Filmed in 1957 for a television program called Westinghouse Studio One, The Night America Trembled is a dramatization of the night that Orson Welles terrified America with his radio adaptation of War of The Worlds.
For legal reasons, Orson Welles is not portrayed nor is his name mentioned. Instead, the focus is mostly on the people listening to the broadcast and getting the wrong idea. That may sound like a comedy but The Night America Trembled takes itself fairly seriously. Even pompous old Edward R. Murrow shows up to narrate the film, in between taking drags off a cigarette.
Clocking in at a brisk 60 minutes, The Night America Trembled is an interesting recreation of that October 30th. Among the people panicking: a group of people in a bar who, before hearing the broadcast, were debating whether or not Hitler was as crazy as people said he was, a babysitter who goes absolutely crazy with fear, and a group of poker-playing college students. If, like me, you’re a frequent viewer of TCM, you may recognize some of the faces in the large cast: Ed Asner, James Coburn, John Astin, Warren Oates, and Warren Beatty all make early appearances.
It’s an interesting little historical document and you can watch it below!
“Give it up, Frank! Death ain’t no way to make a living!” — The Judge
The best thing about The Frighteners is that its ghosts seem easier to live with than most of its people. Peter Jackson’s 1996 horror comedy builds a lively supernatural world around that idea, filling it with deadbeat spirits, suspicious neighbors, damaged investigators, and a paranormal con man who would rather make a quick buck than save anybody. It’s a funny, nasty, occasionally uneven movie that keeps finding something entertaining beneath its clutter. Even when the comedy and horror pull in different directions, Jackson’s enthusiasm makes the whole thing feel like an invitation to enjoy the chaos rather than question its manners.
At the center is Frank Bannister, played by Michael J. Fox with a mixture of nervous charm and emotional exhaustion. Following the accident that killed his wife, Frank can see and communicate with ghosts. Naturally, he turns this extraordinary ability into a questionable business opportunity. His dead associates haunt local homes, and he conveniently arrives to clear them out for a fee. It’s a wonderfully crooked arrangement because Frank really can do what he advertises; he just happens to be responsible for creating the problem. Things become considerably less manageable when unexplained deaths suggest that another supernatural presence is operating without his relatively harmless motives.
Fox gives the movie the grounding it needs. Frank has the quick wit and comic frustration associated with many of his performances, but the character feels more withdrawn and defeated. His scams aren’t simply evidence of greed. They’re part of a life that has stalled, leaving him more comfortable dealing with the dead than maintaining relationships with the living. Fox allows that grief to emerge without making every scene announce it. Consequently, Frank’s eventual willingness to risk himself for someone else feels like a genuine change rather than an obligation imposed by the screenplay. The wisecracks work because there’s somebody hurting underneath them.
His ghostly partners make the fraudulent haunting business look like a workplace comedy with unusually flexible rules about physical boundaries. Chi McBride’s Cyrus and Jim Fyfe’s Stuart bicker, complain, and carry out their assignments with personalities that death apparently did nothing to improve. John Astin’s deteriorating Judge pushes the humor into more grotesque territory, while R. Lee Ermey brings familiar drill-sergeant hostility to his cemetery patrol. These characters make the supernatural seem oddly mundane. Passing into the next world hasn’t erased anyone’s ego or annoying habits; it has merely removed some practical limitations on how those habits can bother everybody else.
Jackson clearly enjoys that comic freedom, sometimes a little too much. Certain jokes linger past their natural stopping point, and the supporting cast occasionally competes to see who can make the biggest impression. Still, the early silliness establishes an important distinction between Frank’s ghostly companions and the hooded killer moving through town. One group treats haunting as a hustle; the other turns death into a terrifying certainty. When that figure begins bending surfaces and pursuing victims, the movie briefly makes its own playful supernatural rules feel dangerous. Suddenly, walking through walls isn’t a funny trick. It means there may be nowhere safe to hide.
