Dispatch #363: Stop Motion Animation/Claymation

FX wizard Ray Harryhausen at work

   As a kid, I was enthralled by films featuring the FX wizardry of Ray Harryhausen. Whether it was the science fiction tale First Men in the Moon, a sword-and-sorcery epic like The Golden Voyage of Sinbad, or a steampunk adventure such as Mysterious Island, I dearly loved them all.

  Harryhausen brought all manner of fantastic creatures to life—from winged stallions to a towering cyclops—using Stop-Motion Animation, a process in which an object is physically manipulated by an animator in tiny increments between individual frames of film so that it has the illusion of movement when the film is played back.

  The creation of Harryhausen's creatures usually began with stainless steel or aluminum armatures that were then covered in foam latex. For show-biz appeal, he called his stop-motion process Dynamation.

  My pet peeve is when people refer to the painstaking effects process Harryhausen used to animate his fantastic creations not as stop-motion animation or even Dynamation but as Claymation instead.

  The term Claymation was coined by animator Will Vinton (of California Raisins fame) in the late 1970s to differentiate his FX work from that of his competitors. 

  Claymation—aka plasticine animation—is a form of stop-motion animation, but one using clay models—as seen in work by Vinton, Art Clokey (Gumby) and Aardman Animations (Wallace and Gromit).

  Since Ray Harryhausen's magnificent models were made of foam latex and not clay, it's proper to refer to his work as Stop-Motion Animation or even Dynamation but not Claymation.

  I doubt today's dispatch will do anything to correct this common mistake, but as a life-long fan of Ray Harryhausen, I had to try.

 There's more to come in the next dispatch.

 ©2024 SummitCityScribe

Dispatch #342: Reza Badiyi

 

  The late Reza Badiyi (1930-2011) was a showbiz legend who directed over 430 episodes of American television. Name a TV show that aired in the US from 1963 to 1999, and Badiyi was probably behind the camera for at least one episode.

  When I think of Reza, however, it's for the iconic openings he created for two of those shows: Hawaii Five-O in 1968 and The Mary Tyler Moore Show in 1970.

  After being hired by Hawaii Five-O's creator, Leonard Freeman, to create the tiles for his new cop series, Reza flew to the islands to shoot footage for the show's opening. In an interview with the Televison Academy, he spoke about the experience, which you can view here.

   Listening to that clip, it's incredible to think that the iconic big wave shot that's instantly familiar to any Five-O fan was almost lost. 

  Standing on a rocky outcropping (likely at Honolulu's North Point) Reza was drenched by the pounding surf while shooting wave footage—and his camera was filled with salt water. 

  Despite this potentially devastating setback, Reza sent the film off to be developed anyway—and TV history was made with the indelible wave image that survived.

  Almost as iconic as that big Hawaiian wave was Mary Tyler Moore throwing her hat into the air with joyous abandon during the opening titles of her 1970s sitcom. 

 While shooting exterior footage at the Nicolette Mall in Minneapolis, Reza impulsively asked Moore to toss her Tam o' Shanter into the air, which she did, thus creating another iconic TV image—and inadvertently making a minor celebrity out of puzzled onlooker Hazel Frederick.

   Reza Badiyi had a long, impressive career and an interesting life. Early on, he worked with close friend Robert Altman, was the assistant director on the 1962 horror classic, Carnival of Souls, and was stepfather to actress Jennifer Jason Leigh. 

  If you'd like to watch the full 9-part Television Academy interview with Mr. Badiyi, you can do so here.

  Directing over 430 hours of entertainment is quite a feat, but as a kid who grew up on 1970s TV, I'll always remember Reza fondly those iconic openings of Hawaii Five-O and The Mary Tyler Moore Show.

  There's more to come in the next dispatch.

  ©2023 SummitCityScribe

Dispatch #331: The Music of John Barry, Part Two

 

  Today's dispatch continues my reflections on the film music of John Barry. You can read Part One here.

  By the time I became aware of John Barry's work in the early 1970s, he'd already won three Academy Awards—two for Born Free (1966) and a third for The Lion in Winter (1968). He would eventually go on to win two more—Out of Africa (1985) and Dances with Wolves (1990)—for a total of five Oscars.

