valley Express. Burt can’t catch Jimmy but he can, with the help of his confederates, attempt to blow up the speeding train. Kent gets wind of this, eventually ditches a very stubborn Lois, and after a first season takeoff cancels the explosion leaving Jimmy to stick the photo in an envelope and mail it.

Eventually the whole thing falls into place. Burt faked his own death by killing another man a few years before to collect a double indemnity insurance claim but Alan’s picture proves that he is still alive and therefore the photo must be destroyed.  Subsequently the con man and his lackeys plan to rob the postal truck carrying the photo but don’t count on the driver being impersonated by Superman. The latter allows himself to be shot numerous times (a rather violent scene that must have made the Kelloggs folks wince) then trails the three men to the hideout where the two henchmen are summarily dispatched. This leaves Burt to threaten exposing Superman’s other identity (the sharp confidence man apparently ain’t buyin’ the double negative story) but the Man of Steel, seeing the photo in the crook’s safe (hey, I thought most safes of that period were made of lead and we know Superman’s X-Ray vision can’t make a dent in lead), destroys it with his heat vision. But that’s still not quite the end of things. Henderson arrives just as Burt pulls out a hidden pistol strapped to his leg and fires point blank at Clark. One absurd explanation per episode is bad enough, but here we have two as Kent explains that the bullet was deflected by a silver dollar. Even as a kid I recall cringing at this one even if the policeman and cub reporter seem to have no problem accepting it.

Although he doesn’t have a great to do in this episode I must mention that John Hamilton as crabby, thundering Perry White is wonderful as always. In the opening sequence Kent and he accidentally collide in a Daily Planet hallway with the following exchange:

Kent: “I had my hands full”

White: “And your head empty.”

It is odd, however, that White wouldn’t notice something unique (not to mention formidable) when running into Kent’s steel frame. But then Perry’s no lightweight himself.

In any case, aside from Alan not getting his photo back everything is tied up nice and neat except for the fact that Burt “The Tulip”  really does know Superman’s other identity and  he might still do some talking when and if he ever gets out . But perhaps by that time Burt won’t have much of a memory left.

For Superman’s sake, let’s hope so.

November 2008

SUPERMAN’S WIFE

My first long distance love affair was with film star Kim Novak. The movie was director Josh Logan’s Picnic which co-starred William Holden. From the backseat of my family’s 1955 red and white Buick Special I watched fascinated as Novak and Holden glided around the dance floor to the lush strains of the romantically evocative tune Moonglow. I was just six years old at the time, but something staggeringly potent clicked in my adolescent head that night, something that my parents in the front seat drinking coffee and munching drive-in popcorn and Eskimo Pies would not have imagined possible. That click was telling me that there was a profound difference between men and women beyond the one wearing dresses and the other long pants. I didn’t know yet exactly what this difference was except that it was obviously pretty potent stuff and not something that would go away or that I could readily dismiss. It was here to stay.

Not too long after this I dumped Kim for Elizabeth Taylor when I was once again taken to that same outdoor theatre this time to see Cat on a Hot Tin Roof. In an early scene that immediately grabbed my adolescent attention, Liz is pelted with ice cream projectiles launched at her by a bunch of southern brats. She hurries to her room and removes her soiled nylons and dress and stands in all her glory in a white slip. Again, my parents, lapping up their java and mustard-marinated dogs, paid absolutely no attention to my intense fascination with what was happening on that big screen. After all, I was just a dumb little kid.  Well, maybe.

In any case, this was the start of my on-going love affair with a whole bevy of film actresses, affairs that for a long time preceded my real-life dealings with the fair sex. There were many of these as the years went by, certainly too many to chronicle here, but they were varied and often very different types, tough and soft, fragile and robust, good and bad girls. I loved watching the old movies from the 30s and 40s that were shown on TV in late Sunday afternoons when my father was off golfing or working in the garage and my mother was otherwise occupied cooking or gabbing on the phone or pasting Blue Chip Stamps in booklets with a mind to acquiring enough for a trip to Hawaii (although the biggest thing I ever recall her buying was an imitation cow stool that doubled as a telephone stand). I would pull the drapes, load up on Hawaiian Punch and a stack of Oreos—the latter which I would share evenly with my Dalmatian—and watch the likes of my favorites…Gene Tierney, Ella Raines, Linda Darnell or Jane Greer giving much needed support to heroes Robert Mitchum, Dick Powell, George Raft and John Payne.  I just couldn’t get enough of this stuff.

Nighttime TV had its allure in this area as well. Once again I would sit with my folks viewing certain shows and never let on that the real attraction was not the shows themselves, the comedy or the dramatic content but the featured actresses.  I particularly liked Barbara Britton from Mr. and Mrs. North (something about her voice), Irish Mac Calla from Sheena of the Jungle (this one’s pretty obvious) and my all time favorite, the spunky, effervescent Anne Jeffreys as the “ghostess with the mostess” on Topper.

Also high on the list, however, was an actress whose name I did not know at first. She only showed up on a semi-regular basis on the comedy hit The Bob Cummings Show portraying Shirley, one of photographer Bob’s regular models who he pursued every week but never caught.

This, of course, was the era of the 50s blonde bombshell personified by Marilyn Monroe (not exactly a new phenomenon for Hollywood if you can manage to recall Jean Harlow, Betty Grable or Alice Faye, but Marilyn and a host of tinted clones certainly put the concept back on the map). Besides Ms. Monroe, there was Mamie Van Doran, Diana Dors, Sherrie North and Jane Mansfield, to name just a few. Oddly, even though it might have sounded strange at the time when the whole world seemed enamored if not obsessed with Marilyn and company, I was not all that impressed. Although there were a few exceptions, I normally was not attracted to blondes, always preferring the darker, sultrier, semi-exotic look in the ladies. Ava Gardner and Yvonne De Carlo also come to mind.

I did, however, make an exception and it was with this stunning person who contributed so much to Bob Cummings’ on-going frustration. The actress’s name, I would eventually learn, was Joi Lansing.

In addition to her obvious standout good looks (a sensational figure and ravishing smile) there was just something highly appealing about this woman, something that went beyond tape measurements, gobs of makeup and her over the top sexuality. In short, Joi was fun, effervescent, radiant and sparking and things really lit up when she walked into a scene. I never missed an episode and when she was not featured I was pretty letdown. I suspect I was not the only one in the great TV audience that felt this way.

Imagine my surprise then, one nearly approaching disbelief, when I sat watching Superman re-runs one afternoon and not only came across an episode I had never seen before but one which featured Joi!!!!! One thing I did know for certain was that whether the show was good or bad really didn’t matter. Joi and Superman were going to be in the together.

Could life get any better than this?

Superman’s Wife, episode 100 of the series, filmed in 1957 and directed by Lew Landers from a script by Robert Leslie Bellem and producer Whitney Ellsworth, starts out with a bang. No slow buildup here. In a police interrogation room Inspector Henderson and Superman are giving the verbal assault to Duke Barlow (Wayne Heffey) a suspect in a series of bank robberies but getting nowhere fast. They suspect that Barlow is merely one small clog in the wheel of a crime syndicate king pin with the moniker of Mr. X.

Enter Sgt. Helen J. O’Hara portrayed by Joi.  No sooner as she shaken hands with the Man of Steel than he suddenly proposes to her. No ring, no flowers. He doesn’t even go down on his knees to pop the question but she accepts anyway. I guess you couldn’t blame her.

As a kid I don’t know if I thought the nuptials—never actually depicted on the screen—were the real McCoy but I probably bought the concept. I mean, who wouldn’t want to marry Joi? One person, however, who is not very happy about this set-up is Lois (Noel Neill) who doesn’t do a very good job of masking her true feelings, something Editor White (John Hamilton) recognizes and tries to console her about but Lois is having none of it. She is one miserable girl reporter and doesn’t care if it shows.

Of course, the whole thing turns out to be a scam, a plan set up by Superman, Henderson and O’Hara to trap Mr. X into coming out in the open. Mr. X, by the way, emerges as none other than actor John Eldridge who it may be recalled portrayed another criminal mastermind Walter Canby in the first season’s Crime Wave. Actually, since Mr. X’s real name is never revealed, I tend to think that Mr. X is Canby, just released from prison. There is no evidence of this, of course, but I like to think it all the same.

To further ensure that his scheme will work, Mr. X also hatches a second backup scheme to lure Superman into a bathysphere (at Pier 96) containing Lois, Jimmy and Perry White which is subsequently lowered to the bottom of the harbor while across town Sgt.O’Hara (now known to all as “Mrs. Superman”—which begs the question, is Superman a legal immigrant, a registered U.S. citizen with the name Superman on the official documents? —just curious) is tied to a soon to be detonated bridge. Naturally, Superman would have no problem escaping from the bathysphere, but in the process of crashing out of it Lois, Jimmy and Perry would succumb to the ocean pressure. It’s a bad situation all right until the Man of Steel realizes he can pull the bathysphere to the surface using the cable attached to the top of the roof (couldn’t he just fly three feet upwards and push the thing?). In any case, despite a bit of water getting in, Jack Larson, who is reported to have hated scenes where he was forced to endure getting wet, must have hated this moment although it’s poor Perry, hat or not, who gets the most soaked.

So after saving his three friends Superman arrives just in time to rescue Sgt. O’Hara, to watch as the bad guys, in typical later episode style, knock themselves out (fifty years later and I still hate these scenes!) and Mr. X is corralled.

The whole plan and bogus marriage is revealed and Lois couldn’t be happier. Both ladies let it be known that they each wouldn’t mind tying the knot for real with the Man of Steel and thy make a stab at getting along.

Personally, I don’t—and didn’t then—think that Superman was the marrying kind but if that was the case and he was going to pick a partner, my money would have been on Joi.  

In any case, there was still The Bob Cummings Show to watch her on.

Yep, life sure was good back then.

And by the way, for the record, I ultimately married a brunette.

October 2008 

THE DOG WHO KNEW SUPERMAN

February 2008

JET ACE

By Bruce Dettman

I sometimes think that my brother wriggled out of the womb already loving airplanes. As a boy, his bedroom walls were always covered with framed photographs of every sort of airborne craft although he favored fighter planes. We had several family friends who worked for companies like Lockheed and Boeing in addition to knowing a few pilots who had survived World War II, and someone was always bringing him new pictures of planes to add to his collection. In addition, he constructed models of various bombers, pursuit planes and fighters, many of which he hung from the ceiling. My favorites were the ones he had cleverly designed with shards of cotton he had painted bright red which belched from the front of the fighters to simulate gun fire and flames. On vacations and weekends my father would take him to air shows, airports and air museums and once, at the opening of the news Oakland International Airport, he was thrilled to meet and talk to Frank Tallman and Paul Mantz, two of the 20^th century’s most famous aviators (both of whom later worked as stunt pilots in the movies and died in aviation mishaps). How jealous he was some thirty years later when I chanced to pull up a bar stool in a nearly deserted San Francisco tavern and Chuck Yeager, the first man to break the sound barrier and one of my brother’s great heroes, walked in and sat two bar stools down from me. I don’t think my brother’s recovered from this yet.

Chris White in the second season Jet Ace is a stunt pilot too. He is also Perry White’s nephew (the son of his sister from Kate from Drums of Death perhaps) although it would be an understatement to say there isn’t much of a family resemblance. White the younger is played by veteran B actor Lane Bradford, a ubiquitous presence in dozens and dozens films and TV shows, usually in westerns and for the most part cast as a villain (a rare exception to this was his appearance in the Republic serial Zombies of the Stratosphere where he played one of the invading space aliens). Bradford’s craggy, almost granite like features and receding hairline made him a perfect bad guy and it’s a bit jarring to see him in the role of Perry’s aviator nephew. Bradford, by the way, was also the son of John Merton, another familiar face in scads of B features and was also seen briefly in TAOS’s The Man in the Lead Mask episode as the flame thrower wielding plastic surgeon.

