Concluding our look at Roger Corman’s cannibalization of Soviet SF films.

Ruble-pinching Roger got his best ROI with Pavel Klushantsev’s Planeta Bur (Planet of Storms, 1962), which he cannibalized not once, but twice.  Harrington’s makeover is far less comprehensive, adding expository scenes of Rathbone and Faith Domergue of This Island Earth (1955) fame, so Voyage to a/the [onscreen titles differ] Prehistoric Planet (1965)—sold directly to TV via AIP—is credited to “John Sebastian.”  Billed as “Derek Thomas,” Peter Bogdanovich, uh, fleshed out Voyage to the Planet of Prehistoric Women (1966) with Mamie Van Doren leading the titular telepathic, amphibious Venusians; it is not be confused with Arthur C. Pierce’s forlorn Women of the Prehistoric Planet (1966).

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I’ll occasionally see an example of what I call “scholarship” (one of my highest words of praise) that begs commendation, and Retromedia’s four-film The Roger Corman Russian Sci-Fi Collection—which Professor Tom, The Host with the Most™, whipped out for our most recent Movie Night faculty gathering in Queens—is one of them.  The absence of Queen of Blood is compensated for with a subtitled print of Planeta Bur, enabling one to compare the original with both adulterated versions.  A featurette, Being Mamie, offers a career-spanning interview with Van Doren, and if you look REALLY closely, you can spot Richard Matheson’s name at the bottom of the poster for The Beat Generation (1959).

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Adapted by Klushantsev and Aleksandr Kazantsev from the latter’s novel, Planeta Bur opens with three Soviet “cosmic expedition starships” approaching Venus after a trip of some 140 million miles, only to have a meteorite destroy the Cappella, forcing a change in plans.  To ensure sufficient fuel for the return trip, one ship must remain in orbit, so—leaving love interest Masha Ivanova (Kyunna Ignatova) aloft to process data and transmit it to Earth—Ivan Scherba (Yuri Sarantsev) descends in the Vega’s glider with Allan Kern (Georgi Tejkh) and his humanoid robot, John.  Their mission is to find a suitable landing spot for the Sirius, returning therein, but they are forced down in a swamp after doing so.

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Ilya Vassilievich Vershinin (Vladimir Yemelyanov), Alexey Alyosha (Gennadi Vernov), and Roman Bobrov (Georgi Zhzhyonov) set off from the Sirius in their ATV (above) to aid them, after Alexey is saved from a tentacled plant.  Meanwhile (interestingly, in the transitions, scenes fade to red rather than black!), Ivan fends off lizard-men as Kern assembles John, and they make their way on foot, briefly sidelined by fever while taking refuge in a cave from a storm.  Beset by pterodactyl-like creatures, the Sirius team submerges their ATV and finds a dragon statue with a ruby eye underwater, fueling discussions about possible inhabitants—indigenous or transplanted—and the melodious voices heard since arriving.

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A red spot seen from orbit is revealed as a volcano, and John (above) tries to carry the men across the lava, although Isaac Asimov would cringe at the scene where they disconnect his self-protection program to stop him from lightening his load when his feet begin to melt.  The ATV arrives just in time, and—like Soviet dwarves—the reunited men sing a happy song as they return to the Sirius, quickly changing their tune as a quake threatens to undermine it.  Setting up a meteorological station while preparing to blast off, Alexey makes a crude tool out of a curious rock he had found, which breaks open to reveal a sculpted humanoid face; after they depart, we indistinctly see a robed figure reflected in the water of a pool…

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“Sebastian” Americanized the names of the astronauts, but left those of the ships and the basic narrative intact as Professor Hartman (Rathbone) calls the shots from Lunar Station 7 (in lieu of Klushantsev’s offscreen and Earthbound mission control).  Scenes of Masha were replaced by newly shot footage of Domergue (above), sporting a beehive hairdo and reeking of apathy, as Marsha Evans.  Harrington said, “all I did was just shoot a couple of scenes of somebody in a space station [below].  The totality of [Voyage to the Prehistoric Planet] is the Soviet film dubbed, so that’s why it has another name on it.  I really just did a couple of those scenes as a courtesy, but I don’t consider that I have anything to do with the film.”

