Adventures in Blu-ray: The Delinquents (1957)

“They try to tell us we’re too young…” That lyric from the classic Nat King Cole song has special resonance for young Scotty White (Tom Laughlin) …because the parents of his best girl, Janice Wilson (Rosemary Howard), have requested that he no longer date her.  It’s not that Scotty is an inappropriate suitor for Jan’s attentions—they just feel that a girl her age (she is sixteen, going on seventeen—as another song goes) shouldn’t be “going steady.”

Despondent, Scotty cracks under the strain of his teenage angst and goes on a three-state killing spree.  No, I’m just kidding about this—but he does hook up with a crew of young lawbreakers more than up to that particular task at his local drive-in.  Bill “Cholly” Charters (Peter Miller) and his gang step in to keep Scotty from taking a right pummeling from some other rough boys (even though Cholly’s pal Eddy [Richard Bakalyan] is responsible for the event that snowballed into the fracas), and a grateful Scotty allows Cholly to help him out with a bit of dating subterfuge: Cholly will masquerade as Jan’s new boyfriend, and pick her up at her home to take her to the movies.  Once they’re out of sight from her folks’ house, Scotty will take the baton from Cholly and continue the date portion of the evening.

Cholly snows Mr. and Mrs. Wilson (James Lantz, Lotus Corelli) with a yarn about working as an apprentice stockbroker (that reminds me: I should probably invest in hoodlum futures), and once he’s collected Jan, he persuades Scotty to attend a “party” that’s scheduled to be held at a seemingly abandoned house in the woodsy part of town.  Janice isn’t particularly wild about the idea…and her instincts prove right on the money: there’s drinking!  And dancing!  To raucous hopped-up jazz music!  Why…it’s almost as if this new crowd that’s adopted our young lovers are…delinquents!

Before he became the critically-acclaimed director of such films as MASH (1970), McCabe and Mrs. Miller (1971), and Nashville (1975), Robert Altman held the megaphone on a low-budget teensploitation flick known as The Delinquents (1957), filmed in Altman’s hometown of Kansas City, MO (depending on the source, the budget ranged from $45,000 to $63,000).  Motion picture exhibitor Elmer Rhoden, Jr., president of the Commonwealth Theaters chain, wanted to reap some of that sweet, sweet drive-in cash and hired Bob (who had been making industrial films and docs locally for The Calvin Company) to tackle the project; Altman scouted locations, cast the film, and cranked out the screenplay (inspired by j.d. movie successes like The Wild One, Blackboard Jungle, and Rebel Without a Cause) in about a week.

Many of Delinquents’ actors were local Kansas City-ians of Altman’s acquaintance (his then-wife Lotus Corelli plays Mrs. Wilson, while their daughter Christine essays the role of Sissy, Scotty’s kid sister) but Bob and Elmer made a pilgrimage to The Golden State to find more practiced thespians who could play the three male leads.  Peter Miller, who portrays Cholly, had not only appeared in Blackboard and Rebel but had on his resume Forbidden Planet (1956) and Crime in the Streets (1956).  Character veteran Richard “Dick” Bakalyan (as Eddy) had his first important dramatic film turn in Delinquents; he would later appear in such films as Von Ryan’s Express (1965) and Chinatown (1975)…but he’s probably best known as “Cookie” in the Walt Disney Studios’ “Dexter Riley” trilogy: The Computer Wore Tennis Shoes (1969—though he’s called “Chillie” in this one), Now You See Him, Now You Don’t (1972), and The Strongest Man in the World (1975).  (Andrew “Grover” Leal humorously refers to Dick as Disney’s “Everyhench.”)  In addition, Bakalyan graces the cast of The Cool and the Crazy (1958), also produced by Rhoden, Jr. and directed by TDOY idol William Witney.

The star of The Delinquents (as Scotty) was Tom (Tommy) Laughlin—it was not, as previously reported, his feature film debut (Laughlin was also in These Wilder Years and Tea and Sympathy), but it served as an important launch pad for a motion picture career that would later be defined by the 1967 biker classic The Born Losers and cemented by 1971’s Billy Jack (Tom plays the same character in both movies), a film that has an inexplicable cult following.  (Laughlin’s Billy Jack is a man dedicated to teaching peace and non-violence by beating the stuffing out of anyone who looks at him cross-eyed.)  Billy Jack was such a monster box office hit that it led to a slate of follow-ups: The Trial of Billy Jack (1974), Billy Jack Goes to Washington (1977), The Return of Billy Jack (1986), and Billy Jack at Waikiki (1990).  (Um…I think this last title may be incorrect; I may have it confused with a “Ma and Pa Kettle” vehicle.)  In later years, Altman might have regretted selecting Laughlin for his movie; the two repeatedly clashed during the making of Delinquents, with Bob memorably describing the star as “an unbelievable pain in the ass.”

