SCIENCE FICTION CINEMA: THE 1950s: TEN GOOD ONES

The Creature from the Black Lagoon (1954)

It might be a low-budget job—the black-and-white photography is a hint, and, yes, you can see a telephone pole in the background as the boat sails up the "uncharted Amazon"—but The Creature from the Black Lagoon has endured for decades because it is both effective and economical. Director Jack Arnold wastes no time getting this monster movie into the heart of the action, a mysterious lagoon up the Amazon River, in which lurks a legendary creature, a "Gill Man" whose origins date back millions of years. Once there, Arnold keeps the dead spots to a minimum, sprinkling in backstory to generate interest while emphasizing the encounters between the amphibious creature and the team of scientists determined to capture him for study. The result is a highly influential B-movie with lasting appeal. And although Creature doesn't fit into any of the three guises we've seen for 1950s sci-fi cinema, its theme of undiscovered life preys on our fear of the unknown.

The narrative, scripted by Harry Essex and Arthur Ross from a story by Maurice Zimm, gets down to business right away: After Professor Maia (Antonio Moreno) discovers an unusual fossilized claw in the Amazon, he persuades ichthyologist David Reed (Richard Carlson), his girlfriend Kay Lawrence (Julie Adams), scientist Edwin Thompson (Whit Bissell), and financial backer Mark Williams (Richard Denning) to join his expedition aboard the steamer Rita to pursue the legend of the Gill Man. They encounter the creature—accompanied by its musical stabs—soon enough; it had already killed two of Maia's scouts and now menaces the expedition both in and out of the water. Moreover, it develops an attraction to Kay; shots of the creature lurking beneath Kay as she swims on the river's surface still evoke prurient suspense, while Steven Spielberg later used this imagery of danger below the surface in the opening sequence to Jaws while undercurrents of the score, composed in part by Henry Mancini, helped to inspire John Williams's famous score for Jaws. The underwater photography is indeed impressive, with the creature more convincing in that element although the Gill Man costume remains iconic whether wet or dry.

As befits a tightly constructed B-movie, the performances adhere to expected stereotype. Carlson is the reliably square-jawed hero, with Denning pegged as the malcontent early on—no points for guessing what his fate might be. Meanwhile, Adams performs that quintessential 1950s film function of set decoration, her role seemingly only to fill a pair of shorts and a one-piece bathing suit, although the sultry brunette became as iconic as the creature smitten by her. Intent on keeping the suspense afloat, Arnold wisely focuses on character interactions only long enough to establish the dynamics, instead keeping the action to the fore, ensuring that The Creature from the Black Lagoon still makes a splash decades later.

Gojira (1954)

Accept no substitute, not even the recut version released two years later that interpolated footage containing Raymond Burr as an American reporter and was designed to spur Western interest in the film. Because the name Godzilla immediately conjures up images of men in rubber suits stomping through a cardboard Tokyo while model tanks and airplanes attack the monster, the temptation to dismiss Gojira (or Godzilla) as merely being the first of the seemingly interminable series of cheesy Japanese kaiju (monster) movies is understandably high. However, this original version, filmed in black and white, introduces explicitly the themes of nuclear consequences, collective guilt and punishment, and personal sacrifice that dissipated from subsequent films. Simply put, this first-ever Gojira is really good.

The main reason for this is that the story, adapted by Takeo Murata and director Ishiro Honda, takes itself seriously, and although some of the acting is suspect, Gojira emerges as a sincere warning about nuclear power nearly a decade after Hiroshima and Nagasaki. It wasn't the first film to connect atomic testing with awakening ancient monsters or causing them to mutate—The Beast from 20,000 Fathoms had done that the year before—but Gojira, largely because of its ongoing legacy, became the poster, er, creature for the phenomenon, which once again underscored fears of meddling in forces barely understood or controlled.

When ships are destroyed off Odo Island, the inhabitants suspect the mythical sea monster Gojira. Dismissed at first, they are vindicated when, as archeologist Kyohei Yamane (Takashi Shimura) and his daughter Emiko (Momoko Kochi) arrive on the island, Gojira appears. Honda, knowing that his effects are rudimentary, cannily introduces the giant monster in artful stages to mask the technical shortcomings—for example, giant footprints on the beach is the kind of less-is-more reveal used in numerous subsequent pictures from Jaws to The Blair Witch Project to Cloverfield, which itself is a direct descendent of Gojira.