The story here is that Bradford is testing out a new airplane and has invited, as guests not reporters, Uncle Perry, Jimmy, Lois and Clark to watch the trial (when Lois spots Clark staring upwards she snaps “You don’t think you can see him through the ceiling, do you Clark?”). Not invited, but who shows up anyway, is Steve Martin (no, not that Steve Martin and not Raymond Burr’s reporter character from Godzilla either) an unctuous, unethical (and, as we soon discover even more nefarious) newsman from the Daily Planet’s rival organ The Blade (played with oily glibness by the always enjoyable Larry Blake). Blake accuses the military of giving preferential treatment to the Planet staff, but there are more problems than this to deal with when Chris’s plane begins to give him serious problems and he eventually passes out as he plunges to the earth. Something has to be done and fast but Clark can’t handle the pressure (“I can’t stand it. I have to get out of here”) and bolts near hysterically from the room only to transform into Superman who flies to Chris’ aid and rights the ship. Chris is understandably shaken and is convinced to go up to Perry’s cabin for a few days to recover where he can relax and work on his report of flying the new plane (Perry throws in the added incentive of the gift of a shotgun for hunting purposes although the weapon Chris is later seen with looks nothing like a shotgun to yours truly, more like a Mauser though I am no gun authority). Unbeknownst to everyone, our sleazy friend Mr. Martin is interested in more than just a story for his paper. He’s a foreign agent out to get information on the new test plane and has a couple of goons (Richard Reeves and Ric Roman) doing his dirty work for him. Said goons follow Chris to his cabin, try to strong-arm him into giving them the plans to the ship (which he has cleverly hidden in the barrel of the gun) and kidnap him but are later caught by Superman who they spill a lot of bean to. When Martin realizes his scheme is being exposed he returns Chris to the cabin, ties him up and sets the place on fire. Superman gets wind of the plan via a mailman who reports that he has just seen Chris and flies to the rescue. When he explains to the young flier that he can hitch a ride back to Metropolis with Clark Kent who should be arriving at any moment Chris is grateful:

“He’s a pretty swell guy in spite of what Lois thinks of him.”

“Well, he’ll be glad to hear this.”

And I bet this is so. Superman must get a bit tired of hearing his alter ego constantly lambasted.  Hell, everyone likes to be liked.

So Superman rigs it so that Martin believes the flyer to be dead, lures the duplicitous news man into a trap and confronts him. His time around Superman saves his brawn and allows Chris to wipe the floor with the shady character while he watches with enjoyment.

There’s a few gaping holes in David Chantler’s script, particularly regarding the time element of the mailman getting back to Metropolis in time to alert Superman to having seen Chris (and the odd business of the gun being left outside in plane sight and no one picking it up) but these are minor quibbles.

JET ACE, directed by Tommy Carr, isn’t a superior episode, but it’s solid and enjoyable with a likable performance by Bradford even though I bet anything Chris White was adopted.

November 2007

THE WHISTLING BIRD

I suspect the first time I realized that intelligence could be at great odds with parental affection was the year my mother and father gave me both bongo drums and a chemistry set for Christmas. The bongos—tied into America’s short-lived flirtation with Calypso culture in the 1950s—didn’t last long because they required practicing which I had no patience for (about a year later a similar scenario would be repeated when I attempted to master the saxophone until my father—whose late afternoon martini sessions had been negatively impacted by my infernal screeching—coerced me into giving up the instrument by raising my allowance a quarter a week, an attractive bribe I quickly accepted).

The chemistry set, however, was quite a different matter and while I really had no interest in actually mastering the properties of the chemical world, I certainly was attracted to creating stuff that might produce visual results (i.e. an explosion). To this end—and tiring of the boring experiments outlined in the little booklet that accompanied the set—I began a concentrated effort to combine all the ingredients at my disposal in an attempt to achieve the intended dramatic effect. With no great reaction from the set’s limited resources, my next step was obviously to up the ante. In order to accomplish this I waited until a Saturday when my parents were away from the house and then telephoned a few of my closest pals come to over and help me with my plan. Placing a bucket in a fenced in area behind the backyard, we began to fill it with every liquid at our immediate disposal, not just from the chemistry set, but from the garage and house, a mix that included everything from my mother’s perfume and bath oils, to ant killer, root beer (Hires), my brother’s Vaseline hair tonic, Ajax cleanser, vanilla extract, detergent, turpentine, acetone, anything and everything we could find that would pour into the mixture. I guess we tried this on two or three occasions before getting a satisfying reaction. Suddenly on that immortal day the concoction began to bubble and hiss and a kind of milky and frothy material rose up and started to pop and spit. The explosion that followed wasn’t earth-shattering, but it was sufficiently loud enough so that inquisitive neighbors were soon spilling out of their houses to see what all the ruckus was about.  It was at this point that we determined it would probably be wise to go back to playing baseball, eating PEZ for lunch and watching Sky King instead of searching for a new version of the A-bomb.

Uncle Oscar, making his second appearance on TAOS (played by the wonderful Sterling Holloway), dreams up his explosive purely by accident when he is trying to do the world a favor by coming up with a new (6) flavored postage stamp. Invited to the grand unveiling of the stamp by Oscar’s niece Nancy (Allene Roberts)—who, by the way, Jimmy seems mighty chummy with—Clark (embarrassed at having been caught napping in his office—yes, Superman naps!) and the cub reporter are on hand for the big trial testing but when Kent fixes the stamp to an envelope with his fist, kabooom!! The implications are obvious, that Uncle Oscar has unwittingly invented one of the world’s most powerful explosives, a fact Kent wants to let the authorities know about. Unfortunately, a group of bungling spies (Toni Carroll, Joseph Vitale, and Otto Waldis) who have been watching the goings-on from an upstairs window also want to get their mitts on the potential weapon. Uncle Oscar, however, has wisely left a portion of the formula out of the instructions and confided this essential element exclusively to his chatty parakeet Schyler, which means the trio must somehow get the creature to spill the goods. They attempt this by switching Schyler with winged look-alike but this doesn’t work and before you know it the spies threaten the lives of Oscar, Jimmy and Nancy. Eventually trapped in a secret, lead-lined (and therefore X-ray vision proof) room which is filling with water, things look pretty grim for all concerned until Superman shows up, hears the water and pulls everyone to safety.

For me Holloway makes the episode come alive with his quirky delivery of lines and amusing physical take on things. I’m also fond of the wrap-up scene where Superman, having once digested the liquid explosive to save his friends, decides the crooks aren’t worth another sampling of the unpleasant solution and tells them to run for their lives instead. Reeves is great in this scene showing a very human side to the Man of Steel.                              

While not a superior episode, Holloway’s presence and some excellent chemistry between the cast makes it enjoyable and satisfying light romp.

Kaboomb!

September 2007

DIVIDE AND CONQUER

Movies and television have seldom been charitable to the scientific community. The history of both mediums are rife with depictions of men of science as either diabolically mad figures (Dr. Frankenstein, Dr. Moreau, Dr. Pretorius, etc.) or brilliant but addle-brained eccentrics and technical misfits out of touch with their fellow men.

Personally, I was lousy at science in school, but enjoyed putting on my father’s lab coat, making my best friend up as the Frankenstein Monster (he was older and taller), having him lie up on the tool bench and turning on every machine in the garage—which in addition to dangerous power tools included some pretty nifty electrical gizmos with great control knobs and switches—to imitate the original creation sequence from the 1931 film Frankenstein. Imagine our combined surprise when one afternoon my father came home early from work, decided to do a bit of woodworking and discovered what we were up to. After the yelling and threats were over I was summarily banned from the garage for life save for the weekly chore of sweeping up the sawdust. And that was the end of my scientific career other than a short and disastrous flirtation with a chemistry set which I will touch on in a future column.

All his great powers aside, Superman needs the voice of science when he is confronted with a tough problem.  When an unnamed Latin American country is interested in publishing a foreign edition of the Daily Planet, White, Kent and Lois visit and in the process walk into the attempted assassination of the democratically motivated president (Donald Lawton) whose enemies, including his own vice president (Robert Tafur), wish to get rid of him. Superman intervenes, however, and saves the ruler, but at the instigation of the unmasked plotters is placed in jail pending an investigation of the attempted crime. Superman, of course, can see through this scheme of wanting him out of the way, but being an example to all of a law abiding citizen refuses to simply break out of his confines. There must be another answer.

Enter Dr. Lucerne.

Veteran character actor Everett Glass appeared on TAOS twice as the helpful Dr. Lucerne who instantly solves—at least in theory—two of the Man of Steel’s biggest physical challenges of his career, how to alter his molecular density (his atoms are packed tighter, the Professor explains) to allow him to move through an otherwise impenetrable wall (The Mysterious Cube) and in this episode how to split himself into two separate entities so he can be in two places at once. Glass had a long career as a character actor, often portraying men of intellect. He had small but memorable parts in both sci-fi classics The Thing From Another World and Invasion of the Body Snatchers and was great at projecting wisdom and brains without a trace of conceit or arrogance. Luckily Superman has him as a confident too and quicker than it takes most of us to decide to tie our shoes Lucerne comes up with the answers Superman is looking for. However, just as in Cube there are dangers connected with this plan of separation even if the theory becomes a reality. First, in dividing himself his powers could be split and therefore radically diminished. Second, he risks the possibility of not being able to reassemble himself. It’s a no-brainer for Superman, however, and (with the help of a double whose head shape doesn’t much resemble Reeves’) he instantly becomes twins.  Just as predicted, his powers are reduced, but even so he succeeds both in keeping the President safe and rounding up the plotters.  Just for the record, the doppelganger, double or twin has always intrigued man. Some of the greatest writers, from Dostoyevsky to Robert Louis Stevenson and Vladimir Nabokov have been fascinated by the concept and used it in their writings. Movies too have taken full advantage of the notion as has television, particularly in dramatic and adventure shows of the 50s and 60s, when in such programs as Bonanza, 77 Sunset Strip and The Rifleman the double concept was often exploited in storylines. And, of course, TAOS would also play with the idea in the second season’s Face and the Voice.

Directed by Phil Ford with a script by producer Whitney Ellsworth and Robert Leslie Bellem, Divide and Conquer has always been one of more popular of the later color episodes and with both the appearance of Professor Lucerne and Superman’s similar experiments with his own molecular makeup seems a perfect companion piece to The Mysterious Cube.

Science was always a great help to Superman but I continued to give it a wide berth. Even today, all these many years later, I get uncomfortable when I smell sawdust and remember my friend and I and our makeshift laboratory and that unforgettable look on my father’s face.

August 2007

THE LADY IN BLACK

The first football game I ever attended was at San Francisco’s now defunct Keyser Stadium, circa 1957. It was a contest between the city’s 49ers and the Chicago Bears. This was particularly appropriate because the guy who was treating my dad and I to this athletic confrontation was John Stevens, a friend and owner of the local liquor store in our town who, as a young man, had played a season for the windy city’s gridiron franchise.  Right before the game started John turned to me and said through a wide grin “Bruce, I’m now going to teach you two things today; how football is played and how to duck beer bottles.” He turned out to be a good teacher at both. A few years down the road, however, there was a strange breach in our relationship. John insisted that I had come into his store one night, gone to front counter where the magazines were displayed and swiped a particular adult publication. He called my father rather than the police and my dad gave me hell, told me to return the periodical and apologize to John. Problem was I hadn’t taken it. I went up to the store and swore to him that he had been mistaken and while he wasn’t really all that upset about the episode—teenage boys had a long history of pilfering such material—he never believed my tale that I hadn’t taken it despite my sticking to my story even into adulthood when I would occasionally run into him. Even then after such a long time the episode continued to bother me. No wonder not being believed has supplied the impetus for many a crime story (from Hitchcock to Richard Kimble), the innocent man alienated from his friends and society for adhering to a story that no one accepts as true.

Just ask James Bartholomew Olsen (Jack Larson) in the second season’s The Lady In Black as he stays in the apartment of one of his mother’s friends, a certain Mrs. Jones (who resides at 360 Apple Tree Lane), and where he keeps hearing peculiar noises through the wall. Despite his insistence that something is amiss, no one will believe his story, not even his pal and co-worker Clark Kent who is very busy (though oddly not so busy that he’s typing at super speed) and chalks it up to a bad case of “indigestion of the brain”. More to humor him than anything else, Kent finally sheds his reporter’s duds and visits Jim in his red, blue and yellow garb and finds the cub reporter out on his feet, the result, or so one of the neighbors who has supposedly stumbled upon him claims, of a nasty collision with an unseen beam. The cat petting neighbor, Mr. Franks, is played by veteran character actor Frank Ferguson, probably best known for his portrayal of Mr. McDougal, the irate owner of a house of horrors, in the classic monster comedy Abbott and Costello Meet Frankenstein. His wife in this particular episode is Virginia Christine, an equally familiar face in many films and TV shows of the 40s and  50s, later a TV coffee huckster  for Folgers (Mrs. Olson) but also known to many genre fans as the Princess Ananka in The Mummy’s Curse, an association she was reportedly none too pleased about. Also in the cast as the mysterious, scar faced and impatient hardnosed character is John Doucette, miles (and one season) removed from his earlier slapstick performance in the first year episode The Birthday Letter. I always find it interesting in this episode that Ferguson and Christine as the Franks are so unimpressed or surprised to come home and find the Man of Steel in their living room. The Mrs. actually seems indifferent if not bored by his appearance. One would think that running into Superman in any case would hardly be a common occurrence in a town as big as Metropolis and moreover, if you were a crook, as these two turn out to be, that his showing up in the middle of your little stolen art game—which is what all of this turns out be about—might just be a bit unnerving. But when he finally assures Jim everything will be all right and flies off they hardly give him more of a departing glance than they would the Avon Lady. Talk about your cool customers.