The transition from ghost comedy to serial-killer mystery gives The Frighteners its edge, although it also creates its biggest problems. Jackson and co-writer Fran Walsh gradually connect the present-day deaths to an earlier killing spree, introducing a nastier atmosphere than the opening antics suggest. That darkness gives the stakes weight, but the shifts can be abrupt. A cartoonish gag might sit beside an ugly revelation, with neither getting enough room to establish its intended mood. Sometimes the collision is exciting because the film becomes difficult to predict. Other times, it feels as though Jackson is enjoying every possibility too much to choose between them.
The performances embrace that excess. Jeffrey Combs makes FBI agent Milton Dammers a spectacular collection of twitches, strained reactions, and barely contained dysfunction. He’s entertainingly bizarre, although his scenes sometimes seem to belong to a separate, even stranger movie. Jake Busey brings an obnoxious, grinning confidence to Johnny Bartlett that makes the character’s cruelty especially unpleasant. Dee Wallace adds a more unsettling human dimension to the darker material, helping prevent the horror from becoming nothing more than an effects demonstration. These aren’t restrained performances, but restraint would probably look out of place in a film this committed to pushing its characters toward the grotesque.
Trini Alvarado provides a useful contrast as Lucy Lynskey. Her comparatively grounded presence gives Frank someone to connect with outside his circle of supernatural accomplices and hostile acquaintances. Their developing relationship isn’t the movie’s most fully realized element, but it supports his emotional recovery without overwhelming the story. Visually, meanwhile, Jackson rarely slows down. Ghosts slide through objects, bodies distort, and ordinary rooms become unstable territory. Some digital effects show their age, particularly when translucent figures interact with physical surroundings. Yet the imagery remains expressive, using exaggeration to sell jokes and scares rather than relying entirely on realism. The effects have personality, which helps them survive their technical limitations.
That ambition also makes The Frighteners an important bridge in Jackson’s career. His mostly low-budget New Zealand splatter-comedy roots in Bad Taste, Meet the Feebles, and Braindead remain visible in its grotesque humor and cheerful bad taste. Heavenly Creatures had already demonstrated his dramatic range, but this Robert Zemeckis-backed production gave him a larger Hollywood canvas while allowing him to keep working in New Zealand. Its extensive effects demands helped expand Wētā’s capabilities, building toward the filmmaking infrastructure that would become essential to The Lord of the Rings trilogy. The scale changed, but the filmmaker’s mischievous instincts clearly came along for the ride.
For all its importance as a stepping stone, the movie works best when appreciated as its own unruly creation. The plotting gets crowded, the climax occasionally substitutes activity for suspense, and the tonal balancing act never becomes effortless. But Fox gives the spectacle a heart, and Jackson gives it enough imagination to make its imperfections forgivable. There’s genuine affection for the misfits underneath the grotesque imagery, even as the story finds ugliness among people who should know better. By the end, The Frighteners makes a convincing case that being dead is less of a character flaw than being a jerk.
“I’m looking for the coming thing.” — Brisco County, Jr.
Few television series embrace their own oddness as joyfully as The Adventures of Brisco County, Jr.. Blending frontier shootouts, pulp-serial adventure, broad comedy, sci-fi weirdness, and old-fashioned heroics into one deliberately unruly package, the short-lived Bruce Campbell vehicle has only grown more distinctive with time. It ran for a single season between 1993 and 1994, produced 27 episodes, and then vanished from network television before it had the chance to fully grow into the strange, funny, action-packed cult institution it deserved to be. That short life is part of its legend now. The show remains a wonderfully odd hybrid: a Western, an adventure serial, a sci-fi mystery, a screwball comedy, a buddy show, and a loving parody of old-fashioned television heroics. It was never content to simply be one thing, and that creative restlessness is exactly why it was so distinctive.
Bruce Campbell stars as Brisco County, Jr., a Harvard-educated lawyer who becomes a bounty hunter after the murder of his father, legendary lawman Brisco County, Sr. At first glance, that setup sounds like the foundation for a hard-edged revenge Western. Brisco is hired by a group of wealthy robber barons to track down John Bly, a charismatic outlaw who escaped after killing Brisco’s father. The show does not ignore that emotional hook, either. Campbell gives Brisco just enough sincerity that the character’s grief and desire to live up to his father’s reputation land when they need to. But the series almost immediately makes clear that it has no interest in being grim prestige television before prestige television was even a common phrase. Brisco may be motivated by vengeance, but he is also a cheerful idiot at times, an inventor’s dream customer, a romantic disaster, and a man genuinely enthusiastic about the future.
