Raynor! Reeves! Reseda! : Get Ready for "Target Earth"

Okay. You know how we've had a lot of fun over the past year or so, discovering movies written by Bill Raynor who lived across the street from us in Reseda in the 50s and 60s. And you also know how we've had a lot of fun discovering movies in which the actor Richard Reeves appeared, mostly during that same time period. "Mr. Reeves", as all the kids called him, was also our neighbor. And in fact, Bill Raynor and Mr. Reeves lived next door to each other. All three of our houses were separated by no more than 100 feet, and so we've gotten a big kick out of discovering the two men's movies.

But what if we were to find a movie involving both of them? A movie, say, written by Bill Raynor and starring Mr. Reeves. Could there be such a film?

Ladies and freakin' Gentlemen, I bring you "Target Earth"(1954), a sci-fi flick I'd never heard of before it popped up tonight on my Youtube recommendations, and folks, it must've been channeled directly to me, because I'm sitting here in Pearl's house, just around the corner from the other three houses in question, and I could throw a baseball and hit any one of them, and I've been feeling pretty low and it's like this movie popped up not only to cheer me up but to blow my mind.

It's a Reseda Trip and it's one of those things where you'd have to have been there. I mean, just a few weeks ago, before Pearl passed away, we were talking about how Mom used to say "don't bother Mr. Reeves", and how it was like the 11th Commandment and should be Written in Stone.

These factors alone are enough to qualify it as a mindblower. But then, early in the movie, the main characters enter an empty appliance store, in search of a battery powered radio. The plot follows four survivors who find themselves alone in Chicago in the aftermath of a catastrophe. Has there been a nuclear war? They don't know, and there's no one else around to ask. So they enter the store to look for a radio, and in the middle of the movie frame is a product placement, prominently situated so you can't miss it. It's a large cardboard box, with the name of a famous vaccuum cleaner manufacturer printed in big letters on the side, in the font of the manufacturer's logo. This manufacturer shares it's name with a U.S. President, just to give you a hint, and I'm being coy for privacy reasons, but the thing is, that this is also Pearl's last name, right there in the middle of the frame, in a Raynor/Reeves movie straight out of our neighborhood. And not just our neighborhood but our corner. 

So yeah, it blew my mind and cheered me up. It was like Pearl, Mr. Reeves and Bill Raynor (who also took my baby pictures) were saying, "Hey Ad.........we gotcha"! Bill Raynor also took a classic photo of me getting a haircut. I'm about two years old, and we're in our backyard on Hatton Street. Dad is holding me on his knee, Pearl's husband Roy is wielding the electric shears, and I'm cringing, looking like I'm about to cry. Bill Raynor captured the moment. As I've mentioned, in addition to being a screenwriter he was also a talented amateur photographer. Supposedly on his tombstone it says "He Never Voted Republican".

"But hey, Ad.......how was the movie"? For a low budget apocalyptic Sci-Fi, it was doggone good. As the movie opens we see "Nora King" (Kathleen Crowley) waking up after a suicide attempt. A bottle of pills is at her bedside. She was despondent following the end of a relationship, but soon she'll forget all about it. She walks outside to find no one else around. The street remains empty down the block and on the main drag. By now she's becoming afraid. What's going on? Where is everybody? Nora then sees a dead body and starts yelling for help. That's when "Frank Brooks" (Richard Denning) appears. "It's okay, I'm not going to hurt you", he tells Nora, but then he has to slap her because she's getting hysterical. When she calms down, he's able to explain to her that there's been some kind of invasion. "I don't know who or what it it is, though", he continues. That question is answered when they see a giant shadow on the building across the street. It's a robot! Run for your lives, Frank and Nora!

They do, and soon they are traversing the city, moving from place to place, looking for somewhere to hide. In a deserted restaurant, they hear music. A piano is tinkling. Tiptoeing into the main room, they see a woman (Virginia Grey) and a man (Mr. Reeves). She's the pianist and he's her boyfriend, even though they just met. Hey, that's how it is when the world ends. You've gotta hang on to whoever's around. "I'm Vicki Harris and this is Jim Wilson", she says. The two couples are now a foursome and will stick together for the rest of the movie, in solidarity against the Robot Army.

Mr. Reeves gets in a lot of good one-liners. He plays a sardonic big lug who's forever in search of a drink, but later, when the group encounters a psycho with a gun, he'll put his life on the line to save the others. Whit Bissell, a fixture in these kinds of pictures, plays an Army research scientist,  tasked with reverse engineering a captured, inoperative robot, to see not only what makes it tick but where it's communication signal may be coming from. Who sent these things? Some communist nation bent on hostile takeover? Or are the robots controlled by Beings From Another Planet?

Bill Raynor wrote an excellent, intelligent script that includes accurate scientific details, military strategies and existential philosophy galore. While the movie does look and feel like a typical low budget Sci-Fi from the 1950s, I am not the only one who noticed that it has qualities that elevate it from the mass of cheapies in that genre. The acting, while stylised and therefore stilted, is very good. You can't take your eyes off Mr. Reeves, and the dialogue is unfailingly interesting (or funny). There's also an earnestness to the whole enterprise that gives it an individualistic quality. Many fans, at Amazon and IMDB, say they've sought this movie out for years, as they remembered it from childhood. Some say they've watched it over and over, and I can see the compulsion. "Target Earth" is it's own self-contained world, and you can imagine yourself in it. If robots really did attack our planet, you might wanna be with these guys. Two Big Thumbs Up. //// 

That's all for the moment. I know it's only one movie and I usually do two but I'll make it up in the next blog. I was so excited by the Raynor/Reeves collab that I had to rush this one out. Hope you had a great day. I send you Tons of Love as always!  xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo  :):)

Two Movies : "Personal Affair" and "The Door with Seven Locks"

Last night I watched "Personal Affair"(1953), a British melodrama co-starring Gene Tierney as the wife of a secondary school Latin teacher (Leo Genn), who faces scorn and then police scrutiny after one of his students falls in love with him and disappears. Seventeen year old "Barbara Vining" (Glynis Johns) stares at "Professor Stephen Barlow" (Genn) with dewy eyes all through his lectures. He sees this and develops feelings for her as well, but they aren't romantic. He's sympathetic to her adolescent angst and sincerity, and cares for her as a parent would a child. This leads him to tutor her one night after school, in preparation for an exam she seems likely to fail. Gossip is rampant among her friends, and the rumors get back to his wife Gene Tierney. During a break in the tutoring session, she confronts Barbara. "Just admit it. You're in love with my husband, aren't you"? 

