The Films of 1974: The Towering Inferno

The Towering Inferno (1974) is the towering accomplishment of the 1970s cinema of disaster. 

This Irwin Allen film was directed by John Guillermin (King Kong [1976]), nominated for eight Academy Awards including Best Picture, and it took home awards for best cinematography, best editing, and even best song . 

As one might expect from a list of kudos like that, The Towering Inferno is dazzling in terms of visual presentation, and more than that, the film is highly suspenseful. Some scenes, especially those involving the fate of Robert Wagner’s character, are also harrowing, and quite frightening. The fire effects are, for the most part, legitimately terrifying too.  

Yet The Towering Inferno holds up best today -- more than forty years later -- due to its carefully constructed social commentary.                                          

I noted in my review of Irwin Allen’s The Poseidon Adventure (1972) last week how that disaster film transmitted a specific philosophy: a brand of muscular Christianity that states, essentially, God helps those who help themselves. Gene Hackman’s character, the reverend, was a spiritual leader, rallying the ship’s survivors to survive one crisis after the other.

The Towering Inferno doesn’t present a spiritual story-line to go with its chaotic tale of an out-of-control fire, but instead transmits a strong message about one very real pitfall of unfettered capitalism.  

Essentially, the film suggests that if the contest for a business is between turning a profit, or insuring the safety of its customers….the bottom line is going to win out, and people aren’t.

As we discover early in the film, shortcuts have been taken on the fiery building’s electrical wiring by a morally bankrupt subcontractor, Simmons (Richard Chamberlain). 

Simmons wasn’t exactly acting alone, either. Jim Duncan (William Holden), the head of the construction company, was going perilously over-budget on the project, and needed Simmons to save two-million dollars...somewhere.

Well, Simmons found the place where he could save that money. And in the end, though two million dollars were saved, at least before the disaster, roughly two-hundred people also lost their lives because of his actions.

This idea of a high-rise building being a dangerous fiasco or scam, essentially (especially considering the company’s abundantly ironic motto: “we build for life,”) is dynamically reflected in one of the film’s intimate subplots or "B" stories. 

A con-man named Claiborne (Best Supporting Actor nominee Fred Astaire), attempts to bilk a party-goer, doomed Lisolette (Jennifer Jones) out of her money. He too values money more than he does people.

Even the very structure underlining the film's character conflicts -- with corporate big-wigs like Duncan and Simmons on one side, and heroic, municipal firefighters like O'Halloran on the other -- adds to the leitmotif about the pitfalls of avarice and greed. A businessman is a person out to line his or her pockets. A municipal fire worker, by comparison, is someone who has dedicated his or her life to helping others.

There's clearly a conflict between those goals, and The Towering Inferno diagrams those conflicts beautifully.

Because it includes this social commentary about our society, The Towering Inferno isn’t mere escapism or disaster porn, as it has been accused of being by some critics.

Instead, this film from Irwin Allen proves a riveting and suspenseful experience that warns its audience that in their rush to make money, some people will cut corners…at the expense of the rest of us.

“We have an equipment problem.”

On the day of a gala party celebrating its opening, the architect behind the 138 story (and 135 floor…) Glass Tower, Doug Roberts flies into San Francisco by helicopter.  

He is greeted at the tower by his romantic partner, Susan Franklin (Faye Dunaway), who informs him that she wants to stay in the city and take an important new media job rather than leave the city with Doug.

Following this meeting, Doug is alarmed to  learn that safety-back-ups are not yet installed in the building, and there are indications of a fire somewhere in the skyscraper. He discovers that some wiring is too hot, and realizes that the electrical sub-contractor, Simmons (Chamberlain), did not follow specs. Instead, he used cheap wiring with no conduit covers.

Doug is worried the situation could escalate to a full-fledged disaster, but the construction company’s boss, Jim Duncan (William Holden) refuses to cancel the impending party, in part because a Senator (Robert Vaughn) and the Mayor are slated to attend.

Soon, a fuse box blows out on Floor 81, and starts a raging, ever-growing fire.  This conflagration begins to burn out of control, and Doug calls the S.F. Fire Department after a co-worker, Geddings (Norman Burton) dies from burns. 

