CAPTAIN
VIDEO
By Bruce Dettman
Long
before there was Luke Skywalker, Captain James T. Kirk or even such
early television space jockeys as Rocky Jones, Tom Corbett and Rod
Brown, there was Captain Video, the new medium’s first—and for many
years most popular—man in space.
Captain Video and His Video Rangers debuted on the short-lived
Dumont network on June 27, 1949. The show was the brainchild of program
director Jim Caddigan who, having recently viewed chapters from the
classic Republic serial The Adventures of Captain Marvel, thought
it might be a prudent move to introduce an outer space show aimed at
kids to the network’s nascent daily lineup. Somehow the title
Captain Video (later expanded to Captain Video and His Video
Rangers) was decided on and the assignment for fleshing out the
basic concept of the 22nd century character and show fell to
staff writer Larry Menkin who came up with the basic premise built
around the on-going battle between Video and his arch enemy the sinister
and dangerous Dr. Pauli.
For the
first few months of the show the action was entirely earthbound but when
the competitive short-lived series Buck Rogers made its debut on
a rival network it was deemed wise to send the Captain and his Video
Rangers into the frontiers of space on his private space ship The
Galaxy. One very odd aspect of the show was the airing, thanks to
some invention dubbed the “Remote-tele-carrier,” of moments from old
Hollywood “B” westerns, the Captain explaining that these segments
depicted the activities of his Rangers on earth. The special effects
budget for the series was $25.00 so the running of these sagebrush
dramas helped keep down costs.
Captain Video ran for six years, from 1949 to 1955, was filmed live
and aired five days a week and chalked up, by all accounts, some 1,537
episodes of which only a handful of kinescopes remain. Its plots were
wild and far-fetched, some concocted by such well-known and respected
science-fiction writers of the day such as Damon Knight, C. M. Kornbluth
, Robert Sheckley and Jack Vance.
The
first Captain Video was a Broadway and radio actor named Richard Coogan.
Assisting him as The Video Ranger was the youthful Don Hastings with
Bram Nossen initially portraying the evil Pauli, later being replaced by
Hal Conklin and Steven Elliot.
Despite
its impoverished sets and props (the interior of the Captain’s ship was
obviously fabricated out of painted cardboard) the public took to the
show and made it one of early television’s first real hits. In fact,
all over America people stopped what they were doing in the early
evening to watch Captain Video as he battled not only against Pauli but
other interstellar villains such as Tobor the Robot, Nargola (said to
have being played by the youthful Ernest Borgnine) and the dastardly
Hing Foo Sung. Reportedly even Presidential candidate Adli Stevenson
thought it unwise to schedule a press conference in a time slot against
the Video show. Kids, of course, loved the Captain and also took
advantage of all the premium give-a-way items associated with the show
(and its sponsor Skippy Peanut Butter) such as a flying saucer ring and
ray gun. These freebees, however, did not include some of the Captain’s
most amazing arsenal of devices such as his Opticon Scillometer
(fashioned by the effects department out of a spark plug, ashtray,
rear-view-mirror and a muffler).
In 1950
Richard Coogan left the series to be replaced by well-known radio actor
Al Hodge, best known for having portrayed the Green Hornet on the
airwaves. Hodge, who functioned as a Sunday school teacher on weekends,
took the part of Captain Video very seriously. The actor even appeared
as a witness before an early Congressional sub-committee which was
looking into the effect of early television violence on children.
Captain Video and His Video Rangers came to an end in April 1955
just as the Dumont Network was running out of gas. Hodge briefly
continued his association with the character by hosting a program of
cartoons over TV station WABD until 1957 and then called it quits.
In
1951, Columbia Pictures released a cliffhanger, Captain Video,
based on the TV series starring Judd Holdren.
June 2011
THE
ROY ROGERS SHOW
By
Bruce Dettman
In 1943 western star Roy
Rogers made a film for his home studio Republic Pictures called King
of the Cowboys. There was a lot of competition for that sagebrush
royal title in those pre-television days of Saturday matinees when just
about every kid in the country crammed movie theatres to watch their
favorite western stars in action. Back then every studio had their own
stable of heroes, dozens of them. There was Buster Crabbe, Buck Jones,
Hoot Gibson, Tim McCoy, Ken Maynard, “Wild” Bill Elliott, Dick Foran,
Sunset Carson, Alan Lane, too many really to list.
