Disneynature's "Chimpanzee" is a remarkable documentary, three years in the making with many more spent in preparation. This motion picture is an alternately sad and heartwarming true-life adventure captured by superlative cinematographers slogging through an African rain forest to observe their subjects. It already claims an Oscar.
We enjoyed "Comes a Horseman," a World War II era western I chose to revisit after 30+ years and share with The Sweetie®.
This is the tale of a ruthless cattle rancher / oil-baron-in-waiting (Jason Robards), matching wits and determination against underdog cowpokes (Jane Fonda, James Caan).
The film is entertaining, engrossing, and inadvertently puzzling. Our minds are engulfed in the mystery surrounding the numerous similarities of this screenplay to the television series "Dallas," which debuted in 1978, too. Neither production appears to be officially related to the other in strict plotting or behind-the-cameras lineage or source material, but one can't miss the coincidences, among them:
Robards' villain is named Jacob Ewing, phonetically close to Dallas patriarch Jock Ewing. Introducing Robards alternately as J.W. Ewing, as he is, can't help but suggest Jock's given name, John Ross Ewing, Sr. or J.R. Ewing.
Fonda's character is Ella, Ewing's desirable land owner prize. The "Dallas'" counterpart is Ellie, Ewing's desirable land owner prize.
Crusty Relatives: "Comes a Horseman" has beloved "Dodger." TV has beloved "Digger."
Actor Jim Davis, Jacob Ewing's evil henchman, was subsequently cast as Jock Ewing -- whom, I might add, looks EXACTLY the same!
The new GEICO commercial is nearly a home movie for us, having traveled five times to this exact setting in Arizona-Utah's Monument Valley, our favorite American destination.
In 1967, at the dawn of the full-color era of television, a problem arose. The Beatles' popular black-and-white movie, "A Hard Day's Night," was slated to make its broadcast debut.
"Oh, no! We're the "Living Color" network! The picture is in black-and-white!"
Solution: The NBC Peacock was given the night off and the film was proceeded by The NBC Penguin.
With the blessings of the National Broadcasting Company, color television's NBC Peacock logo was turned over to a pair of irreverent animators, John Kricfalusi, creator of "The Ren and Stimpy Show," and Nathan Love, inspired by the aforementioned Mr. K.
Color television broadcasts eventually transmitted on an irregular basis in America during the 1950s, increasing until full-color production morphed onto all channels, circa 1966-67. NBC positioned itself as the "in living color" network, branded with incessant appearances of an iconic peacock, fanning vibrant tailfeathers at our faces before each program.
While color television may not seem like a huge deal generations later, NBC continues to trot out the trusty rainbow fowl on occasion. It's nice to see the bird getting work, considering parent company RCA has plucked a few dollars from color TV manufacturing since 1954, with, I hope, infinite gratitude to its dandy corporate spokesbottom.
Here's a batch of The NBC Peacock appearance videos, starting with a late '50s incarnation (above), followed by a 1968 surprise from "Rowan and Martin's Laugh-In" and a 2010 salute by the motion picture stars of "Despicable Me."
I made a conscious decision as a teenager that I would not grow up to be The Old Man. You know, the coot who spews on about how life was much better when he was a lad. Cats' pajamas, poodle skirts, salt water taffy, muskets, Buddy Ebsen, and all that junk.
So, I'm not doing it here. I'm being delightfully informational in a happ'nin' gnarly bebop sort of Fizzies Party.
Kids today don't have any idea of what hell is.
Hell is watching "color presentation" logos, like the NBC Peacock below, in front of every television show on a black-and-white set for years and years until Mom sees a need to upgrade to the new technology.
"Michael, color TV? Reds and blues and yellows? You don't need reds and blues and yellows. Have you done your homework? Take out the garbage. Have you done your homework? Eat this orange. It's orange...."
An unfrequent 35mm engagement of the 1953 alleged science-fiction alleged chiller was enough to roll me out of bed and scream at the heavens, "Why, God? Why?!"