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Rathbone shot his scenes for both films back-to-back, utilizing the same set and costume.  He “was very vital.  He knew all of his lines; he was not in any way enfeebled.  He was a man of great personal charm, and I really enjoyed talking to him between takes.  It was a great privilege to work with him….[but Queen] was such a low-budget film, and we shot the whole thing in seven days.  That meant that we were shooting non-union again, and I was shooting from early morning until very late at night….[which] was a strain on him, and he wasn’t paid sufficient overtime, so he was very upset about that.  I had nothing to do with that, of course; I was just determined to shoot the film to the best of my ability…”

Prehistoric Women gets the deluxe widescreen treatment; Retromedia founder/Corman cohort Fred Olen Ray joins David DeCoteau for a commentary, and even reproduces the French photo novel La Planète des Tempêtes.  Pilfering the space-exploration prologue from Battle Beyond the Sun, “Thomas” maintains Harrington’s dubbing and names, but repurposes the Planeta Bur footage sans female astronaut, so “Marsha” is the “code name for Earth control.”  Bogdanovich narrates the film, presented as a flashback by Andre ( Alexey), while the three starships now represent separate missions, with the third sent to rescue the second, refueling at U.S. space station Texas via more chunks of Nebo Zovyot.

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It is not until 33 minutes in that we first glimpse Moana (Van Doren) and her “sisters,” including Margot Hartman—who appeared in her husband Del Tenney’s Stamford-shot Curse of the Living Corpse (1964)—as Mayaway.  They are first seen draped on a rocky shore like so much jetsam (above), clad in frilly white bell-bottoms and scallop-shell brassieres; with voiceovers instead of spoken dialogue, the actresses need do little but stare into the camera with expressions ranging from intent to vacant.  Seeking to avenge the death of their pterodactyl-like “god,” killed by the humans, they incite the volcanic eruption and the destabilization that threatens the takeoff, then erect a lava-covered John in his place (below).

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Ray’s commentary with fellow director DeCoteau is replete with entertaining anecdotes about Corman and the wild world of low-budget filmmaking, although concerning these cinematic examples of détente, it told me little I did not know.  Women occupies a modest percentage of Being Mamie, created in 2003 for a stand-alone DVD, but it’s a fun way to, um, round out the set.  The “Platinum Powerhouse” holds forth irreverently on everything from endless comparisons with Monroe and Mansfield—both of whom she has outlived for more than half a century—to her work with exploitation legend Albert Zugsmith (e.g., that Matheson misfire) and in the schlock classic The Navy vs. the Night Monsters (1966; below).

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Putting the “International” into American International Pictures, Roger Corman acquired U.S. distribution rights to several Soviet SF films, ransacked them for their impressive (or at least economically obtained) special-effects footage, and deputized three of his famous protégés to morph them into four “new” movies.  The level of insult to the original varied considerably:  Francis Ford Coppola’s Battle Beyond the Sun (1962) mostly just hacked up and redubbed Nebo Zovyot (The Heavens Call; 1959), directed by Mikhail Karzhukov and Aleksandr Kozyr.  Using the nom de cinéma of “Thomas Colchart,” he deleted all the boring Commie agitprop and inserted—as it were—monsters suggesting human genitalia.

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In 1997, Earth is divided into North Hemis and South Hemis (clearly analogs for the U.S. and U.S.S.R., respectively); learning that the latter plans to send the Mercury to Mars, or perhaps the other way around, the former gets the jump on them in the Typhoon, yet it comes to grief and is abandoned after its crew is rescued.  The Mercury now lacks enough fuel to return home, forcing them to land on the asteroid Angkor, where they set up an antenna and we dimly see the battling Genitaliasauruses.  An unmanned fuel ship crashes, but South Hemis sends a second ship, whose pilot heroically dies completing his mission, and both crews make it safely back to Mother Earth to set up peaceful coexistence, ending the bitter, years-long rivalry.  If only.

