The Lost World (1925)

Lost World

When Sir Arthur Conan Doyle published The Lost World in Strand Magazine in 1912, he was allowing his name to be associated not just with his creation Sherlock Holmes, but with the likes of speculative fiction authors H. Rider Haggard and Jules Verne. The first in a series of novels and short stories featuring the headstrong Professor Challenger, The Lost World was sprung upon the public in the same year that Edgar Rice Burroughs began publishing his fiction; Burroughs would go on to explore the “lost world” genre exhaustively, uncovering lost tribes and prehistoric creatures in the jungles of Africa or in our Hollow Earth, the land of Pellucidar. So Doyle, whose novel proposed a plateau of dinosaurs and ape-men in an unexplored region of the Amazon, was engaging in a tradition but also perfecting a template for others to follow, and the film adaptation, released thirteen years later, served a similar role for monster-movie spectacle. The Lost World (1925), directed by Harry Hoyt, is most notable for featuring stop-motion dinosaurs created by Willis O’Brien. O’Brien’s work here would ultimately lead him to King Kong (1933), whose influence on fantasy cinema – or blockbuster films in general – cannot be understated. But The Lost World was a significant stepping-stone, and a huge hit in 1925, providing eager audiences the opportunity to see creatures like the Allosaurus, Brontosaurus (Apatosaurus), Stegosaurus, and Triceratops parade by while Professor Challenger (Wallace Beery, Robin Hood) and his small group of explorers gape in wonder from the corners of the screen, true audience surrogates.

The plateau of the Lost World, as the explorers cross to it from a felled tree.

The plateau of the Lost World, as the explorers cross to it from a felled tree.

The screenplay, by Marion Fairfax and an uncredited Charles Logue, is reasonably faithful to the novel, inserting a love interest in the form of Paula White (Bessie Love, The King on Main Street), as well as a climax featuring a Brontosaurus rampaging through London (in the book, Challenger brings back a live Pterodactyl as evidence of his journey). Paula White is the daughter of Maple White, an explorer who claims to have discovered a lost world in an unexplored region off the Amazon River. Challenger, angrily defying the ridicule of his peers, says he will volunteer Maple White’s map to those who will form an expedition. Volunteers come in the form of great white hunter Sir John Roxton (Lewis Stone, The Prisoner of Zenda), the skeptical Professor Summerlee (Arthur Hoyt, the director’s brother), Paula White – who wishes to find her missing father – and young reporter Edward Malone (Lloyd Hughes, The Sea Beast), whom the journalist-loathing Challenger wrestles down a staircase. The team is advised to unseal the map only when they’ve traveled to a certain location up the Amazon, but when the envelope reveals a blank sheet of paper, they’re at an impasse – until Challenger arrives with the map in hand, declares himself leader, and guides them the rest of the way upriver to the towering plateau, where a “Pterodactyl” (actually a Pteranodon) soars overhead. Scaling the sheer walls is impossible, but they follow Maple White’s path (shades of Journey to the Center of the Earth‘s Arne Saknussemm) by climbing an adjacent spire, felling a tree, and crossing it. Alas, after they span the bridge a Brontosaurus knocks the tree down the cliff, stranding them in the Lost World.

A sinister ape-man is shot in the arm by the expedition.

A sinister ape-man is shot in the arm by the expedition.

The novel’s hostile tribe of primitive ape-men is reduced to a single man in a shaggy suit, who first tries to dissuade the intruders by toppling a boulder at them while they camp at the base of the cliffs, and later tries to attack Edward before Sir John shoots him in the arm. The ape-man’s grotesque makeup seems like it belongs to Island of Lost Souls (1932) more than 2001: A Space Odyssey (1968), but it does provide some variety to the rogues’ gallery of O’Brien’s model work. And there are plenty of models on display, including a jungle of swooping Brontosaurus necks, a Stegosaurus, a family of Triceratops, an Allosaurus constantly on the prowl (he’s described as a “pest”), and a Tyrannosaurus Rex. Challenger turns a tree into a catapult as a means of defense, but only uses it to launch Summerlee in the air, ending their dispute as to whether the flight will describe a curve or a parabola (Challenger’s assertion is correct, and Summerlee is dunked in the river). Despite his engagement to the fickle Gladys (Alma Bennett) back home, Edward falls for Paula and they ask Summerlee to preside over their marriage. Sir John discovers the skeleton of Paula’s father in a system of caves, bringing her quest to a sad end, but searching the caves also provides a way off the plateau; the ape-man tries to kill them during the escape, before he’s shot for good. Finally, Challenger’s attempt to bring a live Brontosaurus back to London backfires when the creature gets loose, destroying London Bridge and last seen swimming the ocean.

