YOU CAN'T SPELL "ASSESSMENT" WITHOUT "ASS"

Who needed reviews when you looked
like that?

Even after decades of extraordinary professional success, Robert Redford says he doesn't read reviews of his performances. The reason why? They're not helpful.

Canny fellow that he is, Redford probably figured that out when he made his first TV appearance 58 years ago. I'm only at that point 58 years later. But the reviews I'm talking about are the ubiquitous “Comments” sections across the internet.

When I sold my first op-ed to the New York Post, the internet was still in its infancy, if not in vitro; readers who wanted to respond had to write to the editor. 

This meant deciding if it was worth dragging out the typewriter, going through a few drafts of a well thought-out letter, dabbing White-Out over typos, addressing and stamping an envelope – and then driving to the nearest post office.

And even after all that rigmarole, there was no guarantee the newspaper would print it. That alone would spark another letter to the editor.

These days, anyone with a smartphone can quickly type their remarks, typos be damned, and hit “send”, when it often receives an immediate worldwide audience. The guardian at the gate has been replaced by a sign reading EVERYBODY WELCOME! AND DON'T HOLD BACK!

As with 8-track cassette tapes, MySpace, or the Beatles filming Magical Mystery Tour without a script, this seemed like a cool idea at the time. That is, until I read the comments left on my first piece for a site called Next Avenue about getting laid off in my late 50s. 

While most readers were empathetic -- for there were many who thought they were the only ones -- and others offered advice, one fellow, 25 years my junior, didn't just disagree with what I'd written, but laid on the insults with a jumbo-sized trowel, going so far as to call me an asshole.

I was aghast. Only friends and loves ones have earned the right to call me an asshole.

"Dear Perry: You're an asshole."

Engaging him in what I hoped would be a civil debate only proved optimism was a sucker's game. Our “conversation” quickly devolved into (quoting Noel Coward in The Scoundrel) two empty paper bags belaboring each other. So much for the internet providing a thoughtful exchange of ideas.

Before going further, I need to emphasize that person was an anomaly among Next Avenue readers. By and large, I've been gratified to strike a chord with them in response to subsequent pieces, or gain insight from others who have a different point of view. 

It was only when these pieces were republished 

by Forbes and MarketWatch that I was blindsided by overtly nasty remarks. And, no, I have no idea what I'm doing on Forbes and MarketWatch.

What had I done to some readers to make them flat-out obnoxious? More importantly, why did I even care?

My wife explained it to me succinctly:“You want affirmation. We all want affirmation.”

Affirmation of what? I already knew I was a good husband, father, and all-around citizen. I even composted regularly. Recycled corks. Even on occasion fulfilled my wife sexually. I should care what strangers say to me?

Apparently, yes.

This is far different from how I feel about negative comments left on this blog, which tend to be in response to my reviews of old movies. Now, nobody respects or loves old movies more than me. That's because most people have lives. But thanks to TCM, I've seen enough to know that not all old movies are worth watching. 

Ladies: do you care about Kay
and/or Ish?

At the same time, I'm fully aware that my opinions are about as valid as a 30-day weather forecast. Therefore, I'm weirdly flattered when, say, someone accuses me of "liberal revisionism" for my sarcastic take on Postal Inspector. Or the guys (for they have to be men; no woman in her right mind cares) who disagree with me, in excruciating detail, regarding my negative view of Pop Gear's Tommy Quickly or the dopey 1940s bandleader Kay Kyser and his idiot sidekick Ish Kabibble in Playmates.

Let that sink in a moment: somebody actually cares about my opinion of Ish Kabibble. That, friends, is power on the level of the Washington Post editorial page.

However, the pieces I've written for real sites (i.e. the ones that pay) are personal. Therefore, I take personally the comments that go out of their way not so much to disagree but to defile.

Thompson Jr. High's official motto:
Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.

As I read them, I feel like like I'm in Thompson Junior High School again, that hellish time when you had to fit in 100% 24/7 365, or else face the wrath of kids at school – often, as with readers leaving comments, people you didn't even know. All that's missing is an unexpected punch in the arm and a random threat of getting beat up after class. 