Roy (born Leonard Slye
in Cincinnati, Ohio) started out as a singer with a couple of country
and western bands including the famous Sons of the Pioneers which
he helped form. He later showed up in small and bit parts in Hollywood
“B” westerns under the moniker Dick Weston, once even tangling with –and
being summarily whipped by—Republic Studio’s biggest western player of
the period, Gene Autry. Autry, who had more or less popularized—though
not instigated—the so-called singing cowboy genre, had financial issues
with Republic, however, and it was decided to give Rogers a build-up in
a series of westerns in case Autry became too big for his britches or
bailed out of his contract all together. The boyish and intensely
likable Rogers resonated quickly with the public and became Autry’s
greatest competition, eventually eclipsing his popularity during the war
years when Autry was away in the service. With his golden palomino
Trigger, his semi-regular sidekick “Gabby Hayes” and his favorite
leading lady—later his real life wife—Dale Evans he starred in dozens of
highly popular films all through the 1940s.
The “B” western,
however, was not long for this world as soon as TV began to stake its
claim on the attention of America’s youthful-going movie public,
something Rogers, Autry and William Boyd of Hopalong Cassidy fame
recognized early on. All would abandon the big screen for the small
version and create fifteen inch versions of their famous cinematic
characters.
Republic still had
Rogers under copyright, however, and was not crazy about the idea of
their greatest western star jumping ship and establishing a new career
for himself on the tube. Hedging their bet, they not only shortened
many of his films to an hour’s length and released them to television
but engaged in a protracted court case in an attempt to prevent the
actor from establishing his own show on the new medium. In turn Roy,
whose contract defined his ownership and control over his own name and
image, countersued the studio. The court case dragged on and on and in
the end it was ruled that Roy’s Republic films could indeed be released
in a truncated version to TV. Nonetheless, Roy and Dale went right ahead
with their own plans anyway and created The Roy Rogers Show which
premiered on NBC in 1951 by which time Republic couldn’t really do
anything about the situation.
The series, much like
many of his later films at Republic, was set in modern times but
contained many western trappings. Roy still rode Trigger, had a great
German shepherd named Bullet, wore a two holster and pistol rig and
could out shoot and out fight anyone. In addition, everyone continued to
use horses, from the bad guys to the sheriff, as their favorite mode of
transportation except for Pat Brady in the part of the comical sidekick
who drove a mechanically troublesome jeep called Nelleybelle. Dale, not
Roy’s wife or even girlfriend—at least no hanky panky was ever
glimpsed—ran a diner called the Eureka Cafe in the town of Mineral City,
and Roy had a nearby ranch, not that he spent much time taking care of
it. Each week he was much too busy doing the sheriff’s (Harry Harvey)
job, taking on rustlers, bank robbers and killers. It was an
action-filled show—some media critics thought too action-filled—but the
kids ate it up and if anything, supported by a huge marketing campaign
that spawned just about every product one could imagine being connected
with a cowboy star, he became even more popular than before. Roy and
Dale, both devout Christians, always managed to incorporate, although
never in a sledgehammer fashion, religion and strong family values with
gunfights, slugfests, mayhem and murder. They even threw in a song on
occasion (not to mention their signature closing tune sung over the
credits, Happy Trails, penned by Dale) but these were quick
little ditties, not the elaborate musical numbers which had come to be a
predictable—and to many kids in the audience a much dreaded—part of
Roy’s Republic films. Roy toned down his dress for the small screen as
well, just a simple checkered shirt, dark trousers and boots. Gone were
the fringe and spangles that adorned many of his movie outfits which at
times made him appear as if he were the lead in a regular opera, not a
horse one.
The Roy Rogers Show
ran on NBC for six years and chalked up some one hundred episodes which
were shown in syndication throughout most of the 1950s. It was an
exciting series, helmed by such old pros as Christian Nyby, John English
and George Blair, and further cemented Roy’s reputation as America’s
best known and most beloved western star.
When The King of the
Cowboys died in 1998 President Clinton, who had also grown up
watching him fighting bad guys atop Trigger, delayed a political speech
to comment on his passing, noting his profound and positive influence on
the youth of America.
It was a sad milestone
for the Baby Boomers, even a president.
January 2011
THE RIFLEMAN
By Bruce Dettman

In the early days of
television, when westerns were even more prevalent than poor reception,
the genre, although continuing as a constant for nearly a decade,
re-designed and re-invented itself over and over again, injecting new
elements into a form that was steadily growing fatigued and overly
familiar and which would practically disappear in a few years.
The first TV oaters were
of juvenile bent, extensions of the “B” western series which had packed
movie theatres for decades. There was Clayton Moore as The Lone
Ranger, Duncan Rinaldo as The Cisco Kid, Gail Davis as
Annie Oakley, Bill Williams as Kit Carson, Guy Madison as
Wild Bill Hickok, Jock Mahony as The Range Rider and many
many more.