  As I got older, I began seeking out Barry's work beyond the James Bond series, which led me to discover the wonderful music he wrote for films such as Seance on a Wet Afternoon (1964), The Ipcress File (1965), Midnight Cowboy and The Appointment (both 1969), Monte Walsh (1970), and Robin and Marian (1976).

  While tracing the Barry's film career, I noted the evolution of his sound—from the early big, brassy, Stan Kenton-esque Bond films to his later, lushly romantic scores. 

  This later period produced not only his gorgeous work on the classic cinematic love stories Somewhere in Time (1980) and Out of Africa (1985) but even—believe it or not—a beautiful romantic theme for George Lucas' Howard the Duck (1986). 

  

  His work on the later Bond films reflected this evolution, which is evident in tracks such as Bond Lured to Pyramid from Moonraker (1979), Wine with Stacey from A View to a Kill (1985) or the evocative Mujahadin and Opium from The Living Daylights (1987).

  

  As a devoted John Barry fan, I love all of his wonderful film scores, but I suppose my personal favorites are The Lion in Winter, Somewhere in Time, and Out of Africa. 

  Like all great scores, they perfectly complement and enhance the images they accompany onscreen—but also exist as beautiful music that can be enjoyed by itself.

John Barry (1933-2011)

There's more to come in the next dispatch.

©2023 SummitCityScribe

Dispatch #330: The Music of John Barry, Part One

 

Composer John Barry

  As a long-time film score aficionado, Jerry Goldsmith and John Barry top the list of my favorite composers. Today's dispatch focuses on the Yorkshire-born John Barry.

  In the early 1970s, the James Bond films began airing on American television for the first time, usually on the ABC Sunday Night Movie. 

  The first of these broadcasts I remember watching was Thunderball in September of 1974, followed by Dr. No two months later. As a kid, I was thrilled not just by the action and exotic locales in both films, but by the stirring music, too—although at the time I didn't note who'd composed it.

   A year later, ABC aired Diamonds Are Forever in September of 1975, followed by You Only Live Twice in November. This time I watched the opening credits closely to learn the name of the composer: John Barry.

  Each film contained thrilling sequences set in outer space: in the climax of Diamonds, a satellite laser weapon wreaks havoc on military targets, while YOLT opened with the abduction of an American spacecraft in Earth orbit. 

  John Barry's lush score elevated both sequences: in Diamonds, it's his track 007 and Counting, while for YOLT, it's Capsule in Space.

  The following year, in December 1976, the Dino DeLaurentis remake of King Kong hit theaters. Although it paled in comparison to the 1933 original (which I'd already seen on TV by that point), I loved the '76 Kong for all its flaws. 

  In fact, King Kong became the very first film I ever went back to see more than once in the theater (it would be five months before I would do so again—when Star Wars came out in the summer of 1977).

  

  Aside from Kong himself, a big reason I returned to see the film was to experience the magnificent John Barry score. I mean, who'd have thought a movie with a guy running around in an ape suit would contain tracks as lovely as John Barry's Arrival on the Island?

  I'd recognized Barry's name in Kong's opening credits as the same fellow who'd done those terrific James Bond scores, and the burgeoning movie music fan in me quickly claimed him as one of my favorites. 

  A few months later, when I stumbled across the original soundtrack LP for Barry's On Her Majesty's Secret Service in the bargain bin at Musicland, it became the first film score I ever purchased—inaugurating a life-long hobby and cementing an appreciation for the talented composer—both of which continue to this day.

  There's more to come in the next dispatch.

  ©2023 SummitCityScribe

Dispatch #320: Where the Saguaros Bloom

   For over a dozen years, I called the city of Tucson, Arizona home. I loved the dry Sonoran Desert air, the perpetually sunny skies, and the ubiquitous Saguaro cacti. 

   Having walked through plenty of forests in my time, I can say that there are few views as majestic and breathtaking as those inside Pima County's Saguaro National Park. 

   Long before I moved to the Arizona, I'd seen so many images of the tall, multi-armed cacti in western movies and TV shows that I began to associate them generally with the American Southwest. 

   I didn't know then that the long-lived species—who only begin to grow their distinctive "arms" at age 75—are only native to a rather narrow area of Southern California, Arizona, and Mexico.