Imagine the effect such an encounter would have on a teenage girl and you have the setup for the plot. Barbara is terrified at having her feelings exposed and she runs from the house humiliated, out into the night, her nerves raw, her self esteem disintegrating. The Professor returns from a phone call to learn of his wife's ambush of the timid girl. Horrified, her calls Barbara's house, hoping she's arrived safely. When Barbara answers, he's relieved enough to ask her to meet him, on a nearby bridge above a rushing river, which the director thought would be a good place for the star crossed pair to part ways. We can't hear what they're saying to one another, as the water roils below. Is the professor apologizing for his wife? Is he acknowledging Barbara's love but explaining that he's married? Or, in a darker vein, is he telling her the feeling is mutual, that he loves her too, this youngster less than half his age? That last one doesn't seem likely, but in light of what's about to happen, it's the explanation that will gain traction amongst the gossip.

The next we see of Barlow, it's the next morning and he's home acting normal with his wife. He's never thought anything untoward was happening. The only secret he's kept is the after hours phone call to Barbara, to arrange the meeting at the bridge. He only meant to straighten out her feelings, knowing she was devastated by his wife's attack.

But now the news comes down that she's fled and cannot be located. The last anyone knows, she was at a tutoring session with the professor at his house. He's forced to admit what happened, the accusation by his wife and his resultant phone call. He tells the police about meeting Barbara at the bridge, but swears that was the last he saw of her. "I went directly home and assumed she did as well", he says.

A search is made, and Barbara's beret is found against a rock in the river. With no other evidence, and especially no body, the police cannot declare her drowned, so for the time being she's listed as a missing person. But the search and the interviews continue, with Barbara's parents and school friends, and at this point the gossip about Barbara's love for Professor Barlow turns ugly, and the police refuse to rule out rape and murder. Much of the innuendo is originating from Barbara's aunt, the sister of her father. "Aunt Evelyn" is a 40ish spinster who lives with the family, and in a brittle, withering performance by actress Pamela Brown, Evelyn dishes to the investigators what she claims to be the truth.

"It wasn't a one way thing. He was obsessed with her, too. Never took his eyes off her in class, from what I've heard. He led her on, or she'd never have gotten up the nerve to show her own feelings as she did. Don't let anyone tell you different".

Aunt Evelyn has her own wounds from a broken love affair in youth, and she's been nursing them ever since. Now, with a chance to unleash some of her pain, she latches on to the handsome professor, and lashes out at him as a proxy for her missing niece. The police are hesitant to charge him, though. For one thing, they still have only the beret as evidence. For another, Professor Barlow had previously a sterling reputation at his school and among his peers. The plot will climax when the police decide to dredge the river in a final attempt to find Barbara's body. During all of this, Professor Barlow must convince his doubting wife that he's never loved Barbara in the romantic sense. The screenwriting is especially good because it would be simple to have him merely say, "I never loved her", and leave it at that. But the writer has him go on to explain that his feelings were indeed complex. "I suppose I do love her", is what he actually says, "but in a protective, nurturing way, as a parent loves a child".

The dialogue is full of this type of fine point emotional and psychological evaluation, which makes for a heart tugging mystery. Glynis Johns' portrayal of young lovestruck Barbara is especially poignant. We've seen Johns before (though I can't recall the films at this moment), and she's particularly adept at expressing vulnerability in her large eyes and open face. Interestingly, in real life she was only three years younger than Gene Tierney, who plays the professor's adult wife supposedly twice Barbara's age. Such is Johns' ability to play "young" and display the tenderness associated with a shy girl. As for Gene Tierney, I always thought she got shortchanged as an actress. Her abilities were often overshadowed by her looks, but she had a wide range grounded in emotional reserve, as if she was always holding back a tidal wave behind those chiseled features and her sparkling eyes. And of course she was holding something back; her own personal nightmare of manic depression (as it was called then) and possible schizophrenia. It's amazing she was able to finish this picture, let alone give a standout performance, because the year was 1953 and she would soon check into a mental institution. Her career would never be the same. Tierney has long been one of my favorite actresses and it's not because she's beautiful - many actresses are that. For me, it's because she's 100% real, and she never been more real than here, in "Personal Affair".

Leo Genn also shines as the honorable, debonair Professor. I give the movie Two Huge Thumbs Up, it's a little known gem. The print is razor sharp, too, so don't miss it.  /////

The previous night's movie was "The Door with Seven Locks"(1940), a British murder mystery with elements of horror, done in the style of low budget, late-30s Hollywood, meaning a roomful of people, a static camera and no soundtrack. The story is really good : a dying man, 55 but looks 75, wills his valuable collection of jewels to a niece in Canada. If something happens to her, the jewels will go to a young grandson. It's all a bit murky, as explanatory dialogue can be when it's condensed from a novel, but we get the gist of the soon-to-be-deceased man's wishes. After he dies, his body is placed in a sub-basement tomb below the estate of his doctor (Leslie Banks), a Spaniard and the direct descendant of Torquemada the Inquisitor. Consequently the estate also houses a torture chamber, which the doctor shows off as a curiosity to visitors. "Thank Goodness civilisation has advanced since that time", he opines.