This show, written by Jackson Gillis and directed by Tommy Carr, is a bit on the claustrophobic side with most of the action confined to either the apartment where Jim is staying or some very obvious studio-bound sets such as the bus stop or the basement where the hot art items are smuggled in. It’s terribly predictable even for a half hour TV show.  I would have to say that George seems rather disinterested this time around, a foreshadowing of some of his limp performances in later seasons. I usually like those rare shows where a few of the cast members have some time off and we are given time with just two of the characters but there isn’t much between Reeves and Larson here. The whole thing just seems overly formulized, sluggish, too transparent and lacking sufficient energy even if it sports a solid supporting cast. It’s not one of the second season’s finest hours, but it has moments as do almost all the shows. Sometimes, in this crazy and unpredictable universe, just knowing that our TAOS friends are always there for our enjoyment is pleasure and satisfaction enough.

Now if I could only get Professor Twiddle from Through the Time Barrier to take me back to 1959 so I could show John Stevens that I didn’t steal that magazine.

June 2007

JUNGLE DEVIL

The first dream I ever experienced—or at least the first dream I recall with any degree of clarity—was also one of the most vivid of my life and I have never forgotten it. I was about two years old at the time and shared a bedroom with my older brother. In the dream I suddenly awoke to the sight of a very large gorilla climbing in through our open window. Strangely, I was not particularly frightened by this intruder, really more fascinated than anything else, and calmly watched the animal as it glanced casually in my direction. It seems this gorilla had no agenda other than a need for some immediate shuteye and therefore settled down on the floor, curled up in a fetal position and began blissfully snoring away. Intrigued, I crawled out of my bed, walked over to the beast, stroked its fur several times and that was that. The next morning, and I guess for a long time after that, I enthusiastically regaled my family with tales of this dream until it became a kind of Dettman Legend. Everyone was quite amused by it except me. I took the whole thing deadly serious and would never back away from the fact that it had actually happened. In retrospect, what is odd for me to understand after more than fifty-five years is just how I even knew what a gorilla was. We had no TV in those days. I had never gone to a zoo. My parents didn’t take me to the movies until I got a bit older. What had triggered this image of a giant simian?

In any case, this nocturnal run-in with my gorilla pal ignited an active curiosity about these creatures and I later came to regularly be on the lookout for them in TV shows like Ramar of the Jungle and Sheena (not that Sheena herself, in the person of statuesque beauty Irish McCalla, wasn’t attraction enough) as well as feature movies featuring such series characters as Tarzan, Jungle Jim and Bomba. Later I would learn that certain actor/stuntmen in Hollywood actually made careers out of both impersonating gorillas on the big and little screen or sometimes just renting their costumes out to the various studios. The most famous of these players were Charles Gamora, Ray “Crash” Corrigan and later Steve Calvert (who purchased Corrigan’s suit). To be honest, none of their costumes were true anatomical duplicates of a real primate and were rarely terribly scary but they were fun to watch anyway as the actors pounded on their chests and grunted away.

Certainly close to the bottom of the barrel in gorilla impersonations was the titled Jungle Devil which was featured in this second season show. Portrayed by bartender/actor Calvert, this had to be one of the mangiest, out of shape and thread-barren adversaries that ever stepped before a camera, but it frightened me nonetheless. To add insult to injury, the Superman producers, for some reason, wanted the gorilla to be a silver color and the resulting paint job began to immediately rot the head so it had to be eventually replaced. Still, I’m pretty certain it took George Reeves as Superman a lot of control to take the scene where he confronts the beast seriously. For the record, Calvert in this get-up would also square away against Phyllis Coates in the Republic serial Panther Girl of the Congo.

Jungle Devil has Clark (who for once ditches his signature suit and tie for a safari styled hat and coat straight out of Banana Republic), Lois and Jimmy (the latter having stowed away on the plane carrying the reporters to  some country called Zinaya—wonder if he had time to get all his shots) trying to locate missing scientist Dr. Harper (Damien O'Flynn) and his wife Gloria (actress Doris Singleton, probably best known for playing Lucille Ball’s  scatterbrained and myopic pal Carolyn Applegate on I Love Lucy) who are being held captive by the local tribe of local natives who have understandably taken umbrage at Gloria accidentally losing the diamond eyepiece (in a pool of quicksand) from the wooden statue of their tribal god. In retaliation they refuse to let the scientific exploration proceed on its way until the stone is returned to its proper place.  I should also mention at this point that if the so-called Jungle Devil of the title is far from intimidating, the natives themselves, mostly middle-aged guys who don’t look to have seen a treadmill in their entire lives, appear about as threatening as the cast of Seseme Street. Still they manage to kowtow the Harpers who seemed doomed to not only spend the rest of their lives in a studio manufactured jungle set but to have to endure the repeated dance exhibitions by these natives who haven’t exactly been choreographed by Busby Berkeley.

Enter Clark, Lois and Jimmy who are also summarily surrounded and taken prisoner by the pot-bellied, spear waving locals. When the cub reporter sees their plight his bravery and patriotic ardor shoot to the surface.

“Let’s show them we can die like Americans!”

Clark has a better idea.

“Let’s live like Americans.”

Easy for him to say.

Everything is eventually righted  when Clark replaces the idol’s diamond peeper with a new version he has made by applying so much pressure from a super squeeze to a lump of coal that its is transformed into a gem (which amazingly fits just perfectly into the wooden eye socket). This only happens, however, after he has been taken away by the natives for a sacrifice to the Jungle Devil and tied to a stake. This is a perfect opportunity to materialize into the Man of Steel (a convenient burst of smoke helps camouflage the transformation) and after taking a harmless rock to the head shoos away the easily discouraged animal.

If you remove Superman and the Daily Planet crew from this show, scripted by Peter Dixon, it could pretty easily be recycled and used for a Ramar or Jungle Jim episode. It’s one jungle cliché after another and so obviously studio bound—not even relying for atmosphere on any integrated newsreel footage of jungle critters—that you half expect the actors to trip over a camera chord at any moment.

Still, I loved it as a kid and no matter how many times I saw it I waited with baited breath and great anticipation for that moment when Superman faced the Jungle Devil.

He never invaded my dreams though. Those were reserved for Irish McCalla

May 2007

MY FRIEND, SUPERMAN

By Bruce Dettman

At one time or another everyone seems to have had a special friend, someone a bit different who, for one reason or another, they create a unique bond with.  My special friend was named Buster. Buster, my senior by some fifteen years, lived just down the block from us with his elderly mother and stood nearly seven feet tall (in an era when even professional basketball players rarely eclipsed the 6 foot 6 mark). In addition to Buster’s extraordinary height he had the mental capacity of about a twelve year-old except in the area of mechanical things where he was quite exceptional. Buster designed and built a special bike to accommodate his size as well as putting together a fantastic HBO train layout. He regularly showed two short 16 millimeter films in his garbage (one featuring Abbott and Costello and another one about an albino ape) and charged a penny for the local kids to come over and watch them. He also had a pool table and taught several generations of boys how to shoot eight ball.  For Halloween fun he would dress up as the Frankenstein Monster, prop himself up against his garage door and lure kids over who thought he was a dummy or mannequin. The reactions when they realized he wasn’t could be pretty dramatic. On scorching summer days, accompanied by neighborhood pals Jimmy (best tree climber on the street) and Richard (best spitter on the street), I would walk downtown with Buster and watch as kids continually (and tentatively) approached him, dropped on their knees and raised up his socks to see if he was attached to stilts. Naturally we all felt smug and superior since he was our buddy and not theirs and usually treated “Bus” to a double Frostee ice cream cone. The long and hot vacation days of our youth that we thought would never end finally did just that and we grew up and went our separate ways, all except Buster who stayed at home with his frail old mother. Jimmy died of a brain tumor and Richard was an early casualty of the Viet Nam War. The last time I saw Buster was about ten years ago. I was waiting around at a train station one morning and noticed some little kids around me laughing and pointing at something and when I looked to see what had grabbed their attention I saw it was Buster standing alone on the other side of the tracks. He was bent over, looked very old and grey and moved with great difficulty. I approached him tentatively. I didn’t know if he would remember me. He looked up.

“Hey Bus,” I said for the millionth time in my life.

“Hey Dettman,” he said in that familiar high-pitched voice of his.

He knew me instantly.

We talked and he said he now lived in a  special home but still had his pool table and asked where all the guys were (meaning the decades of children who had once visited him) but I didn’t have the heart to tell him about Jim and Richard. Eventually a bright-colored van slid up and he climbed in and said he’d see me soon. The little kids were still watching him and I wondered if they too were tempted to see if he was walking on stilts.

Meeting with Buster and remembering my unique friendship with him reminded me of Tony in the second season’s My Friend Superman. Obviously, Tony, who owns a diner just around the corner from the Daily Planet (and who has a daughter named Elaine who the overly shy Jimmy Olson has the hots for but can’t seem to work up the nerve to ask out on a date), needs to impress his customers with the fact that he is great pals with Superman even though he has never actually met the Man of Steel. Apparently the poor little guy (played by Tito Vuolo) is just bored with flipping burgers (one of which he has christened a Superburger in honor of his idol) and has decided to bring a little excitement into his daily drudgery by inventing this relationship. He’s even gone so far as to have a mangled rifle on display in the diner that he informs customers Superman was responsible for bending out of shape. Tony’s rich imagination and white lies aren’t his real problem, however. His real problem is a trio of local gangsters who are running a protection racket and squeezing weekly payments out of merchants in the neighborhood including the poor restaurateur who’s keeping mum about the whole business. Through some misunderstandings regarding Lois (Noel Neill) taking a mysterious vacation, these underworld characters think their racket is going to be exposed unless they head-off the reporter and the victims who are now willing to come forward to reveal their crooked activities. Superman ultimately figures things out and shows up at the diner where the loyal patrons curtail the three bad guys by throwing all manner of diner food at them, particularly pies. Although from the get-go the slant of this episode, written by David Chantler with veteran Tommy Carr at the directorial helm, runs consistently on the light and frivolous side, this Keystone Cops/Three Stooges finale just seems totally out of place on TAOS even if in upcoming seasons there would be other pretty ridiculous scenarios and segments. Still, emerging in a season that would deliver such excellent episodes as Panic In The Sky, Superman In Exile and The Face and the Voice this blatant baboonery seemed jarring, almost embarrassing. According to one account, producer Whitney Ellsworth, feeling bad that bad guys Paul Burke, Terry Frost and Joseph Vitale had to be the brunt of this meringue shellacking, gave the actors a few extra bucks. They certainly deserved it.

THE MYSTERIOUS CUBE

By Bruce Dettman

The problem for writers dealing with Superman is that, well, he’s super. While this smacks of the embarrassingly obvious, think of the predicament laid at the feet of the creative forces that weekly (on TV) or monthly (in the comics) had to come up with some scenario significant of challenging or taxing the character to levels worthy of his powers. You couldn’t drag out Kryptonite with any regularity or it would soon become boring and predictable (the comic book guys eventually solved this by inventing variations on the standard green Kryptonite and gave us assorted colors that affected the Man of Steel in different ways) so alternate concepts had to be created to test his mettle.

As a kid playing Superman in a pretty realistic suit that my parents fashioned for me one Halloween (and which subsequent to the holiday I wore beneath my street clothes nearly everywhere I went), I tried my best to come up with make believe situations and characters that might prove an acceptable threat to my super powers. One of these involved locking myself in the bathroom, cranking up the water temperature in the shower to full heat, letting the intense steam fill the room then grimacing in front of the mirror as a reaction to the paralyzing effects of what I called Kryptonite gas. I have to admit that I had a great time with this scenario—which sometimes took as much as fifteen minutes to play out—and recreated the scene dozens of times until my parents—never at home during the actual dramatic moment—started to notice that the relatively new bathroom wallpaper was beginning to peel off at an alarming rate. They never figured out the cause but I was smart enough to put a halt to this in-house cliffhanger. After all, I had already lost a painful amount of my allowance about a year before for pretending that our backyard peach tree was a giant squid and going after it Captain Nemo style with my older brother’s Boy Scout hatchet.

On TAOS, the Man of Steel had several run-ins with Kryptonite, of course, and at other times tangled with radioactivity (Superman In Exile), intense cold (The Big Freeze) and electricity (Crime Wave) but always came away from these brushes with death relatively unscathed. In the 1957 season the writers, in this case the team of Robert Bellem and producer Whitney Ellsworth, having exhausted the more obvious ways of trying to destroy him, decided to change tactics a bit and thought small—molecular small, that is. In Divide and Conquer, Superman split himself in two and risked the possibility of never being able to unite his two halves. In The Mysterious Cube (one of the color episodes that nearly everyone I’ve ever talked to—even non-Superman fans—seem to remember in the same way that they recall the second season’s Panic In The Sky), he takes a chance on not being able to reassemble his anatomical components after an attempt to move through the heretofore impenetrable substance of which the cube is made.

It’s not really that the episode itself is so outstanding. Like many of the series’ later shows it’s a bit claustrophobic, too set-bound with some pretty deficient dialog and villains you can’t take all that seriously. And yet, there is the Cube.