After a few years of this crap, I finally asked myself: why am I deliberately putting myself in the target range of total strangers who have nothing else to do but abuse me?

As you can tell, we have a lot in common.

You have sound advice to offer? I'm all ears. But gratuitous insults? As a wise man once said, they're not helpful. And so I've decided to go the Robert Redford route and not read any more “reviews”. 

According to Social Security's Actuarial Life Table, I've got about 25 years left on earth. A quarter-century of ignoring complete strangers calling me an asshole is equal to a lifetime of bliss. (Of course, if you ride the New York subways as often as me, that's not always possible.) 

Comments left on this blog are always welcome -- even those from wise guys (I'm looking at you, Jim, formerly of NBC!) who, in regard to this piece, will call me an asshole. I'll still publish whatever people have to say -- which, as history has taught me, is very little. 

But to those who enjoy and even relate to what I write on other sites: while I will no longer read your comments, you proactively receive my thanks, best wishes, and good vibes. Please keep reading!

To those who believe I could benefit from a second opinion, don't worry – whatever you're saying, my wife has gotten there first and often.

But to those who prefer animosity to affability, defamation to debate, you'll have to get a rise out of somebody else. This empty paper bag has had its fill.

And to any Kay Kyser fans out there: I affirm your enjoyment of the guy. Honest.

But again, I ask as kindly as possible, without any nastiness implied, suggested, or spoken -- Ish Kabibble?

                                                            ******************

BREAKING NEWS: IRAQ EDITION

President Obama revealed yesterday that he was sending 300 advisers to Iraq to help push back the ISIS rebel forces. The announcement came after 1:30 PM EST, over an hour later than its original scheduled time. The Ol' Fish-Eye has learned exclusively that the reason for the delay was a disagreement about which speech Mr. Obama was to give. The original speech, as written by the president, is as follows:

Good afternoon. As you know by now, the situation in Iraq is grim and getting worse.  But let me tell you something that you haven't heard: nobody can do a goddamn thing about it. These folks have been at each other's throats for at least 700 years, and have no interest in smoking the peace hookah now or in the future. 

Let me tell you about this whole Sunni and Shia kerfuffle. After Mohammed died, one side wanted his son to take over Islam, while the other side preferred the son-in-law. In other words, it's all a family fight. Have you ever tried to settle a family fight? Forget it, they positively wallow in this shit. They thrive on hating each other, no matter what the outcome or who gets hurt. In fact, the only people they hate more than each other are outsiders who try to get them to hash things out peacefully. So I'm announcing today that we're pulling all our troops from the Mideast, and letting those sheiks of Araby kill each other, which is all they've wanted to do anyway.

Now you might remember everybody got all upset about a similar situation in the Sudan, with millions of innocent people slaughtered by rebels. But it's still going on, and nobody's lifting a finger to stop the killing. "Why?" you ask? It comes down to one word that rhymes with "boil." Get the picture? If those godforsaken Sudanese lived on land where Exxon could set up shop, we'd have been over there faster than you can say, "Fill 'er up." Why do you think Europe didn't say "boo" when Russia invaded Crimea? 'Cause Vladmir Putin is their number one gas jockey!

So here's what I'm proposing -- no, ordering. I'm going to take all that money we were going to flush down the Baghdad toilet and put it into research to make sure that we will never be energy-dependent on anyone else. That means Republicans will have to get used to the idea of wind farms dotting the fruited plain, and solar panels on all houses, apartment buildings -- hell, every structure that has at least four walls and a floor. And I know you don't like electric cars, but too bad. People didn't want to switch from horses to cars for a while, either -- and those were electric, too. And to all you swaggering conservatives who like to ride your "hogs," even Harley-Davidson is going to start manufacturing electric choppers. Not only are they clean, they're quiet, so they won't set off every car alarm in the neighborhood when you show everybody how tough you are. Even though you used every deferment in the book to dodge the serving in the military.