The tomb of the dead man has seven locks, with one key given to six of his trusted associates. The seventh key is held by a man who we assume is the lawyer for the grandson, however these details are not clarified. This man, named Silva, is shown residing in a nuthouse, where he keeps his seventh key hidden in a carved out bible. Early in the movie we see him hastily writing a letter to the Canadian niece, the true heir to the key and the jewels it will unlock. She receives the letter and travels to England to visit him, with a comical friend (Gina Malo) in tow, but before he can reveal the secret of the key, he is shot dead from the window of his room by an unseen assassin.

It sounds like a riveting setup, but the problem lies in the direction, which has no snap or tension. I can't recall the recent film we reviewed that had the same problem, but it's as if it was enough for the director to have the actors hit their marks and recite their lines. All involved do this with professional aplomb, and there are some engaging sequences as well as a surplus of zinging one liners, courtesy of Miss Malo, but there isn't any forward motion, no energy that advances one scene to the next. It's a paint by the numbers exercise, therefore, and I'm afraid I can't recommend it, much as I'd like to. It's a movie that could have been excellent with a better director and a moving camera, As it stands, it looks like a contract job in which everyone was pro, got paid and went home. Once again, however, the IMDB fans seem to love it, and to be fair it wasn't awful. In fact it was fun, in a "well meaning" way. It just had a Contract Job director, combined with a minimal budget and a "studio" that didn't care.

So let's give it Two Regular Thumbs Up for the actors, the only ones who did care, and we'll leave it at that. Often we bitch about the screenwriting, which is usually the weak link in a crummy film. This time it's the director, who had a good story and good actors who gave their all, but who didn't give a hoot himself, and the movie suffered.

Ces't la Guerre. Watch if you want. The fans love it and it's fun if you aren't demanding (and if you can stay awake). Otherwise.......fuggeddaboudit.  ///// 

That's all for the moment. I'm writing from Pearl's kitchen. It's a long road through grief and the general feelings of displacement and anxiety I'm experiencing. Mornings are the most difficult, but things improve as the day goes on, and by night, when I go for my walks, I am able to restore myself in the quiet of the evening. That's when I do my best thinking. I at least have the movie reviews somewhat back to normal in length, and I will try to continue in that direction. Please forgive any backstepping, i.e. paragraph long efforts, as there may be more than a few of those, but I'll always try to write about something, just because it's What I Do.

I am grateful for your readership, and I wish you a nice afternoon. I also send you Tons of Love, as always.

xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo  :):)  

Writing From Pearl's House : Two Movies and a Book

It's now Tuesday October 5th, and I'm writing to you from Pearl's house, where I'll be staying for the next seven days. Her daughter went home to the Bay Area for some rest and recuperation, and to take care of some personal business, so I'll be here housesitting in the meantime, and taking things to Goodwill. Right now I'm in my usual blogging spot, at the kitchen table, where I've been writing all those movie reviews for the past several years. I'd write 'em late at night, after Pearl had gone to bed. Very often they weren't finished, or needed to be refined, so I'd finish them up during my afternoon break the next day at my apartment. Before the movie reviews, I just wrote about odds and ends, or I wrote to Elizabeth. I hope she still reads, I began this blog on Blogger specifically for her after first communicating though MySpace. Man, that was over 9 years ago now. Time sure flies, and as we know it does a ton of other stuff too; as it's flying by, it simultaneously runs slow. It runs backward as we reminisce, forward as we anticipate. It also stretches and retracts like elastic, as some memories from decades ago seem like they happened yesterday, whereas a less ancient incident, maybe removed in importance, can feel like it's from another lifetime.

I can feel Pearl's presence all around me as I write, and it's a wonderful thing, because the feeling I get (and that I've gotten before when my Mom died) is that there is no loss. The person has only transitioned to another form and is still with us. I don't mean that figuratively but literally. Love is the connection, hence the phrase "love conquers all". I could go on and continue to expound on the subject, but I shant. 

I do have a couple of movies for you. Last night I finally saw "The Old Dark House"(1932), director James Whale's masterpiece of horror about five travelers who find themselves stuck overnight inside a creepy mansion during a storm in Wales. A freaky family inhabits the joint. Horace and Rebecca Femm are a seriously twisted brother and sister tandem, he with the bearing of a mortician, she a bickering Victorian fishwife. Their butler Morgan (Boris Karloff in one of his scariest roles), is a scar-faced giant. He gets drunk and tries to rape Gloria Swanson. This is some far out pre-code stuff.

Swanson plays "Margaret Waverton", who as the movie opens is driving with her husband "Philip" (Raymond Massey) and a gentleman friend named "Penderel" (Melvyn Douglas) through pouring rain over the hilly Welsh countryside. They decide to stop at the nearest inn before they run off the road, and of course there is no inn, just a big house full of world-class weirdos.

Not long after the Wavertons and Penderel arrive, there's another knock at the door, more travelers in need of sudden shelter. This time it's "Sir William Porterhouse" (the great Charles Laughton) and his young girlfriend "Gladys" (Lillian Bond). It's hard to tell if Sir William is a lord or a gadfly. He seems highly educated but speaks with light humor in a countrified Irish accent. His relationship with Gladys appears to be platonic. After a strained supper with the Femms (gotta love that name), Penderel strikes up a conversation with her and they begin to fall for each other. Meanwhile, all hell is slowly breaking loose, and it's around this time that old Boris tries to get his mitts on Swanson.

