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First and foremost, I want to apologize, especially to any new or occasional readers, for the dearth of new content on this blog in recent months.  Regular readers probably know it already, but there are two main reasons:  1) My selfish preference for a roof over my head and regular meals keeps me devoted to my day job, and 2) The limited time that leaves for blogging has increasingly been channeled into Marvel University.  I’m not saying it’s all about the numbers…but on a good day, the readership at MU is about five times that of BOF, so it seems silly not to reach the larger one.  I completely understand if those with a less-than-obsessive interest in my blather and/or Marvel Comics choose not to wade through our weekly analysis of a month’s worth of their Bronze-Age output, but I also write some stand-alone articles, the most recent and accessible of which is this.

In terms of actual news, uppermost in my mind is the fact that my daughter, Alexandra—whose own writing has occasionally graced this blog to a warm response—has the lead role in a movie!  Okay, yes, it’s a little indie short (shot in Frederick, Maryland) called My Second First Step that is still in post-production, and I have no idea how or when it will become accessible to the great unwashed masses.  In fact, you may be in a position to affect that outcome, since the filmmakers have launched a campaign on Kickstarter to raise money for post-production and the shooting of the companion piece, inadequate, in which her character will have a cameo.  The clock is ticking on this one, alas; if they don’t receive pledges for the required $4,000 by Saturday, April 13, then the fundraising effort collapses (but not the films).  Check out the infectiously scored teaser here.

With no books or articles to research, I’ve been a little less aggressive about Matheson news, but MGM—having rescued the rights from Eddie Murphy Development Hell at Universal—is going to be doing a remake of The Incredible Shrinking Man, written by Richard and his son R.C. (or, as they put it, “Richard Matheson Jr.”), who will co-produce as part of the Matheson Entertainment deal.  Richard says the story is still relevant and calls it an “existential action movie.”  My response to such things, especially with this long-in-limbo property, is usually to yawn and say, “I’ll believe it when I see it.”  But if nothing else, this project has been getting lots of ink; I’ve gotten dozens of hits on my Matheson Google Alert.  So it’s great to see some attention being paid, and great to think that Richard will be back in the screenwriting saddle again…IF it happens.  Fingers crossed.

I’ve been trying to keep my hand in on the print side of things, and I am proud to report that the conclusion of my two-part article on 007’s nemesis, Ernst Stavro Blofeld, is in the current issue of Cinema Retro (Vol. 9 #25; Winter 2013); meanwhile, the good folks at Filmfax were generous enough to stretch my reprinted interview with the late Ray Bradbury over three issues, ending in #133 (Spring 2013).  And, proving that I still occasionally go to current films, I saw and enjoyed Skyfall, Django Unchained, Lincoln, and part one of The Hobbit with various family members.  I missed the Bond tribute from this year’s Oscars, but saw most of the major awards, and found it interesting that no film(s) made a major sweep this year; I was surprised that Spielberg didn’t get Best Director, yet felt that if Lincoln were going to receive one major award, it got the right one.

Last, but far from least, I would like to stress that even if new posts are few and far between for the immediate future, this blog can still serve as a good source of information and entertainment.  I may be taking concrete steps to make it more user-friendly in that respect in the days ahead, yet even now, for example, clicking on the B100 tab at the top of the page not only takes you to my list of favorite films (“Bradley’s Hundred”), but also gives you links to capsule reviews of each film.  And aside from the obvious subjects such as Matheson, Bond, and Marvel, you can search the site for various…

  • stars (Humphrey Bogart, Clint Eastwood, Ingrid Pitt)
  • studios (AIP, Amicus, Hammer, Toho, Universal)
  • filmmakers (Jack Arnold, Mario Bava, Roger Corman, Terence Fisher, Freddie Francis, John Frankenheimer, Ray Harryhausen, Alfred Hitchcock, Akira Kurosawa)
  • writers (Charles Beaumont, Robert Bloch, Bradbury, Raymond Chandler, George Clayton Johnson, Nigel Kneale, Elmore Leonard, William F. Nolan, Jerry Sohl, Elleston Trevor [aka Adam Hall])

So dip in, click away, and see what suits your fancy; see you on campus!

Bradley out.

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Lucky ’13?

William Schoell, whose genre-film books The Nightmare Never Ends and Stay out of the Shower are in my personal reference library, has honored me with a brief but very generous review of my magnum opus on his Great Old Movies blog.  Among other things, he notes that “Even if you’re not as enthusiastic about Matheson’s work as Bradley is—and he doesn’t rave about everything—you”ll find this book a good, entertaining and noteworthy film study.”  Bill, 2012 had more than its fair share of unpleasant surprises, but this is the very nicest kind to help get 2013 off to a better start; sincerest thanks.