Absent the problems with Laughlin, Altman’s film went smoothly: The Delinquents was put together in three weeks, and the finished project was picked up by United Artists (for $150,000) for distribution, ultimately earning a nice return of $1 million.  But Bob wouldn’t look upon his debut feature with fondness in later years; UA altered the ending and included some sappy Crime Does Not Pay-like narration at the movie’s conclusion, which the director didn’t find out about until he attended a preview of the movie.  Delinquents played mostly at drive-ins, but it did attract the notice of The Master of Suspense—who hired Altman to direct episodes of his TV series, Alfred Hitchcock Presents (and that led to future assignments on boob tube classics like The Millionaire and Combat!).  Still, when London’s National Film Theatre put together a retrospective of Altman’s work in January of 2001, The Delinquents was noticeably absent (a program note stated that Altman preferred that it not be seen).

Is the movie terrible?  No, it isn’t—unless you have loftier expectations from a drive-in teen flick.  What’s very impressive about The Delinquents is the level of professionalism present in such a low-budgeter; Altman demonstrated with this debut that he was a talent to watch, even though devotees may be disappointed at the lack of a film signature…save for a free-wheeling party scene that previews Bob’s fondness for free-wheeling improvisation.  The acting may be amateurish at times (this tends to happen when you use amateurs) but the black-and-white photography is a standout (cinematographer Charles Paddock noted that Altman suggested he watch The Asphalt Jungle to emulate its style) and again, the overall product is quite polished.  (The music from KC’s own Julia Lee and the Bill Nolan Quintet Minus Two in the opening nightclub scene is first-rate, too.)

The Delinquents makes its Blu-ray/DVD debut today, courtesy of Olive Films—“a boutique theatrical and home entertainment distribution label” (according to the company) that has made many their releases available to this humble scrap of the blogosphere (thanks to Bradley Powell) to review from time to time.  Fans of Robert Altman (and believe me—there’s an army of them out there) will want to add this to their video shelf so that they can truly appreciate a major filmmaking talent learning his craft.

Adventures in Blu-ray: Panther Girl of the Kongo (1955)

Wildlife photographer Jean Evans (Phyllis Coates) is reverently referred to by the natives of Utanga as “Panther Girl”—in honor of an act of bravery performed when she saved the life of one Utangian as he was being attacked by a panther.  Though she’s achieved a position of trust with the people of the Utango village—they assist her in her work, filming the local flora and fauna—the superstitious natives become petrified of the latest creature to parade before her camera lens…a giant crawfish.  Even the rational Jean wants to know what’s going on, and so she sends word for her friend Larry Sanders (Myron Healey)—yes, that is his actual name—to join her so that the two of them can clear up this baffling crustacean mystery.

Arriving in the village, Larry gets a not-particularly-warm-welcome from a pair of goons in Cass (John Daheim, billed as John Day) and Rand (Mike Ragan), who want very much for Lar to beat a hasty retreat from Utanga.  Why?  Well, the two henchmen are in the employ of a slightly mad scientist named Morgan (Arthur Space)—whose unorthodox chemistry experiments are responsible for the ginormous lobster tooling around Utanga.  Morgan’s eevill scheme is to plunder a nearby diamond mine (unknown to the local authorities) and to continue doing this, he needs to scare off the natives.  To assist him in his work, he not only relies on Cass and Rand but a rival tribe, the Returi, who in true firewater-to-the-Indians fashion are kept pliable via a strong narcotic supplied by the diabolical Morgan.

Quicksand traps! A killer gorilla! Rampaging lions! Lobsters as big as houses! These are just a few of the perils that Panther Girl and Larry must deal with in their heroic quest to stop Morgan and put an end to his misdeeds within the span of twelve chapters.  (I’d suggest a vat of clarified butter and plenty of bibs to subdue the big seafood creature…the rest of the hazards will require some serious skulling.)

Panther Girl of the Kongo (1955) was the penultimate serial to be released by the MGM of B-picture studios, Republic; after King of the Carnival (1955), the low-budget film factory revered for its western programmers and chapter plays decided to ring down the curtain as far as enticing young kidlets into Saturday afternoon matinees each week.  (Republic’s classic serials would later resurface on the small screen in feature film form.)  Clearly inspired by such giant creature films as Them! (1954), Panther Girl is not—despite what it says on the poster art—“the most exciting serial ever filled!”  But if you’re like me and you enjoy a generous sample of cinematic fromage every now and then…Panther Girl will satisfy any true aficionado of movie camp.