Conversely, writer-director Curtis Harrington (1926-2007) added so much—even dollops of Nebo Zovyot—to Mechte Navstrechu (A Dream Come True; 1963), which Karzhukov directed with Otar Koberidze, that Queen of Blood (aka Planet of Blood; 1966) is a “real” movie in its own right, aptly bearing his own name.  It stars Florence Marl[e]y in the title role, with genre legend Basil Rathbone, a young Dennis Hopper (with Marly below), and John Saxon.  Asked in our Filmfax interview (c. 2004) about being reunited with Judi Meredith, his co-star in Charles F. Haas’s Summer Love (1957), Saxon said, “we were friendly, and it was fun to see her again.  Her career was kind of waning….[That] lasted about seven shooting days.

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“Most of the footage…had all the special effects of people in these costumes, and you couldn’t see their faces.  So we just dubbed in the story with Americans, and maybe 25% or 30% of it was already there, in special effects that came from the footage that they had bought from this other film.  All I can remember was that Dennis Hopper couldn’t keep a straight face in any of the scenes, and it was one of Basil Rathbone’s last appearances [he died the following year].  He came off a spaceship in one scene and that was it.  He was old and tired and, I think, ill.  Florence Marly was intense and striking.  Curtis Harrington admired her a lot.  He [recently said] how well [it] holds up.  I haven’t seen it for years.”

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By 1990, the Moon has been colonized and expeditions planned to Mars and Venus; Dr. Farraday (Rathbone) reports that deciphered alien signals say an ambassador is en route, while a probe arrives with a video log of aliens crash-landing on Mars and sending out an S.O.S.  A mission planned for six months hence is thus accelerated, with Allan Brennen (Saxon, above), Laura James (Meredith), and Paul Grant (Hopper) aboard the Oceano, which is damaged by a sunburst.  When one dead astronaut is located in the alien wreck, Farraday posits that the rest escaped aboard a rescue craft, spotted on the Martian moon of Phobos as Allan and Tony Barrata (Don Eitner) are placing satellites in orbit aboard the Meteor.

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They find an alien queen—billed simply as “?”—alive, but with room on the Meteor only for two, Allan leaves Tony there to await the Oceano II.  The alien refuses solid food and freaks out at the sight of a hypodermic; when he sees her bloody lips after Paul is drained, Allan advocates destruction, and while Anders Brockman (Robert Boon) argues in favor of feeding her, he’s next on the menu when the plasma runs out.  The alien burns through her restraints with heat vision and is feeding on Allen when Laura sees and scratches her, but the hemophiliac queen, who bleeds to death, has left a clutch of jelly-like eggs, which Farraday’s aide (a gleeful Forrest J. Ackerman, above) preserves once they’ve returned to Earth.

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I also interviewed Harrington, who had given Hopper his first lead in Night Tide (1961), and cast Czech blacklistee Marly, briefly seen in the Twilight Zone episode “Dead Man’s Shoes” (1/19/62).  “I enjoyed doing that very much.  I devised the story and worked out using the Soviet technical footage, and I was very happy to give the key role of the alien creature to Florence…whom I had admired in her European films,” he related.  “That was a completely salutary experience, even though it was a very low budget, done in a short time, but it is the film that got me my contract at Universal Studios,” where he and Queen of Blood producer George Edwards resumed their long collaboration with Games (1967).