Fireman Mike O’Halloran (Steve McQueen) arrives on the scene with a team of dedicated fire-men, but he informs Doug that if the fire is above the seventh floor, there is no good way for his men to combat it.

The fire is on the 81st floor..and moving up.

This situation goes from bad to worse as the fire spreads, killing the passengers on an express elevator, and endangering all the party goers on the top floor, in the Promenade Room.

“I want both, and I can’t have both, can I?”

I noted above that The Towering Inferno -- based on the books The Tower and The Glass Inferno -- is actually a social critique of unregulated capitalism. 

A construction company in bed with political elites (the aforementioned senator and mayor) has cut corners to make its budget and get the construction permits that it needs. 

The budget is ultimately satisfied, but human decency is not.  

This leviathan of a skyscraper may be beautiful to look at, but is demonstrably unsafe. 

“Built for life,” in this case, means built for a day. The building does not survive its inaugural celebration.

Simmons is the obvious bad guy here. He installs wiring without conduit covers, and as a result, the wires get too hot. They overheat. They start a fire.

It’s easy to blame Simmons for the entire crisis since he was the hands-on fellow who changed Doug’s specs. 

But there is plenty of responsibility to go around, as Simmons points out. Duncan, of course, wanted to save money, and that became his most urgent concern.  Even if he didn’t specifically tell Simmons to authorize faulty wiring, he created the environment wherein Simmons felt it was permissible to do so. 

 In The Towering Inferno’s climax, Duncan is contrite because he knows fully the role he played in the deaths of 200 people. “All I can do now is pray to God I can stop this from happening again,” he notes.

For some, that may be too little too late.

Similarly, Doug bears some responsibility too. True, he absolutely designed a building he believed would be safe. But Doug never ran his ideas past by an expert who might know something about skyscrapers, fires, and safety issues; a man like O’Halloran. 

O’Halloran calls him out in the film over this particular oversight, noting that Doug is fully aware that buildings as tall as the Glass Tower can’t be protected from fire, and yet Doug keeps designing such buildings.  

At movie’s end, Doug sees the error of his ways, and says that the ruined building ought to be left standing as a “shrine to all the bullshit in the world.”

This was, actually, a building erected on the shaky foundations of bullshit. It had better marketing --- built for life? -- than it did actual safety precautions. It is a reminder of what happens when greed is made more important than human lives.

Poor old Mr. Claiborne is not a bad person, but he too lives by scamming money from people. He pretends to be rich, but can’t even afford taxi fare, as we see in the film’s first act.  He place a greater value on money than on people, and when he loses poor Lisolette, he sees the error of his ways.  He has lost a person he loves, and nothing can make that loss better for him. It was a person, not a “mark” in a con game that ultimately matters most to him. Claiborne's punishment is that he shall be left alone -- with only Lisolette's cat, Elke -- when he could have had the companionship and love of a dear woman.

The film's leitmotif about runaway capitalism and avarice is even mirrored, to some degree, in Susan’s story.  She’s been waiting for five years to get a promotion to story editor at her job, and now the opportunity lands in her lap. She expresses her desire, openly, to have it all, both her job and the man she loves. “I want both, and I can’t have both,” she complains. We can see here the seeds of conspicuous consumption, and the idea that we can have everything we want, when we want it, all the time.

The party-goers in the Promenade are not exactly sterling characters, either, for the most part. 

They panic, they push, and they sow disorder through their ill-considered actions. We want them to survive, but cannot escape the notion, either, that they are in danger in the first place because of their wealth (their money, again), and their power. 

Again, and again, these rich people put themselves first. Two women run onto the roof, for instance, for a rescue helicopter, even though Doug warns them not to go. These women interfere, and the copter crashes and burns. People die because they didn't obey the rules.  Just as Duncan and Simmons didn't obey the rules.

At another point, the party-goers flood the express elevator, even though they have been told not to do so; that the express elevator is dangerous.  They are killed.

The message here seems to be that these people want everything, right now, and nothing -- not even safety concerns -- is going to stop them from getting what they want.