Now before you Democrats start feeling smug, well, you better wipe that stupid smirk off your faces. I'm giving the OK to that Keystone Pipeline you've been so afraid of the last five years. Yeah, I know you've made a lot of money -- excuse me, received a lot of political contributions -- from fighting it. But you're going to have to find another  boogeyman to keep your job. And you might as well know now, it's not going to be fracking, either. I'm giving the all-clear on any company that wants to frack on whatever private land they want. As long as they offer fair compensation, they can frack 'til they're blue in the face. Because you and I both know, it's cooler to be photographed with Robert Redford than some dirty guy in the fields just trying to make enough money to support a family. 

Before I go, I'd like to address my colleagues who have been giving me advice on every program from Morning Joe to the evening news. Democrats: you can make the case that this is all President Bush's fault, and you're right. But you know what? That was over a decade ago. You're getting to be as bad as the Sunnis here. Because nobody outside of Rachel Maddow cares anymore -- they just want us out. And Republicans: you've had two presidential elections to prove you were smarter than the average bear, and you lost. But, hey, you think you can do better right now? If I could, I'd be happy to give you the keys to the car. You have no idea the pressure that comes with this job. I mean, I know how I've aged the last six years. Every time my kids come home from school, they say, "Hi, Grandpa!" Sure it was funny the first 50 times, but it's getting a little tired.

And allow me a shout-out to two men in particular. First, Dick Cheney -- at least show the same class your old boss President Bush has and keep your mouth shut. And John McCain -- thank you for your service in that other military nightmare of Vietnam. But if you think you're so smart -- well, remember, you were the one who chose Sarah Palin as your running mate. 

And to you talking heads on the news programs, who have zero idea on the kind of intel I get every morning, yet who insist on giving me your unwanted advice -- have you looked at the latest Gallup poll regarding the public's opinion of you? You're right up there with pedophiles and people who eat shit for a living. So just keep flapping your gums, see how far it gets you.

For those who are concerned that an ISIS-controlled Iraq means another terrorist strike on U.S. soil -- hey, terrorists had no problem hitting us when bin-Laden, Hussein and Gaddafi were running things. But I understand your fears. That's why I'm putting all Arab countries on notice. If there's another attack on America, I'm going to the situation room, where we've got a big map on the wall. I'm going to face the Mideast portion, close my eyes and throw a dart. Wherever it lands, we're going to drop the big one. That means you're responsible for keeping those guys in line for a change. We don't care what you do with them. Hell, our black-ops specialists can give you advice if you'd like. You can go all Kim Jong-Un, and feed 'em to the dogs for all I care. Just don't make us come back there, because I promise it will be the last time. In fact, I'm going to include Pakistan as well, because would anybody miss them if they suddenly went up in a mushroom cloud? I didn't think so.

Thank you, and God bless the United States. Now somebody get me a cigarette.

                                                      ***************

TV SHOW OF THE DAY: "INCIDENT AT A CORNER " (1960)

Filmed for the NBC anthology series Ford Startime, "Incident At a Corner" was produced and directed by Alfred Hitchcock despite having his own weekly show on the same network. It likely had a slightly larger budget, considering it was shot in color and ran an hour (including commercials). Perhaps because of these pluses, it resembles the movies he was starting to make at Universal.

And look, it's COLOR. What more do you want?

It was certainly special enough to win the coveted "Close-Up" in that week's TV Guide. Its two-sentence story breakdown appears to tell you all you need to know. But this being Hitchcock, there's plenty of other drama to get you more involved more than first expected. 

 

 

 

Say it in Hitchcock's voice, and it seems threatening.

The titular incident that opens  the story -- an elementary school crossing guard named James Medwick harassing a driver who ran a stop sign -- is shown from three different perspectives: ours, a teacher's, and that of a couple across the street. With each one we discover there's no such thing as an objective viewer; everybody brings their own baggage to an event that otherwise wouldn't be worth a second glance. 

And this time pay attention!

For us, it's accepting what happened at face value. For the teacher, it's wanting to keep on the good side of Mrs. Hawley, the driver, who's an important figure at the school. And for the couple across the street, it's wanting to ruin James Medwick's reputation over another incident from decades earlier. 