Trying to match the Soviet footage “was a technical challenge, but I think I did it very well.  We worked it all out very carefully.  We had a special effects company that made the space suits to look exactly like the Russian ones, and it mainly was a problem at the first in the lab, matching up the footage of the two when I would cut into close-ups of our people and so on.  But we accomplished it.”  Regarding the appearance by Ackerman, he said the literary agent and editor of Famous Monsters of Filmland (see my seminal first issue below) “had been a personal friend of mine since [the] early days…[I had first met future collaborator Kenneth Anger] when we were both quite young at a film society in Hollywood that showed old films…”

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Forry “used to come to the same film society…and I met him, and I had always had a great interest in the fantasy pulp magazines like Weird Tales and Unknown, so I found I had a great rapport with Forrest Ackerman.  Famous Monsters was well established by then, so with all of his fans in the world, and they were the kind of people—all science fiction fans—who would be seeing the film, ‘Mr. Science Fiction’ himself, it seemed a logical thing to do.  I can’t remember whether he suggested it or I suggested it, but I said, ‘Let’s do a cameo of you at the end of the film carrying the living eggs of the creature.’… Of course [he was having fun in his role].  He’s a dear man and I’m very fond of him.”

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Of the similarities between Alien (1979), his film, and Edward L. Cahn’s It! The Terror from Beyond Space (1958; above), he said, “I made a habit very early on never to see any film directed by Edward Cahn, a director of no talent whatsoever.  It’s like Herbert Strock; I won’t go and see a film by him, either.  People of absolutely no talent, and I just hated their films.  So I’ve never seen that….I’m sure it’s abysmal, whatever it is.  [Yes], it’s the same story.  Whether the author of Alien saw my film, I have no idea, and I don’t know if it touched something off in him.  I think there is a strong similarity.  I wouldn’t accuse him of plagiarism per se, because I don’t even know if he saw [Queen], but I bet he did.”

To be continued.

I recently made a priceless acquisition.  A rare Matheson first edition?  No, much more valuable:  the friendship of a fellow wordsmith who—in classic girl-next-door fashion—was right under my nose, working part-time in another capacity at MBI.  I refer to multi-talented author and editor Terence Hawkins, about whose impressive formal credentials (e.g., as the founding director of the Yale Writers’ Conference) you can read more on his site.  After his boss kindly clued me in to the fact that Terry was “some kind of a writer,” or words to that effect, I chatted him up, quickly discovering that we share not only many literary and cinematic interests but also a certain, shall I say…unconventional sensibility.


“Some kind of a writer,” indeed:  he honored me with a copy of his socko second novel, American Neolithic (to which a sequel is happily in the works), and I can only urge you to get your own.  A hell of a writer but, more to the point here, a hell of a guy; our chats go straight to the heart of the Nexus, often touching on my fixations on adaptations and authors who double as screenwriters, and it’s lucky for MBI that once we get going, he’s more disciplined than I about cutting us off.  On one of his visits to my office, he brought up yet another of the many hats he wears, i.e., as the prose editor of The Blue Mountain Review, an online “journal of culture” produced by the Southern Collective Experience.


Explaining that even a literal Connecticut Yankee like me is eligible because, as they put it, “Everyone is South of Somewhere,” he wondered if I might like to contribute a piece, possibly involving one of said fixations?  Now, there is no sound effect or musical theme for the bizarre coincidences that proliferate in my life, yet if there were, you could cue it now, for that very morning I had started reading Clive Barker’s novella “The Hellbound Heart,” pursuant to my SILVER viewing of Hellraiser, adapted by…its author.  Absent a connection to the Group, I hadn’t planned on writing anything about it, but figured that as the laserdisc is packed with extras, I might as well compare them for my own elucidation.


Well, you can do the math.  After brief internal debate, I wrote the first few paragraphs of the would-be piece and sent them in a query to Terry, who replied, in effect, “Release the hounds.”  And when a draft was done and submitted, I had the pleasure of actual editorial give and take (which, sadly, has not been true of all of my editors).  I hope it goes without saying that his input made it a better piece.  And so now, here I am on pages 63-66 of Issue#14, my byline prominently featured on the cover, yet—curiously listed under “Fiction,” but since it’s a nonfiction piece about fiction there’s a certain logic to it, and I’m not gonna look a gift horse in the mouth in any case.  Thank you, my friend.