The Brontosaurus escapes his London captors.

The Brontosaurus escapes his London captors.

Arthur Conan Doyle, who is seen at the opening of the film, was so impressed by O’Brien’s stop-motion effects that, three years before the film was completed, he showed the animator’s experimental films to the Society of American Magicians. As stop-motion authority Mike Hankin writes in his O’Brien chapter of Ray Harryhausen: Master of the Majicks, Volume 1 (2013), “Refusing all questions on how the footage was created, he left the audience bewildered (sweet revenge for constantly being baffled by their tricks).” Doyle then wrote a letter to his frenemy Harry Houdini explaining – as though it really needed to be said – that the dinosaurs were a hoax of his own. (Houdini and Doyle were at opposite ends of the debate over spiritualism; Houdini made it an obsession to expose mediums as frauds, but Doyle was a firm believer. It appears that Doyle used Willis O’Brien to get back at Houdini.) But stop motion wasn’t new, as O’Brien had already collaborated with Herbert M. Dawley on The Ghost of Slumber Mountain (1918), a short which features stop-motion dinosaurs, and Dawley went on to make a sequel, Along the Moonbeam Trail (1920), which he animated himself. Prior to this, O’Brien had animated for Thomas Edison’s film company. Nonetheless, The Lost World was a significant step forward in the art, being a feature-length film combining actors with stop-motion effects. By comparison to King Kong, the quality of stop-motion in The Lost World is variable: some scenes are much smoother than others. The models are also not quite as refined or detailed. But they are abundant. Once the explorers reach the plateau, there are dinosaurs everywhere, because it is obvious what moviegoers had come to see. This exuberance for prehistoric fantasy would be exceeded in King Kong, with the added benefit of awe.

Willis O'Brien animates a dinosaur battle.

Willis O’Brien animates a dinosaur battle.

The Lost World may have been a popular hit – it was the first in-flight film ever shown (in April 1925) – but the original ten-reel roadshow version disappeared after 1929, when prints were ordered withdrawn and destroyed by the rights-holder, the widow of the film’s co-producer Watterson Rothacker of the Rothacker Film Manufacturing Company. For decades only a drastically shortened version of the film survived, stored at the George Eastman House. Finally, in 1992 an almost-complete print was discovered in the Filmovy Archiv in Prague. According to Silent Era, “In 1997, George Eastman House debuted the almost wholly reconstructed Lost World, which now totaled more than 8000 of its original 9200 feet. Of the missing footage, most of it remains lost in the form of minor print break splices, damaged reel ends and shortened running times on intertitles (which ran long for slower-reading contemporary audiences). Among the still-missing footage is the cannibal attack sequence in the Amazon jungle.” A 2001 DVD release uses this reconstruction as well as other sources including alternate footage from the production’s right-hand camera, intended for a foreign-release negative, to provide even more missing material (but no cannibal attack). Although the film is still not entirely complete, it flows well and we can count ourselves lucky to have at least 86% of the original version. It remains an enjoyable picture, and Doyle, who died five years after its release, had something to be proud of – despite the cringeworthy use of a blackfaced character (but such was 1925, and Doyle’s novel wasn’t short on Colonialist racism either). Kong would eclipse The Lost World, but nonetheless its first, dinosaur-addled half feels like The Lost World redux. I also find it interesting to note that Doyle’s novel features a “dinosaur pit” of horrors that is uncannily similar to the lost “spider pit” sequence in Kong. Subsequent B-movies such as Lost Continent (1951) and King Dinosaur (1955) demonstrate a Lost World influence, and the story was adapted again in 1960 by Irwin Allen (with Claude Rains as Challenger), and then 1992 (with John Rhys-Davies), 1998 (with Patrick Bergin), and 2001 (with Bob Hoskins). A syndicated series of the same name ran from 1999-2002. Michael Crichton paid tribute by titling his Jurassic Park sequel The Lost World, adapted into a film by Steven Spielberg in 1997. In homage to Doyle, perhaps, Spielberg climaxes his film with another dinosaur on the loose in a modern setting, in this case a T. Rex in San Diego.

