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 22^nd 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 20^th 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