But just try negotiating with a fire...

And of course, attempting to restore order in this chaotic situation we find heroic O’Halloran. He is not a fire-fighter for the money, the power, or the prestige. He is a municipal worker: a civic worker reporting to a public hierarchy.  

And even though the powerful don’t listen to him, O'Halloran rushes in to rescue them when they are endangered. They could not care less about his life, but he puts his neck on the line again and again for the civilians at risk.  

At the end of the movie, O'Halloran has been through the wringer, and yet one feels he would do it again in a heart-beat.  In one great shot, O'Halloran takes in the scene on the ground floor.  He scans the wreckage. His men are in body bags. Their equipment is strewn across the floor.  

This is the cost of staying on a budget; of making a profit  At least for O'Halloran.

O'Halloran serves as the living, breathing mirror of those he saves. He’s not interested in money or power. He’s interested in putting safety, not profit, first.  

By contrast, Doug is the character in the film who starts on one side (that of the corporate interests), and changes allegiances as the truth about the building is revealed.  In the end, he is left humbled by this experience, and will not make the same mistake again.  The film’s closing lines involve his desire to seek out O’Halloran the next time that he designs a building. 

He knows where to find him. That's where he's been all along.

The Towering Inferno's tragedy of greed is played out against an amazing and spectacular cinematic background.  

One scene that remains awesome and terrifying involves Robert Wagner’s character, Don Bigelow.  He dons a wet towel, and runs out into a room on fire, convinced he can safely reach an exit.  

He is consumed in fire in seconds. It devours him.

It goes without saying that this horrifying moment is not faked with digital special effects. A stunt man accomplished this run, and it was edited for maximum impact in slow-motion photography so the terror is extended. The moment is stunning and horrifying, and impossible to look away from. It captures the beauty and destructive power of fire in visceral terms.

Other scenes will cause your belly to drop, or flop. 

Late in the film, one nail-biting rescue attempt involves sending a lone person in a chair across a dangling line connecting two buildings  Although some of the process work has aged a bit -- the rear projection, specifically -- this moment still looks great in high-definition. A poor soul sits in that chair (belted in), and is moves slowly in mid-air between burning building and distant sanctuary.

I would not want to take that ride.

Before the film is done, we also see water tanks explode and flood the fire -- buffeting the survivors in the Promenade Room -- and a scenic elevator come off its track and dangle dangerously 110 floors from terra firma. 

These moments are executed with an eye towards maximum suspense and realism.

What surprised me, watching the film today, is that every minute seems genuinely suspenseful, rather than histrionic, and I actually cared about what happens to the characters, especially those played by Newman, McQueen, Dunaway, Astaire, and Jones. 

They don’t all make it out alive.

I felt very enthusiastic on my re-watch of The Poseidon Adventure last week, and assumed that The Towering Inferno might not compare favorably. The Poseidon Adventure was short, to the point, and right on target with its commentary about mankind making his own way in the world.

On the contrary, however, The Towering Inferno may just be the zenith of the seventies disaster format.  

The actors are not just good, but fully engaged, the danger is palpable, the threat is not merely pervasive, but in a way, beautiful, and there’s an undercurrent of social critique underlining all the action. The story means something, in the final analysis.

And that’s how you made blockbusters in the mid-1970s.

Lost in Space 50th Anniversary Blogging: The Girl from the Green Dimension" (January 4, 1967)

In “The Girl in the Green Dimension,” the space siren who once attempted to lure Dr. Smith (Jonathan Harris) to the stars (in “Wild Adventure”) returns. This time, Athena (Vitina Marcus) is in love with Smith and believes him to be a handsome warrior.

Smith realizes that Athena, from the “green dimension,” has the ability to see the future, and decides she is worth having around.  At least, that is, until a suitor shows up for her: the green-skinned space Viking named Urso (Harry Raybould). 

Because Smith refuses to fight Urso for Athena’s hand, the alien turns Will (Bill Mumy) green too.

It’s not easy being green. It’s also not easy reviewing this spell of Lost in Space’s (1965-1968) second season. It would be difficult to name a sillier, more inconsequential title than this week’s installment, “The Girl in the Green Dimension.”  It’s sub-Gilligan’s Island fare.