The Cube is what everyone remembers, not much of the plot or the characters but rather the idea that someone has actually come up with a material which seems impervious to all Superman’s powers. He can’t break through it, see through it or burn through it. How, we all wondered as kids, could this be? Could there actually be something Superman couldn’t master? And those crummy crooks laughing at his failed attempts. Oh, the pain of it! Yep, I still remember the sinking feeling in my gut when George Reeves bounced feebly against it.

In any case, the plot has this guy Paul Barton (Bruce Wendell) a crook who has been hiding out in the mysterious cube for seven years (created by “a scientist who isn’t with us anymore”), so the police won’t be able to arrest him for his crimes after the statute of limitations has run out and he can be declared legally dead. Why he puts the cube in the middle of Metropolis rather than out in the boonies where he can’t be so closely monitored is anyone’s guess. Paul is understandably a pretty cranky guy since all these years he’s not seen a soul and lived on concentrated food tablets and vitamins. Paul’s brother Steve (Keith Richards – no, not that Keith Richards!) who incidentally played the lead in the 1949 Republic serial The James Brothers of Missouri opposite Noel Neil, and helper Jodie (Ben Welden) are on the outside gearing up for Paul’s emergence as a free man from the enigmatic structure. Superman shows up but can’t put a dent in the thing, so consults with Professor La Serne (Everett Glass), who also helped him out in Divide and Conquer and who suggests (as calmly as I’d suggest a new coffee brand) that he might be able to redistribute his atomic particles and move through the cube. As it turns out, the Man of Steel has no problem with the process, but not wishing to hedge their bet, Jodie and brother Steve and kidnap Lois and Jimmy to prevent Superman from going in and getting Paul. Hearing their plans he pretends he cannot penetrate the cube, has Washington authorities turn back Paul’s clock so that he comes out of hiding minutes before the statute of limitations has run out, and saves Jimmy and Lois.

The Mysterious Cube is fun mostly for the concept (just think of all the other amazing uses that could be made out of the miraculous material such as regular buildings, shops and airplanes, but I guess its secret was lost with its inventor) not so much the execution which, under director George Blair’s direction, is be a bit flat and listless. Still, there’s was just something about that cube that sticks with you, even after nearly half a century.

And for the record, my parents decided to paint rather than re-wallpaper that bathroom.

February 2007

STAR OF FATE

By Bruce Dettman

When kids of my era thought of Egypt, one image invariably came to mind…mummies. Pyramids, Cleopatra and the Nile might have crept into the mix sometimes, but by and large ancient Egypt was inexorably tied up with visions of live and murderous mummies limping slowly along, shredded bandages trailing behind them, their arms outstretched in search of victims to claim in the name of some ancient curse. As enamored of mummies as anyone else my age, I was particularly lucky that only thirty miles from my home was San Jose’s famous Egyptian/Rosicrucian Museum. At least once a year I would persuade my father, who was pretty good in humoring my sometimes obsessive tastes in oddball things, to visit the place where I never tired of the exhibits, particularly the very realistic replica of a famous eighteenth dynasty Egyptian tomb which was dark, dank and very atmospheric. As for the mummies on display, having seen Boris Karloff and Lon Chaney Jr. in the Universal Mummy series, the real things, shrunken, usually diminutive and not very scary, were always a bit disappointing, but I never failed to check them out anyway.

There was just something about Egypt, not only distant and shaded in a far away past, but so mysterious and alien. I later took a few college courses in Egyptology and read a lot of works on the subject, including several on the world’s most famous hunters of Egyptian relics such as Flinders Petrie, James Breasted and, of course,  Howard Carter, discover of King Tut’s tomb. No Egyptologist that I encountered in print, however, bore the slightest resemblance to Dr. Barnack (Lawrence Ryle) from the second year episode Star of Fate who looks and behaves as if he would be more inclined to break into a downtown bank vault than an ancient burial chamber. The guy has thug written all over him and when we meet him he is in the midst of a bidding contest against curio store owner  Mr. Whitlock (Paul Burns from Riddle of the Chinese Jade and other shows) for the ownership of a mysterious and supposedly cursed Egyptian jewelry box.  When the bidding doesn’t go his way (it reaches the $10,000 mark) he responds by poking Whitlock in the ribs with a snub-nose revolver that I guess all archeologists have handy in case they run low on cash.

In any case, Barnack, with his secretary Alma (Jeanne Dean) tagging along, takes the box home with him. Leaving her alone with instructions not to open it she ignores his instructions and does precisely that with the result that the next instant she is stricken by some mysterious influence and rendered unconscious. Lois and Jimmy show up just a short time after this as does the returning Barnack, yet when Lois pleads for the archeologist to get help for her he snaps “You do it. I haven’t got the time.” Meanwhile at his curio shop (which includes a Superman puppet) Whitlock enters clutching the box which he has just retrieved from Barnack’s place after Alma lapsed into a coma (which suggests that he too ignored the stricken girl).  Barnack appears at this point and not only takes back what he thinks is the real box—but which in reality is a clever copy—but leaves Whitlock tied up and ready to be blown to smithereens by some nitro placed on a Cuckoo Clock by the always well equipped Barnack.  Luckily Superman comes to the rescue and the box is brought to the Daily Planet office. Not having learned by example, Lois also tempts fate by opening the container and like the others seems to fall victim to the curse, but when Clark a moment later tries the same thing a poisonous needle hooked up to the box with  a spring breaks off against his (steel-like) finger.

The doctor (played by Arthur Space, later the vet on Lassie) later wonders aloud to Perry White why Kent wasn’t hurt by the poison.

“That is strange. I’ll have to ask him about that,” White responds.

In any case, this deadly needle not only explains the secret of the box’s legendary curse, but hieroglyphics inscribed on it identify the antidote for the poison as a leaf found only beneath the Great Pyramid in Egypt. Superman flies there, lifts the structure (effectively staged as several huge foundation blocks) high enough to retrieve the curative plant and gets it back to Metropolis in time for a life-saving serum to be made. Meanwhile Jimmy who, despite knowing of Barnack’s violent tendencies (and being what appears to be a good foot shorter than the archeologist), physically confronts him alone at his home where at gunpoint the cub reporter is forced into an empty sarcophagus only to be subsequently replaced by Superman who then rounds up the doctor.

A slow-moving and somewhat limp script by Roy Hamilton doesn’t help this slightly disappointing episode anymore than Tommy Carr’s somewhat flat and disinterested direction. A bit more creative energy and pep are needed. The regulars handle themselves well as usual, but the action just feels tired and a bit forced. It’s not helped by Clark’s lame explanation that he didn’t feel the effects of the poison because of a protective band-aid on his thumb either.

However, what this episode really needed is—you guessed it—a mummy.

January 2007

SEMI-PRIVATE EYE

By Bruce Dettman

For the better part of the 1990s, I lived in an old downtown apartment building (circa 1915 or thereabouts) on Dashiell Hammett Way (formerly Monroe Street) in San Francisco. The famous mystery author resided at this same location for a short period during the early 1920s and while it is not known for certain which room was definitely his, quite a number of scholars have come to believe that it was the space I rented, No 9. Being a fan of detective novels, particularly of the so-called hardboiled school practiced by Hammett, James Cain, Raymond Chandler and others, I delighted in the fact that I could very well be living in the same room where the embryonic seeds for his Maltese Falcon and The Thin Man might have taken root. I also came to hang out at John’s Grill, a famous local watering hole and restaurant a few blocks way, reportedly frequented by the author during his San Francisco days. One evening in the early 1990s, the eatery hosted a kind of Dashiell Hammett event. The actual statue from the film version of The Maltese Falcon was in town to be showcased and various Hammett enthusiasts and celebrities were on hand including Elisha Cook Jr. who played Wilmer in the original Warner Brothers movie—opposite Humphrey Bogart, Mary Astor, Sidney Greenstreet and Peter Lorre—and who was the last major cast member still alive. My intent was to have a few seconds with the actor myself, not so much to inquire about his participation in the over explored Falcon, but rather to quiz him about some of his lesser known roles including his  part in the second season episode of TAOS, The Semi-Private Eye. Unfortunately, as is so often the case at these affairs, he was instantly cornered and surrounded by a gaggle of local dignitaries, none of whom had the slightest idea of really who Cook was or what his screen career had entailed but who wanted to make sure they shared a photo op with him. He looked pretty old and frail by then—he would die not long after this—and it was a bit difficult to realize this was the same man who Jack Palance drilled so gleefully in the classic movie Shane which just happened to the first movie I ever saw. I made several attempts to reach him but the throng was too much and I finally gave up and settled for my beverage of choice and conversation with a retired cable car driver named Fred.

If nothing else, Semi Private Eye is a great showcase for Jack Larsen’s comedic skills and he accounts himself beautifully. His Humphrey Bogart impression is not so over-the top as to seem unduly exaggerated nor so subdued that you don’t get it. It’s a nice balance.  But I’m getting a bit ahead of myself. Cook is Homer Garrity, a Metropolis gumshoe (who even Superman knows by reputation) whose life the  Man of Steel saves when some enemies of the shamus secretly dump a chimney of bricks on him as he strolls down the street (Superman defies physics by simply tossing the bricks back up on the roof where they perfectly re-assemble themselves). Garrity thinks almost being clobbered by the masonry is just an accident but Superman is not so sure and departs with the suggestion that “If I were you I’d look up once in awhile.”

Meanwhile, Lois is in one of her periodic moods to prove that Clark is Superman. This time around she rigs a phone book with fifty pounds of weight so as to expose his super strength, but he gets wise to her scheme and (as usual) outwits her (by switching phonebooks and when she shows up in his office tossing the book into her lap). This only infuriates her more and she decides to hire a private detective (the aforementioned Garrity) to follow Kent which she is certain will once and for all reveal his double identity. (Did it ever occur to Lois that Superman, who has saved her skin—not to mention the whole world’s—many times over has a reason for his disguise and that it would be counter productive to betray this?) Things get out of hand however, when she and the detective are kidnapped by a couple of crooks named Noodles and Cappy (Douglas Henderson and Richard Benedict) whose successful blackmailing business has been compromised by an earlier Garrity’s investigation and who were behind the earlier shower of bricks. This opens the door for Jimmy, who seems to have mighty romantic notions about the private eye business, to slip on fedora and trench coat and a lisping Bogart accent and go after the crooks himself. The twosome aren’t too impressed by either his getup or persona, however, and soon Jimmy, thanks to a trap door, finds himself stuck along with Homer and Lois in a basement which the two baddies marinate with lethal gas bombs. Superman gets to the root of all of this, of course, and all ends happily ever after with the bad guys ju-jitsued into dreamland by Jimmy and the detective.

This is as a kind of an interim piece for the show, a transitional crossroad of the series which lies between the violent noirish content of the first season and the often adolescent tenor of the final two years. Despite the fact that the criminals are obviously willing and able to kill (dumping the chimney, exploding the lethal gas bombs) it’s hard to take them too seriously. Even had Jack Larson’s wonderful comedic turn not by itself dulled what could have been the hard edges of David Chantler’s storyline (murder, assault, kidnapping, and blackmail) the somewhat tongue-in-cheek performances of Henderson and Benedict, the latter much scarier in the first season’s Night of Terror, greatly marginalized the threat posed by the gangsters. George Blair kept his directorial touch light and mostly relaxed and it’s a stretch to think anyone is ever in any real danger.

It is still a lot of fun though thanks to Larson whose comedic timing is impeccable, and Cook who gives a wonderfully deadpan and understated performance which flies in the face of the tough persona of the fictional private eye then gaining momentum as a stable of early TV.

I still wish I would have cornered Cook that night a few years back and talked to about his memories of the show and how he was the first guy I ever saw murdered on the screen but it just wasn’t to be. And by the way, Fred the cable car driver kept confusing him with Wally Cox.

November 2006

THE GOLDEN VULTURE

by Bruce Dettman

When you were a kid, pretending to be a pirate was a bit different from other flights of role-playing because, well let’s face it, pirates were mostly bad guys. This created a bit of a dilemma for my generation since we Baby Boomers traditionally gravitated towards the right side of the law. We were quick-drawin’ cowpokes, wrong-rightin’ town marshals and honorable cavalry officers saving settlers and fightin’ redskins in the old west. We stormed the beaches of Iwo Jima and took on the Nazis at the Battle of the Bulge during WW II. We were detectives solving tough cases and even Superman flying over our backyards. Pirates, however, placed some demand on a rigid sense of right and wrong infused in us by the likes of Hoppy, Captain Midnight and Matt Dillon. Still, there was an allure to pirates, to their independence and swaggering bravado and on more than one occasion I fashioned an eye patch, “borrowed” one of my mother’s earrings and tied a bandana around my head. Hawaiian Punch doubled for rum, but no matter how hard I tried I couldn’t imagine my Dalmatian, as good an actor as he was, as a convincing parrot.