A new era of westerns
was introduced in 1955 with the CBS series Gunsmoke, based on the
successful radio program. Gunsmoke, which quickly became known as
an “adult western”, shunned the juvenile and over-romanticized trappings
of early children’s shoot-em-ups and attempted, as much as the medium
would permit, to create characters and stories with a more sophisticated
and realistic bent.
Following Gunsmoke
dozens of westerns hit the airways, from The Life and Legend of Wyatt
Earp with Hugh O’Brien to a whole stable of products out of Warner
Brothers (Cheyenne, Sugarfoot, Bronco, Lawman, Maverick, Colt 45).
Most westerns, productions like The Restless Gun, The Texan
and The Westerner were centered around single characters,
drifters and loners with nominal if any support from co-stars.
Then in 1958 came The
Rifleman.
The Rifleman was
a different sort of western on a number of levels.
The lead character Lucas
McCain, winningly portrayed by ex-ball player Chuck Connors who
successfully managed to infuse his character with equal amounts of
strength and courage coupled with sagacity and compassion, was not a
lawman, a cowboy, a nomadic drifter unwilling to settle down, or a land
baron. He was a man with a dream, to buy and work a ranch with his small
son Mark. Having been widowed a few years before, he and Mark set off to
begin a new life finally settling in the town of Northfork, New Mexico.
Lucas has a great love for his son and wishes more than anything to
provide the boy with a good life. Unlike other TV westerns of the period
where the more tender emotions were rarely showcased, Lucas was often
seen kissing and hugging Mark. The father/son relationship took The
Rifleman in a totally different direction but so did something else,
his weapon of choice.
According to the show’s
storyline, Lucas had fought in the Civil War and subsequently gained a
sizable reputation for his uncanny ability with a specially constructed
rifle, presumably of his own design. Customizing a 30-30 Winchester and
equipping it was a ring-like appendage that allowed him to both fire the
weapon with accelerated speed as well as cocking it with a one-handed
motion, he was the equal of nearly every fast gun he met, and over the
show’s five year run there were many of these.
Northfork, in fact,
seemed a kind of communal magnet for every malcontent, criminal, psycho
and bad man the west had to offer. Although these miscreants
occasionally came to town to rob a bank or call someone out, they were
mainly just nasty, unpleasant and confrontational louts bent on causing
trouble. Most of these characters end up the recipients of Lucas’
considerable supply of lead which he dishes out liberally. Because he is
able to fire so many rounds so quickly it was not unusual on the show
for him to take out three or four bad guys at a time.
With all of this
violence it almost seems odd that this was considered one of the first
so-called family westerns but not so when you realize that no
matter how much mayhem might be involved, the core of the show always
remained the strong relationship between a father and his son, the
latter portrayed in a most believable way by Johnny Crawford.
The Rifleman was
originally aired on The Dick Powell Theatre in an episode called
“The Sharpshooter.” It was written by future director Sam Peckinpaw and
established the template for the series.
Another important
component of the show was the character of Marshal Micah Torrance as
portrayed by character actor Paul Fix. Torrance is introduce early in
the first season as a former well-known lawman who has succumbed to
liquor after losing the use of his one arm in a gunfight. Lucas
practices a kind of western tough love on the man who eventually takes
hold of himself and even manages to save the Rifleman’s life in a street
fight. In turn, Micah regains his self respect and becomes Northfork’s
new Marshal, a position which often requires Lucas’ help. Still, in a
way Micah completes the McCain clan becoming a kind of grandfather to
Mark and calming mentor to the sometimes impulsive Lucas.
There were several
attempts to hook Lucas up with female companionship over the years but
these never quite worked out. It was too upsetting and disruptive to the
fundamental structure of the show.
The Rifleman had
terrific guest stars including John Anderson, Warren Oates, Dabbs Greer,
Royal Dano, Richard Anderson, Glenn Strange, Jack Elam, Denver Pyle,
Michael Pate, Dan Blocker, Michael Landon, John Dehner, Claude Akins,
Marc Lawrence and Robert Wilke, solid storylines and action galore.
Another important element of the series was the very effective
background music, particularly the tense, slowly escalating and dynamic
action piece, created by composer Herschel Burke Gilbert which marked
almost every episode.
The Rifleman will
always be recalled as one of television’s best westerns, not just for
the novelty of Lucas’ weapon or the riveting action that were an
integral part of most episodes, but mostly for the earnest and highly
effective performances of Chuck Connors as Lucas McCain and Johnny
Crawford as his son Mark, the two of them facing the trials and
tribulations of the west, always together.