That optimism is one of the show’s most charming qualities. Brisco lives in 1893, but he is obsessed with modernity: bicycles, early automobiles, telephones, scientific gadgets, anything that might make the Old West feel less old. He repeatedly calls these new inventions “the coming thing,” often with the confidence of someone who knows history is on his side even when the technology in front of him is barely functional. It is a funny recurring bit, but it also gives the series an unusual personality. Brisco is not a traditional Western hero longing for a disappearing frontier. He is a cowboy-lawyer-adventurer who wants to survive the frontier and help drag it toward the twentieth century.
Campbell is the ideal actor for that balancing act. He had already built a devoted following through the Evil Dead films, where he proved he could sell broad physical comedy, cartoonish bravado, and genuine intensity all at once. The Adventures of Brisco County, Jr. puts those qualities to excellent use. Campbell looks like the square-jawed hero of a classic matinee serial, but he plays Brisco with a sly awareness of how ridiculous the genre can be. He can throw a punch, ride a horse, fire a gun, and deliver a tough-guy line, then immediately get tangled in a rope, outsmarted by a con artist, or humiliated by one of his own overconfident schemes. The show never treats him as incompetent exactly; Brisco is clever, brave, and unusually resourceful. But it understands that a hero is more entertaining when the universe keeps refusing to cooperate.
The early arc involving John Bly gives the show a memorable villain and a sense of forward momentum. Billy Drago, a genre veteran with one of the most instantly sinister faces and voices in film and television, plays Bly as a quietly unnerving outlaw rather than a loud, swaggering gunslinger. Drago had already become familiar to audiences through roles in crime thrillers, Westerns, horror, and action stories, and his presence adds serious genre street credibility to the series. He is particularly good at making Bly feel unpredictable. The character is intelligent, dangerous, and often strangely philosophical, with Drago giving even a casual line enough menace to make it sound like a threat. His addition helps sell the idea that, beneath the jokes and gadget-driven chaos, Brisco really is moving through a world populated by lethal people.
The show’s supporting cast is equally important to its success. Julius Carry’s Lord Bowler is the real secret weapon. Initially a rival bounty hunter with a powerful need to claim rewards before Brisco does, Bowler evolves into Brisco’s closest partner and one of the series’ most dependable sources of cool. Carry plays him with perfect deadpan timing, making Bowler’s irritation at Brisco’s eccentricities endlessly funny. Their chemistry is the foundation of the series. Brisco talks too much, overthinks everything, and barrels into trouble; Bowler observes, grumbles, and then saves the day when necessary. Their partnership has the rhythm of a classic buddy-action pairing, except it exists in a world where a frontier saloon might contain a mad inventor, an escaped criminal mastermind, and a mysterious glowing orb all in the same episode.
That orb is one of the show’s boldest ideas. Known as the Orb, it becomes the central sci-fi element in a series already packed with anachronistic comedy and pulp adventure. It possesses strange powers, influences human behavior, and hints at a much bigger mythology than the show ever had time to fully explain. The Orb plotline is not always the cleanest element of the series, but it matters because it shows how willing the creators were to push beyond ordinary Western storytelling. One week, Brisco might be hunting a gang of outlaws; the next, he might be dealing with supernatural powers, secret conspiracies, bizarre inventions, or stories that feel pulled from a 1930s adventure comic. The result is a show that can feel like The Wild Wild West, Indiana Jones, and a Saturday-morning serial filtered through a 1990s sitcom sensibility.