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Be Our Guest

Lately, I seem to spend as much time editing other people’s posts as I do writing my own—not that I’m complaining, mind you, since I basically brought it upon myself. Some months ago, I invited my daughter, Alexandra, and her godfather, Gilbert Colon, to contribute guest posts to this site, knowing that they both love to write, not surprisingly share many of my interests, and lack the forums of their own blogs, like those of Simon Drax (currently on hiatus but overflowing with nutritious backlog) or the mighty Turafish. The fruits of Alexandra’s labors have already started to appear here, with the first two installments of her well-received “Chicks in Action Flicks” series, which I am proud to say required but the barest of cosmetic changes by Your Humble Correspondent.

After mulling over possible topics for some time, Gilbert settled on a subject that has long fascinated both of us, a phenomenon that—as far as we know—doesn’t have a formal name. It’s that subgenre of the biopic in which the protagonist is a historical artist of some kind, usually a writer, but instead of being a more or less straightforward account of his life, the film has him actually enter, interact with, or prefigure his own artistic creations. Gilbert was thinking in particular of this year’s The Raven, in which Edgar Allan Poe (John Cusack) is recruited to trace a serial killer inspired by his own stories, but amusingly, a much earlier precedent is the rock-bottom exploitationer The Spectre of Edgar Allan Poe (1974), starring a perennial BOF bête noire, Robert Walker, Jr.

“Huzzah,” says I, “make it so,” and sent him off on his merry way to put pen to paper…but a funny thing happened on the way to the blog. First, he put it on the back burner to write his nice article on Person of Interest for SF Signal (to which I believe Drax gets the credit for steering him), where he had already rhapsodized about Douglas Trumbull and, God bless him, gotten further exposure for his interview with me regarding Richard Matheson on Screen. I was honored to do a little modest blue-penciling on all of those, as well as his long-awaited biopic piece…which, since much of its content was decidedly fantastique, he then decided—with my blessing, naturlich—to pitch to SF Signal, where it has now appeared..

So I’m still waiting for my guest post from Gil, but that’s fine. The longer I wait, the more exposure my little buddy gets (on a real website, yet), which was sort of the idea in the first place. You go, boy!

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A GUEST POST BY ALEXANDRA BRADLEY

Part II: Why Ellen Ripley is the cat’s pajamas, and other stories

 

 

So…“Ripley, you say?  Tell me more.”  (See Part I here.)

 

Well, aside from the obvious factor that Alien is one of the most respected movies ever made and most of the other aforementioned action/sci-fi films featuring female action protagonists are….not….there are subtle but key differences between the leading ladies that set them miles apart from one another in terms of how much I consider them positive steps forward for women.  And for my money, the most pervasive of these is something rather invisible to the viewer:  the fact that Ellen Ripley was never supposed to be an “Ellen” at all, but rather a man.

 

Now I know that sounds like a reason for me to be the opposite of excited about this character, and I understand why you would think that.  After all, why wouldn’t I want a character designed from the ground up to be a woman who still stood on her own?  Well, that would be excellent, and if I find a great example, I will absolutely let you know.  But especially considering that this is an older movie [Ahem.  ---BOF], the filmmakers’ ability to remain true to the character even after turning the he into a she is quite remarkable.

 

The reason why this gender swap actually makes her such a great female role model is not that she becomes an overly masculine character (because that is obnoxious in a totally different way), but that her gender does not matter at all.  Pretty much every detail about her character is gender neutral, and so she is stripped of all the stereotypes and overcompensations we heap on any character written explicitly to be a badass female action hero.  She does not need to go to great lengths to prove herself as a badass, she does not need to be dressed in a skin-tight leather suit to show how “fit” she is, she does not need to be seduced by the man she trusts so much only to find out that he’s working for the enemy…no, none of these things is necessary because she just IS who she is.

 

As a matter of fact, the examples I extracted of why Ripley is such a great feminist character come just as much from what she does not do or have done to her as from what does happen. Or, to put it in a different light, it is in how much she is not really any different from any other crew member on board the Nostromo.

 

Walking into the film, there is not even any real reason to believe she is going to be the one who survives.  We all consider that a given now, but at the time it came out, I would bet that it was kind of a surprise.  As a relative unknown, she isn’t first-billed.  Meanwhile, Tom Skerritt is the captain and the first-billed, so, had I not been about 7 years old when I first saw it and incapable of making those kinds of logical assessments, I would have put my money on him.  She’s also not the only female on board, so she does not stick out as an anomaly and her presence as a female does not require any explanation.  We immediately accept it as fact that in the 22nd century, women are considered pretty capable to do these kinds of jobs, just as men are.  As a matter of fact, everyone in the crew is pretty much just in it for themselves; they are characters written for the sake of being characters, and not for the sake of making some big statement about the coexistence of whites and blacks, males and females, lions and sheep….you get the picture.  Add in the fact that most of the actors are also much older than your average sci-fi/action hero, and you get a pretty perfect formula for realistic characters instead of idiotic young hot-shots driving us all crazy.  But I digress…forgive me; I just love this film so much.