Before the day is over, Medwick is fired and his adult daughter Jane, a tutor, loses her client, who happens to be the teenage son of Mrs. Hawley. Thanks to small-town gossip, Medwick has gone from being overzealous to possible pedophile. And he's not even a priest!

Hey, about a third view, just for fun?

While Medwick's son Jeff wants to move his parents away, Jane's fiance Pat intends to clear the old man's name. And so he begins his own investigation, going so far as seeking advice from a lawyer, who doesn't even charge a consulting fee. This is television.

Meanwhile, Hawley's teenage son gets revenge on the Medwick family by giving Jane a smack in the face that draws blood. But was it deliberate? An accident? Did anything we see actually happen the way it seemed? Taking it one step further, was what we heard at the original incident actually spoken the way anyone thought it was? I told you, pay attention!

"... And while you're at it, babe, get a
different hairstylist!"

Hitchcock shot Incident at a Corner immediately after Psycho, using the same crew (which came from his TV series) and actress (Vera Miles). Leading man George Peppard, still strictly a television actor at the time, is pretty much Robert Redford minus the charisma. While his insistence on clearing Medwick's name is commendable, he seems to be on the verge of punching everybody's lights out in the process.

 

I'm not sure what's more shocking -- anyone
would accuse this guy of a hideous crime,
or Paul Hartman was only 54 years old.

The guy who actually does a better job than Peppard is Paul Hartman as old man Medwick. Letting his heavy-lidded eyes do the emotional lifting, Hartman is quite sympathetic as the guard, who's become a criminal in the eyes of his neighbors without a shred of evidence. 

Hartman's dramatic portrayal is quite a change for a guy better known for as Emmett the handyman on The Andy Griffith Show and its spin-off Mayberry RFD, two other shows about the weird goings-on of a small town. If George Peppard had been the star, he'd have probably beat the hell out of Floyd the Barber just because.

This is what TV Heaven looks like.Top: Joe Flynn
(minus his usual glasses), Warren Berlinger, and
Philip Ober. Bottom: Jack Albertson, Eve McVeigh,
and Jerry Paris.

Others in the cast (left) make for a good snapshot of TV's familiar supporting actors at the time. Some were better known for comedies, and none were what you'd consider Hitchcock stalwarts. I'm not sure I ever said, "Oh, that guy!" so many times. The only one missing was Charles Lane, which is a shame. I'd have loved to see that human Grinch play a school crossing guard.

If you ever wondered what a Hitchock-directed
episode of Mayberry RFD would look like.

Nobody going into Incident at a Corner should expect the usual Hitchcock picture. Its low-budget and fast shooting schedule isn't going to be on the level of North by Northwest. I mean, it's a TV show, for heaven's sake.

But there's a particular way Hitchcock frames a shot and places the actors that is unique as his fingerprint. And nobody draws out the dark secrets and hidden agendas of ordinary people quite like him. 

As you can tell, Hitchcock
appreciates my advice.

Had Hitchcock wanted to, he likely could have expanded Incident at a Corner into a 90-minute feature, tossing in more background regarding the main characters and padding out scenes like those in the lawyer's office. But it would have been close to the level of his movie of five years earlier, The Trouble with Harry -- an interesting idea that didn't quite pan out.

At just under an hour, though, Incident at a Corner is less a "lost Hitchcock masterpiece" and more "forgotten Hitchcock surprise." And like the incident itself, it's worth more than one look. Best of all, it confirms your lack of faith in mankind. Way to go, Hitch!

                                                               

                                                            ****************

For more Hitchcock, go here.

IT'S ALIVE, IT'S ALIVE! (WHETHER YOU LIKE IT OR NOT)

What, again?

There's been a lot of loose talk going around about the alleged death of movies. Not like this is anything new, since Roger Ebert was wailing the same sad tune ten years ago. Oh, Mark Harris, too, the very same year! As I stated in an earlier piece, 2018 was the highest grossing year for the industry ever. Consider the movies, then, to be one of the great comeback stories in the Bible (of Show Business), Variety.