PSA 4/6/19

Before heading into New York (aka Gilbert’s City) to fulfill a years-long promise to myself—attending a rare theatrical screening of my favorite movie, Where Eagles Dare, at our beloved Film Forum—I wanted to make a little “public service announcement.”  It’s to apologize for and explain the lack of new content since Christmas, although I always hope that the blog will be a valuable source of nexus-related lore for those who care to plumb its depths.  Unsurprisingly, I am trying to focus my efforts on the Group history alluded to in my post on John Brosnan, rather than on BOF, since my day job at MBI and family/home commitments so sharply curtail what I laughingly call my “free time,” although I do hope to announce a surprise side project here soon.


Meanwhile, The Great Work™ continues, fitfully if not apace.  Per my m.o. of grouping, ha ha, related sections, I’ve just finished an exhaustive analysis of the three Group-written features based on H.P. Lovecraft’s work, with typical tangents on other HPL subject matter for context.  In conjunction with the project, Madame BOF and I are working our way through every episode of the original Twilight Zone—now in its fourth incarnation, I see with a sigh—and should be kicking off Season 3 once she returns from visiting our daughter in D.C.  Which sub-assemblies (or tiles in the mosaic, as I conceptualize them) will form my next major initiative?  That might be determined tomorrow, when I hope to be barricaded at Schloss Bradley in monastic solitude…

The Yuletide Ten

These are my provisional favorite recordings of Christmas songs; yeah, lots of qualifiers there, e.g., “provisional” because you know the moment I post this I’ll think of something I left out (as I fortunately did while proofing it, resulting in a last-minute substitution), and “songs” as opposed to “carols” because they are all secular.  “Recording” is truly the operative word, since I might hate one version as much as I love another, which explains the absence of “Sleigh Ride,” since I’m not immediately aware of a recording I consider definitive; I prefer an instrumental but also hate when they use sound effects like hooves, whip-cracking or—shudder—whinnying.  Overanalyzing the various versions on the radio or Madame BOF’s endless CD compilations is now an annual Bradley tradition.

These are listed alphabetically by title, to avoid any additional favoritism.

