Reviews

While "Murder, She Wrote" has never been what one would term a realistic procedural, "Dead Eye" has to be one of the most boneheadedly unrealistic episodes of the series. Ostensibly based on proof that the Kennedy assassination was more than met the Warren Commission's eye(s), it is instead a collection of rather stock mystery characters, with Jessica stuck in the middle, all of whom act dumb and do inexplicable things simply because the furtherance of the plot requires them to do so. It also features perhaps the most out-to-lunch police foil Jessica ever encountered. The basic idea might have made a decent feature film (there's too much going on to cram into an hour show) with original protagonists, but trying to force it into the "M,SW" format doesn't work.

"Epic" is the most polarizing of all "Avengers" episodes, with people either loving it or loathing it. When I first saw it as a kid, I loved the mystery and bizarre imagery, of which there is plenty. As an adult, however, while the bizarre imagery remains (if a little less convincingly), the realization that a mystery without a solution is a failed mystery kicks in. Put simply, this episode makes no sense on any level. Mrs. Peel is kidnapped by a crazed movie producer/director straight from the silent era, and two washed up actors, who are forced to keep working with him because of the fine print in their contracts (a funny enough gag...but also one of the most realistic elements in the show!). They set about to kill Emma on film through any number of unrelated scenes. The unanswered question, however, is WHY? It is never explained, outside of the fact that they're crazy. It is also contradictory in that at times it's clear the loony director set out to kill Mrs. Peel from the onset, while at others she has to be "auditioned" for the role, implying that all he wants to do is kill SOMEBODY. It makes no sense. Nor does the fact that Emma, trapped inside a movie studio, can't see what the audience clearly sees, that she's on set with missing walls and lights overhead. Rigg responds throughout with an eye-rolling attitude that tells us not to take any of this seriously, kind of like a guest star in a skit on a comedy/variety show. It's that very rare episode in which both Steed and Peel seem to realize they are characters in a television program instead of real people. So, is there ANY reason to watch it? Yes: Peter Wyngarde's delicious, hilarious performance as sodden, hammy actor Stewart Kirby. He single-handedly saves the show, and is even allowed to do a lick of genuinely fine Shakespeare. Also, for fans of "The Avengers," it offers something of a backstage tour of ABC Studios in Elstree, England, where the series was filmed.

From the looks of "Fear in the Night," it cost no more than the noir classic "Detour," made a couple years earlier, but it doesn't have that films' standing in the realm of noir. Based on a story by Cornell Woolrich ( as William Irish), the film concerns a young man who dreams of killing someone, and then finds evidence that his dream was reality, even though he has no conscious memory of it. He appeals to his brother-in-law, a police officer, to help, and together they piece out the solution to the bizarre mystery. Reliable Paul Kelly plays the cop, while "Star Trek"s DeForest Kelley, in his screen debut, plays the confused protagonist. Looking remarkably like a young Edward G. Robinson, Kelley is all right, though he clearly has not mastered film acting. In particular, his face morphs and shifts in the dramatic scenes like it has insects crawling underneath. The mystery's solution is a little out there, if not entirely impossible -- a hallmark of original author Woolrich. While not distinctive in any way, "Fear in the Night" is an adequate time-killer.

There have been many film adaptations of "The Hound of the Baskervilles," but for some odd reason, most of them don't work. The 1939 version with Basil Rathbone and Nigel Bruce is a worthy effort, but Hammer's take on the story, twenty years later, has to stand as the definitive version. Since the story has always been a quasi-horror tale, the combined efforts of director Terrence Fisher and cinematographer Jack Asher perfectly combine to wring every drop of atmospheric dread out of it. Then there's Peter Cushing, who looks like Holmes and presents perhaps the first truly accurate presentation of the character Doyle wrote. Andre Morell similarly offers an accurate depiction of the fictional Watson: intrepid and intelligent (if not brilliant), a far cry from the lovable comic buffoon, created by Nigel Bruce and continued by Nigel Bruce imitators. Christopher Lee plays Sir Henry, a rare good guy role for him, and invests the character with enough prickle to remain interesting. Some liberties are taken with the original story, to be sure, but the film is beautifully shot, very well acted, and remains the best film version of the story to date.