The people who give these premature eulogies tend to be movie critics, a profession which was becoming obsolete around the same time Ebert and Harris were standing over film's grave. Not content to be caught outside the cemetery, New York Times' movie critic A.O Scott has come to bury, not praise, the movie industry. (Subscription required, but I was able to read it in a private window. I guess publisher "Pinch" Sulzberger hasn't heard about that trick yet.)

A.O. Scott looks like somebody who's
happy to see a Vin Diesel movie.

A.O. begins his dirge admitting that he was happy to have seen the ninth (ninth!) installment in the risible Fast and Furious series just because he was in a movie theater. With other critics. Meaning nobody yakking to each other or their cellphone or talking back to the screen, or sitting through 25 minutes of previews and commercials after paying 15 or more bucks for the privilege of going to the alleged palaces of dreams. 

These things and more are what drove me from the regular movie-going experience many, many years ago. In other words, A.O. and his brethren -- who get paid rather than spend good money to watch movies -- have no idea what it's like for everyone else. 

At age 55, A.O. is now officially licensed to use the phrase "I'm old enough to remember", which, speaking as someone 65, is an automatic turn-off. But in case you're interested, what he's talking about is a time "when most movies were hard, and in many cases, impossible to see." 

The restored Blu-Ray of Alfred Hitchcock's
first talkie for all to see? Heaven forbid!

Do you yearn for those times? I don't. But A.O. does! Because, he claims, "when everything is accessible [...] nothing is special." Remind me not to invite the Paper of Record's movie maven to my next evening of TCM. I love finally getting to see old movies, most restored to their beautiful original glory, that I never thought I'd see. And Blu-Rays? I'm only sorry these things weren't around 40 years ago. 

As with many people connected to The Industry, A.O. is wary of streaming services like Netflix, which allegedly kills the "shared experience" movies are supposed to be all about. 

You know what Netflix is for my wife and me? Finding an unknown (to us, anyway) 2019 British movie  entitled Hampstead starring Diane Keaton and Brendan Gleeson. 

The kids don't wanna see this kind of thing.

Since the stars' ages at the time were 73 and 64 respectively, Hampstead -- an engaging romantic comedy -- never got a proper theatrical release in the U.S. Four years ago we saw a made-for-Netflix release entitled Our Souls at Night, starring Jane Fonda and Robert Redford -- 80 and 81 at the time.  

Get the picture? Neflix and other streaming services provide us geezers with movies that don't involve CGI car crashes, intergalactic wars, and comic book figures. Imagine!

I'm surprised A.O. didn't quote Barry Diller when describing made-for-streaming releases: “They ain't movies. They are some weird algorithmic process that has created things that last 100 minutes or so,“ Unlike, say, Fast and Furious 9, which is a weird algorithmic process lasting 145 minutes, which he apparently approves of since it was released theatrically. 

Alright already!

Too many streaming movies are killing the industry seems to be the cry of people who, again, haven't paid to see a movie in decades. At times like this, many of those gnashing their teeth point to 1939 as the greatest year in movie history. And yes, if you look at the list posted on imdb.com, it reads like a book entitled The Best Movies Ever Made.

Up to a point. Because in a year where almost 1,800 movies were released, for every Wizard of Oz, Stagecoach, or The Rules of the Game, the are hundreds with titles like Blondie Takes a Vacation, Hotel for Women, Daredevils of the Red Circle, Scouts to the Rescue, Inspector Hornleigh, at least three Nancy Drew movies... Page after page of movies released merely to take up space on studio-owned theaters for two days before being replaced by another. Also known as product with algorithms before the word was even coined. 

As far as Edison was concerned, it was all downhill
after his masterpiece The Boxing Cats in 1894.

Thomas Edison and Charlie Chaplin complained about talkies destroying the "art" of movies in the late 1920s. Theater managers bitched about having to buy new equipment to run widescreen movies with stereo sound. 3-D has come and gone and returned and left again, never replacing flat movies as critics feared (although James Cameron is doing his best to do so with four unasked-for  Avatar sequels in the pipeline through 2028).

