Last night's movie was "The Black Rider"(1954), in which a reporter and his girlfriend try to uncover the identity of the titular midnight cyclist, so nicknamed by beach locals for the hooded cloak he wears. The man who sees him first turns up dead after leaving a bar. The quest of reporter "Jerry Marsh" (Jimmy Hanley) and "Mary Plack" (Rona Anderson) leads to an atomic bomb smuggling ring operating in an oceanside cave. We've seen several of these Rona Anderson vehicles now, and call them such because her personality and looks seem to be the draw. She has a Lady Diana thing happening, a lively-but-sweet English Rose personality, and her movies are crafted around her. They feature as much breeziness as crime solving, and this time, there's a lot of fuss made over motorcycles. Her parents, Jerry's soon-to-be in-laws, don't approve of his new bike. "You'll kill yourself," Mrs. Plack laments. "Oh, I was a motorcycle dispatcher in the war, don't worry," says Jerry. He needs his new bike to follow the trail of The Black Rider, who travels by seashore and steep cliff trails, where automobile access is inhibited.
In Rona Anderson movies, you always get a lot of lovey-dovey, prim yet not-overly-proper relationship talk, delivered in Received Pronunciation accents. "Shall" is used a lot. The serving of crust-removed tea sandwiches, cut triangular, is de rigueur. Young English people (not Brits this time, Brits are something different), having fun. Soon-to-be marrieds, sharing lunch and also solving crimes the police can't crack. That's more or less what the deal is, and Jimmy gets conked on the head when inspecting a well, nearby where The Black Rider's victim was found. That's when we first see The Rider and his gang, who are foreign (possibly Italian), consisting of three men and a woman with a Princess Valiant hairdo. She's the most ruthless of the bunch, of course. They think they've killed Jimmy, and the gang's leader tells his Lurch-like enforcer not to be so violent next time. "We can't draw attention to the area." Their cave is just down the beach. Intercut are motocross races, more breeziness, with intermittent Pretty Rona smiles, and more sandwich eating. Then the cops figure out that they're dealing with an atomic bomb smuggling ring. The components are all shipped separately, under different and phony manufacturer names. Jimmy, his noggin feeling better, takes the lead in solving the case, to impress his future Dad-in-law who is also his editor. Dad-in-law hates motorcycles like his wife does, and Rona - their daughter - looking prettier than ever, wants to help out, to solve the case quickly and thus prevent excess motorcycling. Posing as a reporter herself, she gets kidnapped by the ruthless Princess Valiant, and is being held in the oceanside atomic bomb cave.
This one is Quite English as opposed to Veddy Brrritish. Rona Anderson must have been a star in her time and it's easy to see why. Two Big Thumbs Up for "The Black Rider", though the Rona Formula outweighs the plot. The picture is razor sharp. ////
The previous night, in "Circumstantial Evidence"(1952), Rona Anderson was back, and counting down the months until she can marry "Michael Carteret" (Patrick Holt), a young doctor. Her ne'er-do-well husband walked out on her over two years earlier. In a few months, it'll be legally considered abandonment of the marriage, which will be dissolved. Then she and Michael can get hitched. He's the son of a judge who is trying a murder case based on circumstantial evidence.
One day Rona comes home to find her wayward hubby in her apartment. He broke in, we saw him do it. He went through her drawers, found her love letters to Michael, and stole his gun while he was at it. She asks him what he's doing there. "I haven't seen you in almost three years, where have you been?" In a smarmy tone, he reminds her that they're still married. "You can't divorce me yet." Then he tells her he's read her letters to Michael. Now he's gonna blackmail them. The reason it'll work, he says, is that Michael will lose his medical licence for sleeping with another man's wife. Rona says they haven't slept together yet: "It isn't an affair." England was very conservative in this respect in 1952, but even so, the blackmail doesn't work when her hubby confronts Michael, because he says the medical board won't care. "You were missing for three years, chum." What's insinuated is that the real blackmail is that Rona has a shady past, because her hubby was and is a criminal. He's also got a criminal gang. How could Rona not have known it?
That part is insinuated, but what happens is that Michael goes to her husband's hotel room to discuss the blackmail threat. He leaves a few minutes later, after a struggle, and hubby is later found shot to death. The hotel manager was blasting her radio at the time and didn't hear the gunshot, but saw Michael leave the premises, which is good enough for the coppers, who arrest Michael on circumstantial evidence, in case the title hasn't been clear enough.