October 2010
Commando
Cody,
Sky Marshal of the Universe
By Bruce Dettman
Commando Cody was
Republic Studio’s last great serial hero. His debut came along in the
early 1950s just as the cliffhanger genre was nose-diving into rapid
cinematic oblivion. Although his name instantly became recognizable with
kids, the character’s history is a bit more complex and even confusing.
While Commando Cody is most associated with his famous flying suit
distinguished by its leather jacket, chest control panel, jet packs and
bullet-shaped helmet he was not the first character to wear this. Just
a few years prior to Commando Cody, The Sky Marshal of the Universe
being introduced by Republic Studios, the same aero-dynamic outfit had
been pioneered by the less colorfully named Jeff King in 1949’s King
of the Rocketmen (despite the title there was really only one such
rocket-propelled figure in the story) and portrayed by Tristin Coffin,
an actor usually associated with villainous roles. For reasons never
totally made clear, after Cody’s introduction in the production of
Radar Men from the Moon (1950), as played by George Wallace, the
suit next went to a character named Larry Martin (Judd Holdren) in the
final installment of the jet pack cliffhanger trilogy, Zombies of the
Stratosphere (1952).

Now to bring further
obfuscation to this history, Republic, taking notice of the character’s
popularity and having already established a television subsidiary,
Hollywood Television Service, Inc., decided to utilize Cody for a weekly
series. Although filmed in 1953, it did not, due to problems stemming
from union and production difficulties, hit the airwaves until two years
later when the NBC network ran it on Saturday mornings. In addition,
despite each of the Cody episodes being complete stories in themselves,
Republic also decided to release installments for theatrical use as if
they were legitimate cliffhangers.
For the TV series the
character and format also underwent a few alterations as well. Cody, as
played by Judd Holdren (his second career assignment with the jet pack
for a co-star), works for the United States government in such a high
and top secret capacity that it is deemed necessary to conceal his true
identity beneath a Lone Ranger-like mask. Why Republic decided on this
gimmick is not certain although it has been suggested that they didn’t
wish to face the same situation the producers of The Lone Ranger
had when their star Clayton Moore suddenly left the series and they were
left carrying the bag until Moore’s replacement, John Hart, was signed
to (temporarily) takeover the part. If something similar occurred and
Holden elected to leave the show any actor could immediately step in and
put on the mask. Ironically, in many scenes, Holden bears an incredible
physical likeness to Moore, particularly in the profile shots.
The plot of Commando
Cody, Sky Marshal of the Universe, owes a thematic debt to the
earlier serial, Radar Men from the Moon. Borrowing the concept of
mankind being attacked by an unknown enemy from outer space, Commando
Cody begins with our hero, whose regular job it is to adapt atomic
power to space flight, preventing a missile attack upon Earth by
surrounding it with a radioactive dust that nullifies the invading
weapons.
This obviously annoys
and frustrates the hell out of the aliens—led by a character known only
as The Ruler—who next decide to send some emissaries down to take
care of Cody and his associates while at the same time getting their
mitts on the formula for the dust.
Although these episodes
are complete within themselves with no cliffhanging conclusions, the
structure and execution of the shows are very much like the familiar
Republic serial product. The same personnel were responsible for their
production, same stunt men, same special effects crew, same writers and
behind the scenes production staff that had honed the studio’s
chapter-plays not to mention the fact that numerous scenes from classic
cliffhangers of the past—including the superb model work of brothers
Theodore and Howard Lydecker—were regularly inserted into the
proceedings. Another economic shortcut was in the area of music. No
original soundtrack was commissioned for the series. Rather library
music, much of it the familiar eerie stuff used on numerous early TV
shows as well as many “B” science-fiction pictures of the period, was
used.
Nonetheless, minus the
lure of that last minute plunge off a cliff, exploding oil derrick or
cave filling with lava that threatened the hero or heroine and brought
both adults and kids back to theatres each week to see how their serial
favorites had managed to (again) dodge death, Sky Marshal of the
Universe, despite his incredible cool flying suit, seems to lack
something. Created specifically for serial thrills it was a bit
disappointing not seeing him facing what seemed like certain death at
the conclusion of every episode. Still, the shows are lively and
enjoyable fun and kids of the period simply could not get enough of
Commando Cody’s takeoffs and flying sequences engineered by the
Lydeckers (and effectively using a dummy for the in-flight shots).