As scriptwriter William Goldman famously said about the movie industry, "Nobody knows anything." Movies, film, cinema, whatever you call it, are not dying. What was true once remains so: If you're lucky, a great movie comes your way. On occasion, there's something quite good. 

But by and large, mediocrity rules the day. And that's true of cinemas or streaming. I'm old enough to remember that.

                                                              ***************

MEMO FROM THE BOSS

                                Heaven, LLC

         “Where You Go When You’re Good To Go!”

              GOD: PRESIDENT, VICE-PRESIDENT, CEO, CHAIRMAN OF THE BOARD

FROM: God
TO: People of Earth 
RE: Miracles

My Chief of Staff, St. Peter, has informed me that another one of you has given me credit for something I didn't do. This time, it was David Brat, who claimed that his win over Eric Cantor in the recent Virginia primary was "a miracle from God."

Even though it should be obvious, I feel compelled to set the record straight, especially to Mr. Brat. Do you really think that in a world where violence, disease, corruption, and madness are rampant, I should choose to show my all-mighty power by being a ward heeler? Talk about using my name in vain. No, Mr. Cantor's loss can be chalked up to  "throwing the bums out." By the way, this isn't just an earthly phenomenon, as Lucifer will testify.

Despite what you've might have heard from pulpits, or read in the National Enquirer or a certain "good book," I don't do miracles any more. Now, that's probably a shock to many of you, but consider: Do you think if I was in the miracle business, you'd be getting junk mail every week from charities begging for money to help children with cleft palates? Or junk mail, period?

I got out of the miracle business a long time ago (by your earth years) after a bunch of self-styled holy ghostwriters first published my alleged autobiography. Just to back up, I really was responsible for some doozies. I mean, it doesn't get much more miracle than a virgin birth, although I'm still proud of that Red Sea stunt. (Today, they'd probably call it "further proof of global warming," LOL!) But once you believed that I was really as petty and mean-spirited as those writers made me out to be, I washed my hands of you. For the love of me, think!

For example, I created the world in less than a week, right? So why would I be so petty as to condemn the wearing of mixed fabrics? I admit, wool and linen seems to be a weird combo, but who do I look like, Tim Gunn? (Well, maybe a little.) You want to eat shellfish, pork, or any animal with cloven hooves? To quote my favorite pope, who am I to judge? You wouldn't believe what kind of stuff I get a craving for. Fortunately, calories don't mean much when you're an almighty kind of a guy. And yes, for the zillionth time, I'm a man. Women only think they're God. (Like me, that joke never gets old!)

I mean, look at all the things I could have stopped if I were still in the miracle business. Wars. Pestilence. Disease. Yoko Ono. But I'm going to pull strings for politicians? Or sports teams? Your kid's beauty pageant? Wake up, people! If I really did everything you wanted, nobody would die, you'd all have your dream job, be a billionaire, never age, and have hot sex 24/7.  You might as well hear it now: it ain't happening. As the song says, that's life. 

Oh, sometimes I do what I call "reverse miracles," just to mess with you. Did you know that Adam Sandler has lived five years longer (so far) than Ernie Kovacks did? You can thank me! Martin Scorsese losing the Oscar to Robert Redford and Kevin Costner? Let me take a bow.  

To reiterate: I have nothing to do with your joys and sorrows, wins and losses. Like Dr. Oz, I don't do endorsements. Now, If you want to thank me for the good stuff, I can't stop you, but you're wasting your breath. You see, I'm just a spectator. Talk about guilty pleasures -- forget Duck Dynasty or the Kardashians, you're the biggest reality show in town. 

God

 God


PS: Speaking of reverse miracles, wait 'til you get a load of what I've got planned for the USA/Germany match at the World Cup tomorrow!

                                                         ***************

THE EARLY SHOW, PT. 34

 Strictly by coincidence, this Early Show has two "bringing the dead back to life" movies, and two TV shows from the early 1960s. If you've seen any of these, the next drink's on me. On a Zoom call, I mean.