 

There are so many examples of things that they could have done wrong with this character but never did that it is hard for me to list them all.  Yet I must try, so here are just a few:  first and foremost, she is not just dumb, sensitive, and emotionally fragile every time something goes wrong.  In fact, she fights back against her colleagues when they want to bring Kane back on the ship in complete disregard of her very valid concerns about contamination and the unknown.  She is not just callous about it, as it’s never an easy call to insist upon leaving a crew member behind, but she is practical, rational, and, yes, struggling a bit with the decision.

 

She is also respected and taken seriously by the majority of her colleagues, or at least to the degree that any of them take one another seriously.  She has legitimate professional conversations and opinions that are taken into consideration just like anyone else’s.  This may seem like a small thing, but subtle does not equal unimportant.  This is also reflected in a different way later on when Ash starts to have his meltdown.  The filmmakers are not at all shy about letting a female character get beaten up, which is a pretty bold decision.  Again, she is treated as an equal member of the crew, right down to how much she is punched in the face when someone gets out of control.

 

Another thing that I feel very adamantly about is that badass female characters are still realistic, and this is another example of something they did not mess up with Ripley.  She gets scared and nervous.  Everyone on the entire ship gets scared and nervous (except for Ash but, well, you know…).  There is no reason for her just to melt down in tears every time something happens, nor is there any reason for her to be verging on sociopathic in her inability to show empathy or emotion.  She displays the perfect balance for any action hero—male or female—between anxiety and strength.  And yes, that does mean she loses it a few times (such as when she is speaking to Mother and finally hears the ship say that the crew is viewed as expendable).  Wouldn’t you?  I know I would, and I know most men would, too.

 

And finally, perhaps my favorite way in which they did not ruin Ripley was by resisting the urge to make her a hyper-sexualized character or hyper-feminine character visually.  There is basically nothing sexy about how they presented this character—she’s dressed in one of the ugliest uniforms ever, covered in true grit for most of the movie, and gets sweaty and gross like any real person would.  Yet that’s not to say that Ripley is not still sexy to some (most?) people, because a line of fan boys (and girls) that could probably wrap around the Earth a few times would rightfully argue that point with me…and I would agree with them.  The point is that there is simply no concerted effort to build up her sexual appeal; she just is an attractive woman, and the fact that she gets out there and gets the job done with such competence probably doesn’t hurt.

 

And yes, she is in her underwear (gasp!) at several points during the film, and sometimes for a substantial amount of time.  But I would be more annoyed if she wasn’t.  It is established right from the get-go that they all go into hyper-sleep in their skivvies.  So why would she be any different just because she’s a female?  Even the final scene of the film in the escape pod is perfectly reasonable considering the circumstances and the flow of the film.  We are supposed to be calming down with her and becoming vulnerable with her before the final blowout.  We would feel off, as an audience, if she was fully dressed…all by herself in an escape pod…about to go into hyper-sleep.  It just wouldn’t make any sense, and we would immediately know (as a first-time audience) that the show wasn’t over.  I have no problem with putting a female character in her skivvies for the greater purpose of the film—only when it’s gratuitous do we have an issue.

 

Now, to get back to reality for a second:  did they actually go out of their way to make this character an amazing feminist role model?  Hell no.  They made the decision to cast Ripley as a female because they wanted to break up the male-dominated genre and bring in more viewers, which means selling more tickets and, you guessed it, making more money.  But, once again, that is exactly how her character became so great.  It seems to be in the act of deliberately making a character female that we run into trouble, and so having it be little more than an afterthought is actually the perfect scenario.  Gender bias never really came into play until later on in the series, when the character had already been largely developed.

 

On that note, you can catch a glimpse of what might have been when you look at the writing of the character Lambert, whom I consider a much more traditionally “female” character.  She’s still pretty great, because this is still an excellent movie in every other respect in addition to Ripley, but she meets your expectations of a female character in an otherwise masculine world.  She doesn’t do a whole lot in comparison to everyone else to help get rid of the alien, gets extremely emotional at various points in the film, wants just to leave rather than fight it, and becomes paralyzed and hysterical with fear when the alien shows up at the end.  Now, that’s not to say that those aren’t very realistic things that some people would absolutely do in response to such a situation.  However, had she been the only female on board (as she originally was supposed to be), it would have been a really obviously gendered choice to have her be the only one who does all of those things.  Let’s be frank:  in real life, women are not the only people to behave like that, and a large proportion of women would not behave like that either.  Plus, I have read that, apparently, Veronica Cartwright rather agreed with my analysis of her character, though she did ultimately take the part because they talked her into it, so I can’t be that far off.  [And, that said, performed her high-strung role brilliantly.  –BOF]

 

This ability to conserve the purest form of the character rather than allowing her to fall into either heavily gendered direction is thanks in large part to the deft hand of Ridley Scott’s direction and the rest of the behind-the-scenes folks responsible for the original Alien film, as unfortunately we progressively lose this element of Ripley’s character as the series goes on.  But that’s another story for another day.  For now, suffice to say that this is my rationale for believing that Ellen Ripley is the greatest female action hero of all time.  Agree or disagree with me as you will, because this is just one woman’s opinion, but I hope that my analysis and opinion has been informative or eye-opening for at least some of you, and that you may go forth to new action/sci-fi films with a bright, shiny new perspective on female characters in tow.