In that sense, The Adventures of Brisco County, Jr. was ahead of its time in the way it fused different genres into one coherent theme and narrative. The series never treated its Western setting, science-fiction mythology, slapstick humor, action serial influences, and detective-story plotting as separate gimmicks awkwardly stapled together. All of those elements were filtered through Brisco himself: a hero caught between an old frontier world and the uncertain promise of the future. His fascination with progress, invention, and “the coming thing” gave the show a thematic center strong enough to make even its strangest detours feel like part of the same larger adventure. What might have looked like a mess on paper usually plays as a deliberate expression of the show’s central idea: the Old West was changing, and Brisco was exactly the kind of eccentric hero built to stumble, joke, and fight his way into that change.
That same genre blending, however, likely confused audiences when the series first aired. In 1993, viewers and network marketers generally had a much easier time selling a show that could be described in one clean sentence. A Western was a Western. A sitcom was a sitcom. A science-fiction series was a science-fiction series. Brisco was all of those things at once, sometimes within the same episode. Its tonal shifts were part of the fun for viewers who connected with it, but they may have made it difficult for casual audiences to know what kind of show they were committing to every week. It was too playful and surreal for people expecting a straight Western, but its period setting could also make it seem less accessible to viewers looking for a more conventional action-comedy or sci-fi series.
Critics largely recognized how clever this mixture was. The show earned praise for its humor, its self-aware but affectionate approach to genre material, its charismatic cast, and its willingness to combine Western action with science fiction and absurdist comedy. Yet those very strengths also help explain why it was so short-lived. The Adventures of Brisco County, Jr. was difficult to market in the conventional network-TV landscape. Its placement did not help, either. The show aired on Fox during a period when the network was still building an identity and competing for viewers against much more established broadcasters. It arrived alongside other ambitious but unconventional Fox programming, including The X-Files, but Brisco did not become the breakout hit that its better-known network sibling did.
There is a strong argument that the series would have found a much bigger audience at the turn of the century, or even later. By the late 1990s and early 2000s, audiences had become increasingly comfortable with shows that mixed tones, genres, mythology, comedy, and serialized storytelling. Viewers were more willing to follow eccentric high-concept series whose worlds did not fit neatly into one category, especially as cable television, DVD collections, online fandom, and eventually streaming made it easier to discover a show outside its original broadcast slot. Brisco could have benefited enormously from that environment. Its episodic adventures would have made it easy to casually enjoy, while the larger mysteries around John Bly and the Orb would have rewarded devoted viewers. It is easy to imagine the show building a far larger fanbase through word of mouth, repeat viewing, and a culture more eager to embrace unapologetically nerdy genre experimentation.
That mismatch between quality and ratings is why the show became such a cult fan favorite. Fans who found it did not merely enjoy it; they tended to become attached to its specific flavor. The series offers a version of television adventure that feels generous rather than cynical. It wants to entertain first. Its jokes are broad but rarely mean-spirited, its action is energetic without becoming joyless, and its heroes are allowed to be capable, kind, foolish, and enthusiastic at the same time. Campbell’s performance became central to his larger cult-TV identity, while Carry’s Bowler remains one of the great underrated sidekicks in genre television. Even the show’s oddities—the Orb, the outlandish gadgets, the deliberately pulpy villains, the historical inaccuracies played for laughs—are not flaws to fans. They are the reason the series has lasted in memory.
Ultimately, The Adventures of Brisco County, Jr. is a lovable one-season wonder because it refuses to fit neatly into a box. It is a Western that looks toward the future, an action series that enjoys making its hero the punchline, and a sci-fi adventure that never loses sight of the human fun of two bounty hunters bickering their way across the frontier. Its cancellation remains disappointing because there was clearly more territory to explore, especially with Brisco, Bowler, Bly, and the Orb mythology. But the short run also preserves the show’s charm. It never had time to become routine. It remains a fast, funny, deeply peculiar burst of television imagination—and a reminder that sometimes the most enduring cult shows are the ones too weird, too ambitious, and too specific to become ordinary hits.
Welcome to Late Night Retro Television Reviews, a feature where we review some of our favorite and least favorite shows of the past! On Mondays, I will be reviewing CHiPs, which ran on NBC from 1977 to 1983. The entire show is currently streaming on Prime!