SIX HOURS TO LIVE (1932): Paul Onslow, an ambassador of Sylvaria, has been assassinated by an unknown person. Good news: The police commissioner has a friend who's invented a machine that can bring the dead back to life. Bad news: They can stay alive only six hours. (You'd think he'd have worked a little harder on fixing that glitch.) Onslow will use that time to have dinner, explain to the woman who loves him that he's no longer the marrying kind, find the guy who killed him, and remind the police commissioner that death is scary only in your mind. I'd have dropped a couple of tabs of acid, but to each his own.

Sci-fi, horror, and politics were hot stuff in the early '30s movies. Six Hours to Live manages to combine all three genres, along with a dash of romance. Onslow is the only representative who refuses to sign a pact involving international finance, believing that it's a cover for the major governments to make out like bandits while their citizens get nothing. He isn't wrong -- that's why someone at the table wants him out of the way in order for a substitute to vote yea. Otherwise, the pact is null and void, as Onslow will be in a few minutes. Once revived, he has a new appreciation for life, taking a moment to help a streetwalker (money only!) and a little flower girl (ditto). Onslow doesn't even kill his assassin, preferring that the guy suffers "a living death". Today, that's known as, well, life as we know it.

Six Hours to Live's political angle was typical for its time, being a mildly progressive subplot that drives the story. Warner Baxter makes Onslow the rare rich guy in a silk cape who's on the side of the little man. (The cape also gives a Dracula-vibe when he's closing in on his killer.) Nor does he overdo his (second) death scene. Wilting like a flower, Baxter rests alongside a tree as a beatific gaze passes over his eyes as the end comes. Director William Dieterle (Syncopation) provides style perfectly fitting all the genres the movie covers -- the life-revival scene could fit in any horror movie of its time. It's just too bad that, as usual, Six Hours to Live's print on YouTube is bleary and over-pixilated. The Musuem of Modern Art possesses a restored version, but you have to be, you know, a scholar to access it. Ergo, I advise you to skip Six Hours to Live as it appears online and wait for someone at MOMA to drop dead for six hours so you can sneak in and see their print. (Kidding, MOMA, kidding!)

BONUS POINTS: Two years earlier, co-stars John Boles and Marilyn Harris were in Frankenstein, as Victor Moritz and the little girl who gets thrown in the lake respectively (if not respectfully).

MAN WITH TWO LIVES (1942): When nice guy Phillip Bennett dies in an auto

accident, his father asks Dr. Richard Clark to make good on his reviving-the-dead experiments. Good news: it works! Bad news: the soul of a gangster named Panino, who was executed at the same time, enters Phillip. Why don't these scientists ever take these things into consideration? 

By the 1940s, only a B-movie outfit like Monogram would try pulling off a sci-fi/ gangster hybrid like Man with Two Lives. And gosh darn it, the thing works -- up to a point. One-time A-list supporting actor Edward Norris plays the title role -- or roles -- convincingly; his transformation into a cold-blooded gangster is something of a shock, as is his blunt romancing of Panino's trashy moll Helen, along with his growing hatred of his loving family and fiancée Louise. Even Panino's gang is scared of him. Yet you can see something of the good Phillip underneath the monster from time to time, giving his character a complexity not usually seen in B's. You actually start feeling sorry for him -- here's a guy through, no fault of his own, is on a very obvious self-destructive path, thanks to an ill-considered wish from his loving father and twisted brilliance of a scientist...

Which is probably why at the very end, Man with Two Lives goes kablooey when the story turns out to be a nightmare suffered by Phillip during a four-day coma following the accident. I hate when that happens, especially in a movie as good as this. Had Man with Two Lives (couldn't Monogram afford a "The" in the title?) been a pre-code from a decade earlier, Phillip would have been shot by a cop as he was here, but too damn bad about how it wasn't his fault. His father and the scientist would be condemned to a lifetime of guilt; his fiancée would never know a day's happiness from then on. Doesn't that sound like a better picture?

BONUS POINTS: Phil Rosen, the director of Man with Two Lives, showed how powerful a gloomy climax could be with his previously-discussed Monogram pre-code The Phantom Broadcast. 