 

If you like what you see here, look for my next post on Daddy BOF’s site in the near (but not too near) future, this time looking at the next stage of Ripley’s progression in Part III: Where Alexandra laments the immense popularity of Aliens.

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Small World 9/12/12

When Paul Stuve, my esteemed co-editor on The Richard Matheson Companion (aka The Twilight and Other Zones), was recently contacted by a gentleman seeking information on Matheson’s literary circle, known as the Group, Paul wisely directed him to Christopher Conlon‘s superb Group overview, “Southern California Sorcerers,” and also asked me to weigh in. Lo and behold, said gentleman turned out to be none other than Pierre Comtois, who is—among other things—the author of Marvel Comics in the 1960s and …1970s, recently commended to me by Marvel University ramrod Peter Enfantino. Pierre wanted Group-related material for Fungi, “the Literary Magazine of Fantasy and the Supernatural,” and I was only too happy to oblige with my profiles of Group members George Clayton Johnson, William F. Nolan, and Jerry Sohl…but how bizarre is it to stumble across someone who shares so many of my obsessions?

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Publication Alert 8/25/12

As promised, Filmfax has paid tribute to Ray Bradbury by making my career-spanning interview—which originally ran in their late, lamented sister publication, Outré, in 1995—the cover story in the current issue (#131, Summer 2012).  They’ve even borrowed the title and some snippets from my recent post on his passing, “Someone Wonderful This Way Came”; illustrated the piece with numerous behind-the-scenes photos, as well as movie stills and vintage magazine covers; and added a bonus interview with erstwhile managing editor James J.J. Wilson on The Martian Chronicles.  Editor/publisher Michael Stein has generously chosen to run my interview in multiple parts, in order to give Ray the space he deserves, and for you lucky readers, my blather is at a minimum for just that reason.

Thanks, Mike.

Speaking of Ray, if you haven’t done so already, you should check out all the wonderment my esteemed Marvel University colleague, Jack Seabrook, is unleashing on a regular basis over at bare•bones.  Among other things, he’s reviewing the entire canon of Alfred Hitchcock Presents and its hour-long successor, but rather than cover them in a traditional chronological format, as we are at MU, he’s grouping his posts by collaborators (e.g., Robert Bloch, William Shatner), the latest of whom is—you guessed it—Ray.  Since he’s just covered the second of seven Bradbury-related episodes, “And So Died Riabouchinska,” there’s still time for you to get in on the ground floor…even if you’ll have some catching up to do on his Batman coverage with Peter Enfantino.

Thanks, Jack.

A friend and former GoodTimes colleague who once worked for Matheson’s agent kindly sent a copy of “The Science Fiction Issue” of The New Yorker (whose cover dates of June 4 & 11 oddly encompass both my birthday and the day of Ray’s death).  Among the myriad of wonders therein is “Take Me Home,” a warm, wistful essay in which Ray writes about his boyhood in Waukegan, Illinois.  Although it’s not immediately clear whether  it was written specifically for this issue—the late Anthony Burgess’s piece on A Clockwork Orange certainly was not—both the tone and the title suggest that Ray had, in a sense, penned his own epitaph, which is not a bad thing to be able to do, and it should go without saying that nobody could do it more eloquently than he did.

Thanks, Anne.

Finally, on a non-Bradbury-related note, I wanted to express the pride I feel at the strong show of support for Alexandra’s first guest post, in which she has again surpassed even my expectations.

Thanks, honey.

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Ten years ago today, my father died.  In his honor, I present the eulogy I delivered at his memorial service.

I have a running joke with my closest friend, Gilbert, who is also my daughter’s godfather, about New York being His City.  I’m not sure, but I think it originally started immediately after September 11th, when he angrily asked, “How dare they do this to MY City?”  He’s lived and worked there for many years, and loves it passionately, but long before it was Gilbert’s City, or indeed before there ever was a Gilbert, it was Dad’s City.  He lived and worked there for years, too, and while he had moved to Easton by the time I came along, I doubt he ever considered himself as anything but A Somewhat Displaced New Yorker.  (I, on the other hand, despite working there for seventeen years and even a brief token residence in Brooklyn, do not presume to call myself anything other than a Connecticutian.)  I traveled to New York with my parents and various other friends and relations countless times over the years, but what I most remember were the trips when it was just the two of us, after my older brothers had discovered girls or gone off to college or whatever else took them away from the old homestead.  And I focus on these not only because they are such an immediate association when I look back over “life with Father,” but also because they so perfectly represent what he was to me while I was growing up.