Back in Tokyo, Yamane argues that the monster is the result of nuclear explosions and wants to warn the public. Instead, the government decides to attack Gojira and, naturally, the monster retaliates, initiating an escalation that results in the leveling of Tokyo in an effectively staged sequence. Despite ditching her erstwhile fiancé, scientist Daisuke Serizawa (Akihiko Hirata), for salvage captain Hideto Ogata (Akira Takarada), Emiko implores Serizawa to use his Oxygen Destroyer invention to stop Gojira, leading to the climax. Veteran Shimura lends gravitas to the story, although Kochi is stiff and unconvincing, detracting from an efficient, well-paced tale by Honda. Gojira projects its cautionary message seriously, making it essential for even non-monster-movie buffs—and of course it is a gem of a 1950s sci-fi film.

Them! (1954)

Atomic radiation is also the catalyst for Them!, which even begins in the New Mexico desert, site of the Manhattan Project's atomic testing during World War Two that resulted in the two atomic bombs that were used against Japan. A science-fiction thriller that warns of the dangers of radiation, Them! frightens through the ramifications of irradiation: Ants bathed in radiation have mutated to an enormous size—and not only do they become a local threat, they could potentially spread across the globe.

When New Mexico State Policeman Ben Peterson (James Whitmore) finds a traumatized, catatonic young girl wandering the desert, he soon discovers a trailer and a general store mysteriously destroyed, with the presence of sugar prominent at each site. Director Gordon Douglas, a reliable Warner Bros. journeyman, makes the most of the modest resources at his disposal (Them! was filmed in—you guessed it—black and white) to create an atmosphere of mystery and horror as Peterson and the locals try to piece together what has happened.

As the initial theory of a serial killer fades, FBI agent Robert Graham (James Arness) arrives to help investigate. When a track at a crime scene suggests a giant insect, father-and-daughter entomologists Harold (Edmund Gwenn) and Pat Medford (Joan Weldon) also arrive on-scene. Sure enough, they discover a colony of giant ants, but the queen ants, capable of flight, are absent—and are soon spreading mutant eggs far and wide. Gwenn plays Harold as the slightly-dotty expert lecturing on ants as if in a classroom filmstrip, but his explanation, although scientifically suspect when examined closely, lends the true terror to Them!: Should the giant ants be allowed to spread and multiply, humanity could be powerless to stop them from taking over the world—and read into that whatever social, political, or scientific fear you choose.

Douglas drives the solid if unspectacular script, written by Ted Sherdeman and Russell Hughes from a story by George Worthing Yates, to give Them! as much impact as he can. Weldon's Pat fights for her scientific credibility while fielding the attentions of Arness's Graham, and Whitmore's Peterson improbably carries the film. The Oscar-nominated special effects, used judiciously, hold up well for their time, including the ominous whirring, chirping sounds of the giant ants communicating—a brilliant touch that gives this compact gem an additional texture of terror. Them! tells its scary story, flirting with plausibility, with enough economy and effectiveness to make you reconsider whipping out that can of insecticide to use on those ants at your next picnic.

20,000 Leagues under the Sea (1954)

Thanks to the imprimatur of producer Walt Disney, the science-fiction adventure 20,000 Leagues under the Sea, in vivid Technicolor, has hardly faded from memory even six decades on, and it remains a fresh and effective adaptation of Jules Verne's celebrated novel even if its family-friendly tone still screams Magic Kingdom. In fact, production designer Harper Goff helped with the design of Disney's theme parks in addition to his iconic design of this film's submarine the Nautilus, which proved to be an inspiration for steampunk decades later. (Coincidentally, the first operational nuclear-powered submarine, the USS Nautilus, was launched in 1954, the same year 20,000 Leagues under the Sea was released.)

At the helm of the piscine Nautilus, technologically leagues ahead of its mid-19th century setting, is clipped, misanthropic Captain Nemo (James Mason). He and his crew have been destroying shipping in the Pacific Ocean, ramming vessels with the sleek steel submarine that terrorized crews have dubbed a "sea monster." Helping the U.S. government investigate this myth of the sea monster is Professor Pierre Aronnax (Paul Lukas) and his apprentice Conseil (Peter Lorre), while signed aboard the navy ship is harpooner Ned Land (Kirk Douglas). Eventually, the Nautilus rams their ship, forcing Aronnax, Conseil, and Land into the water and onto the Nautilus as Nemo's prisoners.

Mason might have the pivotal role, but Douglas is at the center as the lusty, confrontational Land; his charismatic performance—albeit tailored for a Disney audience—emphasizes Land's physicality (Douglas previews the chiseled, shirtless look he would later sport in Spartacus) though not at the expense of Land's instinctive humanity. Land is the crucial counterweight to Nemo's animus toward land-based civilization while scientist Aronnax is intrigued by Nemo's reliance on undersea subsistence and the mysterious energy source that powers his submarine. As Nemo, Mason is perhaps too mannered to be compelling although he is still memorable, while Lukas manages his obligatory role as Lorre likewise portrays the foil.

