The Birth and Growth of Science Fiction

To be sure, speculation about the past, present, and future is as old as humanity's first awareness of itself, its potential, and its legacy. Modern science fiction has its roots in the 19th century, particularly in the works of Jules Verne and H.G. Wells, both of whom had written stories that became landmark science-fiction films of the 1950s: the former with 20,000 Leagues under the Sea (1870), and the latter with The War of the Worlds (1898). Even the earliest filmmaking, in the early 20th century, explored sci-fi: French filmmaker Georges Méliès made his visionary A Trip to the Moon (Le Voyage dans la lune) in 1902; Méliès was the subject of the 2011 Martin Scorsese film Hugo, although Méliès's story had been profiled previously in the Tom Hanks-produced miniseries From the Earth to the Moon (1998), about the NASA space programs through Apollo.

By the 1930s, stories, comics, and movie serials of Buck Rogers and Flash Gordon were popular fare. In 1938, actor-director Orson Welles and his troupe the Mercury Theatre on the Air staged a radio version, broadcast across America, of The War of the Worlds that has such verisimilitude that it became known as "the night that panicked America" because so many listeners believed the staged "news bulletin" interruptions announcing the Martian invasion were real. By mid-century, writers such as Isaac Asimov, Ray Bradbury, Arthur C. Clarke, and Robert Heinlein—all have had works adapted to film and television—helped to establish the framework for science fiction that we still recognize today.

Social and political realities also shaped science fiction by the 1950s. World War Two had ended in 1945 with the explosion of two atomic bombs over Japan, ushering in the Atomic Age, and with the drive to use nuclear power for both civilian and military purposes came a general unease about nuclear power. Movies such as Them! and Godzilla feature creatures that have mutated or have become reanimated because of atomic radiation.

With the Atomic Age came the Cold War, or the varying degrees of tension between the two superpowers that emerged after World War Two, the United States and the Soviet Union. Part of that tension involved the superpowers' race to create stronger, more destructive weapons, particularly atomic (or nuclear) weapons, thus combining the atomic threat with a military and political threat. Movies such as The Thing from Another World and The War of the Worlds dealt with outright invasion, seen as a manifestation of Cold War threat, while Invasion of the Body Snatchers addressed the concept of invasion through fifth-column infiltration.

Flying saucers also grew in the popular consciousness as well. While unidentified flying objects (UFOs) have been part of the human imagination for centuries (even the Biblical story of Ezekiel suggests some kind of similar device), they began to inflame the modern imagination following World War Two. In Washington State in 1947, private pilot Kenneth Arnold reported seeing mysterious objects that he described as flying like plates skimming through the air; a reporter paraphrased that as "flying saucers"—and a sociological phenomenon was born. Also in 1947, reports surfaced that an unusual crash had occurred near Roswell, New Mexico, with speculation that it might be an extraterrestrial craft, and that the Air Force appeared to be covering up that story (although the "Roswell incident" as we know it today did not begin to gain mass awareness until the late 1970s).

"Watch the Skies Everywhere!": 1950s Sci-Fi Cinema

These three influences—atomic power, the Cold War and the threat of Soviet (or communist) domination, and a burgeoning awareness of UFOs—found their expression in many of the science fiction films released in the 1950s. It is a well-known axiom but one that bears repeating, particularly for those who might not be aware of the subtext of many of these films. (The phrase "Watch the skies everywhere!" is the warning sounded at the conclusion of The Thing from Another World.)

But regardless of subtexts, science fiction was growing in popularity—and profitability—by the 1950s, which saw a proliferation of sci-fi movies, of varying degrees of quality, many of which, regardless of quality, have persisted to this day. That is because a number of excellent sci-fi films were made during the decade, and they have held up to this day. That is also because a lot more films were not as good, but thanks to two or three generations of late-show repeats, spotlights in creature-feature shows (from Vampira to Elvira, Mistress of the Dark) that underscored their notoriety, and, particularly in eras of videocassettes, then DVDs, then the internet, they have attained cult or camp status with viewers whose parents, or even grandparents, might not have been born when they were first released.

It is within this expansive context that 1950s science-fiction cinema mutated and multiplied. In the spirit of starting at the top and working our way down, this article presents ten of the best sci-fi flicks of the 1950s. Subsequent articles on this theme will explore 1950s sci-fi flicks that might not be among the best but are still pretty decent, along with flicks that are a long way from the best—hint: the name Ed Wood surely will be mentioned—and that give 1950s sci-fi cinema its just notoriety.