A lot of people commented on Saturday [during the calling hours] about that great photo of Dad from my brother Drew’s wedding, holding forth on some subject or other and looking terribly distinguished with a drink in his hand.  That’s the Dad who made me his partner in crime—if you can call it a crime to spend some time and money in the greatest city in the world—impeccably dressed in his three-piece suit and, as often as not, brandishing a perfectly-furled bumbershoot.  I was only ten when he came back from a hiking trip to Colorado with that beard, and I never saw him without it again.  In addition to resulting in a good number of the endless nicknames I used to call him, to which I will subject neither you nor his memory, it just added to that air of elegant erudition.  And Dad didn’t just look the part—he knew everything.  New York is not a city you can master in a week, but he knew how to get everywhere, and all the good restaurants and stores—he was like a god to me.  I can’t tell you how lucky I felt to have this guy as my mentor, protector, pal, and tour guide all rolled into one.  Perhaps sensing my future among the directionally challenged, he would sometimes stop me in the middle of Manhattan and say, “Okay, which way are we going?”  I’m proud to say I sometimes even got it right, and he also taught me the art of riding on the subway standing up without holding on.

I don’t think it’s too much of a blindingly original insight to say that a lot of people don’t fully appreciate what a good job their parents did—if indeed they ever do—until they become parents themselves, and one way in which I very consciously model myself after Dad in that department is in diligently introducing my daughter Alexandra to what I consider “The Good Stuff.”  Of course, half of what I consider “The Good Stuff” comes straight from my Dad anyway, so there’s a very clear through-line there, and even though she obviously won’t embrace everything her father offers up to her, I feel a very strong responsibility at least to lead the horse to water, as it were.  My Dad and I didn’t do a lot of those things that many fathers and sons do together, like fishing or going to baseball games, and I can’t say I have experienced a single second of regret over those omissions, but he certainly exposed me to a lot of culture and life lessons along the way, which wasn’t hard to do in a city as suffused with both of those things as New York is.

Dad felt in later years that I talked too much about movies, and since I know he’s not the only one who has held that opinion, I won’t argue the point, but I will say he had himself partly to blame.  Some of my very earliest memories are of being taken to current films that were probably way over my head, and yet made an indelible impression on me nonetheless, but what was really special was going to see older movies with Dad in New York, usually uptown at the Regency, and occasionally downtown at the Quad, both of which I presume are now long gone.  The most frequent reason for our little outings was for Dad to visit his dentist in the Chrysler Building; fortunately, the Chrysler Building is still standing, even if said dentist is not.  Dad blessed me with an early appreciation for W.C. Fields, Humphrey Bogart, and the Marx Brothers, and I enjoyed nothing more than sitting in the waiting room leafing through The New Yorker, back when it WAS The New Yorker (a Dad magazine if ever there was one), to see what gems were being revived that day.  Believe it or not, kids, this was way before the days of VCRs and cable television—especially in Easton, of all places—and many of these movies simply did not pop up on TV.  We saw stuff that I still consider rare, even in this era of DVDs and 500 channels.

And then, there was the food.  This period pre-dated Dad’s latter-day romance with sushi, and it’s a shame, because we would certainly have consumed our respective body weights in what we Bradleys call “dead fish.”  Of course, my body weight was a little less back then, but Dad always kept himself trim; I wish I had his discipline.  What we did have, “back in the day,” was smorgasbord.  I’m not talking about today’s all-you-can-eat-for-$8.95 generic buffets, but the real deal, elegantly arrayed on gigantic tables in authentic Scandinavian restaurants with names like, appropriately, the Stockholm and the Copenhagen.  On Saturday, I encountered one of dad’s colleagues, Dr. Peter Shimkin—I say “encountered” rather than “met,” because I probably met him when I was about four, although my memories of the event are understandably dim—and positively genuflected when I learned that it was he who had introduced my Dad to the Copenhagen.  Of course, Dad had his Gibson (before he stopped ordering them as “Gibsons,” after one too many waiters brought him a gimlet instead), and we always started with huge plates of shrimp, which they made us peel ourselves to discourage just such behavior, and after that it was all a delightful blur until we finished up with the Copenhagen’s amazing almond cookies.