My most significant introduction to pirates on the screen was the scene-stealing, scenery-chewing Robert Newton in the film Blackbeard. I had previously also viewed Wallace Berry as long John Silver in Treasure Island, but Wallace’s Long John was a bit of a pussycat (he even cried in one scene) and made little impression on me. And, of course, there was Captain Hook from Peter Pan (one version animated by the Disney folks and the other a live musical production featuring Cyril Richard as the one-armed, alligator-fearing villain to Mary Martin’s Peter) but again, this was entertaining stuff but not gritty or realistic enough for me.  Newton, however, was as mad as a hatter: cruel, dangerous and certainly not likely to break into a song and dance routine. The Newton film ended with an unforgettable scene depicting Blackbeard buried up to his greasy head in the sand awaiting a much deserved drowning death from the invading surf. With all of these traits solidified in my embryonic noggin, the image of the pirate as barbaric, ruthless and cagey was born.

The other actor who made a large impression on me during this period was not a traditional pirate but rather Peter Whitney as Captain McBain,* a modern-day (circa 1953) version of the breed on the second season’s episode The Golden Vulture.  As a kid, I found Whitney’s portrayal strangely unsettling although on viewing it as an adult (well, chronologically at least) I’m not altogether certain what specifically so bothered me about the characterization. I have a hunch, however, given the seaman’s mostly harmless demeanor at the beginning of the show and the rapid switch to tyrannical and murderous villain by the end of the episode, that such a drastic metamorphous was unfamiliar to me and therefore disturbing to a young mind not yet indoctrinated to the mercurial whims of the human psyche.

The action begins when Jimmy Olson (Jack Larson) is out enjoying himself fishing at the seashore—you would have thought he would have had his fill of angling in The Evil Three—and discovers a floating bottle with a message in it which he takes back to the folks at the Daily Planet. Lois (Noel Neill) smells a scoop and with Jimmy tagging along—and not letting Perry or Jimmy know what they’re up to—they visit the salvage ship, the Golden Vulture, alluded to in the message. There they meet McBain who Lois’ wrongly thinks is just a bombastic blowhard but who is actually in league with the ship’s owner in a clever scheme to turn stolen jewelry into phony pirate loot that they sell for big profits to museums. On top of this, McBain is a sadistic bully who torments his crew including Scurvy (played by Vic Perrin, a one time very busy radio actor, whose voice would later become familiar to millions as the unseen host/narrator of TV’s THE OUTER LIMITS) who in an attempt to communicate to the authorities on shore penned the note that Jimmy found in the bottle. Lois continues to play it cool while McBain rattles on, but Jimmy opens his mouth when Scurvy (can this really be the guy’s name?) enters the room with a duplicate of the bottle and the crazy captain decides to get rid of the meddlesome reporters. While Lois and Jimmy are getting into this jam, Clark, investigating on his own, is discovered onboard and finds himself pursued by the entire crew with no time or place to turn into Superman (one has to wonder if at this point Reeves was intentionally having a bit of fun when he pauses, looks around and says “Stuperman, where are you?”).  Eventually (minus his glasses) he’s cornered and made to walk the plank by McBain who now actually fashions himself a real pirate. Seconds later Superman lands on the deck and we have an enjoyable but somewhat comically staged fight between the sailors and the Man of Steel (who seems to be having the time of his life devising different ways to eliminate his attackers). With the whole gang subdued and tied into sailor knots, Lois and Jimmy implore him to save poor drowning Clark but Superman’s response—as he intentionally takes his sweet time going to the reporter’s aid—borders somewhat on the cruel (“He’ll have to hold his breath a bit longer”) since Lois and Jimmy truly believe their colleague could drown at any moment. In any case, he finally exits and Clark comes to the surface. Lois, not seeing Superman fly off, begins to put two and two together until Clark intentionally pulls her into the water and the idea disappears.

The Golden Vulture directed by the usually on the mark team of director Tommy Carr and writer Jackson Gillis, has always been one of my favorite episodes and unlike a few past favorites that have wilted a bit with time and distance, I still enjoy this one immensely. Reeves is obviously enjoying the particular show, and Whitney remains a memorable bad guy—if not quite the fearsome villain as I recall. The action stuff is well—handled and the night setting on the boat is effectively claustrophobic.

Although I have not played pirate in over forty-five years, I still like a good Jolly Roger yarn. I have, however, substituted the real thing for the Hawaiian Punch. Yo-Ho-Ho.

*I have seen this name spelled several different ways in various sourcebooks.*

September 2006

A GHOST FOR

SCOTLAND YARD

By Bruce Dettman

When you’re young and lacking the adult defenses of experience and maturity necessary to insulate you from a wide array of imaginary terrors, the world can be a pretty scary place, as I can readily testify. For instance, we had a large pile of wood behind our garage and one horrifying day I was certain I glimpsed a giant boa constrictor coiled menacingly atop of it. For months I wouldn’t get near the spot. Several years before this I swore I had seen a gorilla visit my brother and my bedroom in the middle of the night, that I had actually crawled out of my crib and petted the remarkably docile simian. Then there was the old lady who lived by a nearby creek with, it was rumored, a houseful of killer cats. How any hundreds of times did I walk several blocks out of my way to avoid that harmless abode?

Other fears, less local but just as potent, came to me courtesy of our twelve inch Packard-Bell TV set which my parents bought back in 1953. After all these years I can still see the chestnut colored cabinet, the round-shaped controls and the dinky speaker. However modest by today’s standards, it not only magically delivered into our living room Davy Crockett, Crusader Rabbit, Jack Benny and Zorro, but it also brought forth elements which prayed substantially on my adolescent fears and insecurities. Oddly enough, at least in my case, these were rarely culled from the so-called big scary moments that intruded upon the minds of many of my friends. I was not, as an example, scared by the Frankenstein Monster tangling with the Wolfman, by Kong going after Fay Wray, by the Mummy drinking Tana Leaves or the Blob ingesting an entire community. What bothered me was rarely predictable and still, to a certain degree, is. A couple of these I still recall: a certain Twilight Zone episode about a woman going down into a hospital morgue and meeting a sardonically grinning attendant (“Room for one more, honey”), the haunting main musical cue from the show One Step Beyond and an Alfred Hitchcock Presents concerning a house sealed off from a violent storm—and a reported serial killer—save one open window in the basement which the camera repeatedly focuses on. All of these and several more tapped into some vulnerable psychic spot in my adolescent brain and sent shivers up my spine. On such nights, going to bed I would force my Dalmatian ahead of me into my darkened bedroom. Better him than me, I figured.

TAOS  also was responsible for one scary scene that stood high on my list of TV fright moments, although to this day I’m not altogether certain why it made such a noteworthy impression on me.  It was in the second season’s A Ghost For Scotland Yard when Brockhurst’s magnified head is seen to be floating in the night sky.  Even today when I watch this scene and observe actor Leonard Mudie’s fiercely skeletal noggin’ I can dimly recall the uneasiness I felt as a boy observing this. The music had something to do with this, I suppose, and Tommy Carr’s atmospheric direction, but mostly that disembodied head just got to me. Sometimes there’s no point in trying to figure these things out, particularly nearly fifty years after the fact.

This image aside, the episode is fun for a lot of reasons, not the least of which is having Clark and Jimmy away from Metropolis and covering a story in Europe. Although the entire cast of TAOS is always a joy to watch with their terrific chemistry and talents on display, I always find it enjoyable to see those episodes where a couple of the characters are isolated away from Metropolis—The Deserted Village, The Haunted Lighthouse, Rescue and Czar of the Underworld, for example—and able to play off each other in a more concentrated and intimate manner. This time it’s Clark and Jimmy with Lois only making a token appearance during a phone conversation.

Heading back to the States (from Sweden) they stop off in England to see Sir Alfred McCredy (Colin Campbell), an old friend of Perry White’s. The whole country, it seems, is all abuzz anticipating the return of Brockhurst, an unbalanced Houdini-like magician who has been dead for five years but has vowed to return to seek vengeance on his enemies. Sir Alfred, once the magician’s manager, has been signaled out as one of his main targets and is pretty nervous about the situation even though, for some odd reason, he keeps large framed photo of his arch enemy hanging in his living room. Equally upset is Sir Arthur’s sister Mabel (played by the always deliciously ditzy Norma Varden, perhaps best known to film goers as the woman who allows psycho strangler Robert Walker to use her neck for practice in Alfred Hitchcock’s Strangers On A Train). As it turns out, the siblings have every reason to be afraid, not because Brockhurst does return from the dead, but because he’s been alive all the time (having faked his own vehicular death) and just biding his time to return and carry out his murderous plans which call upon his talents as both a magician and a mimic. He doesn’t reckon, however, on Superman.

Initially, however Clark Kent wants absolutely nothing to do with covering such an outlandish story and tells Lois just as much. He actually works up quite lather about the whole thing which doesn’t seem to make much sense but maybe he doesn’t think Superman should be away from Metropolis any longer or perhaps he has a hot date or more White Sox tickets.  Jimmy, of course, wants nothing to do with the reported ghost but almost becomes one of Brockhurst’s victims himself. Jack Larson, for the record, is particularly charming and likable in this episode. He’s always good, of course, but when Jimmy is frightened you really feel it in the same way you empathized with his mounting fear in The Haunted Lighthouse. I think it’s the way he uses his eyes. Again, I recall being pretty unnerved myself when Jimmy finds himself locked in a spooky carriage house with Brockhurst closing in on him with his unsettling delivery of the line, “Crazy am I? I’ll show you!”

Another two good scenes take are set at a news stand where the magazine vendor (Clyde Cook) first warns the “Yank” (Jimmy) about how Superman shouldn’t tangle with Brockhurst and at the show’s conclusion when he apologizes for believing in the magician and gives the cub reporter a Superman comic which Clark also gets a big kick out of.

It’s a strong episode with a nifty script by the always dependable Jackson Gillis, memorable performances by all concerned and even a few chills tossed into the mix.

For a few seconds, watching the show in the dark in an attempt to get the full measure of mood out of it and try to rekindle the acute fear I experienced half a century ago, I have to admit I wouldn’t have minded having my old dog with me again.

August 2006

MAN IN THE LEAD MASK

By Bruce Dettman

Psychologists would probably have a field day with me on this, but I have always had a thing about masks. Today my living-room and den walls are decorated with a wide array of ones I have collected from around the world as well as those my friends have brought me from their travels. I guess this pre-occupation dates back to when I was a kid and my favorite action characters concealed their identities behind disguises, from Zorro and the Lone Ranger to Batman and the Shadow, and I spent considerable time with safety pins and discarded clothes fashioning my own versions as well. For me the idea of a masked avenger, cloaked in mystery, was the ultimate heroic image. My all-time favorite masked hero was the character the Copperhead from the great 1940 Republic serial The Mysterious Doctor Satan which I saw on Saturday afternoon TV in the 1950s. The robot-battling Copperhead sported a kind of metallic serpent-like mask which I simulated with my yellow rain hood. I’m certain the neighbors wondered why I was running around on sunny days wearing this getup, but I suspect they early on became accustomed to my overripe imagination.

Masks obviously played a big part in the second year episode The Man In The Lead Mask, not surprisingly, given my near obsession with such disguises, one of my favorite entries at the time.  The years have taken their toll on the premise, however, and it no longer ranks so high on my preferential list. It’s not a bad show, but it’s a bit talky and George Blair’s direction a tad flat. Moreover, the script by Leroy Zehren and Roy Hamilton contain certain plot elements which not only don’t work, but which are pretty outlandish. Now to be honest, the plots, aside from a very few TAOS episodes such as Panic In The Sky and Superman In Exile, have never been all that important to me. They are merely the incidental frames on which my favorite elements -- the familiar characters, the interplay of the actors, the music and the action sequences -- are hung. Still, you have to expect a bit of logic from a storyline, even from a show based on a cartoon character. Before I get to this severe lapse in logic in this particular show, I should first describe that the plot has to do with a guy named Marty Mitchell who sets up a plan to con a group of fellow crooks into believing he -- with the help of a gifted plastic surgeon – can, for the substantial fee of $50,000, alter their facial appearance, but more importantly their fingerprints. The fly in the ointment is that these guys have been on the run or hiding for a long time and are low on bucks. To get a hold of the necessary cash for the surgery they must venture out and commit crimes wearing the same sort of lead mask Marshall used earlier in the show to burglarize a post office, this to hide their identity as wanted criminals. But as Perry White (who we are informed had a twenty year career as a police reporter) says early on in the show “A trick mask isn’t exactly inconspicuous.” Now there’s a no brainer that doesn’t seem to resonate with anyone else. Nonetheless, the gang does go out wearing these masks and not one is caught committing their crimes even though the police dispatcher is head to describe the series of crimes by men wearing “those same lead masks.” This isn’t exactly a shiny day for the Metropolis Police Department; three guys walking the streets in large lead masks and no one arrests or even stops them!! See what I mean about logic?! In the end Superman discovers the whole thing is a great big ruse and the bad guys are vanquished.