Saguaro Habitat

   Despite this, I've watched dozens of cowboy movies supposedly set in New Mexico, Oklahoma, or Texas that feature Saguaros in the background. Even worse, I once spotted a jar of Lone Star Salsa in the grocery that sported a green saguaro prominently on its yellow label.

    Much like how the color of mailboxes are a clue as to when a movie or TV show was filmed, the presence of a saguaro is an indication as to where it was filmed—usually near Arizona's Old Tucson Studios—a facility used in hundreds of productions since 1940.

    So, the next time you're watching a movie or TV show set in American West, check the landscape for the majestic saguaros. If you spot some, you'll know it was probably filmed in Arizona or Mexico—but definitely not Texas.

  There's more to come in the next dispatch.

  ©2023 SummitCityScribe

Dispatch #314: Marty Krofft 1937-2023

 

Marty Krofft shares the stage with H.R. Pufnstuf

    Marty Krofft—who, along with his brother Sid—produced some of the most imaginative kids shows ever seen on American TV, has died at the age of 86.

     Most of my Saturday mornings during the late 1960s and early 1970s were spent on the living room floor in front of my family's TV, where I eagerly watched Krofft offerings such as H.R. Pufnstuf, Lidsville, Electra Woman and Dyna Girl, Sigmund and the Sea Monsters, and my favorite, Land of the Lost.

     Krofft shows were colorful, wildly creative, and highly original—unlike so much modern children's fare, they weren't based on preexisting toys or games. They were also never mean-spirited or cynical.

     Long before I was reading comic books or watching genre movies, Saturday morning shows by people like Sid & Marty Krofft (along with Joe Barbera & Bill Hanna) really helped to fuel my young imagination. I know my childhood would have been much poorer without them.

    Writer Mark Evanier, who worked on several Krofft projects over the years, published a nice piece about his former boss at his blog, where he also recommends a Variety obit for Marty that's a good overview of a remarkable career.

Marty Krofft (1937-2023) R.I.P.

  There's more to come in the next dispatch.

  ©2023 SummitCityScribe

Dispatch #310: On the Color of Mailboxes

 

Red, White, & Blue vs. Blue & White

   I watch a lot of vintage TV, and something occurred to me the other day after watching an episode of Mannix followed by The Streets of San Francisco.

  I can usually pin down when an old show originally aired from the hairstyles or clothing, but another way to narrow it down is to note the color of U.S. Post Office mailboxes on streetcorners.

  In 1955, the U.S. Postmaster General decreed that all street collection boxes would be painted red, white, and blue—and they stayed that way for 15 years. 

  Cost-cutting during the Nixon administration mandated a simpler blue-and-white color scheme (eliminating red would save money, the feds claimed). Although the USPS eagle logo has been streamlined, the boxes remain blue to this day.

  Mannix aired on CBS from 1967-1975, but as soon as I spotted a red-and-blue mailbox on a streetcorner in the episode I was watching, it was a pretty safe bet that it was filmed prior to 1970 (it turned out to be from April,1968).

  The Streets of San Francisco, on the other hand, aired on ABC from 1972-1977, so naturally all the streetcorner collection boxes seen in that show are of the blue-and-white variety.

   Anyway, the next time you watch an old movie or TV show, see if you can spot any mailboxes in the street scenes—and if you do, take note of the color scheme. 

   I suppose you could make a drinking game out of it, but I don't know how fun it would be. Sightings of those boxes in those old shows are infrequent, so you'd probably never empty your first glass.

  There's more to come in the next dispatch.

  ©2023 SummitCityScribe

#304: Ghosts of Junkyards Past

 

When I was a kid, there was a huge scrapyard on Clinton Street just across from Fort Wayne's Lawton Park. Despite a corrugated metal fence along the property—originally known as Superior Iron and Metal—stacks of junk cars and scrap metal eventually grew so tall they were easily visible to passing motorists.

That junkyard eyesore is long gone, but recent announcements about new developments slated for the property (which you can read about here and here) made me wonder how many people remember what used to be on that land—and what may still be there.

Back in the year 2000, a soil study of the former junkyard revealed unsafe levels of argon, cadmium, lead, mercury, and PCBs—all pretty bad stuff—and spills of diesel fuel, gasoline, and cleaning solvents were reported on the site. At this point I'm sure you're thinking: but that report was over 20 years ago, so surely everything's all good now, right? 😟🤞

Normally, I think any news about the continued development of downtown Fort Wayne is good news, but in this case, I intend to steer well clear of any future developments on the old OmniSource site. I mean, who wants an ice-cold PBR with a PCB chaser?