DR. KILDARE (UNAIRED PILOT) (1960): It isn't unusual for a TV series to undergo cast
changes before its premiere. Dr. Kildare went a step further to change the lead actor and concept. For the pilot, Lew Ayres was brought back to recreate his starring role from MGM's nine Kildare movies from 1938 to 1942 (and 1950 radio series).  No longer a young intern, he's now chief diagnostician at Blair General Hospital. And as Dr. Gillespie mentored him decades earlier, so Kildare mentors the young intern Dr. Grayson. The circle of life and all that.

Lionel Barrymore, the original Gillespie, was six years dead but not forgotten, as his portrait hangs in Kildare's office. Ayres even quotes a line of dialogue Barrymore spoke in one of the movies (a reference to a "mentally retarded ringtail baboon" wouldn't make the cut today). The story itself -- Kildare wanting to keep Dr. Grayson at the hospital rather than allowing him to go into private practice -- is a remake of one of the early Kildare movies. (Don't ask me which; they all blend together in my memory.) Kildare goes behind Grayson's back to upset his plans, causing a brief rift between the two before amends are made during a run-up to brain surgery, no doubt a common event in busy hospitals during the overnight shift.

As when he was the young Kildare, Lew Ayres is a warm, comforting presence; you'd want him as your GP even if he didn't accept insurance.   Joe Cronin is serviceable the role of Dr. Grayson -- but why didn't that part go to the charismatic, 24-year-old Robert Redford instead of the brief uncredited role he has here? No matter. Lew Ayres and MGM parted ways when his request that Dr. Kildare not be sponsored by cigarettes was refused. (Who did this guy think he was, a doctor?) The studio revived the original idea of young Dr. Kildare mentored by the wise Dr. Gillespie, giving Richard Chamberlain and Raymond Massey a comfortable five-year run shilling cancer sticks between visits to the O.R. It's my personal diagnosis that this was the first example of TV producers trashing the older audience in favor of younger, primarily female viewers. Now pay the receptionist on the way out.

BONUS POINTS: The Kildare pilot was directed by John Newland, the director and host of One Step Beyond. Olan Soule, one of the most familiar character actors in TV history, plays a doctor. Do a Google Image search; if you're of a certain age, you'll automatically say, Oh, that guy! 

ONE STEP BEYOND: "THE SACRED MUSHROOM" (1961): Next to The Twilight
Zone, One Step Beyond was my favorite spooky show during childhood. The difference between the two was that One Step Beyond was based upon true stories -- maybe. As host John Newland explained at the end of the episodes, nobody could prove or disprove their veracity. For a gullible eight year-old, that was good enough.

One episode, titled "The Sacred Mushroom", couldn't be disproved, though, because it wasn't a dramatization at all. Newland and his crew travelled to a village in Mexico to investigate a 'shroom that, when ingested, allegedly provided the gift of ESP.  After bribing some locals with medicine, Newland and his pals are able to meet up with a shaman at a midnight ceremony, where a missionary and two American scientists eat the 'shroom. Aside from the missionary getting an embarrassing case of the giggles, the Yanquis show zero side effects. The shaman does correctly diagnose one of the scientist's heart problems and, while he's at it, solves a local burro theft, which makes me wonder if med schools and police academies are a waste of time and money.

Eventually it's time for Newland himself to get in on the action. Under the care of a certain Dr. Baharish, Newland first needs to take an ESP test while sober. When he flunks that, it's time for the mushroom, which leaves him feeling "fine" and "strong", along with a sense of "well-being". (My experiences with mushrooms leaned more toward "goofy as hell".) Following a round with a strobe light, which leaves him seeing colors while his eyes are closed, it's time for a repeat of the ESP test, where he now scores higher than before. Personally, I would have been more convinced if he had found a stolen burro. "The Sacred Mushroom" promises more than it delivers -- I was hoping for Newland to yell, "The walls are melting!" -- but when was the last time you saw a 1961 TV show where someone ate a (semi) magic mushroom?

BONUS POINTS: "The Sacred Mushroom" was One Step Beyond's most popular episode. It was also the only one not to go into syndication after its original network run. I wonder if John Newland saw that during his 'shroom trip. 

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