After years of B-list acclaim (including the classic low-budget film noir The Narrow Margin), director Richard Fleischer earns his shot at the big-budget epic with a confident mix of action and character study that drives the narrative. Supporting Fleischer are Goff's production design, including the Nautilus's distinctive interiors, and special effects by John Hench and Josh Meador that retain their impressive impact. In the context of 1950s science fiction, 20,000 Leagues under the Sea is a throwback with its 19th-century setting, although Nemo's futuristic submarine, his embrace of technological innovation, and his animus toward humanity echo the decade's unease with scientific progress and the fear of the implacable enemy. Besides that, it is still a joy to watch—giant squid and all.

Forbidden Planet (1956)

A landmark science-fiction film, Forbidden Planet still looks impressive even more than a half-century after its release. It was filmed in CinemaScope color, which enhances Forbidden Planet's full-bodied attempts to portray an alien world (and not just trips to the moon as depicted in previous space-voyage films); it features Robby the Robot (voiced by Marvin Miller), arguably the first fully-formed cinematic robot; and it is distinguished by its smart production design by Irving Block and Mentor Huebner and its Oscar-nominated special effects, not to mention its distinctive all-electronic score by Louis and Bebe Barron that lends the film an alien, futuristic feel.

So why isn't Forbidden Planet better than it is? Pin that on a thin script by Cyril Hume (from a story by Block and Allen Adler that borrowed from Shakespeare's The Tempest) and a plodding pace by director Fred Wilcox, which informs the subdued performances by the principals. Make no mistake: Forbidden Planet is still an essential science-fiction experience, its inventive, nearly unseen id-monster manifestation an influence on subsequent sci-fi from Doctor Who to Predator. Unfortunately, though, it's the fiction, not the science, that betrays Forbidden Planet.

An Earth spaceship under mission commander John Adams (Leslie Neilsen) sets out for planet Altair IV to look for survivors of a previous expedition. There are two survivors, philologist Edward Morbius (Walter Pidgeon) and his nubile daughter Alta (Anne Francis)—there's the Tempest angle—who is delighted to see virile men like Adams (Leslie Neilsen) even if her father isn't. Morbius has spent two decades exploring the secrets of the Krell, the highly advanced civilization of Altair IV that disappeared eons ago but left a vast, still-functioning underground complex. But his exploration of Krell mind-building technology caused Morbius to unleash a psychic self-manifestation that has wreaked havoc before and threatens Adams's ship and crew now, particularly as Alta falls for Adams.

For the first half of Forbidden Planet, Pidgeon's Morbius delivers a boatload of mundane exposition before the second half picks up speed, which means that you have to distract yourself with Neilsen, who was playing it straight here—it would be another two decades before he became the deadpanning comic actor—and youthful, blonde Francis, who attracts attention primarily through her bare legs. Richard Anderson, Jack Kelly, and Warren Stevens fill similarly colorless supporting roles—at least Earl Holliman, as the boozing cook, is the Stephano relief.

Simply put, Forbidden Planet has earned a formidable reputation, which is partially justified. With its psychological underpinning, it contains intriguing concepts that mark it as a quintessential 1950s sci-fi flick, as do the sluggish narrative and the often-flat performances. But its vivid portrayal of an alien world and its bold embrace of the technical means to accomplish that make it essential viewing. If you haven't seen it, you should. Nay, you must.

Invasion of the Body Snatchers (1956)

In a very different manner, almost the opposite of Forbidden Planet, Invasion of the Body Snatchers is also a quintessential 1950s science-fiction film. This time it's the budget limitations that force director Don Siegel and his two relative unknowns in the lead roles—Dana Wynter and especially Kevin McCarthy—to transcend that obstacle. They do, and its simplicity and economy make Body Snatchers a classic sci-fi thriller.

Read into Invasion of the Body Snatchers whatever allegory—political, cultural, emotional—you will; its creepiness accretes slowly, almost imperceptibly, yet inexorably until it approaches claustrophobia. In what became his keynote role, McCarthy rises to the challenge as Doctor Miles Bennell, who returns after a brief absence to his hometown of Santa Mira to find patients complaining that their loved ones seem to have been replaced by forms devoid of emotion. Puzzled, he consults psychiatrist Dan Kaufman (Larry Gates), who assures him that it's an epidemic of mass hysteria; his glib explanation is convincing enough—besides, Miles is eager to reunite with recently returned old flame Becky Driscoll (Wynter). But when friends Jack (King Donovan) and Teddy Belicec (Carolyn Jones) discover a startling, unformed body resembling Jack, alarm bells begin to sound; then, when they find giant pods housing more embryonic bodies in Miles's greenhouse, they soon learn that these pods from outer space absorb their host's very being during sleep—and that much of the town has already been absorbed.

