Many thanks (a little belatedly, as I’ve lately been out of it on blogging) to Jon Kitley over at Kitley’s Krypt for interviewing me on my Robot Monster book. Check it out!
Many thanks to Rod Lott, who reviews all manner of stuff at his blog Flick Attack. Rod was kind enough to ask me to contribute five movie recommendations in connection to ROBOT MONSTER, so please click on over to Rod’s site and read a list that I think at least avoids being too obvious. (And they really do have ROBOT MONSTER connections. Kinda-sorta. I promise.)
There is a tiny bit I can add to the recent eulogies for the great Vilmos Zsigmond, legendary cinematographer who escaped to the West from his native, communist-controlled Hungary with friend László Kovács. Before their Hollywood careers took off, the pair toiled in low-budget films, and even together as they did on Ray Dennis Steckler’s The Incredibly Strange Creatures Who Stopped Living and Became Mixed-Up Zombies (1964). During this era, Zsigmond had the distinction of shooting Arch Hall and James Landis’ The Sadist (1963), one of the most effective no-budget movies made by anyone, anywhere and the one movie that wipes out the perception that Hall and his son Arch Hall Jr. were not that talented. (Junior’s Beavis hairstyle, pretty ridiculous in Wild Guitar and Eegah, even makes sense in this movie.)
Zsigmond was still picking up some lower budget jobs by the mid-70s when he worked on the Phil Tucker production Death Riders (1976), a documentary about stunt motorcyclists produced under the working title Star Spangled Bummer. In 2007, I found an address for Mr. Zsigmond and mailed him a letter, hoping that he might have something to say on the topic of Phil Tucker and this film. To my delight, he replied with a note written on my letter, giving me his home phone number and the word “Unlisted!” added in, giving me a fun moment of being let in on something. So I called him a couple of times and got an answering machine, to which I left a message at least once.
Eventually, my phone rang one evening and I was in amazement to see his name on my caller ID. From there, it was a pleasant little chat of about five minutes in which he remembered the Death Riders production, and related that he was greatly impressed by Phil Tucker’s generosity and overall easygoing personality. (I got the sense it went less well with the film’s director Jim Wilson.) Tucker had even, as he remembered, bothered to call him up and let him know how it all went, as Zsigmond worked on it for a couple weeks and departed. He was a little blindsided when I let him know that Tucker had passed on, which he had not known. The conversation ending cordially, I got the sense he was in the midst of getting to somewhere, sounds of outdoors being audible throughout the call. (Or maybe he was just out for an evening stroll, and I shouldn’t assume that the life of a DP is non-stop itinerancy.)
So as I can attest by his kind attention to someone he didn’t know from anyone, Mr. Zsigmond was a classy guy through and through. But this is obvious from his life: risking capture with smuggled film while escaping communist Hungary, and then a career of always being a consummate professional on the job, eventually making it to the highest pinnacle of his profession. Rest in peace.
I’ll have more to say about it soon, but more for the moment just wanted to share some photos:
This is the front cover, glossy.
696 pages. This gives you an idea of the dimensions (8.5 x 5.5 trim size). No quality comparisons implied.
And a couple pages for now. More to come!
Robert Clarke & Nan Peterson in Amarillo, Texas for The Hideous Sun Demon’s premiere.
So after Dream Follies, what came next?
Probably Pachuco. . . . Pachuco was the first real picture I ever made. And when I say that, I mean in the sense that it was a real picture made in a real way for real markets, that told a story I wanted to tell. The usual shortage of money just didn’t affect me this time. We would sleep in the studio at night, the same studio that I did Dream Follies and Dance Hall Racket. We would sneak in there at night and work from around 10:00 at night ’til about 4:30, 5:00 o’clock in the morning. If all the time had been like ten-hour days, we probably spent ten, twelve days on the picture, which was remarkable for me at that time. It was a very violent picture, it was a very realistic and true picture, and it told a little story.