Judd Holdren made for a
rather wooden Cody but grows on you. Familiar character actor William
Scahllert appears in the first three episodes as Ted Richards with
Richard Crane, soon the star of his own space series, Rocky Jones,
Space Ranger, taking over as Dick Preston. Pretty and dependable
Aileen Towne, who was also featured in both Radar Men from the Moon
and Zombies of the Stratosphere, is cast as Joan, Cody’s other
assistant.
Villains include the
somewhat flamboyant Gregory Gay as The Ruler—who seems to have
had the same tailor as Liberace—(and who always calls Cody “Commander”),
Peter Brocco as Dr. Varney (who also disappears early in the series) and
the ubiquitous Lyle Talbot as Baylor. Other familiar faces include Zon
Murray, Kenneth MacDonald, Marshall Reed and John Crawford as one of the
aliens who sports a helmet which resembles a metallic slug.
Commando Cody, Sky
Marshall of the Universe didn’t last long, only a season’s worth of
episodes but if nothing else, the image of Cody, adjusting those
controls on his chest panel and soaring into the sky, made a big and
sometimes lasting impression on Baby Boomers.
August 2010
DAVY CROCKETT
By
Bruce Dettman
There were two famous
men named Crockett, Davy and David. They inhabited the same body but
were different in many ways. David was flesh and blood. He had a poor
upbringing, experienced numerous career reversals, lost a young wife,
spent a short period in the Indian Wars, earned a sizeable reputation as
a bear hunter and eventually got himself elected to Congress. After
politically floundering and losing his seat he left the country for the
new province of Mexican-owned Texas where he died at the Alamo during
the short-lived Texas War of Independence in 1836. The exact details of
his death remain controversial to this day. Did he die fighting or was
he executed after surrendering with a handful of others? Probably no one
will ever know for certain.

The other Crockett was
Davy. He was bold and colorful and bigger than life. He could ride a
comet, wrestle an alligator, and grin down a grisly bear. Books,
almanacs and tall tales, created during and after his lifetime, told the
story of his fantastic adventures and feats, and because of this he was,
next to President Andrew Jackson, probably the most famous man in the
United States. Some even thought he might eventually take up residence
in the White House.
But over the years the
country lost its interest in both Davy and David. New heroes came out of
the expansion of the west, men like Wild Bill Hickok and Buffalo Bill
Cody. By the time the 20th century rolled around David/Davy
had been relegated to a few lines in text books. Even the new art form
of the cinema took little interest in his exploits. Although the
centerpiece of at least one silent film, his life was not the exclusive
subject of a single motion picture produced after this although he
showed up as a secondary character in several pictures devoted to Texas
history and the Alamo such as Republic Studio’s Sam Houston bios Man
of Conquest and The First Texan.
This would all change in
1955, however, when Walt Disney premiered a new series on television
called Disneyland, aired on the ABC Network. One of the reasons
Disney made the somewhat controversial move to the new medium when other
studio heads wanted nothing to do with the small screen was that he
shrewdly worked out a deal with the network to finance a new theme park
he had in mind to build in Southern California. The show, just like the
proposed park, would be broken into major categories with alternating
episodes based on each. One of these segments was “Frontierland.” For
this Disney had in mind the idea of basing stories on famous American
heroes of the west. One of these was Davy Crockett although originally
he was not to have been first in line for dramatization.
Writer Tom Blackburn
wrote the three-part production which included, “Davy Crocket, Indian
Fighter”, “Davy Crockett Goes to Congress” and “Davy Crockett at The
Alamo”, each covering a specific period in Crockett’s life. Although
most people look back at the series as juvenile fare—due primarily to
the incredible impression it made on Baby Boomers—the fact is that some
larger-than-life heroics aside, Blackburn’s script dealt with Crockett
in a rather mature fashion including ingredients one rarely saw in TV
heroes of that era. Davy ages through the course of the show, becomes a
bit grey. His beloved wife Polly dies and he is shown grieving. While a
renowned bear hunter in the early section he later explains that he no
longer gets much satisfaction out of “killing critters”. His optimism
takes a bit of a beating when the corrupt forces in Washington hand him
his walking papers. At the end, when he faces death at the Alamo, there
is a certain resignation and world-weary acceptance of his fate. This is
not the Lone Ranger or Zorro of children’s programming of the same
period. Despite some juvenile trappings, budgetary restrictions and
simplification of historical events, Davy Crockett is a more
thoughtful presentation than most people recall.
