Wednesday, May 13, 2026

NFR Project: 'Duck and Cover' (1952)

  

NFR Project: “Duck and Cover”

Dir: Anthony Rizzo

Scr: Raymond J. Mauer

Pho: Drummond Drury

Premiere: 1952

9:15

It’s the most dissociative thing I’ve ever seen. It consciencelessly lies to children about their chances of survival in an atomic attack. It’s what was known as a civil-defense film; it was propaganda.

I am a Space Age kid. Born in 1960, I grew up in a house with a bomb shelter in the basement. You can read that story here.

During the Cold War, the uncertainty about the perils of Communism and the Soviet Union was intense. It provoked a second Red Scare, from 1946 to 1957 (the first being in 1919-1920). It motivated people to build bomb shelters in their backyards. Public buildings had yellow-and-back signs on them stating their status as a “Fallout Shelter.” The idea of nuclear annihilation was thought to be high, especially after the Soviets exploded their first atomic bomb in August of 1949.

There were a lot of misconceptions about what an atomic bomb could do to you, despite the excruciating reporting of John Hersey in his Hiroshima in 1946. This film reinforces them all.

We are shown a cartoon turtle, Bert. A monkey dangles a firecracker in front of him; Bert goes into his shell. The firecracker blows up. The monkey vanishes; the tree is wrecked. Bert is fine. And a cute little jingle proclaims: “There was a turtle by the name of Bert/and Bert the turtle was very alert/When danger threatened him he never got hurt/he knew just what to do:/He'd duck and cover!/Duck and cover!/He did what we all must learn to do/You, and you, and you, and you/Duck and cover!”

Then the film shows us what it means: schoolchildren get under their desks, clasp their hands behind their heads, and scrunch down into a ball. This is the government’s recommendation for the population in case of atomic attack. Duck and cover.

“If you were not ready and did not know what to do, it could hurt you in different ways.” No kidding.

In all probability, many of these schoolchildren would be vaporized. The survivors on the edges of the blast will all have been polluted with radiation, sporting tattered flesh. The film does not cover this. Instead, we are proffered the examples of good little children in various situations, ducking and covering. In the end, we are shown a family crouched under a picnic blanket.

This film was rightly cited extensively in the 1982 documentary The Atomic Café. It represents the wishful thinking of a generation of adults who had no idea what they were talking about.

The NFR is one writer’s attempt to review all the films listed in the National Film Registry in chronological order. Next time: Gerald McBoing-Boing.

NFR Project: 'The Day the Earth Stood Still' (1951)

 

NFR Project: “The Day the Earth Stood Still”

Dir: Robert Wise

Scr: Edmund H. North

Pho: Leo Tover

Ed: William H. Reynolds

Premiere: Sept. 18, 1951

92 min.

“Gort – Klaatu barada nikto.”

It’s not just one of the most intelligent and compelling science-fiction films ever made; it’s one of the most intelligent and thoughtful films ever made. It’s a perfect example of the science-fiction genre’s power to use elements of the fantastic to create a commentary on the virtues and foibles of the human race.

From the beginning, this movie was intended to send a message. Producer Julian Blaustein was looking to make a film that would be a cry for world peace, an appropriate ambition in the fraught early days of the Cold War and the threat of atomic annihilation. He searched sci-fi literature until he found the 1940 short story by Harry Bates, “Farewell to the Master.” He turned to the project over to screenwriter Edmund North, who adapted it with the aid of sci-fi writer Raymond F. Jones.

North deliberately made the story a paraphrase of the life of Jesus. The main character appears, preaches tolerance and peace, is murdered by the state, is resurrected, and ascends into heaven! Not too subtle. Still, North created an intriguing script full of apt philosophizing while not sacrificing the complexity and depth of the characters involved. This film assumes the audience’s intelligence.

An alien spaceship enters Earth’s atmosphere and is picked up on the radars of the world. It lands on the Mall in Washington, D.C. An enormous robot and a silver-clad figure exit. The robot destroys some of the offensive weapons around him with a burst of glowing light. Of course, the figure is shot by a soldier. He is captured and taken to a military hospital.