"Apology for Murder" is such a ripoff of "Double Indemnity" that apparently its working title was "Single Indemnity." Paramount (producer of the classic film) was not amused. Hugh (Ward Cleaver) Beaumont plays the Fred MacMurray role, this time a reporter instead of an insurance agent, while the most fatal of femme fatales, Ann Savage, takes the Stanwyck Barbara prototype role. Here she's just as cold and calculating as in "Detour," but not quite as demonic. She and Beaumont are terrific, and the supporting cast is largely fine, too. The production values are far above the standard PRC fare, meaning them must have thought they had something special here. The only problem is the script which, in addition to its derisiveness, puts forth often inconsistent characters. The actors, though, prevail. Definitely worth a look.

There is very little new (even for 1941) in "The Smiling Ghost," but it is an agreeable rehash of comedy/mystery conventions. Wayne Morris is amiable as the down-on-his-luck engineer who accepts a job posing as the fiance of a beautiful young woman (the very young Alexis Smith) whose previous fiances have all been murdered or maimed. The prime suspect is "The Smiling Ghost," presumed to be her first ex returned from the dead. The cast is packed with Warner Bros. reliables, notably Alan Hale, who is rather badly miscast as a society butler, but is all the more amusing for it. The actor who really keeps the film afloat, though, is Willie Best, doing something of a reprise of his role in "The Ghost Breakers" from the previous year. As Morris's valet-slash-right hand man, Best steals every scene he's in, still making you laugh even while you're cringing at the dated frightened black routine. He's the reason to watch the movie, because if anyone can't figure out who the killer really is, they should stop watching B mysteries.

While MGM in its prime was tops for things like musicals and historical dramas, it was the place comedy went to die. In addition to killing the careers of Buster Keaton, Our Gang, and Laurel and Hardy, and turning Red Skelton into a musical sidekick, the studio in the 1930s took on Ted Healy and His Stooges, a.k.a. The Three Stooges. Fortunately the boys broke away from Healy and went to Columbia where they found fame and not much fortune, leaving Healy at MGM to become utility comic relief. But they made a handful of features and shorts before than, none of which show them to their best advantage. "Hello, Pop" is probably the worst. Larry, Moe, and Curly play Healy's sons (but not really, I mean, c'mon...) while he plays the egomaniacal star/producer of a show. The short seems to have been made to use pre-existing musical numbers, and in between those is nothing more than a bunch of people screaming at each other. The biggest problem with all the early 1930s Healy/Stooge films is Ted Healy, who simply is not funny. He's a good singer, but had laugh-making potential of Herbert Hoover. The Stooges have little to do except run around and get slapped, and have yet to develop their trademark timing (though interestingly, the sound effects for the slaps and eye-pokes are identical to their later Columbia shorts). "Hello Pop" was thought lost until 2013. It could have stayed that way.

What was the point of making this movie at all? They producers must have gotten money from the Philippines, because there is NO other reason for this atrocity to exist. It is a ripoff of "The Island of Dr. Moreau," but is excruciatingly slow and dull, with unbelievably bad performances, except for Harry Lauter, who at least is in there punching, despite the hideous dialogue. Antoinette Bower shows no vital signs...none. She can't even walk convincingly, and instead looks like she was photographed underwater. There is more expression on the face of CPR resuscitation dummies. Craig Littler, meanwhile, is almost as zonked and wooden, but occasionally shows that he has a pulse. The photography is not bad, but all that means is the scenery chews up the actors. The only professional thing in the movie is the music score, which is quite good. Hopefully it was recycled for a real film.

In its heyday MGM was the Tiffany of studios, and the place where film comedy went to die. In the 1920s it took Buster Keaton, robbed him of control, and made him do musicals and use stuntmen. In the 1930s it took the Marx Brothers and, after a good start, made them the zany hosts of increasingly shoddy musicals. in the 1940s it took Laurel and Hardy and simply told them what to do, removing any creative comic spark, sanded Abbott and Costello until they were smooth and shiny, and made Red Skelton a utility comic relief player. In between all that it took over Our Gang and turned them into minstrels, forcing what once had been a group of real kids into a road company Mickey-and-Judy act obsessed with putting on a show. "Ye Olde Minstrels" is the classic example of that. Even as a kid, watching this on TV, I realized how awful it was. If you really must see a white performer in blackface singing "Lazy Moon," watch Oliver Hardy's rendition in 1931's "Pardon Us," where the blackface at least has story motivation. And Ollie could sing.