What they do recall is
the theme song (“Born on a mountaintop in Tennessee/Greenest state in
The Land of The Free”). This tune, used to bridge scenes, was sung by
Georgie Russell, Davy’s partner throughout the episodes and played by
veteran actor Buddy Ebsen. Like the show itself, The Ballad of Davy
Crockett became an overnight hit and was recorded by dozens of
different singers.
Actually the
above-referenced Ebsen was among those first considered for the role of
Crockett. Disney thought the actor a bit old for the character,
however, and continued his search. This took him, at the recommendation
of an associate, to view the recently released science-fiction film
Them about mutated giant ants terrorizing the storm drains of Los
Angeles. One scene in the film featured a young pilot who had spotted
the flying ants from his airplane and then, after reporting the episode,
finds himself placed under surveillance in a mental ward. The actor, a
relatively unknown player named Fess Parker whose experience thus far
had been appearances in just a few films and television, had a folksy
charm and likable earnestness. The lanky and ingratiating Parker struck
just the right chord with Disney who quickly put Arness out of his mind.
He had his Crockett.
It turned out to be a
brilliant choice. Parker imbued Davy with rural humor and incredible
likeability combined with sturdy integrity, sagacity, loyalty, native
intelligence and, at times, a quirky sense of humor that, when needed,
could be bolstered by a bit of braggadocio. It was a mix that resonated
with old and young viewers alike. Overnight Fess Parker became one of
the most famous men in America. His likeness was everywhere and his
heroics were emulated by small boys in backyard versions of the Creek
War and the Battle of the Alamo all over the country.
No one was more
surprised by the Davy Crockett craze than Walt Disney himself. In fact
the licensing of Crockett-related products became a kind of frenzied
race to get merchandise out as quickly as possible, not only pint-sized
versions of Davy’s coonskin hat, but plastic powder horns, toy muskets
and flintlock pistols, Davy Crockett waste baskets (no kidding, my
friend had one), coloring books, T shirts, jackets, bedspreads and
retractable plastic hunting knives. Although the Marx Company would
release complete Alamo play sets, the first models were so rushed by
popular demand that the Mexican soldiers had not been molded yet and
Indians were included instead.
Oddly, the Davy Crockett
craze ended as quickly as it had come. Davy had been killed off in the
third installment of the show so all Disney could do was mount two
prequels, Davy Crockett and The Great Keel Boat Race and Davy
Crockett and the River Pirates, both featuring the legendary
folklore character Mike Fink as portrayed in a wonderfully
scene-stealing manner by Jeff York. They were popular but by the time
they were aired the incredible fad had totally cooled and no further
Davy Crockett stories were filmed although Disney tried without a
scintilla of success, to create a new, a very short-lived, Crockett
series in the 1980s.
Yet for that short
period Davy Crockett was the most famous character on the tube. His rise
was meteoric. His face, in the person of Parker, was everywhere, on
magazine covers, in comic books, on hundreds of Crockett-related toys.
His adventures and exploits were imitated by little boys across the
entire country, many experiencing their first taste of hero worship, and
who found in Crockett the perfect balance of courage, strength,
intelligence, kindness and integrity.
June 2010
SKY
KING
By
Bruce Dettman
Sky
King lived on his ranch, The Flying Crown, with his teenage niece Penny
and his nephew Clipper who he had taken in after the death of their
parents in an accident. Also on the ranch was Sky’s foreman, the
avuncular Jim Bell. The ranch was not far from the city of Grover in
Arizona where Matt, the somewhat incompetent but well-meaning sheriff
worked and who often called on Sky for help.
Sky, who had been a
pilot in the war, had two planes, both of which he called The Song Bird.
The first was a Cessna
T-50, the second which he piloted for the remainder of the show’s run
was a Cessna 310.
Although Sky was known
as a rancher he rarely seemed to do much work around his place. More
often he found himself involved in all manner of local crimes although
some had much broader implications including a few that involved
national security matters (Sky had the highest government clearance).
Unlike most heroes of
the time who made their first appearance on radio, there was never a
later Sky King film or cliffhanger. The character was created by Robert
Burrtt and Wilfred Moore who had also been responsible for dreaming up
fictional aviators Hop Harriagn and Captain Midnight.
Sky King
premiered on the ABC radio airwaves in 1946. The radio show was actually
a bit wilder and more fantastic than its later TV counterpart. It even
included an arch villain named Dr. Shade, a grotesque figure who lived
in a medieval styled castle situated in the desert. The series ran until
1954 and starred several actors as Sky, the best remembered being Jack
Lester. The youthful announcer on the show would go onto bigger and
better things. His name was Mike Wallace.