There we learn he is Klaatu (Michael Rennie), an emissary from beyond the stars who has come on a mission to share with the entire world. The powers of the world must disarm and embrace the end of violent conflict. Given that mankind has discovered atomic energy and rocketry, the Earth is now seen as a potential threat to the rest of the universe. Klaatu states that, if humanity goes on as it has, the Earth will be destroyed.

The U.S. government does not agree that a meeting of all the nations of the world can take place, given the tensions and divisions in the world. Klaatu then escapes, donning the identity of a Mr. Carpenter (another obvious Jesus nod). He registers at a nearby boarding house, and befriends young Bobby (Billy Gray) and his mother Helen (Patricia Neal).

Eventually, Klaatu/Carpenter obtains a meeting with Prof. Barnhardt (the great Sam Jaffe), the leading scientist of his day. Barnhardt vows to gather representatives from around the world to hear Klaatu’s speech. Klaatu wonders whether a demonstration of his power would help the world recognize the gravity of the situation; Barnhardt suggests something “dramatic, but not dangerous.”

The next day, Klaatu stops all the electric energy on the planet (save for hospitals, planes in flight. etc.) for a half-hour. That gets everyone’s attention. Klaatu waits for the evening to come to make his speech – but he is turned in to the military by Helen’s crass boyfriend Tom (Hugh Marlowe), who seeks fame and fortune for ratting out the “space man.” While escaping the troops, Klaatu is shot dead.

However, he has told Helen what to say to Gort the robot in case his death occurred. “Gort – Klaatu barada nikto.” She dashes to the robot and recites the line. Gort goes off, obtains Klaatu’s body, returns him to the spaceship, and in a long, engaging scene restores him to life. Gort, Klaatu, and Helen exit the ship. Klaatu admonishes the crowd gathered there one more time, and flies away.

The message is unmistakable – get your act together or die.

Robert Wise was a brilliant and versatile director; as he did in his third film, The Body Snatcher (1945), he paints his composition in strong, shadowy contrasts, faces illuminated starkly. He uses deep focus. He places every significant element need for the story in the shot, and eliminates all superfluous detail. This results in a very rich, engaging style that never lets you go, a virtue in any director.

His casting is perfect. Michael Rennie has a remote, ethereal style that fits our conception of a “space man.” Patricia Neal as Helen goes on a journey as well. She is the stand-in for the audience. She hears Klaatu’s message and agrees to aid him. When her boyfriend Tom turns Klaatu in, Helen declares to him that “she is not getting married to anyone!” She liberates herself from (Earth)male dominion. By film’s end, she’s seen the inside of the spaceship and she has earned Klaatu’s affection. She undergoes a life-changing, self-actuating experience.

The special effects, by Melbourne A. Arnold and Hal Miller, are outstanding. They are low-key but commanding. The vaporizing of various objects and people is conducted competently. The spaceship, constructed with the help of Frank Lloyd Wright, is just abstract enough to remain intriguing, inside and out. (It seals itself, seamlessly and impenetrably, when it closes.) The scene of Gort dissolving a cast of superplastic he’s placed in, burning it slowly to the ground, is handled adroitly.

As to the music: this was Bernard Herrmann’s first score after moving to Hollywood from New York. It is famously disremembered as the first film score to use the unique, eerie electronic instrument the theremin. If you are playing at home, know that the first use of the theremin was in the score for Odna (1930) by Dmitri Shostakovich. It was used by orchestral arranger Robert Russell Bennett in 1944’s Lady in the Dark, and Miklos Rozsa used it in Hitchcock’s Spellbound (1945). It was a known commodity.

But Herrmann really made it iconic. He makes his opening theme a pun on Richard Strausss’s Thus Spake Zarathrustra, and moves boldly forward into musical language indebted to no one but himself. He scored the soundtrack for electrified violin, cello, and bass; he uses TWO theremins, “two Hammond organs, Fox studio's Wurlitzer organ, three vibraphones, two glockenspiels, marimba, tam-tam, two bass drums, three sets of timpani, two pianos, celesta, two harps, one horn, three trumpets, three trombones, and four tubas.

This concerted effort of excellent craftspeople remains a standard of its genre.