If motion pictures were subject to “truth-in-advertising” laws…this serial would be more accurately titled Panther Girl of the Stock Footage.  Despite being unsurpassed in the production of cliffhangers since the studio’s first release of Darkest Africa in 1936, Republic’s post-war serial output had started to take on assembly line proportions—they were a bit mechanical and formulaic, and a far cry from their previous chapter plays like Drums of Fu Manchu (1940) and The Adventures of Captain Marvel (1941), considered by many serial scholars to be among the finest examples of what the French once called "cine-romans" or "films a episodes.”  By the time Panther Girl went before the cameras, Republic’s serials were mostly relying on one writer (Ronald Davidson) and one director (Franklin Adreon), who also doubled as associate producer.

And then there was the stock footage.  Panther Girl of the Kongo relies heavily on material previously seen in the studio’s popular Jungle Girl (1941)—those scenes of Phyllis Coates’ character swinging through the trees are those of Jungle Girl’s ace stuntman David Sharpe, not to mention the scenes of Panther Girl diving into a river and tangling with a lion.  Coates’ Panther Girl costume is an exact match of the get-up sported by Frances Gifford in Jungle Girl…which seems kind of fitting, since both the studio’s first and last female heroines are wearing the same outfit.  If you’re unfamiliar with Jungle Girl, the deception will probably go undetected; the problem is that they also used liberal dollops of footage from the previously mentioned Darkest Africa for Panther Girl’s “killer gorilla” chapter—and the outfit worn by Ray “Crash” Corrigan in Darkest doesn’t quite match the costume used in the newer footage of Panther Girl.

Howard and Theodore Lydecker were Republic’s ace special effects artists…but I suspect the brothers might have been phoning it in on Panther Girl of the Kongo.  The giant lobster creature is really just your run-of-the-mill crawfish placed on a set with miniature props (you might recognize this technique from the later The Giant Gila Monster, released in 1959).  It works as well as you might imagine…but it’s hard not to notice that the “lobster” rarely interacts with the other actors—and when it does, it’s in the form of a large plastic claw that unconvincingly reaches out to grab people every now and then.  When you know that this serial actually went over budget (by close to $7,000) you might ponder where the extra seven large is up on the screen.

I don’t want people to get the impression that I don’t like Panther Girl of the Kongo.  Even while you’re rummaging around in that drawer for your suspension of disbelief, it’s one of the better-acted chapter plays in that era.  Phyllis “Gypsy” Coates, best remembered for playing Lois Lane in the first season of TV’s The Adventures of Superman (and as Mrs. Joe McDoakes in any number of those wonderful one-reel Warner Brothers comedies starring George Hanlon), makes for a most engaging heroine…and veteran B-western bad guy Myron Healey (on the right side of the law for a change) has a nice chemistry with Coates (a lot of the male-female pairings in Republic serials come off as forced).  John Daheim follows in the footsteps of such studio stuntmen as Tom Steele (he’s Healey’s double) and Dale Van Sickel, who were often called upon for acting roles to save a little money (and Daheim isn’t too shabby).

I’ve mentioned that I’m a fan of character great Arthur Space (he’s one of four suspects in a production I covered previously on the blog’s Serial Saturdays, Government Agents vs. Phantom Legion [1951]) but I’m not going to mince words: he’s kind of weak in the villainy department.  (Space comes off as peevish, as if he were the Rexall family druggist and he’s not too wild about coming out from behind the counter.)  The only other thespian of note in Panther Girl is Roy Glenn, a distinguished actor with a long radio resume (you can hear him in recordings of Amos ‘n’ Andy and The Jack Benny Program…but he also worked shows like Suspense and Tales of the Texas Rangers) who later appeared in prestige films like Carmen Jones (1954).  (Sadly, actors gotta eat…and Roy had to tackle demeaning roles like that in the 1953 serial Jungle Drums of Africa; he got to be one of the bad guys in that one.)

Panther Girl of the Kongo made its Blu-ray debut on February 21st courtesy of Olive Films (as always, many thanks to Bradley Powell for the screener), which is happily starting to unearth these wonderful Republic chapter plays (previous Olive releases include The Invisible Monster and Flying Disc Man from Mars)—many of which have not received an official home video release.  “Panther Girl of the Kongo might not be as well remembered as other serials,” observes Olive Films’ Alex Kopecky, “but we feel it’s deserving of a place alongside our favorites, because it epitomizes a lot of the elements that we love about classic serials.”  To that I’ll just add: pass the popcorn.