The absurdities pile up pretty past, but I’ll enumerate some of them here to give you a taste.  The first involves the fact that Athena is apparently in love with Smith and considers him a brave warrior.  He is hardly suitable courtship material.  She is gorgeous and exotic…he’s a middle-aged pear.  So why the attraction?

Secondly, Will gets turned green – and then back to normal – by means that can only be termed magic.  Apparently, only Urso, not Athena, can change the molecular structure of people by touch. Does this mean all green men of the Green dimension have this power? 

Thirdly, we are asked to believe that the Robinsons would hold a funeral for a piece of Jupiter 2’s equipment.  The family members literally bury the equipment, gather around the mound, and then say kind words about it; they eulogize it.  This occurs, naturally, so Smith can see a vision of the “future” and think that it is his funeral the family has witnessed.  After witnessing this vision of his death, he walks around the planet surface carrying his own half-carved tombstone.

“Wild Adventure” is one of the absolute worst episodes of the second season, so it’s a baffling choice to pick up that story line in “The Girl from the Green Dimension.”  Worse, nothing about this story makes the slightest bit of sense, from the telescope that can show the future to Athena’s affection for Smith as a brave, handsome warrior.  It all seems to take place in some bizarre universe where up is down, black is white, and green is, well, green.

Some folks have seen “The Girl from the Green Dimension” as a commentary on racial differences and belonging, because of Will’s tribulations as a green boy.  He is afraid to show his face to his family, after turning green, fearful that his siblings will reject him because he is “different.”

Indeed, that could have been the point of the episode, but it isn’t.  Instead, it’s the only bearable subplot the episode has to offer.  A better episode would have featured Will’s change as the main point, and challenged his family’s thinking on what is ‘normal,’ and the importance of skin color.  “The Girl from the Green Dimension” barely touches on those notions, and certainly not enough to merit a positive review.

In two weeks: "The Questing Beast."

Lost in Space 50th Anniversary Blogging: "The Golden Man" (December 28, 1966)

In “The Golden Man,” Dr. Smith (Jonathan Harris) and Penny (Angela Cartwright) encounter a landed alien ship and finds it manned by a green being who calls humans “stupid and avaricious.” 

They return to camp and warn Mrs. Robinson (June Lockhart) about the visitor since John and Will are away on an expedition.

Before long, a second alien -- a golden man, Keema (Dennis Patrick) -- also appears, and reports that he is at war with the other alien.  He claims it is sinister and dangerous and must be destroyed.  Dr. Smith agrees with this assessment, but Mrs. Robinson is her judicious self.  “There are two sides to every argument,” she notes.  Penny agrees, and she attempts to befriend the green, frog-like alien.

As the Robinsons choose sides in this conflict, the danger of a shooting war between alien races looms large.

In some crucial way, one might consider “The Golden Man” Lost in Space’s (1965-1968) version of “Let that Be Your Last Battlefield,’ on Star Trek (1966-1969). Both episodes concern aliens of diametrically opposed viewpoints (as Spock might say), and both stories are didactic in nature.

“Let That Be Your Last Battlefield” exposes the utter idiocy of racism though its use of the two-toned Cheron-ian aliens, and “The Golden Man” warns humans not to judge a book by its cover. 

In this case, the beautiful, resplendent Golden man is evil, and the hideous frog creature is not.  Smith can’t see through the Golden’s Man’s “beautiful” appearance (and gift-giving) to detect the truth regarding his character.  Only a child, the perceptive Penny, can do that. 

Accordingly, the best part of the episode involves Penny’s attempt to befriend the frog alien, even though he isn’t a very sociable sort.  

The point is that she keeps trying, and is willing to judge the being not on his physical appearance, but on other factors. As humans, we gravitate towards those people, places and thing we find beautiful, ignoring the fact that what is beautiful is not, by definition, good.

On other fronts, “The Golden Man” showcases Lost in Space at its second season worst.  Here for instance, Smith and Penny encounter a minefield composed of terrestrial beach balls.  I don’t believe any explanation is provided for the fact that the mines resemble beach balls, but it’s an absurd, campy touch.  