"The Old Dark House" is about as off-the-wall a movie as you'll ever find, not only in characterization but in dialogue, and as an IMDB fan noted, it bears repeated viewings because there's so much going on. It's not your typical "Trapped in a Haunted House" movie, though it may well have invented that subgenre.

Also - as if it needed mentioning - James Whale was a genius. I have to cut in to my own unfinished thought here to say that, while I enjoyed "Gods and Monsters", I'd like to ask if we can stop looking at Whale as a tragic figure and regard him as one of the greatest directors in Hollywood history instead. The guy invented the Big League Horror Film, and I know that's a generic description, but whattaya want me to say? Gothic Horror, the Universal Horror Look, the Major Monster Movie? He invented all that too, but it's not so much that he invented it, it's the freakin' pictures he put up on the screen, the atmosphere, the sets, the sound, the sheer Otherworldlyness.

Have you ever seen a movie that looks or feels even remotely like "Frankenstein"? Or "The Bride of Frankenstein"? How about "The Invisible Man"? Each of those is a stand-alone classic, some of the greatest motion pictures ever made, regardless of genre, and then there's "The Old Dark House", which has all the top flight production values of the other films, and their great performances, but which comes so completely out of left field that you're kind of left scratching your head. "Am I to laugh or be horrified, or both"? And I don't mean that in the sense of a comedy/horror film, because this is not that. It's just plain weird, and equally deserving of merit as Whale's other three acknowledged classics. Some fans think it's his best movie, but anyway, my original point was that it's not right to view Whale as a tragic figure. The guy was a giant of cinema and should be regarded as such. Let's please stop politcizing everything.  

At any rate, Two Gigantic Thumbs Up for "The Old Dark House". That's my highest rating. Watch it and see why. Oh, and the print is razor sharp. ////

I also went to Aliso yesterday afternoon and got caught in a thunderstorm. First time that's happened in all the years I've hiked there. As the rain poured down - for the first time in a year and a half - I took refuge under an oak tree still scarred by the fire of October 2019. Lightning flashed and crackled in the distance, followed by reports of thunder. I thought "if it lets up in the next five minutes I'll go on and finish my hike", but it didn't let up; rivulets of rainwater soon ran down the trail. I saw other hikers heading back and decided I should go too. The quality of light was amazing, a gauzy low yellow and grey. Everything was as still as a stone. Aliso is an undisturbed place of nature, and as such, it emanates it's own response to nature's cycles. The tree that sheltered me dripped raindrops, and I imagined it must feel good after all that time, yet I knew that the tree and all it's friends could've weathered another year of drought if need be. The oaks are hardy sentinels.

The other movie I watched, two night ago, was "Bluebeard"(1944) starring John Carradine as an artist who may be a serial killer. It was really more of an attempt at watching, and for the first time I'm gonna have to re-watch the movie before I review it because I kept nodding off, to the point where I was rewinding over and over, and missing whole scenes of the movie. I was dog-tired as I'm still dealing with the psychological and emotional effects of Pearl's passing. I'll watch it again soon though, and then I'll complete my review. In the meantime I'll tell you about the book I've just begun, "The Queen of Bedlam" by Robert McCammon. It's the story of a young man named Matthew Corbett, a lawyer's clerk who lives in New York at the beginning of the 18th century. He's had a hardscrabble life (he grew up in an orphanage), and only through sheer luck and perseverance has he made it to adulthood. Using his intelligence, he learned the basics of law through the tutelage of a barrister who was kind enough to take him under his wing. Now, with enough legal experience under his belt, he's become something of a crusader for law and order in a growing city of five thousand people.

Imagine NYC when the population was only 5K.

McCammon writes in Dickensian style, his New York is as gothic and grimy as London of fifty years earlier. In addition to all the problems a need for civic order can produce, there's also a madman on the prowl, a serial killer dubbed "The Masker" by the publisher of the city's broadsheet (a double page fold-out in lieu of a professional newspaper).

Matthew Corbett is ultimately hired by a wealthy widow, the owner of an English security agency, to become the agency's first officer in New York. Thus the idea of an organized police force is born. But this is no mere cop novel or detective story. Really it's more of a traditional horror tale, as McCammon takes you on a descriptive tour of the burgeoning town of New York in 1705, when the taverns were illuminated by candlelight, men carried lanterns at night, and madmen walked the shadows with only a Town Constable to stop them.

McCammon's writing style is one of the best I've ever read. You feel transported to the place and time, as if you're walking in Corbett's shoes during the era of Witch Trials and tricorner hats. This book is exactly what I need right now and it's really helping me.

That's all I've got for the moment. I'll try to write regularly while I'm here at Pearl's, though I can't guarantee full-length movie reviews just yet. Thanks for reading, and have a good rest of the day.

I send you Tons of Love as always.  xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo  :):)

Pearl

 This part of the blog was written on the night of October 1st, 2021 :

Pearl's committal service was held this morning at Oakwood Cemetery in Chatsworth, the front gate of which is less than 30 feet from where I park my car to hike at Santa Su. It was a beautiful morn, warm and still. The sky couldn't have been any bluer. Only a few of us were present - Me, Helen and Carol, Pearl's niece. Pastor Christian from Reseda Methodist was also there, performing the ceremony, along with his assistant pastor, who was on his first day on the job. For the assistant, then, his first act for the church was to participate in Pearl's service. Also standing watch was a wonderful lady from the cemetery named Margo, so there were six of us in all, and it couldn't have been more heartfelt. Everyone shared in the feeling, which was a mixture of sadness, awe and triumph. Pearl lived to be 97 years old, and as I said to Carol she had a Storybook Ending. No hospital, no tubes or machines. She died in her own bed in a comfortable position in the house she lived in for 68 years, with her daughter and me holding her hands. She was in no pain that we could see, and we'd just finished watching Carol's church service from Minnesota, as I mentioned in an earlier blog.