Rona tries to tell them he didn't do it. "MIchael's a straight arrow, the son of a judge. Sure, he doesn't like blackmailers, who does? But he didn't kill my husband." When the cops don't agree, she sets out to prove Michael's innocence, and, posing as a reporter (again), she finds out where the rest of her husband's gang is living. The gang, of course, turn on one another under her questioning. Two Big Thumbs Up once again. We like Rona Anderson a lot, and the picture is very good. ////
We're discovering that, for Lillian, her swinging (at least locally in my neighborhood) got started through Marshal Lester. We believe now there were two separate but united factions. Two "swinger houses" belonging to Marshal, across the street from 9032, and Jared Rappaport, who lived behind my family on Etiwanda Avenue. So, my house was literally sandwiched in by these demonic and subterranean sewer dwelling pieces of garbage. I've reported that I saw Lillian standing on Marshal's porch one day, but that was only the tip of the iceberg. I actually saw her go inside his house and not come out. I am learning that our post-"Casualties of War" argument, which was protracted and continued after she drove me home and we parked by the curb at 9032, was really the turning point that led to the events of September 1989.
You see, that argument was so much more explosive and disclosing on her part (not to mention disgusting) than I previously realised, because I now know that she specifically talked about Marshal Lester, his swinging lifestyle, and her involvement with him, after I questioned her, repeatedly, about why she went into his house.
Our argument was very heated. She'd been lying and lying for such a long time (her whole deal), and I finally stood up for myself. And when I did, she got all huffy and self-righteous (if you can imagine getting self-righteous about being a college prostitute), and then, to rub it in, she added condescension, as if she was very sophisticated and I was a square or a nerd.
Jared Rappaport knew all abut me. I'd never met him before he kidnapped me, but he knew I was unemployed. He had a huge hissy-fit, being the high-voiced fruitcake has was (and is), and he couldn't stand the fact that I "didn't work", and thus had no right to ruin the fun of people who did. One thing he kept repeating, was "everyone's gonna hate you, Adam." He even came up with a one-liner he thought was amusing: "It's Hate Adam Week! Everybody's gonna hate Adam." This is while I was handcuffed with my hands behind my back, with a gag tied in my mouth because I'd been screaming.
But yeah, Lillian got involved in swinging through Marshal Lester, a guy I wouldn't wanna be if you gave me all the tea in China. Can you imagine his karma? What must God think of him? I know what I think of him, but another thing about Marshal, is that he came and knocked on Rappaport's door on the second day I was in Rappaport's house, which was Sunday September 3rd. Now, you've gotta wonder: how did Marshal know I was in there? Maybe Jared Rappaport was telling his fellow swingers - whose Labor Day Big Blowout Weekend Sex Party I inadvertently ruined - that he was gonna get me and teach me a lesson. Maybe he told Marshal, "I'm gonna get that unemployed fucker." As I say, he knew all about me. He taunted me the whole time I was his captive.
He did a lot of other things to me, too. And, he showed me a movie. Did you know he was a filmmaker? Oh yes, and his movie had credits, and character names, too. I remember two of those names, because he repeated them over and over. But I won't print them now because they're pornographic, pathetic, and too stupid. As I say, he's the fruitcake to end all fruitcakes.
I wonder if he would've tried kidnapping me if I hadn't been weakened the previous night by getting stun-gunned at Terry's apartment. What do you think, Lillian? Do you think Jared Rappaport would've tried kidnapping me if I'd been full strength and aware? Your sister Ann dropped me off at my house on the afternoon of September 2nd. She knows what kind of shape I was in. You can ask her, too, if she thinks Jared Rappaport would've kidnapped me, had I not been in a weakened condition. One thing is for sure; he wasn't taking any chances. That's why he brought his gun and then handcuffed my hands behind my back when he got me in his house.
Your pal Marshal Lester must've gotten nervous when he wouldn't let me go. Man, I'm glad I'm not him. Can you imagine being Marshal Lester?
And that's what Kim was trying to tell me when she mentioned that Marshal was hitting on female students up at CSUN. She meant he was hitting on you. But what I didn't realise, until recently, was that you admitted the whole thing, Lillian, that night after "Casualties of War". Then, when the September events were over, they put me into Northridge Hospital and erased my brain. The bad guys all skated, you skated, and I got my memory erased for having the audacity to be a victim of torture.
But then it came back! (my memory, that is). That wasn't supposed to happen, but it did, haha, and I think that's a fucking riot. Man, I can't wait to meet the doctor who did that to me. That'll be one heck of a day, doncha think? The day to end all days, downright biblical, a real planet buster.
So far, however, everyone has skated. But in the long run, I'd rather be me than them. Lillian, can you imagine being Jared Rappaport or Marshal Lester? How about you other fucking assholes, on Facebook and elsewhere? You know who you are, and so do I. Can you imagine being Jared Rappaport, or Marshal Lester? ////
My blogging music tonight is "The World Became the World" by PFM. My late night is The Jeptha Opera by Handel. I'm going to see Hilary Hahn on Wednesday night at Disney Hall, so I'll include a report in the next blog. I hope your week is off to a good start and I send you Tons of Love, as always.
xoxoxoxoxoxooxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxooxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo :):)
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