The Lost World

 

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The Lord of the Rings (1978)

The Lord of the Rings

It should be clearer now that Peter Jackson has completed his Hobbit trilogy that the Middle Earth omnipresent in his films, the spin-off video games, and miscellaneous merchandise – the Middle Earth that we currently breathe in our pop culture – is the Peter Jackson interpretation only. It’s not definitive; it’s a take on the material, and we can see what that entails, for all its strengths (special effects, attention to detail, smart casting) and weaknesses (cartoonish and overlong action sequences, bloat). Moreover his six films are products of the early twenty-first century. Now that the dust is starting to settle, it’s easier to discern them as examples of the modern CG-laden blockbuster, initially helping to set the model, and now, with the Hobbit films, feeling self-imitative. Big-budget fantasy films will look different in another ten, twenty years; these films are of their times, despite how important and influential they are (and certainly his Lord of the Rings films are important, the Hobbit films exponentially less so). My point is that they’re Peter Jackson films, and another director will come along and reinterpret the classic J.R.R. Tolkien novels for a new era, and in a new style. For a long while, there were only two filmed versions of Lord of the Rings, Ralph Bakshi’s 1978 adaptation of the first half of the trilogy and the Rankin-Bass 1980 TV-movie The Return of the King, which skipped to the end. And people hammered the Bakshi take hard, in part because it was pretty much all they had. The director of low-budget, often smutty animated films like Fritz the Cat (1972) and Wizards (1977) was unworthy of the material, went the common wisdom; it had too much rotoscoping (animating over live action), looked cheap, and had no ending. The Lord of the Rings is one of the bestselling books of all time, and its fans – myself included – are demanding. With the loudest voices proclaiming that Bakshi botched the film’s big screen treatment, obviously there was no Lord of the Rings: Part Two coming, and instead he returned to personal, R-rated projects, the epic immigrant story American Pop (1981) and the long-in-the-works Hey Good Lookin’ (1982). The Lord of the Rings was abandoned in a cloud of bitterness, and on subsequent TV and home video releases the closing narration was revised to imply that the Battle of Helm’s Deep really was the ending of the story, as if all the talk about Mount Doom weren’t that important.

In the Shire, Frodo (Christopher Guard) and Gandalf (William Squire) discuss the One Ring to Rule Them All.

In the Shire, Frodo (Christopher Guard) and Gandalf (William Squire) discuss the One Ring to Rule Them All.

As I write this on a laptop in my living room, framed on the wall beside me are three cels from The Lord of the Rings signed by Bakshi (the Nazgûl inside the hobbits’ room at The Prancing Pony; the Fellowship at the entrance to the Mines of Moria; Frodo and Galadriel). As the younger generation will grow up with Tolkien as defined by Peter Jackson, I knew Ralph Bakshi’s vision of Middle Earth before I was old enough to read the books. I bought the cels about fourteen years ago because the film was important to my childhood, giving me a proper introduction to fantasy and stoking my interest in Tolkien. (It was a big film for Jackson, too, as he states on the Fellowship of the Ring commentary track, and the “Proudfeet!” moment during Bilbo’s birthday speech is a loving homage to Bakshi.) I remember character-art buttons and posters being sold in stores even years after the film came out, and the Nazgûl gave me wonderful nightmares. I break out the film every couple of years and my feelings about it are always exactly the same: a lot of nostalgia, mixed with a fair appreciation of what’s good about the film and what’s not so good. But I always come to the conclusion that it’s a reflection of Ralph Bakshi, his era, and his methods. If he cut corners, it was because otherwise it wouldn’t have gotten made, and such was the case with all his films. Hand-drawn animated films are a tremendous effort of time, labor, and expense, which is why they aren’t often made anymore. What is often overlooked by Tolkien fans critical of this film is that it’s a miracle it was made at all, just like everything else in Bakshi’s filmography. He was not producing in the structured Disney studio system, but scraping together his projects with some first-rate hustling, a lot of overtime, and a group of dedicated animators who worked out of a shared passion rather than for a nice paycheck. Since this was Lord of the Rings – a book that was the Bible for many in the 60’s and 70’s – that passion from the animators is more evident than in any of his other films.