However good Pachuco really was, it was not by-the-numbers burlesque junk, and Tucker remembered it with pride. As his repetition of the word “real” emphasizes, this movie was notches above his others, “a story [he] wanted to tell.” Tucker was not financially strained either because of backing or, far more likely, because he was pulling the movie off on next to nothing. The paradox of how he made his best movie on no resources is unraveled by the fact that he worked late at night when no one was around. The location was Quality Studios and Tucker’s familiarity with Connell and his back-alley soundstage may have literally given him the keys to using it in the off hours, with or without Connell’s knowledge. Whatever the movie was like, it was violent and Tucker therefore believed it had box office potential.
I subsequently got the picture in halfway decent shape; I edited myself. I took it to distributors, and some liked it, some didn’t like it; nobody would really [release it]. Then a guy named Bill Hackel, who has since died, saw it. Bill produced most of Republic’s cheap pictures. He was executive producer of all their “Bs.” Bill loved it. He thought it would really do well.
The Bill Hackel that Tucker refers to was A.W. Hackel, who formed the independent company Supreme Pictures in 1934. Born in Austria in 1882, he was (according to Guy Woodward Finney’s 1929 book The Great Los Angeles Bubble) one of many (including Louis B. Mayer) involved in the Julian Petroleum oil stock scam that collapsed in 1927. Hackel was also there when Poverty Row kingpin Republic Pictures formed out of the 1935 union of Consolidated Film Laboratories and other small companies, including his own. His Supreme Pictures remained separate from the Republic conglomeration, but they acted as distributor to many of the action-filled B Westerns he ground out with his stars, Bob Steele and Johnny Mack Brown. William C. Thompson shot a couple of Hackel’s horse operas, 32 of which featured the steely-eyed Steele, and 16 with the athletic Brown. (Brown, first a football star, was an MGM lead in Hollywood, and starred in King Vidor’s Billy the Kid (1930), shot by Tucker’s mentor, Gordon Avil.)
According to Don Miller, “. . . the budgets were lower than before [in Steele’s career], and the pictures were ground out two or three at a time . . .. they were conventional Westerns, made for and played in lesser theaters.” Miller allows that Hackel’s quality may have increased after he “signed a deal with Republic for the 1936-37 season,” but still writes that Hackel’s Steele Westerns “suffered in comparison” to Republic’s own material. Republic dropped Hackel “at the end of the 1937-38 season,” but he continued producing into the 1940s. Am I Guilty? (1940) was a state’s-rights production aimed at black audiences, while most of his subsequent work as producer was done at Monogram. At least four of those productions, mostly crime thrillers, were directed by William “One Shot” Beaudine. Hackel’s last credit is for co-producing the Nazi invasion melodrama Strange Holiday (1945) with Claude Rains, which was one of Arch Oboler’s first movies as a director. Hackel then appears retired from film production until his death in October 1959, and he may have never been very hands-on. According to Sam Sherman:
Of the line producers who actually made films, many only received credit as production manager or supervisor, while many received no credit, so the production company head could claim the producer’s credit for himself. The real producer of the 1935-36 Bob Steele series for A.W. “Bill” Hackel’s Supreme Pictures was actually Sam Katzman, although you would never know it from the screen credits.
Katzman would go on to become one of Hollywood’s most prolific and profitable low-budget producers on his own, so this uncredited early work was, in the long term, good training.
Tucker’s wording is ambiguous about when he met Hackel, but they could have easily known each other for years. Hackel’s Bob Steele Westerns were at first directed by Steele’s father, Robert N. Bradbury, but then by Sam Newfield. His brother with an un-Americanized name, Sigmund Neufeld, would found PRC and keep Sam busy directing; Robot Monster’s director of photography, Jack Greenhalgh, was a PRC regular.
So [Hackel] put up the money for me to make a trip to Texas—Amarillo—and do a test there. We had a three-day weekend; a Friday, a Saturday, and a Sunday. We had two days of promotion. In those days, you still couldn’t use television; we used radio, we used newspapers. I think we spent about five or six hundred bucks for those two days, and a trailer that had been at the drive-in.
