As we approach the end of 50 Sci-Fi Classics -- and the entire 250-pack! -- we come upon two movies in which characters are subject to unwanted mind probes from hostile groups, and are incapacitated by flashing lights and piercing sounds. How rude!
Grade: C-
Proposition: when you think about it, almost every film hedges its bets in some way.
Maybe the filmmakers just want to be liked; maybe they want to make money, or ran out of money and had to do the best they could with what was left. Or maybe it's an inheritance borne of Greek or Shakespearean principles of symmetry and balance: you have to have some of that to go with a lot of this.
But seldom does a film start with a premise, mood, or worldview, and see it through every step of the way, without backing off or trying to lighten things up with "comic" relief or a romantic subplot...
...without, in other words, worrying about alienating some members of its audience. And there's a real bravery in that since, to quote an early episode of Futurama:
"Clever things make people feel stupid, and unexpected things make them feel scared. Audiences don't want anything original. They wanna see the same thing they've seen a thousand times before."
So it's refreshing, even bracing, to see a movie as relentlessly grim as The Brain Machine. The soundtrack literally sets the tone for us, since from the very first shot (and all the way to the last) we get echoing synthesizer wails, organ tremolos, and grinding guitar feedback -- all of which telegraphs something about the world the film inhabits.
And that world isn't a very nice place.
In the film's opening sequence we hear the clipped, humorless voices of military men who speak of "top-secret files" that involve a "Brain Machine" project. Suspecting a betrayal by one of the project scientists, the brass doesn't hesitate before ordering what sure sounds like an execution.
Juxtaposed with this is the idle chatter of two scientists, Dr. Carol Portland and Dr. Elton Morris (Barbara Burgess and Gil Peterson), as they settle down to work.
Having winnowed down a list of 447 applicants, they go over the biographical data of the four "lucky winners" chosen for their experiment, in which telling the truth is apparently of crucial importance...
...and telling a lie will be punished. But wait:
"We've got all this truth business programmed, and punishment for the subjects if they tell a lie, but how are we going to know if they tell the truth?" asks Dr. Portland.
"Don't ask me, love!" replies Dr. Morris. "We get the money to do what we wanna do, then we have to do some of the things the higher-ups want done."
Hmm, could this have something to do with a certain "brain machine"? The world wonders.
The actors portraying the four victims subjects include two unknowns who appear to have been local talent from Mississippi, where The Brain Machine was filmed.
One looks a bit like a cross between Krist Novoselic and Andy Kaufman, and has the delightful name of Marcus J. Grapes (yes!). He had a handful of other appearances before disappearing from IMDb's radar.
The other is Ann Latham as Minnie Lee Parks, who looks like everyone's ex-girlfriend...
...or, if you're less fortunate, that girl you wish you'd dated...
...or, if you're more fortunate, that girl you very wisely didn't date (to be fair, she was less attractive than Ms. Parks, but the type is the same, you know?).
Oh, and she's described by Dr. Morris thusly: "Kinda cute! Kinda dumb. Just my type. (pause) Well, she is!"
That gets a royal eye roll from Dr. Portland.
As for the "name" actors, we have James Best, who later became Sheriff Roscoe Coltrane on The Dukes of Hazzard. Here he plays the tortured Rev. Emory Neill, a minister -- don't call him Father -- who feels out-of-step and burnt out. Don't we all!
One gets the impression that something is deeply wrong in Rev. Neill's psyche, and he repeatedly tries to bail out on the experiments. Perhaps he's haunted by far-out faces from long ago; perhaps he's just a creep in a clerical collar.
Finally, we have an uncannily young Gerald McRaney -- looking miles removed from his future as Major Dad, husband to Delta Burke, and shill for the Wounded Warrior Project (ahem).
In The Brain Machine he's Willard "Willie" West, and he's every woman's dream: a handsome, athletic, literate overachiever who inherited a small fortune when both his parents were killed in a plane crash.
Oh, did we mention that all these folks have no living relatives? Hmm again.
With an unrelentingly atonal soundtrack and a cynical take on the human condition, one wants to recommend The Brain Machine as a hidden gem. It's rich in atmosphere, and its withering, paranoid outlook must have seemed even more apropos in 1972 (when it was filmed) than 1977 (when it was finally released). You know, Nixon and all that.