A few cast notes. The fake plastic surgeon (Foley) is John Merton, a familiar bad guy in scores of movies whose son, Lane Bradford, was featured in the same season’s Jet Ace as Perry White’s nephew.  John Crawford, who plays Morrill (who, by the way, had he been wearing a seat belt wouldn’t have sustained the injuries he did when Superman stopped his speeding car), is John Crawford, later the country sheriff in The Waltons.  Paul Bryer, balding in the pin-striped suit, was briefly seen (but not heard – no dialog) in the first season’s A Night of Terror. A bit of a blooper here as well. When Superman takes on the crooks at the conclusion he is unmistakably seen knocking Bryer on his keester. The very next second, however, we see Bryer on his feet empting his gun at the Man of Steel. These things happen.

One scene I particularly liked is when Kent and Inspector Henderson are playing darts in the policeman’s office. Reeves and Robert Shayne had good chemistry on the screen and I always enjoy their scenes together. There’s friendship between them but also a kind of rivalry and competition. It works well. One question though. Isn’t Kent with his super aim taking undue advantage of Henderson by continuously beating him at the game and then making him buy him dinners as a result?

The show ends with Jimmy getting one of the lead masks stuck on his head and Superman pretending (wink) not to be able to free him from it. The irony here, from what I have read, is that in rehearsals actor Reeves, who suffered from mild claustrophobia, did experience trouble extricating himself from one of the things.

By the way, at the diner just across the street from the Daily Planet, Lois tells Clark she needs a $10.00 raise for a new hat. Let’s hope she got it. Doesn’t sound as if Lois was making much more than Noel in those days.

July 2006

The Big Freeze

by Bruce Dettman

Before I began writing this piece I sat down and tried to recall the coldest I’ve ever been in my life. I finally decided, weighing one chilly episode against another, that this would have to have been the occasion back in college during spring break when two friends and I went on a weekend camping trip into the Northern California boonies, normally not the warmest time in this part of the state. As I recall, we had skipped a traditional  dinner for an all vino banquet and eventually decided what a great idea it would be to pitch our ancient tent near the thrashing sounds of the Pacific Ocean, too near as it soon turned out. I dimly recall the sensation of waking in the darkness, feeling something rising up beneath me like a great shapeless monster and pushing me upwards, smelling the recognizable scent of musty canvas as the roof of the tent collapsed on us then suddenly being under water. We three geniuses survived, but only barely. We swam to shore, realized that we had left everything in the tent including our wallets, swam back to fetch what we could (never realizing until then how much a waterlogged sleeping bag could weigh) then returned to the beach. Upon reaching our car, however, we realized we had another problem, that the car keys had not been salvaged and now residing at the bottom of the ocean along with my copy of Herman Hesse’s Steppenwolf and my new sunglasses, my buddy’s guitar and assorted cans of chili and ravioli. And for the next hour, soaked to the skins and wearing only T-shirts and shorts, as we struggled to get into that VW bug, tried hitchhiking and even attempted to wrap some sheets of nearby cardboard around us we just about froze.

None of this, of course, is in the same league with Superman being exposed to temperatures reaching 2000 degrees below zero in The Big Freeze.  This title, by the way, has always sounded a bit out of place on TAOS, something straight out of a gritty and dark film noir. Jack Webb, creator of Dragnet, used “Big” to introduce all his early shows both on radio and TV (The Big Crime, The Big Caper, The Big Girl). Wonder if David Chantler, who wrote the screenplay, for this episode was a detective fan?

In any case, this fourth year color episode was a favorite of mine even though even back then I much preferred the early shows.* I always seemed to be a fan of plots where the Man of Steel’s powers are challenged or even stripped away. Superman suddenly being rendered vulnerable was sort of an adrenalin rush – you were afraid for him but also were mesmerized and thrilled by wondering how he would meet this test whether from Kryptonite, radioactive poisoning, or, as in this case, being turned into a human popsicle. It was somewhat like going to horror films and looking forward to being scared by the Creature of the Black Lagoon or even The Blob. Even though you knew they’d be destroyed in the last reel you loved being threatened and terrified.  Similarly, you wanted Superman to triumph but also wanted to see him in a dangerous predicament worthy of his powers.

The predicament this time comes as a result of yet another of TAOS’s seemingly inexhaustible array of mad – or at least highly eccentric – scientists. This time around it’s Doctor Watts (Rolfe Sedan), a little fuddy-duddy of a guy with a peculiar speech pattern who rigs up the ultimate ice house to freeze Superman (possibly only until he thaws out, possibly longer or even forever. Watts is not certain nor does he care). He must have been working on the idea for quite awhile given all the equipment he’s amassed (both Clark and one of the bad guys describes his lab as looking like the inside of a TV set) but the immediate goal, working for underworld kingpin Duke Taylor (George E. Stone, best known as Chester Morris’ sidekick “The Runt” in Columbia’s Boston Blackie mystery series from the 1940s) is to remove Superman’s interference on election day so Taylor’s handpicked candidate can win Metropolis’ mayoral post.  Taylor’s right-hand goon Little Jack is Richard Reeves, familiar to TAOS fans from such earlier episodes as No Holds Barred and Jet Ace.

Tucked not so subtlety beneath the action plot is an obvious civics lesson. Yes, Superman is in serious trouble and his plight is the central focus, but what this episode really is about is the American electoral system and the responsibility of exercising ones franchise (Jimmy, by the way, is not yet old enough to vote). There are lots of comments and asides about people not voting and the dangers of voter apathy. One particular line of dialog has Lois almost flippantly remarking that there is no threat to the election process because Superman will be around. Clark doesn’t like this and says as much:

“Sometimes, Lois, it’s not wise for people to depend on Superman to keep their own house in order.”

Both scenes, when Superman is frozen and when, thanks to emergence in an industrial furnace, he is thawed out, are very much underplayed. The latter scene, in particular, resonates with no discernable drama. Harry Gerstad’s direction has about as much pizzazz as a three day old bottle of warm beer. Not even any dramatic music to herald the return of Metropolis’s savior. When in a frozen state Jimmy suggests he looks like a snowman, but to me he more resembles a Roman or Greek statue minus his pedestal. Although supposed to appear white, I detect a pale yellow cast to the costume. Somehow the makeup just doesn’t quite work for me.

Speaking of makeup, I must say that even as pretty gullible seven year-old I found it a tad difficult to believe that with just a bit Lois’ cosmetics Superman can temporarily and believably restore his regular complexion although Perry White does quip “Where have you been, Miami? You seem to have a tan.”

One of my problems with many of these color episodes is that there is a confined, almost claustrophobic feel about them, particularly in the action scenes as though the actors have little room to move or work. The vividness – some might even say garishness – of the color of early TV suggests too much, focuses too heavily on and betrays the obvious modesty and limitations of  the sets, something I rarely if ever considered in the black and white episodes.

Had The Big Freeze been a second year episode with a better script and more adventuresome direction I think it could have been a real winner. As it is, it seems to be a lost chance with too much working against it as were several other of the better color shows.

Still, as many fans always say, any George Reeves and TAOS is better than none at all. But then I haven’t watched Mr. Zero in an awfully long time.

*For the record, our family did not own a color TV until much later, but given the state of the technology back then, Superman’s costume probably would have ended up orange and green.

July 2006

THE FACE AND

THE VOICE

By Bruce Dettman

Let’s be honest here. There simply are no easy years if you’re Superman, no lax and uneventful stretches when you can take some time off, let things slide, kick back on a beach somewhere with a rum and coke and watch the world drift by. There’s always a nefarious somebody out there plotting to murder, rob, counterfeit, kidnap and assault. All of this said, one would have to acknowledge that the year 1953, the series’ second season, was a particularly rough one on the Man of Steel. Predictably he had to contend with the usual assortment of crooks, petty con men and hoodlums, but the real challenges came from unpredictable factors that not only put his super powers to the test, but on occasion his vulnerability and mental health as well. It wasn’t enough that he ran up against Kryptonite (and pain) for the first time. Or that he became contaminated by a dose of radiation that temporarily forced him into exile or even that he saved the world from the cataclysmic dangers of an advancing meteor and in the process lost his memory. No, on top of all of this he runs into a pretty well-thought out scheme to steal his identity by impersonation.  

I remember as a kid loving The Face and the Voice which I still rate as a top notch episode. Everything is new to you when you’re young, of course, and I recall being tremendously intrigued by a couple of things in this show. First, there was the idea of a physical double, someone who could look exactly like someone else. Such a possibility had never occurred to me before. The other was the concept of plastic surgery, of actually rearranging someone’s features. That too was a new one to me. A few years later in junior high school I had an egomaniacal science teacher (he drove his fancy, girl-attracting Triumph sports car to school and if you agreed to wash it and did a good job he wouldn’t make you take the weekly test) who had a strangely waxen sheen to his bizarrely unlined face. When I made the suggestion (behind his back, of course -- he was also known to use physical punishment on boys who he didn’t like) to several classmates that plastic surgery might account for his skin condition, I was largely drawing from my memory of Face and the Voice.

In this memorable episode George Reeves hams it up royally as Boulder, the Brooklyn tough guy with a complexion like peanut brittle until a plastic surgeon rearranges his features to make him look like Superman. Reeves is simply wonderful to watch in the dual role (make that three roles if you count Clark Kent) and I suspect he had a terrific time doing the show.  The doctor in question, by the way, is actor I. Stanford Jolley, a much seen face from hundreds of westerns, serials and B films of the 1940s. In fact, the show is littered with familiar character actors. Along with Jolly there’s the always entertaining Percy Helton as the voice teacher, George Chandler, later a regular on Lassie as “Scratchy”, dependable supporting player William Newell, and an unbilled Hayden Rorke (a few years away from I Dream of Jeanie) as Clark’s doctor friend Tom.  By the way, just what kind of a doctor is Tom and why would Kent have ever gone to see him? He refers to the reporter being in excellent shape. Wouldn’t a physical on the Man of Steel readily disclose some rather obvious physical traits?

In addition to playing the somewhat over-the-top Boulder, Reeves, thanks to Jackson Gillis’ smart script, also gets to stretch his Superman characterization a bit to include the Man of Steel’s frustration, anger and even self doubt as he continues to be non-plussed by reports of Boulder’s successful job of impersonating him. At one point during his conversation with his pal/doctor Tom he even begins to question his own sanity (“So there is something wrong with me?!”). The anger part also gets a good workout when Superman is chasing the frightened Inspector Henderson around his desk (“Bill, we’ve been pals for years. I’d hate to use you as a volleyball in your own office!”). By the way, Henderson has the same painting of the Golden Gate Bridge in his office that Kent once hung in his apartment living room.

One thing I’ve never understood about this episode is the scene where Boulder robs the jewelry store, is shot in the back by a guard and goes around the corner where Scratchy is waiting for him with what looks like the same pair of trousers and overcoat Superman wore in The Man In The Lead Mask. When Boulder gets back to the big boss (Carleton Young) he complains that he took a slug and that the bullet proof vest did nothing to protect his back. Then he sits down and no one ever mentions the wound again. Hmm, Superman or not, this is one tough guy.  There are not too many people who can ignore a bullet in the back. This is not a complaint though, just an observation. My complaint would be the way chief villain Young goes down for the count, not by so much as a shove from Superman but rather by what has to be the lamest version of accidentally stumbling and knocking himself out you’d ever (not) want to see. This self-destructiveness on the part of the bad guys became a stable in later Superman shows. Hated it as a kid and still do. By the way, since I’m in a nit-picking sort of mood (Mondays will do that to you), Superman’s cape has some huge stains on it. Where has he been flying?

And lastly, have you ever noticed how much the unbilled actor playing Boulder hiding in the truck at the end and then bolting from the scene when the real Superman shows up looks a bit like Kirk Alyn? Nah, couldn’t be.

June 2006

PANIC IN THE SKY

    By Bruce Dettman

I have a confession to make. Occasionally – but I must stress only occasionally—when I leave my desk at work and go down the hall I suddenly peel off my reading glasses and grab at my collar. This slight momentary gesture is my odd way of separating the doldrums of the day with the fantasy world that all my life has only been just a flicker of daydreams away. Ok, on the surface I freely admit that the idea of a 56 year-old man thinking he is about to shed his outer duds and turn into Superman is a bit absurd, but what can I tell you? It always gives me a certain lift (no pun intended) to imagine that there might be more to life than routine and bad coffee. I think our generation, we so-called Baby Boomers, are largely a confused lot, a group mired in memories of youthful flirtations with social and political unrest, revolt and rebellion against existing mores, customs and the cultural infrastructure, yet reared as children in the noble and self-sacrificing gestures of the Lone Ranger, Sky King, Captain Midnight and yes, Superman. The rebellious kids of today are a different breed and in some ways have it easier. It’s more of a black and white cosmos for them. They dislike everything and never had any heroes or exemplary fictional characters to suggest differently. So I tug at my tie and rip off my spectacles and for a second dream of a cleaner, more rational universe of good and bad, right and wrong, of absolutes and moral certainty, and a guy in a blue, red and yellow suit who you could always depend on, even to saving the world.