Tucker knew the state’s-rights distribution system well and, from his years of making cheap Westerns, Hackel was just as familiar. Why Amarillo was specifically chosen is unknown, but at the same time not a mystery. A Texas audience’s reaction would be more representative of the film’s long-term reception than a viewing closer to Hollywood and, as established in Chapter 9, Tucker’s earlier films had played in Texas. They even seem to have kept on playing the Lone Star State up to that point, to judge by a March 1960 Llano News ad for Bagdad After Midnight. Fifties Amarillo also had many theaters, including at least four drive-ins and some that catered to Spanish-speaking audiences. The city had also been used to premiere actor Robert Clarke’s own attempt at low-budget filmmaking, The Hideous Sun Demon, in August 1958. Clarke had no local prospects for his film but found that he could premiere it at an Amarillo drive-in, thanks to help from his brother who worked in sales at a local TV station. (Theater owner Blue Doyle had at least three Amarillo drive-ins.) Clarke prepared his own advertising materials, flew in with co-star Nan Peterson, and did a radio interview to promote the movie. Depending on when Pachuco was made, Clarke’s use of Amarillo could have been an influence.
Copyright 2015, Anders Runestad
The more or less $16,000 budget that Tucker, Zimbalist and Mosk agreed to was about as cheap as a film budget could possibly be. Republic’s bottom tier of cheap Westerns averaged a cost of $30,000-$50,000, which shows how cheap a small studio was able to get and have a releasable product. But in a demonstration of inexcusable incompetence, a young Ed Wood managed the independent cowboy movie The Outlaw Marshal, allowing the budget to balloon from $20,000 to a ludicrous $57,000. Besides shedding light on Wood’s career-long difficulty in trying to survive in Hollywood, the production resulted in a heavily litigated film and an angry pool of investors who had to be persuaded to let the film be released for it to have any prayer of earning its money back. Tucker clearly understood these budget subtleties far better than his contemporary Wood to have completed Robot Monster for as little as $16,000, and to have then understood the negative impression that could be created by the bald-faced truth of that budget.
For by the early fifties, there was really only one type of film regularly made for Robot Monster’s budget, one with which Tucker was well-acquainted. Exploitation films—with their threadbare sets, static camerawork, and often amateur acting—had nearly 100% of their value in their over-the-top advertising and could afford to be as cheap as $16,000. The films were in themselves worthless, only viewed in the hope of illicit thrills, and were the ultimate in the bait-and-switch business technique. But to push a slightly better type of film into that rock bottom level was to risk making a movie that would be truly un-releasable. No audience would tolerate a science fiction movie without a spaceship, a monster, or at least a ray gun. No audience would patiently sit through seventy minutes of stilted actors talking about nothing on cheap sets, in the hope of glimpsing a quick shot of a spaceship. Society did not prohibit the display of robots and space creatures, and a filmmaker promising them had to deliver and not merely tease.
Tucker had to figure out how he was going to pull off his robot invader on a budget like that of the exploitation films he had trained on. His free location for a destroyed Earth awaited him, but he had to somehow create the monster that would inhabit it and terrorize the survivors.
. . . I talked to several people I knew who had robot suits—I originally envisioned a kind of a robot—but it was just out-of-the-way, money-wise, just no possible way to do it.
Reinforcing Tucker’s point, there seem to have been no regular robot suit guys in early fifties Hollywood, in contrast to the gorilla performers. Republic had a robot costume that appeared in multiple adventure serials, including Mysterious Doctor Satan (1940). Tucker theoretically could have rented this suit, and likely tried, but it must have been unavailable or “just out-of-the-way, money-wise.” (A more recognizable recycled robot only appeared years after Robot Monster, when Robby the Robot debuted in MGM’sForbidden Planet  and was thereafter loaned out for several appearances in TV and movies.) So with the conventional option of making or borrowing a suitable costume out of reach, Tucker did what any clever exploitation man would do: He made the best substitute he could manage for as little money as possible.