Of course, they’re all gone now, just like Dad’s other favorite restaurant, Louise Jr., but by then he had discovered sushi, thank God.  His City has sure gone through a lot of changes.  I was always a big reader, and I remember one of our essential destinations was a place called Marlboro Books, which always seemed to have the best selection, again, back before Borders and the superstores.  He used to stand there with his bumbershoot and his briefcase, waiting so patiently while I tracked down whatever I was looking for—Edgar Rice Burroughs was my big obsession when I was about Alexandra’s age—and it was pretty rare that we didn’t come home with some new treasures in that briefcase.  And now Marlboro, too, is gone, and so is Dad, and yet he’s not, for I’m sure he’s somewhere, raising a glass in our direction, impeccable in his three-piece suit.  And even if he’s not, I know that a large part of anything anybody finds admirable or likable in me is just him in another form.  I know he didn’t believe in any kind of an afterlife, and yet I think it’s fair to say that he did have one, and that it’s in this very room right now.  I miss you, Dad.

Addendum:

I recently discovered links to two professional articles that Dad, a radiologist by trade, co-authored:  “Technique, Hazards, and Usefulness of Percutaneous Splenic Portography” (Journal of the American Medical Association, March 7, 1959, Vol. 169, No. 10) and “The Intrahepatic Vasculogram and Hepatogram in Cirrhosis Following Percutaneous Splenic Injection” (Radiology, August 1958).  As a layman, I may not be able to understand them, but it’s nice to know that he lives on in another way as well.

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Epitomizing the expression “one-two punch,” Rex’s nominal owner, Madame BOF’s middle-school friend Diane Robinson, died today of a heart attack at 49, making our permanent custodianship of Foster Rat #3 official.  Her decades of health problems–encompassing some 70 allergies (at least half of them to various foods, which made dining out with her a unique experience), legal blindness, diabetes and, most recently, a failed kidney transplant–are well beyond the scope of this post, if not the entire blog.  But after pronouncing poor Mina’s death sentence yesterday, we received word that Diane, too, was on her last legs, and before doing our best to welcome my Mom for her birthday dinner, we decided to visit Diane at Danbury Hospital, where my daughter was born; we’re certainly glad we did.

Convinced that the bed and then the chair provided in her room were exacerbating her allergies, the increasingly irrational Diane (who tended toward the misanthropic and paranoid at the best of times) insisted on having the bed removed and inhabiting the floor.  When we arrived, she had recently received the Last Rites from the hospital chaplain and was surrounded by a semicircle of her long-suffering parents–whom she constantly harangued and accused of trying to browbeat her–sister, niece, and nephew.  Diane believed that if she could get certain foods they did not provide, she might get strong enough to have her catheter replaced and resume dialysis, so before leaving, we ran to the supermarket and brought back what she’d asked for, but obviously by today, her poor tortured body had simply had enough and gave up.

As long as I can remember, Diane (whom I met when Madame BOF and I became friends in high school) had had a series of rodents as pets, and after the last one died of cancer, she naturally wanted to do what she always did, and get another one right away.  My wife advised against it, since at that point she was in between increasingly frequent periods of hospitalization, but Diane’s tears persuaded Loreen, who would do anything for a friend, not only to take her to the pet store to buy Rex (earmarked as snake food), but also to board him until the time was right for him to go “home,” which it clearly never was.  For weeks, we had believed that Mina’s irregular eating was due at least in part to Rex’s presence increasing her sister’s innate aggression, making Lucy intimidate her, and were desperate to relieve ourselves of the otherwise inoffensive creature, but now that the causes of Mina’s problems are irrelevant, it no longer matters.

Final score:  Rats 1, People/Cats/Snakes 0.

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Comme d’habitude, Turner Classic Movies will salute—pun intended—the sacrifice and bravery of our fighting men and women with its annual 48-hour Memorial Day weekend war-movie marathon, but this year, without even consulting me, they have scheduled six of my favorite films ever (not just war movies, mind you, but movies in general, as demonstrated by the fact that together they constitute 6% of the B100), back to back, for more than sixteen hours of World War II wonderment on Monday. Personally, I can think of no better way to spend the day, but I’ll be remembering in my own way with a visit to Alexandra in Washington, D.C., in the company of the two Mrs. Bradleys; luckily, I own all of these movies, and am already half-way through a pre-emptive strike with The Guns of Navarone. For those of you lucky enough to kick back with a big bucket of KFC and some TCM, here’s a handy-dandy viewing guide, with newly expanded versions of my B100 reviews, and as I look over this list, I guess it says something about me that almost none of these is a traditional flag-waver (Navarone probably comes closest)…but isn’t making you stop and think about war what Memorial Day is all about?