Adventures in Blu-ray: Wagon Tracks (1919)

After appearing on stage for many years as a respected actor, William S. Hart made his debut “in the flickers” playing Messala in a 1907 production of Ben-Hur.  This is not, however, what cemented Hart’s cinematic immortality; beginning in 1914, Bill began appearing in two-reel westerns (which later expanded to feature film length when the shorts proved quite popular) for producer Thomas H. Ince.  The market for oaters was pretty much glutted at that time, yet Hart stood out from his cowboy movie brethren and inarguably became one of the first major sagebrush stars in the movies.  Hart made over seventy films between 1914 and 1926; not only as an actor but also a screenwriter, director, and producer.  His movie legacy includes such classics as Hell’s Hinges (1916), The Return of Draw Egan (1916), The Toll Gate (1920), and Tumbleweeds (1926—his final starring film).

In Wagon Tracks (1919), Bill plays “Buckskin” Hamilton—a desert guide who has traversed the Santa Fe Trail to Westport Landing, MO.  Hamilton’s purpose for his journey is to meet up with his younger brother Billy (Leo Pierson), who’s just graduated from medical school.  Alas, poor Billy will never get the opportunity to take the Hippocratic Oath…for he’s gotten involved in a riverboat card game with crooked gambler Donald Washburn (Robert McKim)—a title card informs us that Washburn had to beat a hasty retreat from St. Louis because of his activities; he’s currently on his way to Santa Fe with his sister Jane (Jane Novak) and her fiancé Guy Merton (future Warner’s director Lloyd Bacon) at his side.

During the game, Billy discovers that Washburn is cheating…and in a mutual exchange of temper, guns are drawn.  Jane steps in to stop things from escalating, but it appears that in her struggle for Billy’s gun she shoots and kills him.  In explaining the incident to the ship’s captain (Charles Arling), Washburn spins a yarn that Jane was forced to gun Billy down after the young man’s intentions proved less than honorable…and conveniently leaves out the part about him trying to rook Hamilton in poker.

Buckskin is devastated by the death of his brother.  He tells Jane that while he believes it was an accident, he’s convinced there’s more to the story than she’s telling.  Buckskin will get the opportunity to exact a little frontier justice (with the help of a band of Kiowas) when he agrees to head up the wagon train on which Merton and the Washburns are traveling…because during that trek to Santa Fe, Jane eventually reveals the truth.

A morality play set against the background of the “go west, young man” trek in the mid-1800s (the time frame is 1850, shortly after the California gold rush), Wagon Tracks showcases William S. Hart at his Western finest.  The film was praised effusively by film critics at the time of its release, none more so than the Los Angeles Times: “The great desert screen epic is with us at last.  It has been done by William S. Hart and C. Gardner Sullivan, with the aid of a fine cast and superlative photography…”  The reviewer went on to call Sullivan’s screenplay “a masterpiece.”  A little closer to home, the Atlanta Constitution (this is years before it merged with The Atlanta Journal) gushed “No one who sees this picture will soon forget it.  It will be a vivid memory for months afterward.”

Maybe it was a slow week at the neighborhood cinema when these critics sat down with an overpriced box of popcorn and cup of soda…but Wagon Tracks is a little overpraised.  I don’t want to give the impression that I’m down on the film, however; it is very much worth the time to sit down with it, because the performances and photography are first-rate.  Bill Hart had a very impressive background as a Shakespearean actor, and he is most effective throughout Wagon Tracks—particularly the scene in which he grieves over the loss of his brother.  The movie’s plot also features a nice twist that I will not reveal for those who have not seen it.  Tracks was directed by Lambert Hillyer, an accomplished journeyman whose talent for B-westerns has been discussed previously here on the blog (Gun Law Justice).

Wagon Tracks is important because coming January 24 (this Tuesday), it will be the first of Hart’s films to receive treatment on Blu-ray.  In a press release from Olive Films, Alex Kopecky observes: “William S. Hart was an iconic performer, and it’s hard to believe that he has been missing from Blu-ray collections until now.”  The movie, due to its public domain status, has been available on YouTube and DVD (Grapevine Video, Sinister Cinema, etc.) for several years…but the Olive Films release is the one you definitely have to purchase.  Mastered for home video from an original 35mm nitrate print courtesy of the Library of Congress, this version of Wagon Tracks is positively breathtaking.  (I was very impressed by the film’s tinting—particularly those scenes illuminated by campfires, where the movie is bathed in an orange glow—and the original score composed by Andrew Earle Simpson.)