So I thought, “Okay. I know George Barrows. He’s got a gorilla suit. I know George will work for me for [nothing]. I’ll get a diving helmet, put it on him, and it’ll work!” So that’s how it came to be.
It is easy from the vantage point of hindsight to laugh at Tucker’s solution, and the results onscreen were of course absurd. But to make a non-exploitation movie on an exploitation movie budget, he had to be brave enough to pursue whatever insane solution would get the film made. Perhaps someone with great design sense could have creatively combined cardboard and paint in some effective way, but Tucker’s robot-gorilla concept is still less crazy than has been acknowledged. In summer 1952, RKO successfully reissued King Kong (1933) and Tucker must have noticed a re-release so fantastic that it was featured in Time and far out-grossed its initial release. The return ofKing Kong was packing in audiences right about when Tucker was pulling the Lucky Luciano stunt and when he discovered the ruins of Chavez Ravine. His use of a gorilla suit as part of the monster costume was therefore not a random, casually chosen substitute for a true robot. With a conventional robot impossible, Tucker chose an alternative that had true audience appeal. With King Kong a hot property, it is clear why Tucker used a robot-gorilla (and in the opinion of Mark F. Berry, Robot Monster is essentially “a King Kongremake”). If he could not provide a robot or a giant gorilla, he could at least manage a gorilla wearing a diving helmet. Little wonder that with it featured in gigantic proportions on the poster, Kong-crazed audiences made the film successful.
But according to Barrows:
It wasn’t Phil Tucker’s idea. Zimbalist, it was more or less his brain child, I understand. Because I was interviewed before the thing, and he asked me about it. “What do you think?” he says. “You have this gorilla suit, and it’s a terrific suit and all that,” and I said, “Yeah, yeah, it is; wonderful suit.” “What do you think of creatures from outer space being gorillas?” I said, “I guess it would be the same as if they were green monsters. Who knows? We’ve never seen ’em. Your imagination is as good as anyone’s.” So they went with that.
But while Barrows’ account reinforces Zimbalist’s central role in guiding the production—clearly on display in trade papers up to the film’s release—it does not contradict Tucker. Zimbalist is not depicted with coming up with the idea, and his inquiry to Barrows suggests that he was as skeptical of the robot-gorilla concept as anyone who would later see the film. Zimbalist was in charge, but what Barrows says makes it seem less likely that he created the idea. But he may have had input in refining the costume to be as good as circumstances allowed. Barrows said,
They were going to first use the head, and have horns or something, antennae, and all that sort of thing.
So how did they get to the diving helmet?
They didn’t want the gorilla head, they thought it would look more “out of this world” if it were some kind of space helmet, where they actually couldn’t breathe our atmosphere so they had this special thing on where they had to breathe their own atmosphere.
This ambiguity about how to make the monster seem alien extended all the way to the film’s release. The poster famously shows Ro-Man with a detailed skull face within the faceplate of the helmet, which fits in with the varying ideas thrown around in the planning stages. It may have been the case that Zimbalist decided to go for broke and advertise Ro-Man in all his stunning, surreal glory. The audience thereby knew what it was in for and might even be intrigued; there was not much else to put on the film’s poster anyway, and undiscriminating ten-year-old boys might make an association between the gorilla monster and the still popular King Kong. Whether the artist came up with the skull or Zimbalist ordered it, the onscreen face was murky enough to plausibly make such an embellishment on the artwork.
Tucker would began filming Robot Monster the very day after the film was announced in the Wednesday, March 18 Reporter. By the Friday issue, when the film was listed in the weekly “Pictures Now Shooting” section, the film’s second day of shooting may have found it half completed:
How many days did it take to film?