But all the atmosphere in the world can't compensate for the fundamental predictability of its plot (not the exact details but the general gist), the contrivances of its script, or the difficulty the film has in making us care about its loveless characters in a loveless world.
The Brain Machine has its cold, cold heart in the right place, and we love its aesthetic. It's just that, sadly, it isn't very compelling. Sorry, chaps.
And speaking of chaps (sort of):
Grade: D+
When making a British horror movie (in the loose sense of the word "horror"), it strikes us that, basically speaking, there are two ways to play it.
One is to treat the famous British culture of politeness as being a source of dread in and of itself, so that the protagonists inevitably (and awkwardly) have to violate its mores if they're to survive.
We're not literate enough to cite any British examples, but American horror movies abound in such things -- Night of the Living Dead, for one.
The other is to have the protagonists operate within, and thereby affirm, the values of their culture. Most American films of the 1950s played it that way: hard work, gumption, patriotism, humility, and neighborliness usually win out, while the opposite of those things usually loses.
Thing is though, our protagonist in They Came from Beyond Space, Dr. Curtis Temple (Robert Hutton), isn't British: he's American.
So when the evidence mounts that a recent meteor strike may have affected the minds of his colleagues, who have set up a mysterious armed camp around the impact zone, he has no qualms about barging in to check the situation out, over and over and over again...
...no matter how many times he's turned away at gunpoint. After all, he's American: one must forgive him, he's not been raised as we have.
Boy, does Robert Hutton remind us of someone. Who, we're not sure: Shatner? Walken? That actor who played the mentally challenged guy on L.A. Law? Someone else entirely?
Either way, the lopsided half-smirk he constantly deploys is certainly familiar -- and wears out its welcome quickly. Maybe it's a muscle issue, or a side effect of the silver plate he has in his head. (Chekhov, is that gun loaded?)
Even though he was only in his late forties, Hutton feels too old to be a plausible action hero -- or a plausible love interest for Lee Mason (Jennifer Jayne), even though she herself was in her mid-30s. He seems like the kind of guy who would be sexually harassing his female colleagues, not successfully wooing them...
...and certainly doesn't seem to merit love at first pump from sex-starved petrol station workers à la Shatner.
But, truth be told, Dr. Temple spends the bulk of his time surveilling and skulking around. He's more of an "As I watched..." hero than an "As I did..." hero.
The problem with They Came from Beyond Space is that while Temple is playing by American rules, everyone else is playing by British rules. Time and time again he gets away with behavior that, were the movie's villains any good at their job, would result in his summary execution.
Instead, his foes act out the old Robin Williams joke about the impotence of unarmed British police: "Stop! Or, or I'll say stop again!" Except these foes have guns, and more, and yet refuse to use them. It would be so impolite, you know.
So there's no real tension in the plot -- but the good news is that They Came from Beyond Space is just off-the-wall enough to make it tolerable. Its strongest suit is probably the set design, which teeters pleasantly between "ridiculous" and "ingenious" on a scene-by-scene basis.
Unusually, Farge (Zia Mohyeddin), the movie's best character, only pops up well after the halfway point. We enjoyed the scene in which he mournfully sacrifices his hard-earned equestrian trophies --
-- to be melted down into headgear that protects you from alien intrusions and doubles as a handy way to drain your pasta.
Less appealing is the film's soundtrack, in which at least one fight scene is accompanied by nothing more than a snare drum going rat-a-tat-tat over and over again.
(Maybe the composer went on to score the battle sequences for Buck Rogers: Countdown To Doomsday on the Mega Drive? There he got fancy, and used two drums.)
They Came from Beyond Space gets weirder and weirder as it approaches the end, with more and more outlandish props and costume design.
And, as with the colander, we get some nice juxtapositions of the humdrum and the absurd.
The film's conclusion feels rushed and tacked-on, though, and offers little reward for viewers who have stuck with it until the end...
...unless you have a thing for paunchy guys in very tight pants, in which case you'll be in clover.
On the other hand, you could say that They Came from Beyond Space also sees its unwritten premise through: does any film more fully lay bare the tragic consequences that can happen when Ask Culture meets Guess Culture? Is the whole thing a metaphor for Anglo-American culture clash?
Well, the thing of it is, it's awfully nice of you to, er, that is, what I mean to say is that I wish I, er, but I couldn't possibly, you understand, don't you? Now don't let's fight about it, come on, give us a smile, love.
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