  1. “The Christmas Song” (Nat King Cole):  It’s always surprised me that Madame BOF doesn’t like this popular Christmas song (co-written by Mel Tormé, whose recording I like less, oddly enough)…except this version, from one of her most beloved CDs.  So, like any smart spouse, I’ll gladly meet her halfway.
  2. “Happy Holiday” (Steve Lawrence & Eydie Gorme):  I keep forgetting that like the evergreen, ha ha, “White Christmas,” this was written by The GREAT Irving Berlin and introduced by Bing Crosby in Holiday Inn (1942).  I’m also not a big fan of “The Holiday Season,” which is sometimes yoked with it in a medley, and was popularized by Andy Williams (the top dog in Madame BOF’s own Yuletide pantheon, although unlike her, I wasn’t raised on his Christmas specials); I like its exuberance, but the lyrics are just too, oh, I don’t know, brash.  I initially found this rendition of the original by the spousal singers jaw-droppingly cheesy…and really, it still is, but I’ve somehow come to embrace it, complete with whistling, “lah dee dahs,” and the overall sense that they’ve had way too many martinis.
  3. “Happy Xmas (War Is Over)” (John Lennon):  This is one of two Lennon songs (the other being “Imagine,” which I vividly recall hearing on the car radio on the way to Mom’s house on the night of the day Dad died) that open my tear ducts in a positively Pavlovian fashion.  The combination of John’s overly idealistic yet no less laudable message of peace and love, the fact that he was gunned down in his prime by a psycho, and the fact that it happened 17 days before Christmas are just too much for this lifelong Beatles fan to endure; my then-girlfriend, barely two months before my first date with the future Madame BOF, was so traumatized by his death that she practically had to be institutionalized.  Forget any remakes.
  4. “A Holly Jolly Christmas” (Burl Ives):  I’ve always loathed Ives, and—again unlike Madame BOF—wasn’t raised on the endless Rankin/Bass specials like Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, in which he popularized this.  But I recall with crystal clarity the day when, out on the frigid porch of our old house in Bethel, this became my unofficial Christmas anthem through a complex emotional alchemy that I neither will, nor perhaps ever could, explain here.  Just trust me.
  5. “Jingle Bell Rock” (Hall & Oates):  Until recently, I would have gone by default with the 1957 Bobby Helms original.  I’m always suspicious of Christmas songs remade by pop stars (don’t even talk to me about Springsteen’s “Santa Claus Is Comin’ to Town”—oy!), and Madame BOF always thought this one was done by Jon Bon Jovi, for whom I have no use.  But this year I gave it a closer listen and said, “Hey, that sounds like Daryl Hall!”  Since I am, to the endless mockery of some of my harder-edged friends, a longtime H&O fan, it has now won me over.
  6. “Let It Snow! Let It Snow! Let It Snow!” (Dean Martin):  Although I prefer Dino’s singing to that of Sinatra (whom I like as an actor,  but certainly not as a man), I often find even his schmaltz-dripping renditions of Christmas songs—so brilliantly spoofed by Bob Rivers in “I’ll Be Stoned for Christmas”—too much for me.  Somehow, though, this one has endeared itself to me, possibly through a kind of Stockholm syndrome, given how often I’ve heard it on the CD and radio.
  7. “Linus and Lucy” (The Vince Guaraldi Trio):  I rank this with the James Bond and Pink Panther themes among the great compositions of the last century.  It’s become so ubiquitous, and so widely associated with Peanuts cartoons overall, that I almost omitted it.  But it was, after all, introduced onscreen in A Charlie Brown Christmas (from which “Christmas Time Is Here,” which evokes in me a unique tranquility, deserves special mention).
  8. “Rockin’ around the Christmas Tree” (Brenda Lee):  Man, I just loves me that “beeowippidip” that punctuates many of the lines.  Honorable mention goes to “Shoppin’ around for a Christmas Tree,” another letter-perfect parody by Rivers; incredibly, my three favorites, rounded out by “Merry Christmas Allah,” appear back-to-back as the final three tracks of the Rivers album White Trash Christmas.
  9. “White Christmas” (Bing Crosby):  ’Nuff said…except to give honorable mention to the Drifters version and delightful animated video thereof, which I will always associate with the late Martin Kuritz, a former Viking Penguin author of mine who kept in contact, and once e-mailed it to me.  Marty, I miss you.  “…no man is a failure who has friends.”
  10. “Winter Wonderland” (Eurythmics):  This used to be a pleasant but by no means favorite tune, until I had another of those inexplicable, emotional micro-epiphanies.  Since our daughter, Alexandra, and her husband, Thomas, set up housekeeping in Washington, D.C., our new annual tradition has been to spend Thanksgiving down there with them, and I now consider our obligatory visit to Zoo Lights at the National Zoo the next day as my personal start to the Christmas season.  But one year, while the four of us were strolling through it, I heard part of this song in passing, and suddenly the Maudlin Man was totally choked up at the joy she brought to my life when she was a little girl, and the amazing woman she has become, and…oh, I can’t even explain it; never mind.  Just enjoy the song.

Quite coincidentally, we officially occupied the new house in Newtown one year ago today (well, the 20th, although I see it’s just after midnight as I post this).  Merry Christmas!


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I’m saddened to see that John Brosnan died way too young (57), of acute pancreatitis, in 2005, because this post is effectively the letter I’d have sent to him if I could. He wrote many books of both fiction and nonfiction in my chosen genre of horror, SF, and fantasy; I’ve never read any of his fiction, which was written under a variety of names, but there’s a delightful circularity to the fact that Carnosaur (1984), a pre-Jurassic Park novel under the Harry Adam Knight byline, became a Roger Corman-produced film in 1993. That’s because The Horror People (1976), in which Corman is widely quoted, is a foundational work in my genre reference library, along with Brosnan’s follow-up Future Tense (1978).