  • Where Eagles Dare (11:45 AM): Quite simply The Greatest Movie Ever Made. Okay, I’m kidding, but it is my personal favorite. Only Alistair MacLean could have concocted this complex tale of triple agents, centering on a commando mission ostensibly to rescue an American general, who knows the details of the D-Day invasion plans, from an inaccessible Bavarian chateau! (I’ve always loved my war movies tinged with espionage, and when he was on his game—which wasn’t always—MacLean was unmatched at that.) Only Richard Burton, Clint Eastwood (in perhaps his only true second-banana role, for which he reportedly requested less dialogue), and the ill-fated Mary Ure could play the stalwart leads, who massacre countless German soldiers with only one flesh wound among them! Only Ferdy Mayne (The Fearless Vampire Killers, The Vampire Lovers), Anton Diffring (The Man Who Could Cheat Death), Donald Houston (reunited with Burton from The Longest Day), and Derrin Nesbitt could play the nasty Nazi villains! Only Brian G. Hutton could direct the exciting action scenes, including the famous cable-car fight! Only Ron Goodwin could compose the rousing, unforgettable score; I even have the soundtrack album on both LP and CD! I also have a first edition of the novel (based on MacLean’s script, but published before the film was released, resulting in decades of chicken-vs.-egg confusion), and even the spot-on Mad magazine parody, “Where Vultures Fare.”
  • The Guns of Navarone (2:30 PM): Immortalized by the very youthful Alexandra as Guns Forever Known. Considering the subsequent and steady decline of director/boozer J. Lee Thompson’s career (e.g., the staggeringly inept Messenger of Death), this is astonishingly good, the first of the MacLean adaptations and one of those that holds up the best. It was, I believe, also the first of the big-budget, star-studded WW II films that were as much rousing adventure as searing drama (like, say, The Bridge on the the River Kwai), and I also think of it as a prototype for the specialized-manly-men-on-a-mission tales like Richard Brooks’s Western The Professionals. Stalwart Gregory Peck, formidable Anthony Quinn, and dubious David Niven join Irene Papas and commandos Anthony Quayle, Stanley Baker, and James Darren on the usual impossible mission on a German-held Greek island during WWII. Not many action films make me mist up, but this one has a beautifully reflective coda, featuring the softer side of Dimitri Tiomkin’s majestic score, that gets me every time. Despite being directed by Guy (Goldfinger) Hamilton, the belated sequel, Force 10 from Navarone (with Robert Shaw and Edward Fox highly unlikely in the Peck and Niven roles, plus Harrison Ford and The Spy Who Loved Me‘s Barbara Bach), is vastly inferior, I’m sorry to say, so stick with the original.
  • The Dirty Dozen (5:15 PM): Robert Aldrich directed this unconventional and influential war movie, based on E.M. Nathanson’s fine novel. Lee Marvin has the unenviable task of trying to forge twelve convicts into a viable fighting unit for a suicide mission in occupied France on the eve of D-Day. The superb cast is full of up-and-coming stars, and includes Donald Sutherland (“Never heard of it”), Charles Bronson (the only member of both The Dirty Dozen and The Magnificent Seven), Telly Savalas (unforgettable as the psychotic Maggott), Jim Brown (MacLean’s Ice Station Zebra), John Cassavetes (Rosemary’s Baby), and Clint Walker among the dozen, plus Robert Ryan, Ernest Borgnine, George Kennedy, Ralph Meeker (Kiss Me Deadly), and Richard Jaeckel. Aldrich’s trademark genre-subverting style is in full force here, especially with the Last Supper homage, as he makes us root for these misanthropic misfits, and yet, as in The Wild Bunch, these criminals have their own sometimes admirable code of honor.
  • The Bridge on the River Kwai (8:00 PM): No offense to Lawrence of Arabia, but I think this is David Lean’s greatest film. It swept the major Oscars (obviously excepting Best Actress) and deserved all of them. William Holden and Oscar-winner Alec Guinness are at their stellar best as, respectively, an American who leads a demolition team back to the Japanese POW camp from which he’s just escaped, and the British colonel who wages a war of wills with the commandant (Oscar nominee Sessue Hayakawa) and ends up taking too much pride in the bridge his men are building. Originally omitted from the credits in favor of Pierre Boulle (author of Planet of the Apes, oddly enough), who wrote the novel, blacklisted screenwriters Michael Wilson and Carl Foreman (The Guns of Navarone) received posthumous Oscars in 1984. The ending is somewhat different from Boulle’s but, not surprisingly, more cinematic. Holden has always been one of my favorites, especially here and in The Wild Bunch, and the ferocity with which he delivers his unforgettable speech to Jack Hawkins (“You and Colonel Nicholson, you’re two of a kind, crazy with courage. For what? How to die like a gentleman—how to die by the rules—when the only important thing is how to live like a human being!”) still gives me a frisson. With James Donald (Quatermass and the Pit, The Great Escape), Hammer mainstay André Morell, and superb music by Malcolm Arnold (who seemed to quote it in every other damn picture he scored!).
  • The Great Escape (11:00 PM): Turafish considers this The Greatest Movie Ever Made. I won’t go that far, but it’s right up there. Director John Sturges, composer Elmer Bernstein, and cast members Steve McQueen (who, typically, demanded that his part be beefed up to include the famous motorcycle chase), Bronson, and James Coburn are reunited from The Magnificent Seven for this true story co-scripted by James Clavell. During World War II, the Germans decide to place all of their rotten eggs in one basket by herding their most troublesome prisoners into a single camp. Naturally, this leads to a legendary, albeit only partly successful, mass breakout led by “Big X” (Richard Attenborough). The theme song is unforgettable and the cast (also including James Garner, Donald Pleasence, David McCallum, and Gordon Jackson) is unparalleled. Not everyone would probably consider this a war movie, since the cast spends most of its time in a POW camp rather than in combat, but the point is made that by forcing the Germans to devote time and manpower to trying to round up the escapees, they’re keeping them away from the front lines. Besides, for many, being a prisoner of war is part of being a soldier, which is something we would do well to remember on this of all days. “Two hundred and fifty? You’re crazy—you, too.”
  • Kelly’s Heroes (2:00 AM): Eastwood was reunited with Where Eagles Dare director Hutton for this humorous caper film with a World War II setting and a Vietnam-era sensibility, filmed in Yugoslavia, where they still had lots of vintage military hardware available (future director John Landis was a young PA on the film). The members of Clint’s platoon have been getting the short end of the stick since they hit the beach at Omaha, so when they learn of a fortune in Nazi gold kept in a bank behind enemy lines in occupied France, they decide to do a little extracurricular activity (a plot borrowed for the Gulf War film Three Kings). With a stellar cast (Savalas, Sutherland, Don Rickles, Carroll O’Connor), excellent dialogue courtesy of the late Troy Kennedy Martin, an outstanding score by Lalo Schifrin, and a Leone/Wild Bunch parody. Along with The Dirty Dozen, this is clearly the most cynical of our little sextet, yet the cost of war is not ignored (I’m thinking in particular of the poignant aftermath of the minefield sequence, which always chokes me up), while those who enjoy slam-bang battle scenes will not be disappointed, and overall it makes some keen observations about the regular joes at the sharp end of war. Relax and enjoy.