The TV series, which
premiered in 1951, toned down some of the more outlandish concepts and
grounded the series in more adult and realistic terms but it was still
considered juvenile fare.
For the role of Sky the
producer Jack Chertok selected Kirby Grant, a steady-working but not
widely known B star of westerns and action films, particularly a series
of movies based around the exploits of a Canadian Mountie. The Montana
born Grant had been a band singer for a time then did a stint dubbing
vocals in films before stepping before the cameras in such oaters as
Red River Range and Bad Man of the Border. A licensed
pilot—just like the character he would soon become most closely
identified with—Grant tried to qualify as a flight instructor during
World War II but did not qualify due to color blindness.
Grant was handsome with
a very likable and pleasing personality, just what Sky King
producer Chertok was looking for and he was quickly cast in the lead.
Rounding out the regular players were Gloria Winters, fresh from her
role as Jackie Gleason’s daughter in the short-lived Dumont network’s
first version of The Life of Riley, Ron Hagerthy as Clipper (he
would leave the show after one season to join the Air Force, the same
explanation for Clipper’s absence) and Chubby Johnson as the avuncular
Jim Bell. Ewing Mitchell would later join the series as the sheriff.
Although a rancher by
name and vocation, Sky spent most of his time tending to crime rather
than cows. Most of the plots could easily have been adapted to
conventional western stories but somehow or other Sky’s flying ability
was invariably written into the episodes (the show’s weekly
introduction, toned by an exuberant announcer, of “From out of the clear
blue of the western sky comes Sky King!” wasn’t there for nothing.)
Sky tangled with all
sorts of baddies, from robbers and murderers, to smugglers and
kidnappers and Penny was usually in the thick of it if not actually the
reason for some of the commotion. The show was full of action but gun
play was rare.
After the first year of
filming the show lost its sponsor and there was a holdup for a few years
until a new one (Nabisco) could be found. When the show returned to the
airwaves in 1955 Sky had a new plane, Clipper was away in the service,
Jim Bell seemed to have moved on, and the wardrobe had changed from
dress-up cowboy to a more workingman look for the star.
There has been some
confusion over the years regarding the number of episodes filmed. This
stemmed from a widely circulated myth that a large number of shows had
been destroyed in a warehouse fire but in fact all 72 shows are safe and
sound.
Following Sky King
Grant did little in the way of film or TV work although Winters and he
did some special appearance work at county fairs and rodeos.
During his retirement
years Grant and his wife founded the nonprofit Sky King Youth Ranches of
America, which provided homes for abandoned or orphaned children. He had
plans to resurrect the Sky King series with the Flying Crown
Ranch becoming a home for such kids, and publicizing their stories, but
it never materialized.
Kirby Grant died after accepting an invitation to come to Florida
to see the ninth takeoff of the space shuttle Challenger. An unnamed
astronaut had told the actor that it was
the Sky King series that motivated him to become involved in aviation.
Grant never reached Cape
Canaveral. He was killed in a traffic accident en route.
He was 73 years old.
The author is
indebted to his friend John O’Keefe, one of the world’s greatest Sky
King fans, for help during the preparation of this piece.
December 2009
CAPTAIN MIDNIGHT
By Bruce
Dettman
Captain Midnight was born
in 1938 just about the time Superman was introduced to the world. The
Captain, however, made his public debut on the radio, not in comic books
as had the Man of Steel.
The television Captain
Midnight would be a much different character from the one originally
created by radio writers Robert Burtt and Wilfred Moore, the team who
had earlier come up with several other shows with high-flying heroes
including The Adventures of Jimmy Allen, Hop Harrigan and a
figure who would nearly rival the good Captain in video popularity,
Sky King.
The origin of the radio
Captain Midnight came from a decisive moment in World War I when a lone
flier on a mission so desperate that the outcome of the entire war might
rest on his success is finally spotted just at the stroke of twelve
o’clock. Captain Midnight he becomes even if his real name is Jim “Red”
Albright.
In 1942 Columbia Pictures,
never known for their fidelity to the original sources from which they
adapted their cliffhangers, produced the fifteen chapter serial
Captain Midnight starring Dave O’Brien as the intrepid pilot. This
time, however, despite the excesses of director James Horne—best known
for his over-the-top helmsman ship (he had once directed Laurel and
Hardy comedy shorts)—was fairly faithful to the radio show.
The next logical step was,
of course, a television adaptation which would come in 1951, one year
after his final radio appearance. The Captain’s introduction on the
small screen was not, however, what fans had been waiting for. Instead
his debut was in the person of a forgotten actor in a flying suit who
did nothing more than introduce truncated chapters from old Republic
serials. This situation was remedied four years later in 1955 when a new
Captain Midnight series was introduced.