He didn't respond, so I bawled and crawled from the bedroom into the yard and over to the car. I managed enough strength to pull myself and sidekick chest mud and grass stains up into the driver's seat. I turned the ignition key. The engine started, dadgummit. I aimed the wheels due north for Chattanooga.
A giant hand descended from a fluffy cloud over the highway, grabbed my vehicle's roof between a gargantuan index finger and exemplary opposible thumb. With a lightning fast twist of that wrist, the car spun around, now pointed south. The hand gave my trusty coupe a powerful nudge, so I drove towards Atlanta and the Plaza Theatre, host to the "Robot Monster" debacle. I was going to watch the motion picture after all.
Don't believe the hyperbole you saw in the coming attractions trailer (above).
Overwhelming!
Electrifying!
Baffling!
That boast is exaggerated by two-thirds. "Robot Monster" is Underwhelming! Coma Inducing! Baffling!
Baffling it is. A more apt description would be hard to concoct. The incredulous story of aliens from outer space, who are supposedly robots, but have the bodies of mangy, furry, gorilla suits with zippers up the back, topped off with no big monkey heads, stuffed into deep sea divers helmets.
The exposition descends into less plausibility as it goes along. The epic is set in a desert with nowhere to deep dive, excepting the soapy reservoir of the villain's evil Billion Bubble Machine. The plot is a shambles. Continuity changes inexplicably, and in the middle of this end-of-the-world tale, stock footage of predatory lizards impersonating dinosaurs pop into sight with no reasoning or table manners.
I fingered the shutter button on my camera -- and, unscrewing the bulb, an aisle light socket.
Hmmm. Maybe this flick is electrifying.
Either me or the snapshots got fuzzy. You smell smoldering hair?
The film is known as "Robot Monster," "Monster From Mars," "Monsters From the Moon," and a stultifying, soul-sapping heap.
Over the course of a misspent life, I have had the prickly heat of seeing "Robot Monster" in 3-D, in 2-D, and in this newly-revealed process the Plaza calls "Super HypnoPrismaScope!" Additionally, all showings of the flick were presented in the miracle of 37-Z.
"Zzz-zzzzzz-zzzz-zz-zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz..."
The handsome cardboard-mounted "Magic Glasses" lenses issued to the audience added a dash of rainbow colors to the black-and-white 2-D print projected onto the screen. Multiple identical images dazzled, blurred, and swirled around my migraine.
The effect suggested the point-of-view visions of a housefly. I prayed to flit into an oncoming windshield.
By the end of the millennium (this cinematic sucker is A LONG 66 minutes!), the Robot Monster has fallen smitten to the charms of the 1-D, overacting Earth sweet thang. He babenaps her across an apocalyptic wasteland, grasping the helpless lass in his arm shags. She's hot for creature.
Not.
Eventually, the movie concluded. I located my pulse. It was already in the car with the air conditioner on.
In fairness, perhaps there had been a misprint. Maybe the preview trailer was meant to read:
Overwhelming!
Electrifying! Barfing!
If I ever see "Robot Monster" again, it won't be in 2-D. It won't be in 3-D. It won't be in TV. It will be in Pepto-Bismol.
Star Doris Day opens the 1954 musical "Lucky Me" by singing a cheery song across the Floridian streets of lovely Miami -- except the entire enterprise was faked on the Burbank, CA lot at Warner Bros.
I've been fortunate to visit the studio twice and stroll the much photographed outdoor set, although I didn't warble show tunes or get gunned down by James Cagney.
Maybe next time.
As Doris passes along the movie theatre's sidewalk, we see posters for "The Command," an actual Warner production released in Feb. 1954. "Lucky Me" hit screens in April, so this ploy was a smart up-to-the-minute product placement to entice sharp eyes.
I do so wish Miss Day had lingered. I'd be under that theatre marquee beside her in a scant 43 years.