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Phased Out

That yellowish tinge to my face is not jaundice but egg yolk.  For years I’ve been blathering about how important a development it was when, in 1968, six Marvel super-hero strips finally escaped the confines of the split books (Strange Tales, Tales of Suspense, and Tales to Astonish) and earned their own titles (Captain America, Iron Man, Incredible Hulk, Sub-Mariner, Dr. Strange, and Nick Fury, Agent of S.H.I.E.L.D.).  Two other characters (Captain Marvel and the Silver Surfer) also got their own books for the first time, and I mentioned that Smiley dubbed this epoch “Phase Two” in one of his “Stan Lee’s Soapbox” editorials.

Except he didn’t.  Tonight, while perusing the reprint of Amazing Spider-Man #52 in Marvel Tales #37, I stumbled across Stan’s “Super-Special Announcement” about Phase Two…in September 1972.  What, if anything, his official nomenclature was for what I THOUGHT was Phase Two, I obviously have no idea at the moment, but this was something different.  I’ll boil it down for ya, because by his own admission, Stan is “the kinda guy who can’t say ‘hello’ without making it a speech.”  (Kindred spirits?)

He begins by enumerating some of Marvel’s prior innovations:  “heroes with human hang-ups,” guest-star appearances, continued stories, the Bullpen Bulletins page, and crediting the creators.  Phase Two is characterized, first, by several promotions, including that of Roy Thomas to Editor, in which capacity he will oversee such writers as Gerry Conway, Archie Goodwin, Steve Englehart, and the unrelated Mike and Gary Friedrich.  Frank Giacoia becomes Assistant Art Director, while Stan himself–now “unleashed”–will be free to tackle all sorts of new projects and directions.

Finally, he mentions that they are in the process of launching a whole new line of titles, and it is this next major expansion that interests me the most.  I recently opined, in fact, that the very year of his announcement, 1972, might just have been Marvel’s most exciting annum, and since I now know that this is what he meant by Phase Two, it’s not too surprising.  Many of them were admittedly short-lived, but here is just a sample of the exciting events; can’t wait to start covering them over at Marvel University…on or about July 17, 2013!  :-)

  • Debut of Werewolf by Night strip in Marvel Spotlight #2
  • Debut of Beast strip in Amazing Adventures #11
  • Marvel Team-Up #1
  • Debut of Warlock strip in Marvel Premiere #1
  • Tomb of Dracula #1
  • Luke Cage, Hero for Hire #1
  • Debut of revived Ant-Man strip in Marvel Feature #4
  • Debut of revived Dr. Strange strip in Marvel Premiere #3
  • Defenders #1
  • Debut of Ghost Rider strip in Marvel Spotlight #5
  • Captain Marvel resumes publication with #22 (first issue since 8/70; Starlin imminent)
  • Debut of Man-Thing strip in Fear #10

Mind you, that’s an average of one new or revived strip/book per month, and I’m not even including the likes of Night Nurse!

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