"The Devil Commands" is a very strange film. Made by the Columbia Pictures B-unit -- and featuring a lot of Columbia B-unit contractees, such as Kenneth McDonald, Richard Fiske, and Cy Schindell, all of whom were regulars in Three Stooge shorts -- it more closely resembles a Monogram opus of the era. Boris Karloff, in kindly-professor mode, plays a scientist investigating the recording of thoughts who becomes a bit unhinged after his wife dies, and begins obsessing on communicating with her from beyond the grave. Helping him is phony medium Anne Revere, who has an unnaturally high tolerance to electricity (ala Universal's "Man-Made Monster," which began development as a Karloff vehicle), and a brain-dead assistant named Carl, played by Schindell, here inexplicable billed as "Ralph Penney". McDonald, meanwhile, is miscast as the tough, no-nonsense sheriff, and Fiske is Karloff's former assistant, who is now worried about his mental health, as is Karloff's daughter, played by someone named Amanda Duff. There is also a classic Universal-inspired torch-carrying mob, which threatens Karloff because they believe he's responsible for several grave robberies in the small village. The dialogue creaks like an old boat, but Karloff is very good in a role that would also have been good for Bela Lugosi (in fact, Lugosi's role in "The Invisible Ghost" is somewhat similar). There is also the spectacle of Kenneth McDonald, whose voice was reminiscent of Karloff's, sharing scenes with the real thing. Anne Revere nearly steals the show with a performance that would make "Mrs. Danvers" shudder, and Richard Fiske shows that he could have developed into a legitimate leading man, had he not tragically been killed in combat in WWII a few years after filming this. The film's most intriguing performance, though, is Schindell's; if you've ever wondered what it would be like to see Lou Costello play "Lennie" in "Of Mice and Men," this will show you. In the final accounting, though, it is Karloff's show. He plays the scientist with quiet conviction and sympathy, and allows the audience to see into the cause of his madness." Karloff could, of course, be great in great films, but he could be wonderful in lesser pictures. The Devil Commands" is not a great film, or even a great B-movie, but it is played with conviction and is an entertaining stew of tropes and cliches.

"A Question of Fear" has the time-honored premise of a boastfully fearless man dared to spend a night in a haunted house, though there is a lot more to it than that (I won't spoil). It is a long, measured horror/ghost story that is genuinely unsettling, but not for its special effects or gruesome makeups. While some of the effects are indeed startling, the makeup is shockingly amateurish. Fritz Weaver's spraycan white hair (which ostensibly turned white from shock) is downright embarrassing, and the makeup on a recurring apparition wouldn't pass the muster in a community theatre. What makes the story so scary is its implication and the performance of Weaver who describes a series of horrors in so chillingly that it doesn't need jumpcut scares and horrible faces. Leslie Nielsen is good as the ultra-macho "hero," but it is Weaver who really smacks this one out of the park.

"The Devil is Not Mocked" about a group of Nazis arriving at a Balkan castle to take it over during World War II is competently done, but anyone who cannot see the punchline coming a kilometer away should stop watching horror films. Particularly unnecessary is a wraparound sequence about a doting grandpa telling his grandson what he did in the great war.

This episode is worth watching largely for "A Question of Fear."

Made in the heyday of the TV movie-of-the-week, "The Dead Don't Die" can be best thought of as "They Shoot Horses, Don't They?" meets "Night of the Living Dead" meets "Chinatown." Written by Robert Bloch and directed by Curtis Harrington, who a couple years earlier had made a truly strange, old-fashioned horror MOW called "The Cat Creature," this film features a host of reliable Golden Age Hollywood actors in cameos, including Joan Blondell, Ralph Meeker, Milton Parsons and William Benedict. It also gives creepy Reggie Nalder a good role, and he's almost as frightening here as he was in "Salem's Lot," but without the extreme makeup. Some eerie zombie scenes and an effective score add to the film's pluses. The minuses, however, start from the top. George Hamilton is badly miscast as the hero who seeks to find out who really murdered the wife of his brother, who was tried and executed for it, but was, of course innocent. The character is supposed to be a tough sailor, but Hamilton gives more of an imitation of a hungover Bruce Dern, saying his lines with the conviction of a script girl. Ray Milland as a sleezy dance-marathon promoter, whom Hamilton manages to convince that he's sees dead people, including his brother, also phones it in. Linda Cristal as a French femme fatale with a Spanish accent at least tries. The period detail is superficial, with the men's hair styles and costumes straight out of the 1970s (as are Billy Benedict's modern eyeglasses). Given the particpation of Bloch and Harrington, the plodding, talky script and flat TV-style direction is particularly disappointing. This seems to have scared a lot of people in 1975, but now, even at 72-minutes, it seems to go on forever. And anyone who can't figure out who the villain of the piece really is must be a genuine zombie.