You're always in the last place you look.
The war, a grenade, a head wound, and a case of amnesia bring a vet to Los Angeles in search of his identity. The only clue he has is the name of a presumed associate, not a nice guy, which makes the hero fearful, because who associates with not-nice guys but other not-nice guys? The main problem with Somewhere in the Night isn't that the amnesiac soon learns, as even a casual viewer would suspect from the beginning, that he and the not-nice associate are one and the same. The problem is that the script never provides for another possibility. This makes for minimal suspense, a sin compounded by dialogue that crosses the line from hard boiled into ridiculous—like in this exchange:
Friend: “Something smells bad, believe me. It's in the air—like an earthquake. Don't stand too close. Don't get hurt.”
Heroine: “I'm the girl with the cauliflower heart.”
Friend: "You think. You're as tough as a love song. You've got your face turned up and your eyes closed, waiting to be kissed.”
This is a little out there even by the standards of 1940s melodramas. Classics like Casablanca and Gilda didn't get too hip with the lingo, and that's a big reason why those movies remain scintillating today. Somewhere in the Night wears its age poorly. Blame not only its overly slangy dialogue, but the lame plot, wooden performances from the supporting cast, and an uninspiring John Hodiak in the lead. But the poster is an absolute killer.
Yeah, I'm drunk. And I'm just old enough not to give a fuck.
You plan to weave your car quietly home from the bar and not only do you get stopped and arrested, but immortalized by the press. This image, another from the University of Southern California archive, was shot by a Los Angeles Herald photographer and shows motorist Edna Benton failing a field sobriety test administered by highway patrolman M.G. Gaskell. Herald photographers were often on the scene after murders and suicides, but this image shows just how quickly they could be on the scene to shame even the most unimportant of people. We're curious when this type of photo-journalism went out of style. In this case the shame aspect didn't work, as Benton's smile in image two shows. These date from today in 1951.
Don't worry, baby. What we have'll last forever.
The above image from the University of Southern California collection of Los Angeles Herald photos dates from 1952 and shows sixteen-year-old Marlene Eason visiting her jailbird boyfriend, nineteen-year-old Eddie Christianelli, who was under arrest for robbery. In response to Christianelli's marriage proposal Eason agreed to wed him in jail. At that moment somewhere across town Eason's father swooned, and when his wife asked what was wrong he said, “I felt a great disturbance in the force, as if all our daughter's hopes and dreams were suddenly ruined.” Young love. Whaddaya gonna do?
She's by far the best ingredient in Flareup but the cocktail still goes flat.
Raquel Welch’s 1969 thriller Flareup might be worth watching for the amazing opening credit sequence, which is good, because you certainly don’t want to watch it for the actual film. Don't get us wrong—anything with Welch in it is worth a glance but this one is really bad. First clue? The theme song, in which Les Baxter backs a cheeseball singer intoning, “Gonna be a flare up… flare up!” Since the intro sequence seems visually inspired by James Bond movies, maybe the idea of using the actual title in the theme song à la Shirley Bassey's “Goldfinger,” or Lulu's “The Man with the Golden Gun,” seemed like a logical next step. Bad idea, though, because the song is laughably terrible.
Immediately after the credits the story opens with that most American of events—an attempted mass killing—as a Vegas go-go dancer is shot in a restaurant by her estranged husband. Welch plays Michele, the victim's friend whose advice helped spawn divorce proceedings. Because of this the husband tries to perforate her as well, never quite managing to get a clear shot as she dodges amongst the restaurant's ferns and potted palms. The husband escapes the scene of the crime and when the police arrive they agree that vengeance will continue to be on his mind and Michele should be extremely careful.
But a girl has to earn a living even if she's the target of a maniac. Even if she's refused police protection for reasons that aren't clear. Even if she works into the wee hours and parks her car in the Plutonian nether reaches of the public lot. So that night she goes to the club and gyratesonstage to the groovy strains of a song called—care to guess?—“Micheeeeele… I like the way you move... I like the way you dance … I like the way you groove… Oh! Micheeeeele… Call your mama… Michele call your papa… I got something to say…. Hey hey hey… hey hey hey…. Heeeeeeeey hey hey hey hey hey hey…” You get the idea.
Welch suffers a near miss from her stalker and at that point skips town for Los Angeles, where she falls into bed with the first guy she meets—the valet at her new go-go club, because valets are well known for pulling the hottest women on the planet. In between enjoying copious helpings of Welch's passionfruit juice the new boyfriend promises to act as bodyguard, but it's Welch herself who must take matters into her own hands and dispatch her tormentor in brutal fashion when he shows up in town.