The shooting war between the aliens, while pitched, is also small-potatoes, visually. 

June Lockhart, playing the matriarch of the Earth family, gets out of this episode with her dignity intact. Even in the worst stories, Maureen Robinson is a great character, and someone worth looking up to. She makes a damn fine leader, too.

Next week: “The Girl in the Green Dimension”

Lost in Space 50th Anniversary Blogging: "The Dream Monster" (December 21, 1966)

In “The Dream Monster,” an alien scientist called Sesmar (John Abbott) approaches Penny (Angela Cartwright), and marvels at her emotional reaction to a beautiful flower. 

He has constructed a biped android, called Raddion (Dawson Palmer), who is perfect in every way except for one: he cannot experience human emotions.

Sesmar realizes, however, that he can transfer emotions from human beings to Raddion using a strange camera and “transpirator” cards. 

The scientist recruits the cowardly Dr. Smith (Jonathan Harris) to rob the Robinsons of their emotional states, including John’s leadership, Maureen’s love, Will’s curiosity, and so on. 

Only Major West (Mark Goddard) sees through the plan, but he is not able to prevent the family from losing its humanity.

West and Smith team up to defeat Sesmar, and save the Robinsons from a future without emotions.

“The Dream Monster” is not a terrible episode of Lost in Space (1965-1968), and is actually pretty good in light of some episodes of the second season.  

Although it lacks the frightfulness of “The Wreck of the Robot” and the intrigue of “Prisoners in Space” (both season highlights…) this story nonetheless makes a good point about human emotions.  They may be troublesome, and dangerous at times, but they are worth it. 

They are the things, actually, that drive us to achieve, to be our best.

“The Dream Monster” commences with a heat wave on the planet. The Jupiter 2’s air conditioning system has failed, and everybody is hot…and irritable. West acts, literally, as a “hot-head,” finding fault with John’s (Guy Williams) comments; believing they are directed at him. Maureen, meanwhile, can’t find Penny, and is agitated.

Everyone is short-tempered with one another because they are physically uncomfortable. They let their mood be dictated by their discomfort, and act badly.  

But this kind of short-tempered behavior is the price we all willingly pay for having emotions. For without emotions, John can’t muster the energy (or loyalty…) to be a leader.  Maureen is robbed of the essential quality of love, and as we have seen in the series, it is her love that holds the family together on so many occasions.

And, in the end, West’s emotion of aggression, or bull-headedness combines with Smith’s cunning to save the family. The audience thus understand that even the negative emotions experienced by the Robinsons serve an important purpose.

On those terms, “The Dream Monster” is an intriguing and worthwhile story. I didn't feel debauched watching it.  On the terms that Lost in Space has set for itself in the second story, this particular tale can be described as having some value or virtue.

Other aspects of the narrative don’t seem to work nearly as well as the didactic through-line about emotions.  

There is no valid science behind biophysicist Sesmar’s technology, which robs people of emotions, for example.  

On the other hand, we have all heard those legends of indigenous peoples who didn't want their photographs taken, for fear that the photos would rob them of their souls.  In a very real way, Sesmar's technology -- resembling photography -- does that very thing.  If one accepts that the "science" of Sesmar is beyond the understanding of the Robinsons -- just as the science of photography was beyond those early, indigenous folk -- perhaps the issues of technology aren't so troubling here after all.

I do find it of concern, however, that there isn’t really any motivation for Sesmar to act in the fashion he chooses here.  I would like to know more about him. 

Does he possess emotions?  If he doesn’t, it’s difficult to understand why he would prize them so much for his android.  

And if he does possess them, Sesmar shouldn’t react with such surprise to the presence of emotions in others, right?  

Indeed, his science in the episode automatically and instantly categorizes the emotions of Dr. Smith and the others.  So if his tools so completely understand them, he should do so too.  Yet if that’s the case, why does he react with such surprise and wonder to Penny’s emotions?  

So we are to believe he knows of emotions, doesn't possess them, but prizes them for his android above all other things?   Huh?