When William S. Hart passed on in 1946, he designated in his will that his 265-acre ranch be transformed into a public park and museum.  “When I was making pictures, the people gave me their nickels, dimes and quarters,” he stated.  “When I am gone, I want them to have my home.”  Hart not only gave us his home, he left behind a rich legacy steeped in the genre we know as the movie Western, and Wagon Tracks is an excellent example of what made “Two-Gun Bill” a solid audience favorite.  (Generous thanks to Olive Films’ Bradley Powell for providing Thrilling Days of Yesteryear with this wonderful screener.)

Adventures in Blu-ray: The Captive (1915)

Normally I save the “silent cinema” blog entries for Thursdays…but I’m going to grant a little special dispensation to this week’s Overlooked Films on Tuesdays for a reason that I will reveal during the course of this review.  Cecil B. DeMille’s The Captive (1915) fits the “overlooked” definition to a “T,” because for many years it was believed to be a lost film.  The movie was rediscovered in the Paramount Pictures vaults in 1970 and was subsequently preserved by the Library of Congress, and with the exception of a showing here and there (it was on the menu at Cinecon 40 in 2004, for example) it’s been an unnoticed item…but starting today, that should surely change.

DeMille, who co-wrote the script with longtime collaborator Jeanie Macpherson (and I mean “collaborator” in every sense of the word—the two of them conducted a little tête-a-tête during the writing and shooting of The Captive—an affair that lasted even beyond DeMille’s eventual transition to “talking pictures”), crafts a film that tells a simple, bittersweet love story involving a peasant girl and a Turkish nobleman.  The woman is Sonya Martinovich (Blanche Sweet), who ekes out a living on a small farm in a Montenegrin village.  It’s wartime (the Balkan Wars), and Sonya has just learned that her older brother Marko (Page Peters) has been called up to the fight…which will leave only her and younger brother Milo (Gerald Ward) to run the farm.  During a skirmish known as The Battle of Lule Burgess, Marko is killed.

The nobleman of the story is Mahmud Hassan (House Peters), a Turk taken prisoner during Lule Burgess.  Hassan is bound by a village decree to assist Sonia on her spread, making good use of the prisoners of war since the Montenegrin men are off to battle.  There is a great deal of bitterness between Sonia and her “captive,” stemming from the death of her brother—though Milo and Mahmud soon become fast friends.  Difficulties also arise when it’s clear that Mahmud has never gotten his hands dirty engaged in menial labor due to his nobleman status.  In time, Sonia and Mahmud develop a mutual respect for one another…but their relationship must stand up to a test when Turkish soldiers take over the village and threaten the sanctity of the farm.

Based on a play scripted by DeMille and Macpherson (who has a small part in the film), The Captive will come as a surprise to those more familiar with the director’s “sin-and-salvation” efforts or even his later Biblical epics.  It’s sparingly told (the movie’s length is only five reels), and awards us a look at how the 34-year-old Cece is becoming more and more assured behind the motion picture camera.  According to the late Bob Birchard, author of the essential Cecil B. DeMille’s Hollywood, DeMille apparently took advantage of recycling the costumes used in The Unafraid (1915), another Balkan drama he directed that was released before Captive.  While DeMille would later develop a reputation in the industry for being able to masterfully control “thousands of extras,” on Captive he was still learning the ropes; his insistence on using real, loaded guns during some of the battle scenes resulted in an extra being killed.

The acting in The Captive eschews the stagy dramatics commonly witnessed in films of this era, and both Sweet and Peters share a pleasing chemistry in their scenes together (the two performers had worked with DeMille in the earlier The Warrens of Virginia [1915]).  Captive would be Blanche Sweet’s last movie collaboration with director DeMille; she didn’t particularly care for him off-screen (she thought him strange), and had a far more positive experience working for Cecil’s older brother William (making three films with Willie, all released in 1916). 

Coming off having recently revisited DeMille’s The Squaw Man (1914) a couple of weeks ago (I DVR’d it off The Greatest Cable Channel Known to Mankind™), I have to say I was much more impressed with The Captive, even though I’d readily concede it’s not “major DeMille.”  But it is well worth the time and effort to seek it out, and it makes its home video debut today on DVD and Blu-ray from Olive Films, with an exquisite score composed by Lucy Duke.  Many thanks to Olive’s Bradley Powell for providing a screener; getting the opportunity to see a rediscovered film here at Thrilling Days of Yesteryear is always a delight.