A copy of the script has survived, consisting of 56 pages (nearly matching the old screenwriter’s rule that one page of script equals one minute of screen time) plus three additional pages of production schedule and a cover page. Among other details, the pages specify three days of shooting. The Reporter announced on Wednesday the 25th—exactly one week after initially announcing the project—that “Robot Monster 3-D Film Brought in for $50,000,” and that the film had finished shooting the day before. Sunday may have been a day of rest for cast and crew, and filming may or may not have taken place on Monday. The film was therefore completed in a delirious six days at most, and Tucker’s memory of four days could be exactly right. This very brief schedule is in proportion for a movie made for far less $50,000, on a budget more like that of an exploitation film. According to James King in the anthology Hollywood Corral, “The shooting schedule for the B Western of the ’30s and early ’40s was often no more than ten days.”
The script further listed locations for the planned three-day shoot, with three schedule pages at the end. Thursday and Friday were scheduled for “Shooting at 8 A.M.,” specifying “Location at Chavez Ravine – Effie and Bishop Road,” and that cast and crew “Leave from parking lot Formosa Grill – Santa Monica and Formosa – 7:00 A.M.” After these two pages with thirty-five-and-a-half script pages scheduled for shooting during the two days at Chavez Ravine, the final page itemized fourteen-and-three-quarters script pages for shooting at “Location Bronson Canyon” on Saturday the 21st. While likely no one watched Robot Monster and knew with certainty that Chavez Ravine was the location for the onscreen ruins, many recognized the film’s other location, Bronson Canyon.
. . . Barrows had a keen mind and a strong work ethic, by which the experience became a little more difficult still:
There are several shots in the film of the robot monster just walking up the hill and then walking back down, and it seems like, under the hot, blazing California sun that it would have been very sweaty. How sweaty were you in the suit?
Well, let me put it this way, Harold, in that suit—now that particular show, I never particularly measured it—but when I did Gorilla at Large I would lose ten pounds a night. Next day you’d pick it up by drinking water, fluids, anything, but you could lose, ten, twelve pounds a night. Now that’s a lot of fluid content and I’m sure on that show, I lost that much. Then, not only that—
You mean, just by sweating?
Sure, dehydration. It’s terribly hot in that suit. It’s a very, very enervating, difficult thing to wear, believe me. Not only that, but I had that helmet on my head. With a gorilla head, you can breathe through the mouth, you have air coming in and out of it, and under the neck, which doesn’t show of course, due to the hair and all that. But with that thing, you have the helmet. Then—which was my idea, like an idiot—I said, “How are we going to cover up his face inside it?”
Right, because the helmet you just see right through.
So I said, “Why don’t you just put a stocking over it?” So all it showed was the nose projection, but you couldn’t see the eyes, you couldn’t see what it was, it didn’t look human. And it did give a hell of an effect. They were going to put some kind of a mask over me, and I said, “That’ll be hokey.” You know, like a Halloween mask, or some kind of monster thing. I said, “This way it looks like nothing, it looks like nothing human or animal.” But I suffered for it, believe me.
And this “Halloween mask” detail further hints at why the poster version of Ro-Man had a skull face. This idea of taking a cheap shortcut of a masked face for a monster effect must have stayed with the filmmakers even after they had dropped it from the film itself. The poster would not have been painted until postproduction, and likely the skull-face effect was reinstated because the open and faceless quality of the onscreen Ro-Man was too abstract for movie publicity.
And, to settle an important point for all time:
Was it a real diving helmet, a real deep-sea diving helmet, because those are pretty weighty?
No, it was aluminum, some kind of aluminum ball that they constructed, cut a hole in the bottom, then built some kind of thing on the outside of it that fit down over my shoulders. It was a costume, strictly a piece of costume work and [Zimbalist], and Henry West—who was a good friend of mine, who was the wardrobe man on it—devised it. Henry I’d met years ago on [The Adventures of] Robin Hood, he handled all the wardrobe on Robin Hood with [Errol] Flynn. Old Henry West, he worked on it with me, says, “George, you’re going to die in this thing.” I said, “I know. But, in the long shots we can leave this plastic thing off the head up here, take it off, so I could breathe through it.” But in the close-ups, you had the round plate in it, like a diving helmet. But I made it so you could take it off in the long shots where you saw me walking, carrying her.