The solution at the end of the episode -- destroying the “transpirator” cards holding the Robinsons’ emotions -- doesn’t make a lot of sense, either. If the cards storing the emotions are destroyed, wouldn’t the emotions within them also be destroyed?  Why do these emotions just fly back, as though guided missiles, to those who spawned them?  

The whole point of this technology seems to be to interchangeably move emotional states between people.  So why is there an automatic recall to the source once the emotions are out of the cards?

“The Dream Monster” also feels like a step backwards in the series’ treatment of Dr. Smith.  Here he is right back to the first season’s “Invaders from the Fifth Dimension,” selling the Robinsons down the river to preserve his own skin, and possibly get a ride home to Earth. He is back to his despicable phase here, for sure, and it is a poor creative choice.

But as always, Lost in Space’s merit is not in its deep or consistent science fiction plotting. 

Contrarily, the series' merit rests, in some sense, on its understanding and excavation of the nuclear family and its interrelationships .  We may gripe and bitch with our family members, but we also love them. That's a good lesson to remember as the Thanksgiving holiday approaches, right?

That whole equation of "family" breaks down without emotions underlining it.  If we don't "feel" for those around us, they are mere acquaintances.  If we don't feel empathy for others, why bother to go to another planet in the first place and rescue the human race?

Since this story focuses on a building bock of family -- our emotional lives -- "'The Dream Monster" isn't a bad show, or a bad example of Lost in Space at this particular historical juncture (mid-second season).

Next week: “The Golden Man.”

Lost in Space 50th Anniversary Blogging: "The Wreck of the Robot" (December 14, 1966)

In “The Wreck of the Robot, Will (Bill Mumy), Dr. Smith (Jonathan Harris) and the Robot encounter strange, sinister aliens in a cave.

These dark, curious beings want to take the Robot, and offer to pay for it, but Will refuses their ffer.

Later, the aliens make the same demand for the “mechanical man,” and Professor Robinson (Guy Williams) also refuses.   The Robot begins to feel fearful that his “number is up,” and that his days with his “family” are numbered.

When the macabre aliens act again, they board the Jupiter 2 by darkest night, take the robot and dismantle him.  They offer to return him -- though in pieces -- when their examination is through.

The Robot is returned, but soon all the mechanical devices in the Robinsons’ camp begin to act strangely…out of control. 

The family soon realizes that these aliens of “evil ambition” plan to conquer Earth.  And they will do so by turning man’s machines against him!

I won’t pull punches in my review today. 

"The Wreck of the Robot” is the best episode of Lost in Space’s (1965-1968) second season, at least so far.  It vies for this title with “Prisoners in Space,” but I would seat it just a bit higher than that fine, and entertaining entry.

Why such regard for this episode?

Although the episode is shot in color, “The Wreck of the Robot” strongly recalls the expressionist nightmares of season one installments such as “Wish Upon a Star,” and the child-like innocence (but also terror…) of such stories as “The Magic Mirror,” or “Attack of the Plant Monsters.”

This story involves strange, faceless aliens in cloaks and hats who are genuinely terrifying in image and movement. Yet their image is further enhanced by the compositions and shots chosen by the director, Nathan Juran. 

For example, these extraterrestrial creatures -- kind of early versions of Buffy the Vampire Slayer’s fearsome Gentlemen -- are sometimes seen only as shadows reflected on the hull of the Jupiter 2. And by pitch-black night, no less.

And in one thoroughly unnerving scene, these beings steal inside the safe haven of the Jupiter 2, and peek in on the children, Penny and Will, sleeping soundly.  They stand there and watch, before moving on, and the impression is one of real malevolence; real danger.  

On a series that so often feels silly, this invasion of “home” does not feel silly at all.

The fear being expressed in “The Wreck of the Robot,” quite simply, is something akin to “Stranger Danger.”  All children, I believe, understand this fear instinctively; that some malevolent adult stranger has set their sights on us, and wants to take us away from our family.

If one analyzes the images in “The Wreck of the Robot,” one begins to understand that’s exactly the story featured here. The alien strangers are, in terms of symbolism, depicted as strange “adults” in their formal hat and capes.  