    There's more to come in the next dispatch.

    ©2023 SummitCityScribe

Dispatch #292: The Time(s) My Mother Took Me to a Slasher Film

John Carpenter's Halloween turns 45 this month, and lately I've been thinking about the first time I saw that classic fright flick up on the big screen.

As I wrote in a much earlier Dispatch, my mother loved movies, and among her favorite kinds were thrillers and murder mysteries.

One of my earliest childhood movie memories is watching Stanley Kubrick's Killer's Kiss on the living room couch with my mom—eventually pulling a blanket over my head when the picture's creepy climax in a warehouse full of mannequins became too much for me.

On that same living room couch we also watched Barbara Stanwyck in Sorry, Wrong Number, Dorothy McGuire in The Spiral Staircase, Ross Martin and Stephanie Powers in Experiment in Terror, and a very scary Bette Davis as The Nanny.

As I got older, mom and I would often spend Saturday afternoons at one of our local cinemas. We saw all kinds of films during those weekends in the 1970s, but in particular a lot of thrillers—both good and bad: Jaws, William Castle's Bug, Grizzly, The Eagle Has Landed, The Cassandra Crossing, Twilight's Last Gleaming, The Boys from Brazil, Capricorn One, and Phil Kaufman's Invasion of the Body Snatchers.

In late October 1978, mom saw a commercial for a new flick she thought looked pretty scary and chose it for our weekly movie outing. 

 As it turns out, she was right, but I don't think either of us were prepared for the intensity of John Carpenter's Halloween. This wasn't a murder mystery like Agatha Christie's Ten Little Indians—it was a full-on slasher film, and it scared us silly that Saturday afternoon. 

As I hadn't seen any of his earlier films (Assault on Precinct 13, Dark Star), I remember thinking beforehand it was pretty bold the film was advertised as John Carpenter's Halloween, a privilege usually only afforded to established directors such as Alfred Hitchcock. 

Afterward, I realized it was pretty clever, assuring that everyone knew the name of the man behind the stylish, low-budget thriller—who would later go on to give us The Fog, Escape From New York, The Thing, and They Live, among other iconic films.

That screening of John Carpenter's Halloween wasn't the only time my mother and I saw a rather intense film together, either. Thanks to our weekly movie ritual, we also saw Midnight Express, The Deer Hunter, Apocalypse Now, and Ridley Scott's Alien, too. 

As these features were all R-rated, I was usually the only kid in my class to see them, but even for those of my intrepid peers who did manage to sneak into a Halloween screening back in October of '78, I think it's safe to say that none of them saw the spooky slasher film as I did—with a movie-loving mother by their side. 

Several months later, in the summer of 1980, mom took me to see another thriller with a high body-count: Friday the 13th. Yes, that's right: I actually saw two iconic slasher films with my mother. 

Unfortunately, director Sean Cunnigham was no John Carpenter, leaving us both disappointed. "I can't believe Betsy Palmer was in such a lousy picture," mom grumbled as we walked out of the theater. 

Obviously, we had no idea at that moment how Jason Voorhees would continue to haunt movie screens for decades to come—we just agreed that Friday the 13th couldn't hold a candle to those old black & white thrillers we used to watch together on the living room couch.

There's more to come in the next dispatch.

©2023 SummitCityScribe

Dispatch #291: It's a Bloggy Anniversary!

      Believe it or not, today marks three years to the day since I began this blog back in October 2020. Back then, I saw it as a place to publicize my Young Adult fantasy series, The Samantha Stanton Adventures (and post background material about it, too).

     Eventually, circumstances necessitated moving all of that content to a brand-new online home, and Dispatches from Aldeburgh morphed into a place for me to write about other stuff—whatever's on my mind, really. Sometimes it's a bit of nostalgia, other times it's my take on current/local events.

     As long as it remains fun and not a chore, I'll continue to post random stuff here—to the delight of a select few and the continued chagrin of everyone else. 

     There's more to come in the next dispatch.

     ©2023 SummitCityScribe