Everything with this movie is off—script, direction, action, everything. The acting is uniformly horrific too, including from Welch, though she's orders of magnitude better than her co-stars. Put Flareup on around even your dullest friends and they’ll all be shining comedic geniuses by the second act. The script lobs up softball after softball, serious MST3K level material. In fact, hang on, let us check—nope, looks like Mystery Science Theater never spoofed Flareup. Well, they should have.
There are too many great lines and ridiculous moments to enumerate but the one that really got us came at about a hundred minutes when a character asks Welch if she works at the hospital down the road. Welch giggles and says, “Yeah sure—I’m a brain surgeon.” Flareup premiered in New York City in November 1969 and hit Japan today in 1970, where it was called Denjâ, which means "Danger."
, Las Vegas
, Los Angeles
, Raquel Welch
, poster art
, movie review
She paints a memorable picture.
Bonnie Logan, née Bonnie Bakken, was a glamour model of the 1950s and 1960s who as of last year was still making public appearances in her late 80s. She starred inside and on the covers of scores of magazines, including Adam (the U.S. version), Man, Photo-Rama, Knight and many others. When you hear people say women were curvier back in the day, they’re thinking of women like Logan, who had 40-24-37 measurements and had to wear custom bras. During her heyday she also sang, appearing regularly at the Floating Island Lounge in Los Angeles. She moved into burlesque and in that capacity once traveled all the way to Japan, where, strangely, she was once clobbered on the head by a bat-wielding American hater. Of that incident she said, “I wore an elaborate blond wig at the time, and I used to tuck my real hair underneath it. That happened to be where the bat hit me. It probably saved my life.” The sultry shot of her at top comes from a session that provided the cover for the issue of Rapture you see above and right. The magazine is from 1962, which helps us date the photo somewhat, but we're thinking the session occurred a bit earlier, say around 1960.
The seat belt is optional, you say? I guess I’ll pass.
Two angles on the same auto accident give a graphic example of bodily risk on the roads during the midcentury period. This happened in Los Angeles, on the Cahuenga Pass, in 1951. Notice how, due to a hard impact with a poured concrete barrier, the stricken car's steering column was bent up by the force of the driver's torso being thrown forward. The steering wheel shattered the windshield, and the driver's head may have impacted there as well, or perhaps hit the even harder metal roofline of the car where it meets the glass. He lies ejected from the vehicle with cranial blood draining onto the pavement, and you'll notice the car has no latch on the left side of the driver's seat. This was before the days of mandatory lap restraints, but they were offered as options on some cars. Possibly not this one, though.
Embarrassing family scandal ends in murder.
The above crime scene drawing shows murder victim Ned Doheny, Jr. in the bedroom of his Los Angeles mansion after being killed by a gunshot to the head, along with a superimposition of where police imagine he was just before he was shot. From the above angle the event looks clinical, but a reverse view reveals an unholy mess, with Doheny's face and robe drenched in blood, and a dark pool spread across the carpet. Out of sight in the hall leading to the bedroom is the body of Hugh Plunkett, Doheny's presumed murderer, dead from a self-inflicted gunshot wound. For a time this was the most famous crime in L.A. history. Doheny was the son of oil tycoon E.L Doheny, who was in trouble for passing bribes to U.S. Secretary of the Interior Albert Fall. The investigation and legal circus, known as the Teapot Dome scandal, had ensnared not just the senior Doheny but Doheny Jr. and Plunkett. They had both been indicted for conveying the dirty money from Doheny Sr. to Secretary Fall. Realistically speaking, there was no serious threat of the Dohenys going to jail. But working class Hugh Plunkett was not a tycoon nor a tycoon's son, which meant for him the possibility of incarceration was real. When Jr. was offered immunity and Plunkett was not, their close friendship began to fray. Plunkett's growing instability spawned attempts to get him into a mental facility—whether to save his mind or save him from testifying remains a subject of debate—but it never happend. Today in 1929 hevisited the Doheny mansion to talk with his pal Ned and hours later the result is what you see in the crime scene photos. There's much more to the case—rumors of a sexual relationship between Doheny Jr. and Plunkett, rumors that Doheny Sr. pulled the trigger on both men, etc.—but we'll leave all that aside. The truly interested can find at least a dozen websites that dig into every aspect of the case. We just wanted to show you the photo-illustration, which is yet another police photo from the University of Southern California digital archive.
Hey ho! Hey ho! Huston and Ferrer must go!