This week, Ponch learns about shock rock!
Episode 6.4 “Rock Devil Rock”
(Dir by John Astin, originally aired on October 31st, 1982)
It’s a Halloween episode of CHiPs!
Moloch (Don Most) is a singer who wears frightful makeup and sings songs like “Devil Take Me” but, once he takes off the makeup, he’s a rather meek and mild-mannered drummer who feels that he’s been forced to embrace an image that doesn’t fit him. His manager (Peter Marshall) is convinced that Moloch can be the biggest star ever. His manager is also trying to kill Moloch in order to guarantee that Moloch’s new record will hit the top of the charts. He’s even included backwards messages in Moloch’s music. Moloch will die …. Moloch will die….
Most of the Highway Patrol believes that Moloch is faking the numerous attempts on his life. However, Ponch believes that Moloch is being targeted. Luckily, Ponch is able to save Moloch because this is….
The Highway Patrol also holds their annual Halloween party. Elvira, Mistress of the Dark shows up as herself and shares a dance with Ponch. Ponch dresses up like a matador. Bobby shows up as a Musketeer. Getraer dresses up like General Patton but he doesn’t get to dance with Elvira. That’s Ponch’s job.
Welcome to Late Night Retro Television Reviews, a feature where we review some of our favorite and least favorite shows of the past! On Mondays, I will be reviewing CHiPs, which ran on NBC from 1977 to 1983. The entire show is currently streaming on Prime!
This week, we start the sixth and final season of CHiPs.
Episode 6.1 “Meet the New Guy”
(Dir by John Astin, originally aired on October 10th, 1982)
The sixth season of CHiPs opens up with some changes. Bonnie, Bear, and Turner are all gone. They’ve been replaced by Kathy (Tina Gayle) and Officer Webster (Clarence Gilyard, Jr.) Grossman (Paul Linke) is still providing comedic relief. Harlan (Lou Wagner) is still running the garage. Getraer (Robert Pine) is still the sarge. And Ponch (Erik Estrada) is still riding his motorcycle and flashing his grin.
However, this episode finds Ponch riding solo. Officer Baker is no longer his partner. This was because Larry Wilcox declined to return for another season, specifically because he felt that the producers only cared about keeping Estrada happy. On the show, it’s mentioned that Baker has relocated to Wyoming and he is now working on his father’s ranch. Ponch, however, is not without a partner for long. At the start of the episode, he meets Baker’s replacement. Bobby Nelson (Tom Reilly) is blonde and kind of spacey and he’s nicknamed “hot dog” because he likes to take risks. Ponch has been assigned to work as Nelson’s partner throughout Nelson’s probationary period. Getraer explains that Nelson reminds him of Ponch.
And really, that’s the problem. Ponch is a flamboyant motorcycle cop who smiles a lot and likes to take risks. Bobby is another flamboyant motorcycle cop who smiles a lot and likes to take risks. There’s not much difference between them. Even though Larry Wilcox and Erik Estrada didn’t get along behind the scenes, Baker and Ponch worked as a team because Baker was the opposite of Ponch. Baker was serious and by-the-book and he didn’t take unnecessary risks. Bobby, on the other hand, is pretty much just a blonde version of Ponch.
There is another problem as far as Bobby Nelson is concerned. Judging from this episode, Tom Reilly doesn’t appear to have been much of an actor. Larry Wilcox may not have had the most expansive emotional range but he was totally believable as a cop. Reilly, meanwhile, spends the entire episode looking somewhat spaced out. He delivers his lines in a flat monotone. From the start, there’s very little chemistry between him and Estrada. When Ponch complains about getting a new partner, one gets the feeling that he was expressing Estrada’s own feelings.
That said, this episode isn’t all bad. It opens with one of the most spectacular crashes in the show’s history. The tragic Dominique Dunne gives a strong performance as a teenage mother who sells her baby to a couple but then decides that she wants him back. This episode even manages to work quicksand into its finale. How can you not appreciate a show that makes use of quicksand?