I’ve been revisiting The Horror People for a new project—more on that later—and while I have never thought about it this specifically before, it hit home this morning as I dipped into it on my commute that it has probably had the greatest impact on my life of any book I’ve ever read. I’m sure many an author has related a formative experience with the likes of Finnegans Wake or The Catcher in the Rye, and of course there’s that old standby, the Bible, with which (as that curiosity, the church-going agnostic) I am mostly familiar from college. But although I’m a compulsive writer, as this blog attests, I have no aspirations as a novelist, and like Brosnan have become a published author of nonfiction in the field.

I can’t recall how or when I first stumbled on The Horror People, but amusingly, it was published in hardcover by one of my former employers, St. Martin’s Press, and in trade paperback by what became an imprint of another, Viking Penguin. That well-thumbed Plume edition was published in 1977, yet its original copyright date of 1976, the year I turned 13, is too good to ignore (and my librarian Mom may well have brought home the hardcover). That’s when, like many people, I started laying the foundation for my future, e.g., becoming a rabid, rather than a desultory, purchaser of Marvel Comics, and starting to compile the 3” x 5” index cards with which I documented my viewing of genre films.

It’s important for those of us old enough to remember that serious scholarship on them was relatively rare at that time. Off the top of my head, I recall a few key early volumes in my library, most notably the indefatigable Denis Gifford’s Movie Monsters (1969), Karloff: The Man, the Monster, the Movies, and A Pictorial History of Horror Movies (both 1973), several of which I literally read until they fell apart. But aside from those and a few others like Carlos Clarens’s seminal An Illustrated History of the Horror Film (1967)—which I don’t think I obtained until a bit later—there really wasn’t too much out there on the genre when I first encountered Brosnan, and much of it was largely pictorial.

The timing of The Horror People is also important in other ways. Although he gave the silent and Golden Age stalwarts like Chaney, Universal, Browning, Whale, and Lewton their due, Brosnan devoted much of the book to such then-current purveyors as Hammer, AIP, and Amicus; what we didn’t know at the time was that each of those was within just a few years of ceasing production. Most important, though, he extensively interviewed a cross-section of current or recent genre practitioners, e.g., directors (Jack Arnold, Terence Fisher, William Castle, Freddie Francis, Roy Ward Baker), producers (Milton Subotsky), screenwriters (Richard Matheson, Robert Bloch), stars (Christopher Lee, Peter Cushing).

It’s this aspect of Brosnan’s book, entering my life at a highly impressionable age, that had such a profound influence on me. Mind you, the wealth of information provided on those topics, on which I have cumulatively published hundreds of pages myself, would be well worth the purchase price alone, and even now, it serves as an invaluable overview to refresh my memory. Yet giving said subjects—all of whom have since died, and many of whom came to dominate my life in various ways—so much ink to recount their careers in their own words was quite revelatory, making me delighted to learn that he used the same approach in Future Tense, a companion volume devoted to the cinema of science fiction.

Among other things, this was probably part of the process that led me to start connecting the dots regarding Matheson, and to realize that, Forrest Gump-like, he seemed not only to be omnipresent at the nexus of genre films and literature, but also to have influenced both in seminal ways. Out of this borderline obsession grew a friendship that lasted until his death in 2013, and a virtual cottage industry in which I exhaustively documented his career. And that all came about because, without my even having a guaranteed market for it at the time, he was characteristically gracious enough to submit to a career-spanning interview, my maiden effort at getting such first-hand accounts on paper while we could.