We'd have lunch at the commissary, croon the obligatory duet, bungalow in Carmel, and rescue puppies.
"The Command" advertisement boasts its presentation in the months-old technological process of CinemaScope, yet the picture was produced twice for non-compatible cameras. Here's an interesting bit of trivia, found at Internet Movie Database:
Filmed in two separate versions - 3-D and CinemaScope - with different aspect ratios (1.37:1 for the 3-D, and 2.55:1 for the CinemaScope print). Only the wide screen version was ever released, though the 3-D elements still exist in Warner Bros. vault. Also the first wide screen Western of the 1950's. The flat (i.e. non 3-D) 1.37:1 version was also made available to theatres who were not yet equipped to project CinemaScope.
"Lucky Me," by the way, is reported to be the first musical in CinemaScope, although there is conflicting research.
It appears the Judy Garland version of "A Star Is Born" was the first musical to go before the CinemaScope camera. It's 10-month schedule to completion, however, delayed release until October.
I've enjoyed "The Trouble With Harry," Alfred Hitchcock's droll dark comedy, three or four times over the years. Whenever I think of it, the first image to pop into my head is always the same, focused on the film's most remarkable couple. Yesterday's recollection was no different and I was moved to share this thought on Twitter:
Is there more perfect, adorable casting than Shirley MacLaine & Jerry Mathers as mother & son in Hitchcock's THE TROUBLE WITH HARRY (1955)?
Leave it to Twitter. It wasn't long until I discovered this surprising reply by one of my childhood heroes:
From @TheJerryMathers:
@MikeDurrett - It was Shirley's first film and I'm introducing it at the @TCM Classic Film Festival (April 28-May1)!
My turn:
How great to hear from @TheJerryMathers re: THE TROUBLE WITH HARRY (1955). Wish I could be with you @TCM FF. You're swell in this, age 6?
In 2003, I attended the first-ever World 3-D Film Expo in Los Angeles. Grauman's Egyptian Theatre hosted 10 days of rarely screened films from the 1953-54 3-D boom era in the correct dual projection process. I saw it all, three dozen features and numerous cartoons, short subjects, and oddities presented in, count 'em, three dimensions.
Due to travel issues, I nearly skipped the closing night movies, but I was able to rearrange my schedule. By doing so, I discovered the joys of "The French Line" (1954), Jane Russell's follow-up to her popular and iconic "Gentlemen Prefer Blondes" (1953). I am not exaggerating when I say I am so glad I did not miss this one, the motion picture of which the ads of its day boasted, "See Jane Russell in 3-D - She'll Knock BOTH Your Eyes Out!"
I'll say.
Arguably, Miss Russell was more famous, certainly more notorious, for her buxom body than her acting talents. Producer Howard Hughes recognized the combination of unplain Jane and state-of-the-art optical illusions were a publicist's dream and a potential financial goldmine, so "The French Line" hitched a ride on the 3-D bandwagon along the road to scandal.
This lighthearted romantic musical comedy, set aboard an ocean cruise ship, leads our star to an impromptu song and dance in the showroom. That tune, "Looking for Trouble," and her revealing costume -- she packed this little black dress just in case? -- caused a sensation with the public and the censors. Eventually, Hughes caved under pressure, recutting the sequence for American audiences. The altered version is the one that went into release in 2-D theatrical engagements and has been utilized for a half century of television runs. The uncut 3-D version was withdrawn from circulation until the film festival I attended, when we were shown a surviving forbidden print.
Those four minutes were outrageous, unbelievable, surreal, memorable, hilarious, and essential.
And eye-popping! Yesss!
Thanks to the Internet and Mr. Hughes, wherever you are, benevolent sir, here is the original footage (although not viewable in 3-D).
The sanitized version of this scene follows below. The objectionable material was covered by substituting the wide angle master shot, so Jane's skimpy attire is distant and underplayed. Her mid-song monologue, photographed much closer, has been deleted.