Now, "best" is a relative term, weighted as much toward the film's concept, potential, or influence as toward its artistic or technical excellence. And although I've seen a lot of 1950s sci-fi flicks, I have yet to have seen them all, so I will refrain from the usual hollow internet braggadocio of claiming that these ten are the "greatest ever," or even that they are the only ten "best." But all are definitely in the running. Presented in chronological order. And, if you have not seen any of these films before, with no spoilers!

The Day the Earth Stood Still (1951)

There are a lot of elements that mark The Day the Earth Stood Still as a science-fiction film, starting with tall, gaunt, otherworldly-looking Klaatu (Michael Rennie) causing a sensation by landing his sleek flying saucer practically on the White House lawn, then emerging from same in the requisite spacesuit and helmet, accompanied by a giant robot, Gort (Lock Martin), which literally has the looks that kill—he shoots a death ray from beneath his visor.

But Klaatu has a message of grave importance for all of Earth, and he insists on imparting it to representatives from every country at the same time. Kept in a local hospital after being accidentally shot, Klaatu is told that gathering delegates from every country would be impossible—and when he realizes that he is being held almost as a prisoner, he escapes and takes refuge under an assumed name at a local boarding house. There he befriends Helen Benson (Patricia Neal) and especially her young son Bobby (Billy Gray), who introduces him, more or less, to Professor Barnhardt (Sam Jaffe), who promises to organize a summit of top scientists—but when Helen's boyfriend Tom Stevens (Hugh Marlowe) realizes that the urbane yet peculiar "Mister Carpenter" is really the man from outer space, the manhunt escalates, leading to the immortal words "Klaatu barado nikto."

That is the set-up for one of the greatest science-fiction films ever—and what makes The Day the Earth Stood Still, shot in black and white, relevant six decades on is its inherent intelligence and humanity, all the more so for being so modestly presented. Granted, to show the world that he means business, Klaatu arranges for a quietly dramatic demonstration of his powers, a harbinger of what belligerent Earthlings, now armed with nuclear weapons—there's the atomic fear of the time—can expect if their destructive meddling manages to go beyond the confines of the planet and into the galaxy. But even during the tense climax, Klaatu manages to keep his motivations and intentions—and actions—above mere aggression.

Edmund North's script, based on Harry Bates's short story, reveals its stunning simplicity throughout even as its import cannot be missed. Rennie is gently compelling while Neal resists the urge to overplay and Gray succeeds in a pivotal part. Director Robert Wise doesn't ignore the magnitude of the story but clearly relishes the unassuming moments to emphasize the interpersonal dynamics that ultimately accrete as a civilization's collective behavior. Meanwhile, Bernard Hermann's eerie score makes full use of the soon-to-be-ubiquitous Theremin to add alien atmosphere. Shunning overkill, The Day the Earth Stood Still triumphs with Klaatu, not Gort. Remade in 2008 with wooden wonder Keanu Reeves. As Klaatu, not Gort. Now there's a move that could provoke celestial intervention all on its own.

The Thing from Another World (1951)

Taking the opposite tack from The Day the Earth Stood Still, The Thing from Another World, also shot in black and white, was one of the first successful science fiction films to warn of death from the skies, which would become the default approach in science fiction right up to the present day. Fortunately for us, this influential thriller packs shades of complexity along with purposeful economy into its efficient running time while introducing or refining keynote sci-fi archetypes: the isolated locale in which the monster can terrorize its victims at will, the headstrong but bumbling military types intent on destruction, and the just-as-willful but naïve scientists insisting on cooperation and understanding.

Ordered to support a scientific expedition, led by Dr. Carrington (Robert Cornthwaite), in the high Arctic, Captain Hendry (Kenneth Tobey) and his flight crew, with reporter Ned Scott (Douglas Spencer) tagging along, spot a giant object newly frozen in ice. It's a flying saucer, and in their zeal to free it they blow it up. However, they recover a giant body encased in ice, but at the scientific base they accidentally thaw it and unleash the Thing (James Arness). Adapted by Charles Lederer from John W. Campbell, Jr.'s, novella Who Goes There?—although Ben Hecht and producer Howard Hawks did significant re-writes, and Hawks reputedly directed as much as credited helmer Christian Nyby—The Thing from Another World contains other sardonic asides along with a fillip or two—Hendry gets a little kinky with Carrington's sultry assistant Nikki Nicholson (Margaret Sheridan). But when the creature is discovered to be plant-based, blood-drinking, and intelligent, The Thing from Another World buckles down to serious menace as the isolated humans, able to communicate only intermittently with the outside world, must battle a creature that might be more clever—and is more powerful—than they are.