This brings me back to that new project, which began life as The Group: An Oral History of the California Sorcerers on Screen, weaving my interviews with Matheson, Bloch, Ray Bradbury, George Clayton Johnson, William F. Nolan, and Jerry Sohl into a Group portrait. But, like most of my projects, it has mutated into something bigger, because as comprehensive as those interviews were, they couldn’t cover everything, and I wanted to make sure that the book represents, at least in passing, the full measure of the cinematic renaissance they effected. So I’m adding a wealth of interstitial and background material while still tinkering with the subtitle to qualify the “Oral History” aspect of it; stay tuned.

Full Nelson

For several months now, Madame BOF and I have been working our way through the complete Thriller on DVD, a fun ride enhanced immeasurably by reading up on each episode afterward via the exhaustive A Thriller a Day blog.  The series is a who’s-who of up-and-coming, veteran and/or recurring talent on both sides of the camera, and the girl seen briefly at the end of “Portrait without a Face” as (spoiler alert) the sheriff/murderer’s wife looked awfully familiar.  Said sheriff, BTW, was played by George Mitchell, whom I knew for decades only as the colorful drunk in The Andromeda Strain (1971)—although I’ve since learned he was also on Dark Shadows—and whose real-life spouse, Katherine Squire, played the insufferable cackling old biddy in the selfsame episode…but I digress.

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Above:  John Banner (yes, Sergeant Schultz) in “Portrait”

Looking her up, I learned that her name was Alberta Nelson (1937-2006), that this was the first of a mere 20 credits, and that she was in neither any other Thriller episode (as Mitchell was) nor anything else from which I would immediately have recognized her.  However, I also learned that, interestingly enough, the first 9 of Nelson’s 10 feature-film roles were:

  • Beach Party (1963)
  • Muscle Beach Party (1964)
  • Bikini Beach (1964)
  • Pajama Party (1964)
  • Beach Blanket Bingo (1965)
  • How to Stuff a Wild Bikini (1965)
  • Sergeant Deadhead (1965)
  • Dr. Goldfoot and the Bikini Machine (1965)
  • The Ghost in the Invisible Bikini (1966)

Seven of those comprise AIP’s “Beach Party” series, many of which featured Frankie Avalon and/or Annette Funicello.  In fact, Nelson was reportedly the only person to appear in all seven, usually playing a member of biker Eric Von Zipper’s “Rat Pack” known variously as Puss or (imaginatively) Alberta, but it gets even more incestuous.

Its title notwithstanding, Goldfoot (to which, improbably, the great Mario Bava directed the abysmal 1966 sequel, Dr. Goldfoot and the Girl Bombs) is not part of the series, yet does feature Frankie, which is also true of Deadhead—now that’s what I call specialization!  I knew I had to turn to Tom Lisanti, the guru of grooviness who profiled Alberta in his book Glamour Girls of Sixties Hollywood.  Tom told me, “After the beach movies washed out with the tide, Alberta was best known for playing the recurring role of Flora the waitress on The Andy Griffith Show and later [its spin-off] Mayberry R.F.D.  Flora was sweet on Goober.  Alberta then remarried and left show business to become a housewife in Pennsylvania.”

“She passed away a few years ago.  Unfortunately, I was never able to find her to ask for an interview, but she is mentioned by some I interviewed in Hollywood Surf and Beach Movies: The First Wave, 1959-1969:


Harvey Lembeck who played Eric Von Zipper, the leader of the motorcycle gang, did not take to the golden-haired Aron Kincaid who became friendly with Myrna Ross and Alberta Nelson [below] who were part of Lembeck’s group.  “The three of us (or sometimes just two of us) would have nice long talks,” recalls Aron.  “Harvey got wind of this and became jealous in his own nasty little way.  I only had two brief scenes with him.  That was it.  But he began saying horrible things about me to everyone.  I’d be walking off after finishing a scene and he’d be sitting over with…his Rat Pack.  He really thought he was Eric Von Zipper.  The other people were very nice but they all stuck next to him because they probably knew their paycheck would depend upon it.”

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Special thanks to Tom for his input, and for his gracious permission to reproduce it here.