Tonight's movie was "The Sleeping City"(1950) with Richard Conte, who's becoming one of our favorite Noir stars. Here, he plays a New York City police detective who goes undercover as an intern at Bellevue Hospital, in order to solve the murder of a staff member. In that guise, he's being supervised by Ward Nurse Coleen Gray. She's as alarmed as he is by the depression among the interns. One talks of giving up medicine altogether, then he too is found dead. Is it a second murder, or a suicide? Conte's police captain wants answers before the whole hospital shuts down. This is really good stuff. The only problem is a less-than-perfect print. It's soft but still watchable, and if you don't mind the print quality, it's highly recommended. Two Big Thumbs Up. Conte is proving to be another Mr. Reliable, like Glenn Ford or Dana Andrews. ////

This part of the blog was written Saturday night October 2, 2021 :

This morning was Pearl's memorial service at Reseda Methodist Church. I was mildly nervous on my way over, because I was scheduled to read the Remembrance, which I'd written myself over the course of last week. During the week, as I worked on it and refined it, I couldn't read it through without choking up, to the point of not being able to continue. I solved that problem by reading it out loud, to myself, over and over again for the past two days. The sheer repetition blunted the emotional overload, so I thought I'd be able to get through the actual reading at the service without crying. But I still worried about having a tremor in my voice, or tripping over the syllables. I'm not a public speaker, and even in grade school I can remember the nerves I would feel at having to speak in front of the class for Current Events.

But something must've happened, Pearl must have been with me, because when Carol finished her eulogy and Pastor Christian announced me as the next speaker, once I got to the podium I felt good. It's a stage I've stood on over 270 times before as a choir singer, and once I started reading, the words came out with ease, so much so that I felt comfortable enough to add some dramatic flair, as if I were telling a story.

I wanted to read it directly to Pearl, and I think that's why it came off so well. Many people came up to me after the service to say they were moved by my remembrance, some said they were moved to tears, and I mention this just because I wanted to write about how much my years with Pearl meant to me. Though I've had my heart ripped out and have experienced severe disorientation to an extreme degree over the past two weeks, the last couple of days have been beautiful, albeit in a grief-stricken way.

Although I had entertained the hope that Pearl just might live to be 100, I knew in the back of my mind that she'd already lived a very long life, and that her physical condition - while stable (good vitals, eating well, etc.) - was weakening. Still, because we had kept up our routine all the way to the end, with amazing wheelchair walks every evening to look for The Famous Green Parrots of Reseda, I never suspected anything sudden was coming. I thought that when Pearl was gonna go, there'd be a period of time over which it happened, like with my Mom and Dad. But there was no such period. She was her regular self one night, and gone the next morning. I'm just glad I was there when it happened. She truly had a Storybook Ending.

Thank Goodness the Franz Kafka Construction Company has taken the weekend off. All is quiet as I write, and I did watch a movie this evening, "Murder By the Clock"(1931), a pre-Code mystery, set in a horror context, about a bimbo who kills off her rival heirs to inherit the estate of a wealthy widow. This movie has a gothic, creepy style, straight out of early Golden Age Horror, in which weirdos stalk the hallways of secret paneled mansions. The bimbo is played by early actress Lilyan Tashman (born 1896), who appears to have been sewn in to her gown. Irving Pichel, later to become a director (whose films we've seen and reviewed), plays the leering, towering nutjob. This is classic Hollywood Horror fare of the low budget variety, circa early 30s, but there's a conviction to the way the characters are portrayed that could never be reproduced today. ////

That's more or less all I've got for now. I haven't been listening to much music of late, save for Classical KUSC in the background. Somehow, some way, I hope to find an even keel. What I really want to do is write, and even write another book. "The Lorne Street School Story" would be my next project, something I've had in the works since 1996, but with diligence could now be brought to fruition. It might take a few years to complete (and I've already got 120 pages worth) but at this point in my life, with all that's happened, and all that's never been resolved (and which no one has ever acknowledged), I just feel the need to stick to my guns, and see this tale out to it's end.

Fingers are crossed for making it all the way. 

Thanks for reading and I'll see you in the morning. I send you tons of love as always.

A Few Films, Gerald Mohr, and My Life Right Now

We're now on Day 18 of The Construction Nightmare From Hell. I may not live to see the end of it. I walked down to Northridge Libe at 2:30 to escape the noise, and wrote more of my remembrance for Pearl. Her service is Saturday morning. The only peace of mind I have is when I'm away from this building. I know that no one has ever commented on one of my blogs, but if you're reading and have a place to rent please tell me. I literally won't make it through another year in this hellhole. Really I'd like to share a house if anyone is interested. I'll be 62 next year - officially a Senior Citizen - and I'm too old to be living in a college student building.

Would anyone consider moving out of state with me? That's an option too, as California becomes unaffordable, but I would never do it by myself. I know no one elsewhere, and it would be far too scary.

Having lost everything in my life in one fell swoop, my best friend and everyday companion, my job, and the house I was mostly living in, I feel plunged into the depths of Hell. I know it could be worse. Look at poor Richie Faulkner, who was shredding on stage with Judas Priest one night, then undergoing major heart surgery the next morning. ////

"Finger Man" was last night's movie. A tricky title, I know, but this flick was made in 1955, before innuendo was commonplace, and here it refers to an ex-con who's pressured by the Feds to help them capture a mob boss. He's gonna "put the finger" on the guy if he doesn't get killed first. Two Big Thumbs. 

Another recent movie is "The Clouded Yellow"(1950), a murder mystery starring Trevor Howard as a British Intelligence agent who gets canned after screwing up a mission. Looking for work, he takes the unusual job of cataloging butterflies on a collector's estate. It's all he qualifies for, having no official work history as a classified Secret Agent, but it suits him because after that career, he's looking for peace of mind.