Gandalf consults Saruman the White.

Gandalf consults Saruman the White.

They were fans and they put their best foot forward, even though, yes, in order to get the film completed Bakshi needed to film it in live action, using his Wizards technique of Xeroxing the live action onto cels. This produces a strange quality – genuinely eerie, in the Ringwraith scenes – but if not fully painted-over it simply looks like it wasn’t animated. Bakshi liked this look, but it dominates too much of Lord of the Rings, particularly in its last half hour (the Battle of Helm’s Deep). Nonetheless, it is important to note how subtle and effective the character animation truly is, when the animators were given the chance to show their stuff outside of the Xeroxing. The characters are expressive and sympathetic, especially Frodo, whose overlarge eyes and broad mouth express skepticism, brotherly love, contempt, and fear in all the right moments. Watch the scene in which Frodo shows the ring to Bilbo, tempting him: a marvel of dialogue-free emotional expression which is superior to the Jackson interpretation. Or witness the death of Boromir, which begins with shocking violence before ending quietly, as Aragorn holds him, and Gimli and Legolas slowly bow to one knee. I’m always frustrated by those who imply that rotoscoping means that no real animation has been done. Using a model for movement is not the same as tracing, and there is some very impressive and appealing animation in Lord of the Rings from a very talented group.

Legolas (Anthony Daniels), Aragorn (John Hurt), and Gimli (David Buck) witness the death of Boromir (Michael Graham Cox).

Legolas (Anthony Daniels), Aragorn (John Hurt), and Gimli (David Buck) witness the death of Boromir (Michael Graham Cox).

As much as this is a Bakshi film, it’s interesting to see how many of his personal trademarks are absent or reduced. This was Bakshi’s first adaptation of another person’s work, and Tolkien’s material comes first, much as capturing Frank Frazetta’s style took prominence in Fire & Ice (1983). The screenplay, by novelist Peter S. Beagle (author of The Last Unicorn) and Tolkien fan Chris Conkling, is scrupulously faithful, perhaps to a fault – maybe it would have been better if the film were faster-paced and made it through the entire trilogy, skipping over vast swaths, but that’s not the film Bakshi chose to make. What we get is all of The Fellowship of the Ring (sans Tom Bombadil and the barrow-wights, which Jackson also excised) and half of The Two Towers. There is so much plot here that it’s potentially very confusing for those unfamiliar with the novels; one major improvement in Jackson’s films is that it’s much clearer what the stakes are and who the enemy is (Sauron). A half-hearted attempt was made to clarify matters for the audience by calling Saruman “Aruman” (to differentiate his name from Sauron’s), but it only makes matters worse that he’s still called Saruman for the first half of the film! Still, there is an elegance to the early scenes in the Shire – the discussion between Gandalf and Frodo in Bag End is perfectly handled – and Frodo is placed on his quest quickly. The exposition is handled very smoothly until The Two Towers, at which point – much as in the novels – it can be challenging to understand the relationship between Rohan and Gondor, Theoden and Saruman, and so on. I tend to think the film would have been better off with just adapting Fellowship of the Ring, and smoothing over the Xeroxed animation. But Bakshi loved Tolkien, and he was ambitious.

The Balrog confronts Gandalf in the Mines of Moria.

The Balrog confronts Gandalf in the Mines of Moria.