Big weekend, having my second date with The Giant Gila Monster!
No tongues.
My first encounter with "The Giant Gila Monster" took place when I was seven.
I recall observing The Giant (Human-Hongry) Gila Monster terrorize Texas and thinking aloud, "Man, this movie is really crummy."
Flash-forward 50-odd years. (I'm an eclectic kind of mix-and-matcher on my years.) The Plaza Theatre in Atlanta revived the dubious rodent's dubious achievement. Curses, you Plaza!
With grave reluctance, I decided to revisit the film to ascertain if The Giant Gila Monster had aged gracefully.
It had not.
That wizened lizard needs to be put in a beady Hoodie-Footie™ and a Lazy Lizzy™ recliner and go gum some orthopedic mammals.
A treasury of "The Giant Gila Monster" revelations became newly apparent, when sifted through my half century of amassed, value-added cinematic wisdom.
The star power: Shug Fisher (Old Man Harris), Fred Graham (Sheriff Jeff), Gay McLendon (Mom Winstead), Ken Knox (Horatio Alger "Steamroller" Smith), and Angus G. Wynne III (Dumb Teen, uncredited) to name a too many.
Don Sullivan (Chase Winstead: Spunky Hunky) is the hero of the piece, wrecker service mechanic by day, giant reptile avenger by night, and teen singing sensation by He Never Close.
Chase is always open to a wannabe Ricky Nelson-lite tune and screw-the-mayhem musical interlude. Even The Giant Gila Monster gets his four claw-feets a-tapping and people-munching a-bopping when our boy pulls out his miniature toy banjo to strum and rock out on "The Mushroom Song (Laugh, Children, Laugh)." The kids love it each time he croons the feel-good hit of the giant sluggish venomous lizard gnaw-fest. Yes, EACH time. Heck, even I got hot.
"The Giant Gila Monster" was produced by Ken Curtis, best known in the role of Festus on TV's "Gunsmoke," following his award-winning-yeah-sure epic, "The Killer Shrews."
Curtis, as you may be aware, sang with the Sons of the Pioneers and popularized "Tumbling Tumbleweeds." The Giant Gila Monster ate sons of the pioneers and liked rumbling, tumbleweedy.
Donna and I gots to gets us a roadster!
Why isn't the lead actor of this flick given billing? I find the outrageous oversight to be disgraceful. Why isn't proper credit acknowledged? Unless the name is Benji or Ern or something silly, the titles should read:
THE GIANT GILA MONSTER
IS
"THE GIANT GILA MONSTER"
What is Hollywood's phone number?...
The running time of "The Giant Gila Monster" is 74 minutes. Seventy-three of those are padding. Four days and 12 seconds are audience perception.
I paid 25 cents to see this film in 1959, and 28 times that amount in 2011. Plus, another seven bucks for my wife's ticket. At $14.25, grand total investment, I have exceeded the picture's budget and I have no giant carnivorous beast to show for it. What has happened to our country?
The Giant Gila Monster is big, yes, but he's -- I assume it's a he. I was wearing blinders. He is actually larger than giant. That would be my assessment. A fair assessment, considering I arrived at the crime scene without a tape measure. Slide rules are useless in these situations and, besides, mine was in the car. I did have a protractor, but the pencil point was broken. I've got no gila monster in this fight. I'd say The Giant Gila Monster is more The Gargantuan Gila Monster or The Behemoth Gila Monster or The Jumbo, Enormous, Super-Colossal, Excessive, Chubby Chub Chub Gila Monster. Shoot, people, he's, at least, an MMDCCLXXX-L.
There is one positive point I can make about "The Giant Gila Monster." The coming attractions trailer has provided me with an apt personal slogan and epitaph: "DEVOURING PEOPLE AS IF THEY WERE FLIES!"
The perfect Halloween: "Bud Abbott and Lou Costello Meet Frankenstein" (1948) and Dean Martin and Jerry Lewis get "Scared Stiff" (1953). 
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