At the estate, he falls for the niece of the butterfly collector. She's said to be disturbed after witnessing the death of her parents, which she can't remember, but Howard thinks she's being gaslighted. He decides to extricate her from the situation and, using his Intelligence skills, he protects her from pursuers as they make a mad dash across the English countryside. The climax takes place at the Liverpool docks, in a Hitchcockian bit of flair. The plot is resolved in muddled fashion, but everything else is great. Two Big Thumbs Up. 

Tonight's film was "Dear Murderer"(1947), an old school British noir, meaning suave rather than hard boiled, much like a picture from Hollywood's Golden Age. Eric Portman stars as a man out to do away with his wife's two lovers. He kills one and makes it look like the other one did it. Now that's an original plot angle. The story is very talky and the action minimal, and much is revealed by exposition, but Portman is just so smooth as the husband that the movie flows through his performance. Greta Gynt as his wife may one-up him, if the coppers at Scotland Yard are slacking. They never slack off though, do they? Two Big Thumbs Up for this film as well.

The last full length review I wrote was on the night before Pearl passed away. The movie has an unfortunate title, considering the timing, but I present it now just for something to read.

This review was written the night of September 18th, 2021 :

Well, you can't win 'em all. I chose "Date with Death"(1959) because of it's IMDB rating (6.6) and it's running time (75 min.). In addition, it starred Gerald "Less Is" Mohr, who - when he's not smirking - is usually pretty capable in an ersatz Bogart way. 1959 was also a vintage year for B-Grade Noir. The only trouble is that this flick isn't B-grade or even C. It's D-Minus if you're being generous, and I mean holy smokes folks, how often do I bag a film before I even review it?

The synopsis sounded interesting, another reason I chose it. A hobo (Mohr), riding a train through the desert, is kicked off in the middle of nowhere by a railroad bull. Following the tracks, he wanders in the direction of the next town, and comes across a car parked askew off the side of a highway. 

Figuring he'll try to steal it, Mohr does the old Pointed Finger In The Pocket trick, to make the driver think he has a gun. The only problem is the driver is dead. He's been murdelized. Mohr checks the guy's wallet, finds a police badge, and the next thing you know he's impersonating the man in full, wearing his suit, driving his car and carrying his badge.

This comes in handy when, a short while later, he's pulled over by a pair of motorcycle cops. Once Mohr flashes his badge, they know who he is. "Follow me back to the station", says one of the officers.

Now then, Dear Readers : are you ready to suspend disbelief? If not, read no further. At the station, Mohr gets out of his car and follows the two cops inside. He's already sauntering, which is not a good sign. If Mohr gives up this early and starts playing himself, the movie's doomed. The officers lead him to a back office, where several officials are waiting, including the local mayor and a police lieutenant, the current Acting Chief.

With no further ado, the following happens :

"Please place your hand on this bible", says the mayor. After a quick oath, Mohr is sworn in as the new chief of police.

No one notices that anything is awry. No one notices that Mohr is swaggering and acting smug. The assembled are just hicks, grateful that he's "arrived from New York", an experienced chief, tough on crime, successful in cracking down on Mobsters.

Right away, you can tell that this is one of those independent movies where "some guy with twenty five thousand bucks" who fancied himself a filmmaker, got together a crew, found a free location in the boondocks, and used half his loot to hire a "star", in this case the probably-down-on-his-luck-by-this-point Mohr, who looks so bored early on that he must've asked for a vacation before finishing the picture.

A woman named Liz Renay plays a nightclub singer. She was a sometime actress (John Waters' "Desperate Living"), and the former girlfriend of real life hoodlum Mickey Cohen. The first thing Mohr does is release her from jail. As the new Police Chief Who Nobody Suspects Is an Impostor, he's supposed to be there to clean up the town, to free it from mob influence, and so why is he releasing the main Mobster's moll?

Most of the actors are non-professional and......wait, let me qualify that, because we've seen non-professional actors who can act, at least enough to pass. Here, let's call 'em the reverse - professional non-actors, because they are pros at not acting. "Stiff" don't even cut it, and then there's Mohr.

You'd be hard pressed to make a worse movie than "Date With Death", and when Gerald Mohr's bad, he's the worst actor in the world. Here, he looks pissed off at one point, not in character but as himself, as if he can't believe he signed on for this garbage and just wants the scene to wrap up so he can slam a drink.

If you aren't already acquainted with Mohr, I suggest you check out a few of his other films before watching this one, so you can see what his trip is. You've heard of people thinking they're "all that"? He's the king of All That. No one who ever lived is mohr impressed with himself than Gerald Mohr, except that he's just a smidge too jaded, or maybe distracted because he wants that drink, to be truly narcissistic. He thinks - knows! - he's all that, but he's also somehow pissed about it. Don't ask me why, just watch his "performances". Two Gigantic Thumbs Down. ////

So there you have it, a few films and the state of my life right now. I feel like I'm living out a strange fable, yet if you'd asked me just three weeks ago, I'd have said things couldn't be better. Again, if you read this blog on a regular basis (or even just this installment), please consider offering a comment. I realise it's uncool to acknowledge your presence, but this is an extremely hard time for me, and a little company would go a long way to regaining my balance.