A quality voice cast of British actors includes John Hurt (Alien) as Aragorn/Strider, Anthony Daniels (Star Wars) as Legolas, William Squire (Where Eagles Dare) as Gandalf, Christopher Guard (A Little Night Music) as Frodo, and André Morell (The Plague of the Zombies) as Elrond. You might be tested by the film’s version of Samwise Gamgee (Michael Scholes), which is a broad and grating comic relief character, in sharp contrast to Sean Astin’s nobler representation. The score by Leonard Rosenman is like comfort food to me – I own the original vinyl double-album – but I have to admit it sounds an awful lot like his other 70’s scores, including exploitation films Race with the Devil (1975) and The Car (1977).  Still, Rosenman composed an original and very Tolkienesque song, “Mithrandir,” for the film’s Lothlorien sequence, and he does a fine job of establishing distinctive themes for both the Fellowship and the evil forces of Mordor. Highlights of this film include the journey into the Mines of Moria and the confrontations with the Ringwraiths, but the film stumbles as the Fellowship fractures and the action moves to Rohan. It’s flawed, but it’s a film from one of our most important animation innovators, and it’s the rare epic (132 minutes) American animated film. Even in the Peter Jackson era, there is still room to appreciate the merits of what Bakshi accomplished.

Lord of the Rings

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Forbidden Planet (1956)

Forbidden Planet

Forbidden Planet (1956) is still an effectively scary film. I know this because I just started playing excerpts from the film’s all-electronic score through iTunes, and my dogs became alarmed and ran out of the room barking. The “music” – electronic squeals and squawks and pulsating booms by innovators Louis and Bebe Barron – is very important in this movie, because it sounds like no other science fiction film of its era, granting it an eerie, anomalous quality which would be absent from the genre until 2001: A Space Odyssey (1968). Of course the nearest equivalent would be the theremin, used in several SF films of the 50’s including Bernard Herrmann’s score for The Day the Earth Stood Still (1951), but at least the theremin is musical. The Barrons, using circuitry of their own design, assault the viewer with their cosmic sound design (or “electronic tonalities,” as the credits describe), so as the imposing words Forbidden Planet stretch across the screen and the opening theme comes at you, you know you’re in for something special. It’s enough to make you forgive the much more conventional opening narration that sets the scene and sounds like every film since Rocketship X-M (1950), or the rather bland interior of the spaceship C-57D, and its blander crew of white men in bland gray uniforms. But their ship is a flying saucer, a neat reversal of 50’s iconography, and the mystery which confronts them – they are searching for a lost ship, the Bellerophon, and as they approach the planet where it was last sent, Altair IV, the man who hails them on the radio asks them to turn around and leave immediately – is a taut set-up, even if, a decade later, it might be a typical Star Trek plot. As the story progresses, the film also anticipates Alien (1979) as the crew struggles to mount an adequate defense against a relentless invisible monster. It’s a creepy film, but creepier still is the revelation of just what that monster is – a “monster from the Id.”

The C-57D lands on Altair IV.

The C-57D lands on Altair IV.

The intellectual thrust of the story, and its general scientific (and psychological, and anthropological) curiosity, makes Forbidden Planet feel like a compelling 50’s science fiction paperback. One of the things I always find refreshing about the film is that even though the message is ultimately cautionary regarding scientific advancement – this was the age of the atomic bomb, after all – a great deal of time is spent investigating the discoveries of stranded scientist Dr. Morbius (Walter Pidgeon, Voyage to the Bottom of the Sea) regarding the planet’s ancient civilization called the Krell. The Krell achieved mind-blowing scientific advances in their vast city, although all that remains is buried underground, stretching for miles in vertiginous matte paintings which are still appealingly evocative. The Krell themselves were wiped out – and by what is something which soon becomes of prime importance to Commander Adams (Leslie Nielsen, long before Airplane! and Police Squad! made him a comedy icon), since it may have something to do with the creature that’s stalking and attacking his crew every night. The haughty Morbius has spent years exploring and researching the Krell city, even risking his life (or so he claims) boosting his IQ with a Krell device which projects images from his mind. He makes it clear that only he can use the machine – it would be lethal for the lesser intellects of Adams and Lieutenant Ostrow (Warren Stevens, The Time Tunnel). Meanwhile, the crew of the C-57D marvels at Morbius’s creation Robby the Robot, which can replicate any artifact like a next-generation 3-D printer, though Cook (Earl Holliman) just wants Robby to make him more whiskey. “It’s smooth!” he applauds Robby. Also, there’s no hangover.

Altaira (Anne Francis) takes a swim.

Altaira (Anne Francis) takes a swim.