The Ro-Men “diving helmets” are of course very similar to other spaceman helmets of the era, such as those seen in Destination Moon (1950) and Radar Men from the Moon(1952). (This brings to mind one of Robot Monster’s alternate titles, Monsters from the Moon.) But most importantly, Medved referred to a single helmet, and Barrows continued in that vein, never remembering plural helmets. This implies that both Ro-Men were perhaps portrayed with the same helmet along with the same gorilla suit, despite some cosmetic differences in the look of each. Great Guidance’s helmet has some kind of suction cup attachments in place of Earth Ro-Man’s more traditional antennae, and lacks the front disc and gear attached to the back. Most notably, Guidance’s helmet is dented on the left edge of its opening. The Guidance helmet could have been a re-dress of the same helmet or (less likely because it would have meant more trouble) a hastily made second helmet. But in any case, it is unfortunate that Guidance has the dented helmet, because the damage would have been a good externalization of Earth Ro-Man’s unbalanced nature. The more perfectly un-dented, round opening of Earth Ro-Man’s helmet would have better presented the unsympathetic and unyielding nature of Guidance and the tight, closed, circular logic of “the Plan.”
And as for the director who had first thought up the gorilla diving helmet scheme, Barrows had no affection:
This director was a madman, and he had a wife who was a madwoman. The minute you stopped shooting, she says, “Don’t take anything off, I want to sketch you.” And when she first sprang that on me, I said, “Wait a minute, what are you talking about, sketching me?” I’m taking the helmet off by this time. I said, “You want to take a photograph, go ahead, be my guest.” “No, no, I want to sketch you.” I said, “Forget it, honey, you’re going to have to do that on the wing, while I’m working.” And he got mad at me, said [inaudible]—I said, “I don’t give a—I have to breathe. You want me to go in the next scene, you better let me get some air, right now.” Yeah, Phil Tucker, or whatever his first name was, he was a nut. . . . He was a madman. He could [not] care less for anyone or anything, just get the scene. And I said, “Come on, Tucker, I’ve been in the business too long for this, you’ve got to give the actors a break somewhere.”
Tucker’s mysterious wife, mentioned by Ordung as “Francine,” reappears here, making her existence undeniable if her identity still elusive. (She is a good candidate for the mysterious woman visible at the top of a hill in the background, when Johnny meets Ro-Man halfway through the film.) Regarding the way Barrows remembered Tucker, it is notable that most people who knew Tucker found him likable, and Barrows is the major exception, perhaps because of the circumstances in which Robot Monster was shot.
Copyright 2015, Anders Runestad
Book excerpt, the first . . .
If Zimbalist had shut Tucker out of what should have been his for directing and initiating the film, it would be in keeping with the lack of emphasis on him in the trades. But while rumor has long had it that Tucker was suicidally despondent over the situation, the surviving evidence suggests otherwise. In the May 26Hollywood Reporter, almost precisely one month before the Robot Monster premiere, he was already announcing his next project:
Return from Mars, science fiction screenplay by Cecille Reynolds, has been purchased by the newly formed American Artists Film Corp. Latter’s officers are George Housch, president; R. R. Lee, v.-p.; Phil Tucker, v.-p. in charge of production, and Richard Rykoff, secretary-treasurer.
Tucker will produce and direct the feature, to be made in Pathecolor. . . .
Cecille Reynolds was apparently gifted with the same luck as Zimbalist’s protégé Guy Reed Ritchie, since his name is non-existent in the credits of finished movies. Likewise, most of the other members of American Artists Film Corp.—Housch, Lee, and Rykoff—have no credits to their names. The project went unmentioned for weeks, but then boldly reappeared on page one of the June 24 Reporter, the very day that Robot Monster premiered in Los Angeles:
Return to Earth, a science fiction feature to be produced and directed by Phil Tucker in 3-D, will be made in three sections—black-and-white, red, and green, Tucker announced yesterday. The story of space travel will have the Earth sequences in black and white, the Mars sequence tinted in red and the Venus section tinted in green.
