Search the Western Clippings Site

An Interview With…
        - Archives

Will "Sugarfoot" Hutchins
    - July 2023
    - April 2023
    - January 2023
    - October 2021
    - January 2021
    - November 2020
    - June 2020
    - April 2020
    - December 2019
    - November 2019
    - September 2019
    - August 2019
    - July 2019
    - May 2019
    - March 2019
    - September 2018
    - August 2018
    - March 2018
    - February 2018
    - January 2018
    - September 2017
    - August 2017
    - July 2017
    - May 2017
    - April 2017
    - January 2017
    - December 2016
    - October 2016
    - September 2016
    - August 2016
    - July 2016
    - May 2016
    - March 2016
    - February 2016
    - January 2016
    - December 2015
    - November 2015
    - September 2015
    - August 2015
    - July 2015
    - May 2015
    - April 2015
    - March 2015
    - February 2015
    - January 2015
    - December 2014
    - November 2014
    - October 2014
    - September 2014
    - August 2014
    - July 2014
    - May 2014
    - April 2014
    - March 2014
    - February 2014
    - January 2014
    - December 2013
    - November 2013
    - October 2013
    - September 2013
    - August 2013
    - July 2013
    - June 2013
    - May 2013
    - April 2013
    - March 2013
    - February 2013
    - January 2013
    - December 2012
    - November 2012
    - October 2012
    - September 2012
    - August 2012
    - July 2012
    - June 2012
    - May 2012
    - April 2012
    - March 2012
    - February 2012
    - January 2012
    - December 2011
    - November 2011
    - October 2011
    - August 2011
    - July 2011
    - June 2011
    - May 2011
    - April 2011
    - March 2011
    - February 2011
    - January 2011
    - December 2010
    - November 2010
    - October 2010
    - September 2010
    - August 2010
    - July 2010
    - June 2010
    - May 2010
    - April 2010
    - March 2010
    - February 2010
    - January 2010
    - November 2009
    - October 2009
    - September 2009
    - August 2009
    - July 2009
    - June 2009
    - May 2009
    - April 2009
    - March 2009
    - February 2009
    - January 2009
    - December 2008
    - November 2008
    - September 2008
    - August 2008
    - June 2008
    - April 2008
    - March 2008
    - February 2008

Do You Remember?
    - Archives

Comic Book Cowboys
    - Archives

Westerns of...
    - Archives

Heavies and Characters
      - Archives

The Stuntmen - Neil Summers
    - Archives

Western Treasures
    - Archives

Circus Cowboys
    - Archives

Radio Range Riders
    - Archives

Rangeland Elegance
    - Archives

Western Artifacts
    - Archives

Film Festival Fotos
    - Archives

Silent Western Reviews
    - Archives

Serial Report
    - Archives

Subscribe to Western Clippings

COLLECTIBLES FOR SALE:

Western Clippings Back Issues

Daily Comic Strips
    - Page 1 (1910-1949)
    - Page 2 (1950-1979)

Sunday Comic Strips
    - 1907-1990

Books

Miscellaneous Collectibles

Autographs

Lobby Cards

Movie Posters

Home

OCTOBER 2014

Howdy and Dogies! The price of gas keeps going up, UP, UP! Wish it would hold hands with Superman and go up, up and Awayyyyy…

“Hurry up and wait!” barked our Sarge back in ‘52. I’ve been following his orders ever since—waiting in line—waiting for good news on the TV news (long wait)—watching TV commercials while waiting for the show to resume (the Yucky side-effects of new-fangled drugs are worse than what the drugs are supposed to cure)—call waiting—waiting for the check in the mail—waiting for the waiter with the water. Remember short subjects at your local Bijou? One I remember was titled “Waiting”. No dialogue nor voice-over, just sorta wistful music as we watched folks waiting. One image sticks. An aged couple sitting on a park bench feeding pigeons. There they sat—waiting, waiting...

Heh, heh—Babs and I win free passes to the local cinema from time-to-time by calling our local newspaper and identifying the picture of the mystery movie star of the week. (We missed one—Lassie’s favorite movie actress, Helen Twelvetrees –Heh, heh.) We usually give our tickets away—you see one Cineplex, you’ve seen ‘em all. Inside, they bombard us local yokels with ads from local merchants—they bombard us with previews of coming attractions—I keep turning around to hush the folks behind. It’s not them—it’s SurroundSound! Waiting for the flick to start—waiting for the flick to end. If you don’t like what you see, you’re plum out the price of admission, popcorn, sody pop, gas. A tidy sum nowadaze.

Wayback when it cost a dime to get in, a nickel for candy. We liked just about everything we saw: Two features, newsreel, cartoon, serial, coming attractions, a short subject. (Three Stooges if we were lucky.) World War II was a big tragedy to us kids. They upped the price of admission to 11¢. You shoulda heard the boos. We hated them Nazis.