Finally, this episode has one extended sequence that is so ludicrous that you just can’t help but smile while watching it. Two thieves have been robbing health clubs. They just happen to rob the one where Ponch is a member. (Fitness guru Richard Simmons plays Ponch’s teacher.) Ponch, clad only in a pair of black shorts and a motorcycle helmet, jumps on his motorcycle and chases after the robbers. The site of a half-naked Erik Estrada riding his motorcycle down the streets of Los Angeles is the perfect combination of silly and stupid.
This episode had its moments but I’m not really sold on Tom Reilly as a replacement for Larry Wilcox. We’ll see what happens!
Filmed in 1957 for a television program called Westinghouse Studio One, The Night America Trembled is a dramatization of the night that Orson Welles terrified America with his radio adaptation of War of The Worlds.
For legal reasons, Orson Welles is not portrayed nor is his name mentioned. Instead, the focus is mostly on the people listening to the broadcast and getting the wrong idea. That may sound like a comedy but The Night America Trembled takes itself fairly seriously. Even pompous old Edward R. Murrow shows up to narrate the film, in between taking drags off a cigarette.
Clocking in at a brisk 60 minutes, The Night America Trembled is an interesting recreation of that October 30th. Among the people panicking: a group of people in a bar who, before hearing the broadcast, were debating whether or not Hitler was as crazy as people said he was, a babysitter who goes absolutely crazy with fear, and a group of poker-playing college students. If, like me, you’re a frequent viewer of TCM, you may recognize some of the faces in the large cast: Ed Asner, James Coburn, John Astin, Warren Oates, and Warren Beatty all make early appearances.
It’s an interesting little historical document and you can watch it below!
In the 1980’s I was a huge fan of Michael J. Fox. Alex P. Keaton was my hero, and BACK TO THE FUTURE and TEEN WOLF are two of my favorite 80’s movies. In the early 2000’s I became a huge fan of Director Peter Jackson due to his LORD OF THE RINGS trilogy. Made in 1996, THE FRIGHTENERS is the only Peter Jackson film I had seen prior to the LORD OF THE RINGS trilogy. I saw THE FRIGHTENERS at the movie theater in 1996, and I loved it. It was different than I was expecting going in, but it has one hell of cast. I had not seen any of Jeffrey Combs’ work prior to this movie, and he totally cracked me up. Throw in a ghostly Chi McBride whose character even references Charles Bronson* at one point, and I’m hooked. Peter Jackson directing Michael J. Fox. Now that’s a match made in heaven!
*BONUS – Chi McBride as Cyrus :
“All right, man, this is it. We gotta be hard. No mercy. We’re going in like professionals, like Charles Bronson. We don’t stop till the screaming starts, you dig?”
What’s an Insomnia File? You know how some times you just can’t get any sleep and, at about three in the morning, you’ll find yourself watching whatever you can find on cable or streaming? This feature is all about those insomnia-inspired discoveries!
If you find yourself having trouble getting to sleep tonight, you can always pass the time by watching the 1968 film, Candy. It’s currently on Tubi.
Based on a satirical novel by Terry Southern and Mason Hoffenberg, Candy follows Candy Christian (Ewa Aulin), a naive teenager from middle America as she has a number of increasingly surreal adventures, the majority of which end with her getting sexually assaulted by one of the film’s special guest stars. It’s very much a film of the 60s, in that it’s anti-establishment without actually seeming to know who the establishment is. It opens with a lengthy sequence that appears to be taking place in outer space. It ends with an extended sequence of Candy walking amongst the film’s cast and a bunch of random hippies. Director Christian Marquand appears as himself, directing the film. Yep, this is one of those films where the director and the film crew show up and you’re supposed to be say, “Far out, I didn’t realize I was watching a movie, man.”
The whole thing is a bit of a misfire. The novel was meant to be smut that satirized smut. The film isn’t really clever enough to work on any sort of real satirical level. As was the case with a lot of studio-made “psychedelic” films in the 60s, everything is a bit too obvious and overdone. Casting the Swedish Ewa Aulin as a character who was meant to represent middle America was just one of the film’s missteps. Based on The Graduate, Mike Nichols probably could have made a clever film out of Candy. The French Christian Marquand, a protegee of Roger Vadim’s, can not because he refuses to get out of the film’s way. It’s all jump cuts, flashy cinematography, and attempts to poke fun at American culture by someone who obviously knew nothing about America beyond the jokes told in Paris.