Thanks for reading. See you in the morning. I send you tons of love as always.  xoxoxoxoxoxo  :):)

Two Movies and A New Reality

A couple more movies for you : "I Became a Criminal"(1947), also known as "They Made Me a Fugitive" in America. Watching this film, I could've sworn I saw a remake starring James Cagney, but I can't find it on IMDB so I must be wrong. It must be this same film that I know I've seen before, and while it has it's moments, and a strong finale, and the photography is exceptional, it goes on way too long. You know how sometimes we suggest a cut of ten to twenty minutes on certain films, twenty being the extreme and rarely invoked? Well, meet the new champ. At an hour and forty minutes, "I Became" feels like an Age in geological time and needs a full half hour cut out. The story is good and so are the performances, but the direction has no snap, no tension. It's as if the editor took the day off, or several days, or maybe there wasn't an editor at all. For me, it just dragged and dragged and dragged, but interestingly, the fans love it. Everyone at IMDB gives it a stellar review, so don't listen to me, give it a watch. But brew a pot of coffee just in case. ////   

The other flick I have is called "Fear No More"(1961), a low budget psychological mystery starring Mala Powers as a former mental patient now working as a personal assistant to a millionaire. He wants to get rid of his wife and is planning to frame Powers, knowing that her background will make her the prime suspect in the murder. This movie has a "let's put on a show"! dramatic feel, as if a talented cast of Playhouse 90 veterans decided to pool their money to make a Hitchcock film. The script is full of implausibilities, but if you go with it you'll have fun, and once again the IMDB fans absolutely love it. For that reason, let's give it Two Big Thumbs Up.  ////

Yesterday I took several bagfuls of Pearl's Christmas decorations to Goodwill. There were wreaths and pine cone baskets and stockings and all kinds of things, most of them wired up with lights. Many were handmade (Pearl did a lot of crafting in years past) and all were in good condition and I'm so glad Goodwill accepted them because now, with Christmas approaching, maybe they'll be placed in the store and purchased, and wind up decorating mantelpieces and front doors of other people's homes, thereby carrying on a part of Pearl's spirit.

Mornings continue to be extremely difficult for me. I cope by reading and going slow. I'm in a Kafka-esque situation here in my building. If you've been reading over the years, you may recall that I've complained a few times about my noisy neighbors. Fellow apartment dwellers may know what it's like to be located next to The Apartment From Hell, and that's where mine is situated. I've lived in The Tiny Apartment for close to sixteen years and have had one nightmare neighbor after another. The last group (I say group because two guys lived there but always had their friends over) loved disco music. Disco from India to be precise, and while I'm not prejudiced against any race or culture, I'll just say that Indian Disco is not my favorite music and leave it at that. Especially when it's played through subwoofers, which in my opinion should be outlawed in apartment buildings. Even when the "music" is turned down, you still hear a thud....thudthud...thud....as if someone is throwing furniture around.

Well at any rate, while these guys had their quieter periods, they were more often the quintessential Obnoxious Neighbors With No Regard For Others. About a year ago, marveling at their longevity in this building (they moved in in 2015, most tenants are gone within two years), I said to myself, "They Will be Here Until The End of Time". 

Imagine my surprise then, when I came home from my last (and final as it turned out) work cycle at Pearl's, to see the Noisy Neighbors moving boxes, not into but out of their unit. "Could it be true"?, I wondered, hoping against hope. "No.....it can't be", came the reply from the Cynical Me, inured to living next to these fellas. "Remember Ad", I said to myself, "It's written in Freaking Stone, like an Eleventh Commandment : 'They Will Be Here Til The End of Time' ".

But Lo and Behold! They did move out. Thank You, Jesus! The torment was over. That was Friday night, September 10, 2021.

Then I went "Out of the Frying Pan and Into the Fire" as Franz Kafka moved in, 2 1/2 days later on the morning of September 13. He moved into my building in the form of construction workers, who began pounding and hammering and sawing and banging and drilling and pounding some more, beginning at 8:30am sharp every morning. Okay, once again if you're an apartment dweller, you know the process of refurbishing a unit after a long time tenant moves out. The painters come in, maybe the drywall guys before them, and perhaps the carpet crew too, if the unit is badly worn down. This has happened next door a couple of times in the sixteen years I've been here. And it usually takes two or three days to complete the job, four at the most.

But folks, this time they must be constructing the god almighty Empire State Building in there, or a channel-length subway tunnel, or both, because the pounding and the sawing and the drilling and the hammering and the banging have been going on for fifteen full days now, and there's No Sign That It's Gonna End Any Time Soon.

I kid you not. I have a theory, that if ever the world is destroyed by nuclear war (God Forbid), the only things to survive will be cockroaches, Keith Richards, and construction workers. The thing is, though, you'll never see them. You'll only hear them nearby, pounding and banging like something out of a Kafka novel, an existential absurdity in a time of monumental despair.

I did listen to the Rams game yesterday, which made me feel better. I say "listened" because my apartment doesn't get regular TV. You've gotta have cable, and I never bought it because I've been mostly living at Pearl's for the past 12 years. So the only thing I use my TV for is movies on dvd. But I don't mind listening to the game on the radio. It's how I followed sports as a kid, and there's something about listening to a game on the radio that engages your imagination and heightens your anticipation. Sports are always a good diversion in tough times, especially when your team is winning, and the Rams look like Super Bowl contenders this year. They destroyed Brady and the champion Bucs with ease.

I've been going up to Aliso Canyon, the only hike I've been doing of late, but I've been going there every day. It's just 2.5 miles from my apartment, in a ravine that looks like an old hollow from the 19th century (or the 9th, or 9 million BC), and whenever I go there, no matter how low I'm feeling it's Instant Peace of Mind. That's where I saw the bobcat. Today I saw a coyote, but they rarely hold still for a picture.

After my hike, I've been getting home about 6:30. Then I watch an episode of "The Avengers". When I was a boy I was transfixed by Mrs. Peel, but never understood the banter between her and Mr. Steed, nor the complex plots, so the show was somewhat beyond my reach. Now, though, I'm well versed in British witticisms as well as espionage, having finished the whole of Patrick McGoohan's "Secret Agent" series, and I'm enjoying "The Avengers" very much as a sort of counterpart to that show. Whereas "Secret Agent" was deadly serious, "Avengers" is irreverent. Both are now among my favorite TV shows of all time.