Today in 1952 protestors comprising members of the 17th District American Legion Un-American Activities Committee demonstrate outside the Fox Wilshire Theater in Los Angeles against director John Huston and actor José Ferrer, whose new film Moulin Rouge was premiering that night. Why was the American Legion pissed? Basically because in 1947 Huston helped form the Committee for the First Amendment to protest the House Committee on Un-American Activities hearings (HUAC), and because Ferrer was a liberal. The anti-communist hysteria was in full swing at this point, and more than five-hundred names had been added to anti-communist blacklists.
Today there are numerous HUAC apologists, and their arguments boil down to nothing more than: “But there were communists in Hollywood!” Certainly that was true, but U.S. government incompetence and opportunism destroyed many more innocent people than communist spies were ever caught. A moral effort in crime fighting never hurts more innocent people than criminals. When it does, history laterlabels such periods tyranny. HUAC has been labeled exactly thus, an assessment that is extremely unlikely to change. And of course, it’s worth pointing out that being a communist was not equivalent to being a spy, nor was it a criminal offense. At least not yet—two years later President Dwight D. Eisenhower made communism illegal in the U.S. with the Communist Control Act.
, Fox Wilshire Theatre
, Committee for the First Amendment
, Communist Control Act
, American Legion
, Moulin Rouge
, John Huston
, José Ferrer
, Dwight D. Eisenhower
Too bad the character’s good fortune didn’t extend into the CBS executive suite.
Mr. Lucky by Albert Conroy, aka Marvin H. Albert, has nice wraparound art, and the back cover, featuring an unlucky black cat, completes an excellent illustration by Mort Engle. This was actually the novelization of a 1959 Blake Edwards television series of the same name about a gambler who runs a casino on his yacht the Fortuna II, which is anchored off Los Angeles, but beyond the three-mile limit in international waters. In the book he’s framed for murder; in the series he and his sidekick Andamo have assorted wacky adventures, both on the boat and on land, often involving mobsters. The show starred John Vinyan and Ross Martin, and ran for thirty-four episodes—just one season. It was actually quite popular with viewers, but CBS cancelled it anyway. Vinyan said he thought it was done as a favor to Jack Benny to free the time slot for Checkmate, which was made by Benny’s production company. After the axe fell Blake Edwards tried to develop Mr. Lucky as a movie, and it’s possible Conroy’s 1960 novel had something to do with that. That part of the story is murky, but we’ll see if we can dig up a bit more. Los Angeles
, Albert Conroy
, Marvin H. Albert
, Mort Engle
, John Vinyan
, Ross Martin
, Blake Edwards
, Jack Benny
, cover art
But a good photo for Ferdie.
A police lieutenant named R.W. Lauritzen and a cop named Reggie Floyd eye L.L. Hardwick, found murdered in a littered vacant lot in Los Angeles. Hardwicke's car sits in the background, with its passenger door open. Note also the bystanders behind the cop. On the whole it's an unusually interesting candid shot, an instant of time from a day long past, but which remains vivid thanks to the skill of Los Angeles Examiner photographer Ferdie Olmo. That was today in 1960.
The headlines that mattered yesteryear.
1908—Tunguska Explosion Occurs
Near the Podkamennaya Tunguska River in what is now Krasnoyarsk Krai in Russia, a large meteoroid or comet explodes at five to ten kilometers above the Earth's surface with a force of about twenty megatons of TNT. The explosion is a thousand times more powerful than the Hiroshima atomic blast, knocks over an estimated 80 million trees and generates a shock wave estimated to have been 5.0 on the Richter scale.
1971—Soviet Cosmonauts Perish
Soviet cosmonauts Vladislav Volkov, Georgi Dobrovolski and Viktor Patsayev, who served as the first crew of the world's first space station Salyut 1, die when their spacecraft Soyuz 11 depressurizes during preparations for re-entry. They are the only humans to die in space (as opposed to the upper atmosphere).
1914—Rasputin Survives Assassination Attempt
Former prostitute Jina Guseva attempts to assassinate Grigori Rasputin in his home town of Pokrovskoye, Siberia by stabbing him in the abdomen. According to reports, Guseva screamed "I have killed the Antichrist!" But Rasputin survived until being famously poisoned, shot, bludgeoned, and drowned in an icy river two years later.
1967—Jayne Mansfield Dies in Car Accident
American actress and sex symbol Jayne Mansfield dies in an automobile accident in Biloxi, Mississippi, when the car in which she is riding slams underneath the rear of a semi. Rumors that Mansfield were decapitated are technically untrue. In reality, her death certificate states that she suffered an avulsion of the cranium and brain, meaning she lost
only the top of her head.
1958—Workers Assemble First Corvette
Workers at a Chevrolet plant in Flint, Michigan, assemble the first Corvette, a two-seater sports car that would become an American icon. The first completed production car rolls off the assembly line two days later, one of just 300 Corvettes made that year.
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