“I am leaving soon, and you will forgive me if I speak bluntly. The universe grows smaller every day, and the threat of aggression by any group, anywhere, can no longer be tolerated. There must be security for all or no one is secure. Now, this does not mean giving up any freedom, except the freedom to act irresponsibly. Your ancestors knew this when they made laws to govern themselves and hired policemen to enforce them. Now, we of the other planets have long accepted this principle. We have an organization for the mutual protection of all planets and for the complete elimination of aggression. The test of any such higher authority is, of course, the police force that supports it. For our policemen, we created a race of robots. Their function is to patrol the planets in spaceships like this one and preserve the peace. In matters of aggression, we have given them absolute power over us. This power cannot be revoked. At the first sign of violence, they act automatically against the aggressor. The penalty for provoking their action is too terrible to risk. The result is, we live in peace, without arms or armies, secure in the knowledge that we are free from aggression and war, free to pursue more... profitable enterprises. Now, we do not pretend to have achieved perfection, but we do have a system, and it works. I came here to give you these facts. It is no concern of ours how you run your own planet, but if you threaten to extend your violence, this Earth of yours will be reduced to a burned-out cinder. Your choice is simple: join us and live in peace, or pursue your present course and face obliteration. We shall be waiting for your answer. The decision rests with you.”

The NFR is one writer’s attempt to review all the films listed in the National Film Registry in chronological order. Next time: Duck and Cover.

Monday, May 11, 2026

NFR Project: 'An American in Paris' (1951)

 

NFR Project: “An American in Paris”

Dir: Vincente Minelli

Scr: Alan Jay Lerner

Pho: Alfred Gilks, John Alton

Ed: Adrienne Fazan

Premiere: Oct. 4, 1951

113 min.

Was this picture really better than A Place in the Sun? A Streetcar Named Desire? Academy voters thought so, for they awarded this film with Best Picture in 1952, as well as with Oscars for best screenplay, score, cinematography, art direction, and set design. It even won a special Oscar for its choreography.

However, this film won plaudits on the strength of its final, 17-minute dance sequence, one of the most elaborate and expensive in MGM history. That consummate musical director Vincente Minnelli was at the helm, and his finishing extravaganza in this film is rightly considered his signature film creation.

The film is really more of a tone poem than a story. It takes place (natch) in Paris, where Gene Kelly plays Jerry Mulligan, an aspiring ex-G.I. who seeks fame and fortune as a painter. (Don’t look at his work too closely – it’s not that good.) He lives cheaply in a garret, next to his pal, aspiring composer Adam (Oscar Levant, playing his usual acerbic-friend role). Jerry captures the attention of rich cultural maven Milo Roberts (Nina Foch), who wants to sponsor him as a patron – and to get in his pants as well.

However, Jerry sees a young girl, Lise (Leslie Caron), in a café and falls for her immediately. Through persistence, he captures her heart. She, however, is engaged to the older musical star Henri (Georges Guetary). Can the two find happiness together? The script is gossamer-thin, and the ending is a foregone conclusion. What animates the story are the musical sequences imbedded within it, featuring the music of George and Ira Gershwin.

The initial dance numbers are very small-scale and informal, not requiring agreat deal of directorial thought. Gene taps for children and for his pal. Levant gets a bravura showpiece of him performing the final movement of Gershwin’s Concerto in F – in which he plays not only the piano but the conductor, violinists, and the appreciative audience as well. Kelly and Caron have a tender pas de deux by the banks of the Seine.

The final sequence is the highlight of the film. Set to Gershwin’s “An American in Paris,” the extended ballet features Kelly and Caron cavorting among a crowd of elaborately dressed dancers who move through sets designed after the paintings of French artists such as Renoir and Toulouse-Lautrec. Explosively vibrant, the exuberant passage sums up the themes of the film, focusing on Kelly’s yearnings for Caron.

Gene Kelly’s inimitable dancing takes the spotlight, of course; Caron’s ballet training makes her an ideal partner. The massive resources of major film studios made such a film possible.

The NFR is one writer’s attempt to review all the films listed in the National Film Registry in chronological order. Next time: The Day the Earth Stood Still.