This time around, in what
is probably his best remembered incarnation, B leading man Richard Webb
was brought on board to play Midnight. Webb, who had fought in World War
II, had been given solid roles in such films as Sands of Iowa Jima,
Out of the Past and I Was A Communist For The F.B.I.
as well as having played the hero in the Republic cliffhanger The
Invisible Monster. At first the powers-that-be thought he would be a
bit long in the tooth for Midnight, but the handsome and rugged Webb
convinced them otherwise. It was a good decision and a good fit. Webb
was terrific in the part.
While other TV heroes,
from Superman to Sky King to Ramar of the Jungle, had their occasional
run-ins with spies, traitors and foreign agents, these sorts of villains
became the bread and butter of Captain Midnight’s career. Supported by
an organization called the Secret Squadron (whose motto, repeated each
week by Midnight at the show’s closing, was “Justice through strength
and courage”) which was comprised of boys and girls throughout the
world, the Captain made it his life’s work to ferret out, arrest, bring
to justice and in some cases personally administer punishment to the
enemies of America. This, after all, was at the height of the Cold War
and just about everyone seemed to be peeking under their beds and in
their closets in an attempt to identify the enemies of the United States
or, in other words, the (unnamed but obvious) commies!!!

Midnight was joined in his
adventures by his right hand man, the short and stocky Ichabod Mudd
(Sid Melton) who was always available to lighten things up a bit and who
had been Midnight’s flight mechanic during the Korean War. Olan Soule
portrayed scientific genius Aristotle Jones (“Tut” for short) a former
college roommate of Albright’s, who at least once an episode seemed to
provide a short lecture on some new gadget he had perfected or to solve
scientific riddles that often faced the intrepid trio.
The threesome lived high
atop a mountain in an observatory-like structure, a location depicted
via an impressive matte drawing at the beginning of nearly every
episode. While Ikky, as he was called by his pals, dressed in civvies
and Tut usually in a lab coat, the Captain sported a kind of quasi
military uniform consisting of a windbreaker with a Secret Squadron
emblem, slacks and boots.
When enemies of America
reared their heads (usually crimson ones) sometimes in various parts of
the world, the Captain and Ikky would board their plane, The Silver
Dart and take off to face the face the threat.
The show was chocked full
of adventure, thrills, gadgets (the best being the visaphone,
which allowed Midnight to see who he was talking to on the phone some
fifty years before cell phone technology) and great low-budget action.
In addition to the on-screen thrills, pint-sized viewers also were made
to feel part of the storylines by the device of having children in the
episodes, members of the Secret Squadron, often giving aid and
transmitting information to the Captain via their pocket locators.
This was all tied in with the juvenile audience at home who could also
become members of the group by sending into for a genuine Captain
Midnight Membership Kit. Unfortunately, while this kit was full of neat
tie-in items to the show, there was no pocket locator, something that
frustrated many a fan of the series.
There
were two seasons of Captain Midnight, filmed by Screen Gems,
with a total of thirty-nine episodes. Don Ferris provided a rousing
theme over which a narrator sung the praises of the Captain and his
life’s mission. During the run Midnight went all over the world (or at
least all over the back lot) on his adventures. Some titles give a hint
of the themes and plotlines of these shows: Murder by Radiation,
Death Below Zero, The Walking Ghost, Curse of the Pharaohs, The
Electrified Man, The Invisible Terror, The Frozen Man and Doctors
of Doom.
The show also featured a
wide assortment of familiar character actors of the period, people like
Superman’s Perry White, John Hamilton, Peter Brocco, Byron
Foulger, Philip Van Zandt, Ian Keith, Pierre Watkin, Terry Frost,
Philip Ahn, Marshall Reed, Buddy Baer, Greg Barton and Mel Wells.
When Ovaltine, the show’s
original sponsor, withdrew its involvement with the series, the episodes
were re-run under the title Jet Jackson, the Flying Commando.
Actors had to be brought in to re-dub every reference to Captain
Midnight and not always successfully.

Captain Midnight
undoubtedly reflected Cold War attitudes with its stories of dangerous
spies and behind the Iron Curtain skullduggery, not that many of the
Baby Boomers who tuned in each week gave a hoot about politics or the
unstable world situation. What they did care about was the Captain
taking on all comers in the villain department, righting wrongs, saving
the day, beating the stuffing out of all the bad guys that so deserved
it and with Ikky by his side piloting the Silver Dart through the
heavens on his way to more adventures.
November 2009