At nightfall I go on my CSUN walk, which helps me get my thoughts in order as the hustle of the daytime subsides. I have long been a night person. I can't do hustle-bustle, maybe I'm in my head too much I dunno. But I never understood the Rat Race anyway. What's the freakin' point? I've always thought it would be better to live in a continuous Steady State, free of economic emphasis, with a focus on nature, God and Spirit, much like the Indians did, and we could use all the best of our modern technology to enhance organic output, to produce bountiful harvests and live in harmony with Mother Earth, instead of paving over the entire planet and constructing skyscrapers and malls on top of the pavement. Sorry for being a wet blanket, but that's supposed to be "progress"?

There's no such thing as progress, except to cure disease and to make human life easier. That's something I learned as a caregiver, though I knew it instinctively since the age of 17.

Well, I'll shut up now. I'm in the midst of a terrible shock and feeling the loss of a special person who was with me for one fifth of my life. 

That's all I know for today. Thanks for reading. I'm in a new adventure and I send you Tons of Love, as always.  xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo  :):)

A Few Movies, and Cynthia Lennon

 I've got a few movies for you, all highly recommended, but just the titles and basic details for now. I've haven't got the energy or concentration to review 'em. Especially good was tonight's film, "The Brothers Rico", starring Richard Conte as a former accountant for the Mob, who's forced to track down his brother by a Miami Don. Directed by Phil Karlson, who brought us the excellent "99 River Street" a few weeks ago.

Last night I watched the also top notch "Human Desire" by Fritz Lang, starring Glenn Ford as a train engineer, who gets involved with a co-worker's wife, not knowing that the man has recently committed a murder. It's a lot more complicated than that, but make sure to see it. Broderick Crawford and Gloria Grahame co-star as the dangerous couple.

"Out of the Fog" was a British crime flick by the reliable Montgomery Tully. A young ex-con tries to go straight but is hassled by his parole officer, who suspects him in a series of murders in a local park. Solid lead work by David Sumner as the accused young man, and good suspense all around, leading to a twist ending that you'll never guess.

"Portrait of Alison" is an Anglo-American co-production that, like "Serena" a couple weeks ago, riffs on the popular "Laura" theme, of the idealized femme captured on canvas who then disappears, only to reappear in a different guise. This movie involves a jewel theft ring, and is more of a Scotland Yard procedural than a love triangle melodrama (ala "Laura"), but it still utilizes similar Noir elements of the "double" or returned girl.

And finally, "The Passing of the Third Floor Back", a parable of good and evil adapted from a stage play, starring the great Conrad Veidt as a mysterious stranger who comes to live at an English boarding house full of miserable tenants, He tries to change their lives for the better but is opposed by an unscrupulous man of wealth. This one has a marvelous scene in which Veidt gets all the tenants out of the house for boat ride on the Thames. They come to life in exhilaration, but later that night, when their day of fun has ended, the Wealthy Man corners Veidt. "You've had your say", he tells him, "but now it's my turn. Wait til they see the cold hard reality facing them in the morning". You'll have to see it in the context of the movie, but it's brilliant. "The Passing of the Third Floor Back" is an incredibly spiritual film that uplifted me in what has been a very difficult week. Conrad Veidt has become one of my favorite actors and I can't recommend it highly enough. ///// 

So there you have it, good flicks all, and not a one of 'em rating less than Two Bigs. "The Brothers Rico" gets Two Huge. ///

I went back to Pearl's this afternoon, to help her daughter sort her belongings. It was actually therapeutic, and I am managing my days right now by just taking one hour at a time, and doing what's right in front of me. Mornings are the hardest, as the Wealthy Man in "Third Floor Back" so aptly pointed out, but what I do is just read my book until "the cold hard reality" ebbs away, and then when early afternoon comes 'round, I start working on the magic. It's the only way out of such a situation.

Right now, I am reading "John" by Cynthia Lennon. Did I already mention that in a previous blog? Well anyway, her book is also helping me a lot. I always thought "Cyn", as she was known, was a lady of true class, who never got the credit she was due as John's loyal and supportive wife during the headiest years of Beatlemania. Yoko gets all the press, which says that she was John's true love, but I've always believed his true love was Cynthia, who he met at art college in 1957 when he was 17 and she a year older. He was with Cyn for 11 years. As far as The Beatles are concerned, she was there from the beginning, coming into John's life just a couple months after he met Paul McCartney. She was there at the table in a club or restaurant when John and Stu Sutcliffe chose "The Beatles" as a band name. She was there for almost the whole ride, under often trying circumstances, accepting the role of the traditional wife and mother.

Then John discovered LSD, and it basically destroyed their marriage, because he took it every day for years. Not everyone knows that about John, but it's also why Paul took over The Beatles. During that period, John left Cyn for Yoko, who still gets all the press but wasn't there when it mattered. Cynthia was the real John Lennon's wife, and as they say, "behind every successful man there is a strong woman".

Cyn got a raw deal out of the whole thing (ask Julian), but remained in love with John to the end. Nothing against Yoko, as she suffered through John's death, but in my opinion, she couldn't shine Cyn's shoes.

So I'll say God Bless Cynthia Lennon. Her book is helping me greatly this week. She tells an exciting tale from bygone days that turned into an emotional roller coaster, so it's a diversion that helps me get through my day. Cyn's gone now, in heaven, and I believe she and John are together again.  ///// 

That's all I know for now. See you tomorrow morning. I send you Tons and Tons of love, as always.

xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo  :):)