Adapted by Daniel Mainwaring from Jack Finney's novel The Body Snatchers, this compact, compelling film also benefits from Don Siegel's taut direction that maximizes its limited budget (can you guess it was shot in black and white?). Although Carmen Dragon's score supplies bold punctuation, Siegel, known for his westerns but who later directed Clint Eastwood in Dirty Harry, builds the paranoia and oppression in a subtly rising crescendo that still feels effective today. That sense of mounting dread still builds as Miles and Becky realize that almost all of Santa Mira, including their friends Jack and Teddy, have been absorbed—and they are being hunted by the emotionless usurpers. Scenes of Miles and Becky being chased into the hills by the townsfolk, having to hide in a mineshaft, and trying desperately to fight off their overwhelming need to sleep—knowing that the takeover occurs during unconsciousness—retain their white-knuckle power.

Allied Artists, the studio that released Body Snatchers, insisted on a story frame that gives the film a more optimistic, albeit ambiguous, conclusion. Nevertheless, McCarthy's scene on a crowded Los Angeles bridge, imploring the passers-by to heed his warning as trucks laden with pods lumber past him, remains iconic—and chilling. Often ascribed with Cold War anxieties such as communist or other ideological infiltration, Body Snatchers exudes enough universal fears to make you think twice about going to sleep.

The Fly (1958)

Meddling in the affairs of nature creates a buzz in The Fly, the influential horror tale that brandished many of the earmarks of 1950s science fiction including Freudian psychology, swooning romantic interludes, and mad-scientist laboratory sets. In truth, The Fly is much more effective in concept than in execution—David Cronenberg's graphic 1986 remake vividly and memorably realized its tantalizing, engrossing potential—although you do not want to miss this cautionary tale of tinkering with forces we barely understand (and of not leaving enough flypaper around the laboratory).

Like many men, devoted husband and family man Andre Delambre (David Hedison, although here he's billed as "Al" Hedison) likes to tinker in the basement. Of course, his basement mirrors the scale of his stately manor aboveground, largesse realized from the successful Montreal electronics company he co-owns with his brother Francois (Vincent Price). And Andre has a little more than a bandsaw or a ham radio in the basement—no, he's obsessed by teleportation, and his access to the electronics field lets him indulge the hobby of transferring matter from one place to another.

Eagerly he shows loving wife Helene (Patricia Owens) an early demonstration, but the system still has kinks in it that foretell danger in James Clavell's tidy script accented with dry humor but heavy on the domestic portrait that includes son Philippe (Charles Herbert) and housekeeper Emma (Kathleen Freeman). Indeed, marital tranquility is the norm here, with dad accidentally disappearing the family cat in his quest for scientific advancement. It's only when a housefly, present in the transporter as Andre tries to teleport himself, with the ensuing consequences resulting in a ghastly hybrid, that horror merges with science fiction and gives The Fly its notoriety.

Filming in color, director Kurt Neumann opens The Fly with a gristly killing that frames Helene as the culprit, and in turn the question of her sanity introduces the flashback to Andre's daring experiments. Being the focus as both the murder suspect and the narrator of Andre's saga, Owens must carry the film, and the comely redhead is only intermittently successful, while the dramatic jolts are subdued, leaving The Fly with mere suggestions of graphic horror—although the climax remains creepy-crawly. Hedison is effective in limited exposure, while Price buttresses the narrative as best he can, particularly with exposition-spouting police inspector Charas (Herbert Marshall), although their joint explanation in the denouement is a hasty, clunky resolution. The Fly has that pesky problem of being not entirely convincing, but the idea is so strong—and its theme of unease with scientific advancement is right in line with our theme here—that The Fly remains a must-see 1950s science-fiction film.

Epilogue

Quick, how many remakes did you count in the list of ten films above? The few films that were not explicitly remade have certainly inspired and influenced any number of subsequent movies in both the science-fiction and horror genres. Furthermore, these ten classics form the foundation of a pretty solid film library—and not simply a collection limited to sci-fi, either.

The 1950s saw the first explosion of a thermonuclear weapon (in 1952) and the first explosion of science fiction films, several of which explored the fears and dangers of atomic and nuclear technology. Development of this technology was a dominant theme of the Cold War, and anxieties about that political and ideological conflict informed other sci-fi films. Finally, alien invasions manifested another threat, whether literal or metaphorical, prompting the cry "watch the skies everywhere!" as an overall warning about just about everything that could cause us harm or grief.

These ten films encompass those anxieties even as they entertain us. Be sure to "watch these films anytime!" because despite their age, they still hold cultural interest and entertainment value. And here comes the warning: These ten are among the best the decade had to offer. We start to go downhill from here  . . .