That said, the main reason that anyone would watch this film would be for the collection of guest stars who all show up and try to take advantage of Candy. Richard Burton plays an alcoholic poet named MacPhisto and his appearance goes on for far too long. (Burton, not surprisingly, appears to actually be drunk for the majority of his scenes.) Ringo Star — yes, Ringo Starr — plays a Mexican gardener who assaults Candy after getting turned on by the sight of MacPhisto humping a mannequin. When Emmanuel’s sisters try to attack Candy, she and her parents escape on a military plane that is commanded by Walter Matthau. Landing in New York, Candy’s brain-damaged father (John Astin) is operated on by a brilliant doctor (James Coburn) who later seduces Candy after she faints at a cocktail party. Candy’s uncle (John Astin, again) also tries to seduce Candy, leading to Candy getting lost in New York, meeting a hunchback (Charles Aznavour), and then eventually ending up with a guru (Marlon Brando). Candy’s adventures climax with a particularly sick joke that requires a bit more skill to pull off than this film can afford.
If you’re wondering how all of these famous people ended up in this movie, you have Brando to thank (or blame). Christian Marquand was Brando’s best friend and Marlon even named his son after him. After Brando agreed to appear in the film, the rest of the actors followed. Brando, Burton, and Coburn received a share of the film’s profits and Coburn later said that his entire post-1968 lifestyle was pretty much paid for by Candy. That seems appropriate as, out of all the guest stars, Coburn i the only one who actually gives an interesting performance. Burton is too drunk, Matthau is too embarrassed, Starr is too amateurish, and Brando is too self-amused to really be interesting in the film. Coburn, however, seems to be having a blast, playing his doctor as being a medical cult leader.
Candy is very much a film of 1968. It has some value as a cultural relic. Ultimately, it’s main interest is as an example of how the studios tried (and failed) to latch onto the counterculture zeitgeist.
Filmed in 1957 for a television program called Westinghouse Studio One, The Night America Trembled is a dramatization of the night that Orson Welles terrified America with his radio adaptation of War of The Worlds.
For legal reasons, Orson Welles is not portrayed nor is his name mentioned. Instead, the focus is mostly on the people listening to the broadcast and getting the wrong idea. That may sound like a comedy but The Night America Trembled takes itself fairly seriously. Even pompous old Edward R. Murrow shows up to narrate the film, in between taking drags off a cigarette.
Clocking in at a brisk 60 minutes, The Night America Trembled is an interesting recreation of that October 30th. Among the people panicking: a group of people in a bar who, before hearing the broadcast, were debating whether or not Hitler was as crazy as people said he was, a babysitter who goes absolutely crazy with fear, and a group of poker-playing college students. If, like me, you’re a frequent viewer of TCM, you may recognize some of the faces in the large cast: Ed Asner, James Coburn, John Astin, Warren Oates, and Warren Beatty all make early appearances.
It’s an interesting little historical document and you can watch it below!
Filmed in 1957 for a television program called Westinghouse Studio One, The Night America Trembled is a dramatization of the night in 1938 when Orson Welles’s adaptation of H.G. Wells’s The War of the Worlds reportedly caused a panic amongst listeners.
For legal reasons, Orson Welles is not portrayed nor is his name mentioned. Instead, the focus is mostly on the people listening to the broadcast and getting the wrong idea. That may sound like a comedy but The Night America Trembled takes itself fairly seriously, complete with Edward R. Murrow narrating and taking drags off of a cigarette.
Clocking in at a brisk 60 minutes, The Night America Trembled is an interesting recreation of that October 30th. Among the people panicking are a large collection of future stars and character actors. Ed Asner, James Coburn, John Astin, Warren Oates, and Warren Beatty all make early appearances.
It’s an interesting historical document and you can watch it below!