And that’s exactly what he did in one of the best-remembered—and to many the undisputed best episode in the whole run of TAOS—the second season’s Panic In The Sky. It is recalled, however, not just for the drama of the Man of Steel taking on an asteroid headed for the Earth, but even more, I think, for George Reeve’s marvelous performance as a confused and uncertain hero—a victim of amnesia not only trying to sort out the truth of his identity but coming to terms with the demands and responsibilities of that remarkable identity. In the space of twenty-five minutes writer Jackson Gillis and director Tommy Carr fashioned a tight and riveting storyline with substantial emotional depth and characterization. It’s a winner in every department.

Even the start is highly memorable and offbeat with the camera focusing on a group of Metropolis citizens silently gathering outside Dick’s Meat Market to gaze up at the deadly sight of the approaching asteroid, their faces marinated in partial shadow (and hey, checkout the Noel Neill look-alike in the dark dress). This gets the audience into an apprehensive mood from the word go. And it permeates the whole show. As a child I was mesmerized, and a bit frightening, by the ominous goings-on. The whole episode resonated with a different feeling than the others, a deadly seriousness and sense of gloom even though in the end you knew Superman would somehow triumph.

The Daily Planet crew are properly solemn as the Earth’s fate hangs in the balance yet also compassionate and caring as they struggle to help Clark with his amnesia (well, ok, Perry isn’t all that compassionate but he has lots on his mind and at one point even refers to his cub reporter as “Jiminy”). Noel Neill, Jack Larson and John Hamilton give standout performances but then when didn’t they?

Jonathon Hale (from the first year’s THE EVIL THREE) is terrific as Professor Roberts (described as Perry White as “a gloomy cuss”). He’s not just “gloomy” he’s downright nasty and rude to just about everyone except Superman. His poor assistant (Clark Howat) is the recipient of most of this temperament (“Don’t be stupid!”) but Roberts simply has no time for niceties and lets it be known in no uncertain terms. He is, however, generally concerned about Superman’s fate if he attempts to knock the asteroid off its course.

Things I will never forget about this episode from watching it as a kid—things that resonate with me to this day; indelible psychic imprints, if you will. There are the scenes of George Reeves crashing (off-screen) through the shower door (I remember almost turning my eyes away when Jimmy Olsen discovers his body); Kent accidentally discovering his extra Superman duds in his secret closet (having obviously learned his lesson about the dangers of only having one outfit from The Stolen Costume—and by the way, is that a bowling bag above the suits?); the scene in which Kent turns his back to the visiting Jimmy and unknowingly exposes the “S” of his costume; perhaps most significantly, the moment when alone in his apartment in his Superman outfit but still incongruously wearing Kent’s glasses, he studies himself in the mirror. In this second of activity the entire duplicity of the Kent/Superman identity crisis comes to a head, the outcome poised between discovery and self-revelation. In the next instant, of course, it all comes back to him (hey, what’s one shattered end table when measured against saving mankind?) and he’s his old self again.

This is the closest the series ever came to true science-fiction, another reason probably that it is recalled with such affection and vividness. That asteroid sure scared me as a kid, and today, and if you squint your eyes just right and don’t focus too hard at the string holding it up, it still looks other-worldly and menacing.  When Superman finally lands on the asteroid with the detonator it looks just like the spot where the hitchhiking Kent is picked up at the beginning of the episode by the female driver (Jane Frazee, an occasional co-star of Roy Rogers) but who really cares? George’s springboard work is exceptional here, particularly as he lifts off from the observatory deck on his way to tangle to Earth’s greatest threat. If he ever got higher into the air on the thing I certainly don’t recall when.

For Jackson Gillis’ fine script and George Reeves’ exceptional performance alone, this is a sensational effort. Toss in all the other elements that made TAOS so consistently excellent, supporting cast, terrific music, taut direction and you have everything a fan would want.

Just writing and thinking about it almost makes me want to go down the hallway and whip off my glasses except that I think the boss is out there smoking.

(Thanks Mike Goldman For The Wonderful Photos).

June, 2006

BEWARE THE WRECKER

By Bruce Dettman

All kids should have at least one standout uncle and I did. He was my uncle Bill, my father’s brother, and he’s been gone about fifteen years now. I still miss him. He was not a man who did anything earth-shattering in his 70 odd years—and sometimes it was impossible not to question a few of his taller tales—but somehow the world has seemed a less interesting and drabber place since he died. I always think of him when I watch Beware The Wrecker, one of my favorite second season episodes of TAOS, mainly due to the miniature plane that the villainous Wrecker uses to blow up planes and ships and such.

One Christmas in the late 1950s, Uncle Bill gave me this incredible model plane for a gift. It was a powder blue plastic replica of a P-38 and it was indeed a thing of beauty. I couldn’t wait to see it fly. We waited until morning, however, when my father, uncle and brother took it up to the local playground to send it skyward. Well, my father had first go at guiding it across a bright blue, cloud-covered horizon followed by my uncle and brother taking their turns. I had never flown such a plane before, but I was confident that when my chance came I would have no trouble. That’s what I thought anyway. The reality was that when I took the controls the plane suddenly made one great half turn then quickly nosedived into the playground cement. There was very little left of it save scattered chunks of blue. I looked at my father who was shaking his head with disappointment, then at my brother who was mouthing some obscenity in my direction. The worst part of this nightmare was confronting my uncle who had given me this beautiful plane now completely destroyed thanks to my incompetence.  I was looking down at the cement, fighting off tears, when I sensed him approach, felt his firm hand on my shoulder then heard his voice. “Guess the Navy’s the place for you,” he said through a laugh. “Let’s go get some pancakes.”

Like I said, I still miss the guy.

In any case, model planes figures prominently in Beware the Wrecker as the unseen blackmailing mastermind uses these as carriers of explosives to destroy airplanes, steamships and freight trains with threats to continue this mass mayhem unless his financial demands, directed at Inspector Henderson, are met. When you think of all the people killed in these attacks this has to be the most violent of all episodes though the human element is never addressed.

Despite the serious nature of the violent plot (rumors persist that this segment was dropped from the syndication package after the 911 attacks), I have to confess that I also recall it for its lighter moments, some of them on the humorous side

As a great fan of exchanges between Jimmy and Perry White, I have to say that the scene in this episode as the cub reporter tries to persuade the editor that he can crack the Wrecker case, is among my favorites. It would not be possible to convey in writing how good the comedic timing, facial, expressions and delivery are in this short bit of business—which I have dubbed the “I blame myself” scene—but I have never been able to watch it without laughing out loud. Both John Hamilton and Jack Larson are simply brilliant in it.

There are other things that come to my mind about this show, a crazy quilt of thoughts and images. Lois (Noel Neil) looks great and actually gets to wear a few different outfits for once including a sweater with a curious emblem that wouldn’t be out of place on Flash Gordon.  Then there’s Superman with his super hearing not being able to tell that the Wrecker (on a recording played over the phone) has the same voice as Crane of the steamship company (William Forrest) even though it’s pretty obvious. In the carnival scene Clark’s ego gets in the way and he breaks the bell at the 'test your strength' booth (obviously Lois’ crack that if he was Superman she was “Queen of the May” got to him a bit). He then is seen by himself having a go at the ring toss a game (and misses!!!!!). A couple of interesting faces in the cast are long-time character actor Denver Pyle as Hatch, who rigs the planes and is then bumped off, and Pierre Watkin, who played Perry White in the Kirk Alyn serials, as one of the transportation magnates. Oddly, Royale Cole’s script has Henderson, usually very formal, calling the Daily Planet staff by their first names (odd to hear him address the editor as Perry).

Most important though is the fact that as things turn out the much maligned, verbally abused Jimmy had it right from the beginning. Crane was the Wrecker.

I’d like to think Perry apologized and gave him a raise but somehow I rather doubt it.

June 2006

SUPERMAN IN EXILE

By Bruce Dettman

A close relative of mine designs security systems for nuclear power plants, admittedly a somewhat stressful and demanding occupation given the state of the world. On one occasion a few years ago he allowed me to accompany him to one of these plants for a quick look-see. I didn’t really get all that much of a chance to observe things given the degree of security, but I was thoroughly frisked and allowed inside with an admittance badge about the size of Wyoming pinned to my chest. This tour was a nice gesture on the part of my relative—it took him several weeks to arrange, even given his exalted position with the nuclear folks. I’m quite certain that he would have looked decidedly askance at me had he known that I while I was taking the walkthrough of the innards of this technological marvel and nodding my head as if I were listening to every word, I was actually thinking of Superman coming to the rescue of an out of control nuclear pile in the 1953 episode Superman In Exile. Yep, there was this very serious guy in a kind of fatigue-green jump suit pointing out this or that control panel to me and all the time my mind’s eye was seeing Superman at Project X (which looks strangely like the prison complex from Five Minutes to Doom) battling to insert the tube into its proper niche and neutralize a possible chain reaction in the exciting opening scenes from this particular second year show.

This very serious entry was certainly ahead of its time. While there were big screen films and TV episodes that dealt with the dangers of atomic explosions and the possibility of nuclear devastation (On The Beach, Failsafe, Twilight Zone, etc.) very few people were thinking or writing about meltdowns from  nuclear power plants, not for several years anyway. It took the 1970s blockbuster hit The China Syndrome—not to mention a little real life incident called Chernobyl—to bring the possibilities of such a cataclysmic scenario to the general public’s attention. One line in particular that Superman delivers, after realizing the extent of his contamination, is still as relevant today as it was fifty years ago. “But it’s new, isn’t it?” he asks soberly. “You haven’t quite figured out how to handle it?”

This was 1952 though and the writers and special effects guys were a bit limited  budget-wise on what they could show. Still, Si Simonson and his crew did a pretty good job. The sputtering, flame vomiting, crackling reactor they came up with looked pretty darn dangerous, particularly to the kids then watching the show. I’m sure director Tommy Carr had to helm the scenes with Superman approaching the fire-belching monster pretty darn carefully or George Reeves might not have gotten involved and you could hardly blame him.

Anyway, Superman does indeed get involved and saves the day but at a high cost, total radiation poisoning. It doesn’t kill him, of course, but he’s got the stuff throughout his whole body and can’t therefore get close to others for risk of endangering them. Clark Kent has a similar problem.

This is a good show for Reeves. Lots of super angst for the actor to showboat and he does a good job of it given the restrictions of half hour formula TV. He’s earnest, vulnerable, and believable. You really feel for the Man of Steel and as a kid, even though I knew nothing of radioactivity (even though I begged my father for a family bomb shelter), I was pretty concerned for him and wondered how he was going to be his old self again.

He achieves this by flying through a lightning storm, a dubious solution on the part of writer Jackson Gillis, but who cares? Gillis also felt it necessary to toss a crime subplot into the proceedings which isn’t really necessary and highly forgettable, but the episode still is a winner and highly memorable, if nothing else for George Reeve’s fine and measured performance which for once made Superman a very vulnerable character. And isn’t it nice to know that when things get a bit hectic, he has a nice and cozy cabin in the mountains to get away to?

April 2006

DEFEAT OF SUPERMAN

by Bruce Dettman

Some moments resonate so deeply within our consciousness, both collective and individual, that they can never to be erased or diminished. Pearl Harbor, 1941, Dallas, 1963, September 11, 2001 are certainly dramatic evidence of this.  However, all such events are not culled from life’s true experiences but in special circumstances can be connected to the fragile tissue of fiction and make-believe. Anyone who grew up with the new invention of television remembers when Davy Crockett in the person of Fess Parker died at the Alamo. I still recall the horror of thinking one of my favorite characters had actually been killed and having my father--and later the Encyclopedia Britannica--confirm that yes, Crockett had indeed perished in battle. Years later I would meet the actor and tell him–as undoubtedly thousands had already done–how enormously this moment had affected me. In response, he mentioned that as originally filmed Crockett was seen actually falling from his wounds, but that producer Walt Disney rethought things and had him die off camera so as to spare the children of America.  Parker, by the way, was a wonderful host and gave me a tour of his winery near Santa Barbara. However, I must say, there was something almost surrealistic about having one of my boyhood heroes pour me a cup of coffee. The thought actually entered my head that at any minute Rod Serling would walk through the door and introduce a Twilight Zone episode. In any case, I probably would have felt the same way had George Reeves lived and I’d had the chance to meet him. Like everyone else, I mourned his loss when he died, but it was not the first time I lamented his mortality. Here, of course, we’re back to that thin line that can often separate fact from fiction.