The crew is equally transfixed by Morbius’s comely, miniskirted daughter Altaira (Anne Francis, Honey West), who has never met a man other than her father, and is just as fascinated with them as they are with her. After one wolfish member of the crew teaches her about kissing, she’s soon kissing every last one of her visitors, though it’s only the resistant Commander Adams who ultimately provides the sought-after “stimulation.” Forbidden Planet almost suggests the kind of free love that would be promoted in Robert Heinlein’s novel Stranger in a Strange Land (1961) and, of course, would be a hot topic in the 60’s with the rise of “the pill,” Haight-Ashbury, etc. Anne Francis is wonderful in the film, antithesis to the female in most 50’s SF movies (the woman scientist who bends a knee to the square-jawed male protagonist); although she’s an innocent regarding sex, she also shares her father’s appreciation for the scientific method, and is quick to apply it. She’s outraged when Commander Adams suggests the crew is taking advantage of her, or that she should dress more properly (she designed and made her clothes herself, she retorts). In many ways she’s a modern woman, and if she ultimately ends up with Adams, it’s less a Taming of the Shrew situation than Adams simply learning to be a bit more open-minded – and honest with his own sexuality. Am I reading too much into this? Then let me just say that Anne Francis defiantly skinny dips (in a flesh-colored bodysuit) and plays with a live tiger. She’s fun.

The invisible Monster from the Id is revealed when caught in a force field.

The invisible Monster from the Id is revealed when caught in a force field.

Forbidden Planet had a major advantage over its competitors in that it was a big budgeted MGM film – you could almost call it a prestige picture, produced on a scale rare for a genre film of its day. Apart from the spectacular visuals in the abandoned Krell city (the platforms over bottomless pits would be recreated in Star Wars, as would the hologram-like miniature of Altaira conjured by Morbius in the projection machine), it’s hard not to appreciate the use of animation in the film, from Joshua Meador, on loan from Walt Disney Studios. Every ray gun blast and laser beam is animated, granting a distinctive character to the film. Highly memorable is the “appearance” of the “Id Monster,” invisible until it becomes trapped in the force field erected outside the ship. The two-legged, taloned, fanged, and bull-like creature is shown in red outline as it rages and gnashes. The creature is the manifestation of Dr. Morbius’ subconscious, his jealous and sinister dark side, and is given an appropriately evil and beastly shape. Robby the Robot is the runaway star of the film, however. The expensive prop, with its visible circuitry and switches, rotating discs, and impeccable manners, has far more personality than other robots of its day – I’m looking at you, Gog. Robby would go on to appear in other films (The Invisible Boy, Gremlins) and TV, and remains one of the most iconic robots of all time. He’s easily one of the most likeable characters in the film, even if the famous poster art has him menacingly carrying an unconscious Anne Francis in imitation of the poster for The Day the Earth Stood Still. Google, mobile devices, and Amazon drones be damned, everyone still needs their own Robby. I mean, we don’t have minibars in our homes anymore, and Amazon’s not mixing you any drinks.

The Krell underground city.

The Krell underground city.

When Stanley Kubrick approached Arthur C. Clarke to write 2001, he said they needed to make it because there weren’t any great science fiction films. Although Kubrick’s film would be testament to what he meant by that, I would submit Forbidden Planet to refute the argument. Here is a film that used the acceptable SF template of its time – white guys in a rocketship, a cold-hearted scientist, and a pretty girl vs. an alien menace – and significantly advanced the language and concepts in the storytelling. The electronic, atonal score rejected schmaltz and delivered something genuinely futuristic and alien. The storyline – as many have pointed out, modeled roughly on The Tempest with Dr. Morbius in the Prospero role and Altaira his Miranda, Robby his Ariel – is not just sophisticated but presents science fiction as it ought to be: an exploration of ideas with hungry curiosity, a lack of bias (see the open-minded depiction of female sexuality), and the radical notion that the evil alien invader might not come from Mars or Venus but our own selves. We are the enemy – not just our bodies, as replicated and replaced in Invasion of the Body Snatchers (1956) – but what lurks in the deep dark recesses of our minds. Of course there are many good SF films pre-2001, but Forbidden Planet set a very high standard that reminded what the genre could really do.

Forbidden Planet

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