The picture will be made under the banner of American Artists Film Corp., of which Sam Leacock is executive producer. It rolls July 10 at Eagle Lion.
Return from Mars’ Pathecolor film process was noticeably absent as the project metamorphosed into Return to Earth. The option of using monochrome film with alternating tints for different locations was economical, and was a technique that went back to the silent, pre-color era when it was a common way to add color to black-and-white. Knowing Golden Age movie men like Gordon Avil, Tucker had likely put the technique away in his mental bag of cinematic tricks to be deployed one day. But there were also very recent uses of color tints in theaters, and their connection to Tucker’s new project is unmistakable. The atmospheric 1950 Lippert release Rocketship X-M told the story of a doomed moon mission that instead reaches Mars, the black-and-white film featuring a red-tinted section when the crew arrives on the red planet. Then in 1951 Lippert released Lost Continent, and while that monochrome film did not take place on the planet Venus, the lost continent scenes were tinted green. Both films featured the same V-2 rocket footage used in Robot Monster.
Whether or not Tucker might have gotten into a jam with Lippert Pictures over a close appropriation of a gimmick from two of their biggest releases is a moot point. Return to Earth was never again mentioned in the 1953 Reporter, and Tucker was never mentioned in any capacity in all of 1954. (Daily Variety gaveReturn to Earth a brief mention, when George E. Phair noted, “With all those science fiction films hopping to Mars, Venus and other express stops, up comes a picture titled Return to Earth.” Phair apparently did not know—or care—that Return to Earth was scheduled to “hop” to Mars and Venus.) But although no such movie survives, the trail does not dry up. Tucker solved the riddle of this mysterious film when he recounted the aftermath of Robot Monster:
It did considerably over a million. At one time, I was going to sue Al Zimbalist to get the money, but I couldn’t find an attorney who would [help]. That’s pretty much the whole story on that, other than I subsequently went up to Alaska and made the worst picture that’s ever been made by anyone, anywhere.
What is that?
Space Jockey? What was the film about? Remember the story?
It was about a brave crew of men who go to Mars and Venus. And although they don’t make it back, they manage to send back enough information so that the lead can say at the end of the picture, “Now the stars are ours.”
Who acted in it?
I haven’t the foggiest idea.
Given the time frame, and Tucker’s brief summary of the film concerning a Mars-Venus mission, Return to Earth was another name for his infamous lost filmSpace Jockey, mentioned tantalizingly in The Golden Turkey Awards. Lest there be any remaining doubt, consider how Tucker describes the end of the film (“they don’t make it back”) and compare it to the tragic-heroic conclusion of Rocketship X-M (where the crew dies on impact as they “return to Earth”). In both films, the silver lining on the gloomy cloud is that the doomed mission has enabled a future of more space exploration. Tucker had not merely borrowed the red-tinted Mars from the still fresh Rocketship X-M, but blatantly copied the ending.
* * * * * * * * *
Having disappeared from the pages of the Reporter as Return to Earth, the project did not reappear there as Space Jockey. But the story of Tucker’s infamous lost film continues, thanks to the fact that he made it in Alaska rather than, as the Reporter had it in June, Hollywood’s Eagle-Lion studio. The decision to switch locations must have been made rapidly, because news of Space Jockey began to appear in the Fairbanks Daily News-Miner on July 6:
Plans to start the production of moving pictures in Fairbanks have been announced by the newly-formed American Artists Film Corp., which has established headquarters in this city.
According to Phil Tucker, who is in charge of production for the studio, work will start on a movie to be filmed in Fairbanks starting July 15. The first movie filmed here will be of the “science fiction” type with an Alaska background.
Tucker said that he sees no reason why the production of movies can’t be carried out in the Fairbanks area. He emphasized that the new company hasn’t intentions of filming “Alaska pictures.”
“We are starting a studio here that will film all types of moving pictures, possibly making use of the abundant scenery that is available. However, our plan is to start a standard film studio that will film every type of movie, not just Alaska pictures,” Tucker said.
Copyright 2015, Anders Runestad