Every year Oscars are handed-out to short subjects. Lotsa luck getting to see them out thisaway in the hinterland. I have two all-time favorites. The first is at the seashore—Slumbering sunbathers, surfers, sand castles. The beauty of this idyllic seascape is immediately destroyed by the intrusion of a lummox who obviously flunked out of charm school and Weight Watchers. He blessedly wears a tent-like shirt hanging over his wooly black swim suit from which hairy white legs protrude, disappearing below into his black silk stockings and black leather shoes. A floppy hat shades his nose slathered in zinc oxide. He looks like a sinister clown. He spreads his blanket on the sand and proceeds to fish—sitting down! He casts his line and reels ‘em in. He piles ‘em high. He wants to empty the sea. This fishing frenzy makes him thirsty and hungry. He swigs from his thermos and chomps on a dripping triple-decker sandwich. Suddenly, a close-up on his horror-stricken face. Blood erupts from his pudgy right cheek along with a glint of steel. He’s impaled! Hooked! He screams and gurgles and grabs the line leading from his mouth to the briny deep. He’s yanked shoreward. He grapples and thrashes like a beached shark. He’s caught—hook, line and stinker. He digs his heels deep. The line reels him slowly, inexorably out among the waves—deeper, deeper. His screeching head sinks into the bloody blue. His hat floats off…a few bubbles. Extreme long shot. All is serene—sunbathers, surfers, sand castles, sky, sea. The fisherman has gone back to the mother of us all—the ocean.

The second is titled “They Caught the Ferry”, a traffic safety short directed by the great Dane, Carl Dreyer, flickmeister par excellence. A country road. A young man and woman tool along on a motorcycle. They’re going too fast. They want to catch the ferry before it leaves the harbor. The faster they go, the tighter the girl’s hug around the boy. As they say in La La Land, they are cute, fun and young love. The world is their oyster. The boy skillfully passes cars and bicyclists as they race toward their destination. Roadside strollers eat their dust. Up ahead an old clunker chuffs along, blocking their path. The mother of all road hogs. The boy honks and signals the driver to pull over. The clunker stays its course. The boy tries to pass on the left. The heap pulls to the left. The boy tries to pass on the right. The rattletrap blocks his way. And so on down the road goes the crazy caravan. The boy feints right. The jalopy takes the deke. The motorcycle zooms to the left to pass. Alongside, the boy and girl hurl curses at the driver. He turns his head to them. He smiles. He is Mr. Death. Fade out. Fade in. The ferry lazily bobs in the harbor. Workers carry two long wooden boxes aboard and set them on deck, side-by-side. They are caskets—the boy—the girl. They caught the ferry.

What’s your favorite TV channel? Ours is TCM. Robert Osborne has the best job in showbiz. ‘Twixt flicks they show short subjects of yore—Robert Benchley’s “How to Sleep”, “Crime Does Not Pay”, James A. Fitzpatrick’s “Traveltalks”: “And as we reluctantly bid aloha to Bora Bora, the Technicolor sun sets in the Technicolor Pacific!”

We’re all entitled to our own private screw-ups. One summer TCM sure flubbed the dub with a “Funday Night at the Movies” weekly series. I’ll never forget the first show I saw. I’ll never forget the last show. Same show. It featured a simpering, drugstore cowboy— Tom Whatshisface—talking down to a surly bunch of kids. He hosted a screening of “Shane”. Reckon he figured this primarily called for putting down Alan Ladd’s height. Got me so het-up, I took out my goose quill pen dipped in Gaboon Viper’s venom and wrote: “Tomboy Tom, good job o’ work explainin’ ‘Shane’s’ plot to the kiddies before the picture started. Golly, you got right into the spirit by dudin’ up cowpuncher style—Yee Haw! One leetle quibble—lose the chartreuse Dale Evans shirt. Trust me. What wit in making fun of hero Ladd’s diminutive stature. As the song goes, ‘You’ve got to be taught to hate.’ Yessir, good lesson in life for your captive kiddos. Speakin’ of short, that’s what we figure for your show’s life. Suffers a slight handicap: no talent. Did you ever consider being an organ grinder? I knew Alan Ladd, and believe me, pardner, you’re no Alan Ladd.” No response. Guess who considers “Shane” to be America’s greatest film—Woody Allen! He told the NY TIMES, “This is an odd choice, because I don’t like Westerns…but ‘Shane’ is a great movie and can hold its own with any film. None of the other Westerns hold a candle to ‘Shane’. Which is in a class by itself.” Hmmmmm! Leastwise, them’s Woody’s findin’s.  

 

       Adios—