John Carpenter's 1982 remake ratcheted up the horror angle considerably, so don't expect any graphic depictions in the original, while the performances take a back seat to the narrative, although the blueprints for later stereotypes are present in Hendry, Carrington, and Nicholson. Hendry is the prototypical military man: He and his men might have bungled removing the flying saucer from the ice, and one of his men did leave an electric blanket atop the block of ice encasing the Thing, but with the base under siege he knows how to defend it. Carrington appears to be motivated by scientific curiosity, but in his quest to protect the Thing from harm he might be willing to sacrifice a human or two. And Nicholson? She does seem to fetch an awful lot of coffee. Let's face it—feminism was still a few years away, but her attractive-appendage role got perpetuated numerous times before that happened. The Thing from Another World still delivers top-notch suspense in a tense atmosphere. As reporter Scotty warns: "Watch the skies everywhere!" Because the communists—er, the aliens, rather—might be coming.

The War of the Worlds (1953)

Not even watching the skies seems to help in The War of the Worlds, the first film adaptation of H.G. Wells's 1898 novel of alien invasion—the Big Daddy of Death from the Skies—although Orson Welles and his Mercury Theatre on the Air had done a notorious radio adaptation of the story in 1938 as a rather effective Halloween prank. But thanks to Oscar-winning special effects that still look pretty impressive sixty years on, in Technicolor, no less, this The War of the Worlds reinforces the terrifying sense of helplessness as the seemingly impervious Martian invaders are poised to vanquish Earth and all its inhabitants.

Wells's original story predates the Cold War, but the suggestion of takeover and annihilation was readily understood in the early 1950s, and Barré Lyndon's adaptation, which moves the locus of the story to Southern California, also flashes a religious streak absent from Wells's (and Welles's) conception—if anything could stand up to "godless communism," it was the power of God himself. Not that this The War of the Worlds stands ready to preach—at least until the finale. Lyndon pares the story to its essence, and while that might sketch in the characters perfunctorily, director Byron Haskin, with a background in special effects, doesn't let the pace flag in a film filled with edge-of-the-seat excitement.

Their civilization dying at home, the Martians decide that their neighbor Earth looks suitable for colonization. Soon a strange meteor crashes in the Southern California hills. Fortunately, renowned scientist Clayton Forrester (Gene Barry) is fishing nearby; as he waits for the temperature- and radiation-hot meteor to cool, he dallies with local girl Sylvia Van Buren (Ann Robinson). But then the Martians emerge from the meteor, and many others like it landing around the world, with ray guns blazing. Soon General Mann (Les Tremayne) realizes that the Martians' war machines are impervious to conventional weapons—and even to nuclear bombs. As Clayton and Sylvia race to stay one step ahead of the terrible Martian craft, the fate of humanity looks hopeless.

Designed by Al Nozaki, the Martians' craft retain a sleek, lethal appearance even today—the manta-like machines project a deadly efficiency. The strident sound effects of the death rays enhance the air of deadly invincibility projected by the craft, which sweep across the world spreading increasing dread and despair. The War of the Worlds still resonates with vivid, haunting images: Clayton and Sylvia trapped in a farmhouse as Martian machines land around it; Martian machines emerging unscathed and ready for action even after withstanding a nuclear blast; and, perhaps most chilling, Barry running down deserted Los Angeles streets as the city helplessly awaits Martian destruction. The literal deus ex machina at the conclusion remains an iconic twist as the religious angle, particularly in the final scenes, gives The War of the Worlds a different complexion from previous versions, but that doesn't diminish its alarming power.

Steven Spielberg remade The War of the Worlds in 2005, bringing his technical brilliance to bear on a story that reiterated his obsession with suburban domestic melodrama, this time framed by the imminent destruction of the Earth. Sometimes it does feel as if your whole world is collapsing, doesn't it?

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  . . .