Now I’m not sure if it was in the second season episode “The Defeat of Superman” that I first became familiar with Kryptonite. Perhaps I had run across it earlier in my comic book reading but somehow I don’t think so. The reason I question this is the profound and stomach-wrenching effect the show had on me when I saw it for the first time. It was bad enough that in the earlier “Crime Wave” I had thought for a few moments that someone had found out a way to hurt Superman, but as it turned out his supposed vulnerability to a room of electrical sparks was a ruse on the Man of Steel’s part to trick and capture the bad guys. But this was different. In Jackson Gillis’ script criminal kingpin Happy J. King (Peter Mamakos) hires eccentric scientist Professor Meldini (the gloriously overacting Maurice Cass) to probe for weaknesses in Superman. Apparently by this time it’s common knowledge that Superman’s home turf is the extinct planet Krypton although I’m not certain how even Superman would know this unless his real parents included an explanatory note in the missile that brought him to earth. With this in mind and with some scientific flim-flam bantered about, Meldini rigs up an experiment to see if his theory that kryptonite can harm Superman is correct. Photographing his reaction to being shot by a kryptonite bullet (at 360 Warehouse Street, to be exact) confirms this so he goes on to make up a batch of synthetic Kryptonite with the intention of luring Superman to his lair. By this time Jimmy and Lois are in the thick of things and are captured by King. Superman finds this out and shows up to rescue his two friends but the tables are quickly turned on him when he is exposed to the kryptonite brick. I still recall as a kid my stomach caving in when Superman drops to the ground like a lead weight. Being a child and not able to rationalize that I was watching a popular TV show and there was no way the hero was going to be killed off I was completely terrified that my hero was actually facing death. Through nearly half a century I can still hear Lois shouting to Jimmy that his [Superman’s] breathing has become labored. I don’t know if I began to cry at this point but I do know that my own breathing began to slow down as I stared in wide-eyed disbelief. This couldn’t be happening!!!!! But then Jimmy made sense out of Superman’s weak-voiced reference to lead and before you knew it he was back on his feet smashing in doors and launching the deadly metal into space (a byproduct of this causing the automobile crash and death of King and associates)

Noel Neill and Jack Larsen as Lois and Jimmy are not only loyal and resourceful in this episode but give great performances, particularly Ms. Neill. She’s fairly antagonistic towards Clark at the beginning of the show, even being unethical enough to tear up his mail to prevent his participation in things. Later she gets ruffled when one of the crooks suggests that she’s practically Superman’s girlfriend.

“I am not!!!” she nearly shrieks.

Methinks the lady protests too much.

I also like the fact that prior to Superman’s arrival when she thinks that he might be spared contact with Kryptonite but that Jimmy and she might perish, she is anything but pleased. Martyrdom is nice but better worn by someone else even if it means Superman might be challenged. Lois is human and quite obviously not interested in dying.

Later, of course, when Superman is really in trouble the waterworks get turned on and she is disconsolate, even frantic.

It’s my favorite Noel Neill performance in the series, and I think Jack is great too.

Check and double check. Mr. King.

THE CLOWN WHO CRIED

By Bruce Dettman

It took me a long time to realize that I was not alone in hating clowns. Stephen King, for instance, would eventually let his readers know how he viewed them in his epic horror novel It, but that was a long time in the future. Back when I was a kid, grown-ups took it for granted that you loved clowns the way you loved Oreos, Silly Putty, Mattel Fanner 50s, PEZ, long summer days, and yes, Superman. Even if you secretly wanted to keep your distance from these characters, whose exaggerated, multi-colored features and limbs often made them seem more grotesque and sinister than amusing, it wasn’t easy because they seemed to be everywhere. There was Clarabell from the Howdy Doody show, assorted variations on programs like Super Circus, internationally famous clowns such as Emmett Kelly and of course Bozo whose copyrighted likeness was utilized by dozens of kiddie show hosts across the nation. My parents once gave me a boxed set of .78 records called “Bozo Under The Sea” which came with a large storybook. To keep Bozo breathing when he was submerged you had to turn the page each time you heard the sound of bubbles. Needless to say, there were numerous occasions when I’d refuse to touch the page to see what would happen, but much to my dismay Bozo always managed to survive.

I suppose this is why the episode The Clown That Cried initially so appealed to me since one of the two clowns involved (Crackers played by Peter Brocco) turned out to be a pretty nasty character, the first time, I imagine, I had seen a bad guy clown. I suppose I felt a bit vindicated by this. The other good clown is Rollo, portrayed by William Wayne. Now this gets a bit confusing because although the plot has Crackers knocking out Rollo and assuming his identity, the producers of the show kept using Wayne in his makeup now impersonating Brocco. I guess Brocco with his totally different facial structure looked too different to be palmed off as Rollo (Superman’s X-Ray vision apparently doesn’t work through makeup).

The background plot has the Daily Planet Staff putting on a telethon to raise money for a kid’s camp--given the entertainment they’ve recruited I can understand why it was a hard sell. Rollo has been asked to participate which, as good clown, he is more than happy to do. Bad clown Crackers, however, gets wind of this and decides to steal the funds raised. Superman finally shows up to make an appeal for donations, gets wind of the scheme and saves Rollo who is in a rooftop fight with Crackers.

A word about a couple of the cast members. Peter Brocco made a few other appearances on TAOS, but I will always remember him most vividly as Krog one of Commando Cody’s lunar nemesis in the cliffhanger Radar Men From the Moon where it was his frustrating job to try and invade the earth aided only by two petty crooks (including the Lone Ranger’s Clayton Moore).  Mickey Simpson, who played Hercules, was a beefy character actor, invariably cast as a burly henchman, whose on-screen credentials included fighting against the Earps at the OK Corral in John Ford’s My Darling Clementine to TV roles in shows like The Rifleman. He was also a regular on the syndicated series Captain David Grief that about five people in the entire world ever saw but which for some reason I recall liking. In his pre-acting days Simpson had been the boxing champion of New York State and once did a stint as Claudette Colbert’s chauffeur. As a child I recall being afraid that Hercules might actually be a match for Superman but he lasted one head thump.

Just for the record, my feelings about clowns haven’t changed, a fact attested to by the reality that late one night a few years back, when I was alone in a train station, a very drunk guy in clown suit pretended to be stalking me. Fortunately the train showed up in the nick of time. I have to admit, I was awfully glad to see it.

October 2005

The Clown Who Cried photo courtesy of Lou Koza

Perry White’s Scoop

by Bruce Dettman

While strong debate might exist as to which actress was the best Lois Lane or even who made the most effective Superman (yes, sacrilegious as it might be, there really are people who prefer Christopher Reeve and even Kirk Alyn to George Reeves) you would get few arguments, at least among Baby Boomers, as to who was the most memorable Perry White. While assorted actors including Pierre Watkin, Jackie Copper and Lane Smith have portrayed the intrepid editor of the Daly Planet, some with great skill, it is really only John Hamilton who is cemented in the public’s mind as the feisty, frustrated, bombastic and cigar-chewing White. I have to admit from the start that I am an unabashed giant fan of Hamilton’s performance, particularly when Jack Larson (as Jimmy) and he are locking verbal horns. What makes these confrontations so noteworthy and effective (not to mention pretty darn funny on occasion) is that there is also a sense, beneath the surface rancor, that White is actually quite fond of Jimmy, the whole staff, for that matter. To be quite honest, I’m often disappointed when we leave his office. There’s just never enough Perry White in most episodes to suit me, but there are a few exceptions and this one happens to be my favorite (with The Evil Three running a close second).

For one thing, it gets off to a slam-bang start with the guy in the deep sea diving uniform getting plugged by a gunman from a car parked across the street from the Planet. As a kid I found this a fascinating visual concept. Later, when Superman also dons undersea gear in a successful attempt to lure out the same assassin and we see him tear off the canvas outer clothing to reveal his super duds I recall thinking it was one of the coolest scenes I had ever seen.

The killing of the diver creates a chance for White, who’s been somewhat critical of his reporting staff of late, to return to his roots as an investigative reporter and solve the mystery. This sets up a lot of great scenes and dialog between Jimmy, Lois, Clark and the aging editor as they pile up the clues.  Structurally, I think this is one of the best-constructed episodes of the entire run with sharp dialog by Roy Hamilton and tight directing by George Blair. There’s humor too. I particularly like the scene where Perry decides to be the one to put on the diving suit and take his chances with the killer downstairs. Clark doesn’t think much of the idea and secretly crushes the helmet making it unusable. “I can’t get that thing over my head”, White hollers. “Oh, I don’t know” Jimmy says through a grin. Clark thinks this is pretty funny too.

I also enjoy the scene where Clark and White visit a downtown gym. There they are met by counterfeiters Steve Pendelton and  Robert Wilke (who in his long career would play in everything from The Cat Man of Paris, to bits in Roy Rogers’ westerns, to Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea and perhaps most memorably, the target of James Colburn’s switchblade in The Magnificent Seven) who suggests Clark take a shot at the heavy bag. Clark does just this and pulverizes the thing. “Guess I sometimes don’t know my own strength” he explains. Now why Clark did this is anyone’s guess. He did something similar in Beware the Wrecker when swinging a mallet in a strength contest he destroyed the bell at the carnival. Guess there were just times when he couldn’t resist showing off a bit.  Anyway, the action continues with the Perry being saved from a locked steam cabinet and the whole group plus Jimmy nearly burned to death in a parked railway car. Superman shows up to send Wilke to dreamland and to blow out the flames and even Jimmy gets into the action with a well-delivered right cross to Jan Aruan’s mug.

This episode showcases some good detective work, lots of great musical queues, a clever script, some exciting Superman moments but most significantly it offers one of the best chances to watch John Hamilton at work. Because of this, I suppose, Perry White’s Scoop will always remain a great favorite of mine.

“And don’t call me Chief!”

SIDE NOTE: Like a lot of fifties families, it was an unwritten law that we all sit down each night at the kitchen table and break bread together (in the case of my brother and I it was certainly preferable to breaking each other’s skulls). However, the one exception was the night TAOS was aired. On this evening I was allowed to sit in front of the TV to watch the show, usually wearing the nifty Superman suit my parents had fashioned for me one Halloween. I thought this was pretty nice of them since during scenes like the one described above, I often got carried away with the action on the screen and would invariably topple over my glass sending a mini tidal wave of milk into my mother’s treasured beige carpet.

August 2005

FIVE MINUTES TO DOOM

 by Bruce Dettman

Funny, no matter how old I get, when I see George Reeves as Superman I always view him as older, wiser and more mature than yours truly, even though I am presently ten years older than Reeves was at the time of his death. This is hardly the case with other actors when they have donned the Superman outfit. Dean Cain always looked to me as if he just got his driver’s license and was probably still battling acne, and while I liked and respected Christopher Reeve, I always thought of him as just a few years out of college and probably still paying back his student loan. So as I sat down to watch Five Minutes To Doom, the premiere episode of the second season and the first installment produced by Whitney Ellsworth and now with Noel Neil as Lois rather than the first season’s Phyllis Coates, I once again fell under Reeve’s impressively magnetic and lofty spell. Thematically this episode, dealing with Superman’s efforts to prove an imprisoned man innocent of a murder he has been framed for, is thankfully light years away from the later color episodes with their silly plots and buffoonish villains. This is gritty, no-nonsense and serious stuff.  The innocent man is the great Dabbs Greer who in my opinion gives one of the best acting jobs ever seen on TAOS. Jean Willes, playing the bad guy’s ethical secretary, was featured with Greer in the classic Invasion of the Body Snatchers (1956) although they shared no scenes. In her long career, this sexy, cat-eyed brunette played opposite everyone from Lucille Ball to the Three Stooges. Dale Van Sickel is also in the cast as the foreman who tangles with Greer and is murdered. Van Sickel was one of the movie’s greatest stuntmen. Mostly working at Republic alongside fellow athletic stand-ins Dave Sharpe and Tom Steele, he occasionally put on a costume hero’s outfit such as when took over the action stuff for Dick Pursell in Captain America. He even played the Frankenstein Monster once. Another familiar face is John Kellogg, a fine character actor, who also appeared in “The Big Squeeze” and “Terror By Night” on TAOS. He did lots of films and TV work although I’ll always remember him most vividly as Jack Chandler on the Peyton Place TV series and for catching a Robert Mitchum right cross in the great film noir classic Out of the Past.

As I mentioned, it’s a great and I think under-rated episode. Reeves was never better or more believable as Superman while Jack Larson has great moments with John Hamilton (and attempting to sell a vacuum cleaner).  And even though I know Superman will ultimately save Dabbs, I can never watch the episode without feeling some of the excitement I did as a boy when time is beginning to wear out. Ok, it’s hard not to ask Lois if she still sees no resemblance between Clark and Superman when the former loses his glasses. And I have never figured out why it takes the Man of Steel a whole hour to fly a few hundred miles to the state prison, but these minor issues aside this is a consistently well written, directed and acted show.

Photo courtesy of Jim Nolt (that's Jim and Dabbs!)

April 2005

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