Secondly, they arrive to steal one of the family -- the Robot -- who is deathly afraid of them.

And then, worst of all, these alien stranger come by night, as the children sleep, and invade the safety of the home (the Jupiter 2), while the parents are totally unaware, oblivious of the danger posed.  

The Robot is taken, metaphorically, from his home, at night and then “dismantled,” a kind of body image attack that is not far, idea-wise, from physical or sexual assault. After being returned and re-assembled, the Robot readily admits he feels uneasy; that he is not himself yet.  For lack of a better word, he is traumatized.

Given the metaphorical meaning of the tale, “The Wreck of the Robot” plays as something much like a child’s nightmare. The sinister aliens are both grotesque (for being faceless) and representative of adults (in their choice attire), yet also -- in some way -- whimsical or childish. They are the kind of monster a child might be afraid of. They are simultaneously repellent and impossible to stop watching.

“The Wreck of the Robot” also succeeds for two other reasons. First, it features a remarkable and heart-felt scene between John and Will Robinson. 

John wants to tell Will that he will be okay, even if he loses the robot, and one cannot help but think of a parent comforting a child over the loss or injury of a pet.  John tries to tell Will that he will be all right, no matter what happens to his friend.   Also in this scene, there’s a great moment about how fathers love their sons.  For them, John says, it is like reliving their own childhood; like he gets to grow up all over again.  This is, frankly, how I feel almost every day with my son.  I get to relive childhood through his eyes; his experiences. 

“The Wreck of the Robot” also seems to understand that a little Dr. Smith goes a long way.  He is not the center of the story, he does not attempt to deceitfully sell the Robot to the aliens, and his comic antics are not allowed to detract from the narrative’s sense of developing fear or terror.  The worst scene in the episode, in fact, is one in which Don and Judy tease Smith with the Robot’s severed head. But even that doesn’t ruin the episode, overall.

In terms of character development, “The Wreck of the Robot” certainly does a lot for the “Bubble Headed Booby.”  The Robot survives his abduction in the end, and destroys the alien machine -- when no man or machine can -- because of his unique nature.  As he suggests, the Robot is not a man and not a machine, either, but something in between.  He has a soul, perhaps one might conclude.

But even the Robot’s strange journey -- and sense of self-discovery in this episode -- is secondary to what I feel is a deeply psychological story about childhood, or adolescence; the fear of the adult world and its strange rules (again, represented by the aliens’ formal hats, I would suggests), as well as its murky, unspoken dangers.

I absolutely love Lost in Space when it plays on this terrain, as a kind of futuristic fairy tale for kids 

(think “The Magic Mirror” or “My Friend, Mr. Nobody.”) 

I readily confess that I have found some previous episodes of the second season not only tiresome, but actually atrocious.  “

"The Wreck of the Robot” rights the ship, at least for a moment.

Next week: “The Dream Monster.”

Lost in Space 50th Anniversary Blogging: "A Visit to Hades" (December 7, 1966)

In “A Visit to Hades,” Will (Bill Mumy), Dr. Smith (Jonathan Harris) and the Robot discover a strange lyre in the desert.  

When Smith strokes it, he is transported to a prison cell in another dimension; a complex which he mistakes for Hell itself.

There, the sole prisoner -- Morbus (Gerald Mohr) -- pretends to be the Devil, and tells Smith he will release him from Hades if he does one thing: destroy the lyre.

Smith is returned to the planet, but finds he can’t destroy the musical instrument. 

Before long, Morbus escapes from the prison and begins to romance Judy (Marta Kristen).

Soon, she ends up in the Hell/prison dimension too, and Professor Robinson (Guy Williams) and Don West (Mark Goddard) must rescue her.

“A Visit to Hades” is a strange episode indeed, but at least this week's installment features a solid sci-fi concept, in this case, an extra-dimensional prison, and the exile trapped there.  

As we learn in the course of the episode, Morbus has been trapped for 12,000 years in that cell and is seeking a way of escape.

Unfortunately, Lost in Space (1965-1968) fails to tell a truly gripping story with this premise. Instead, it wallows in high camp, and again, gets one main character very, very wrong.

In terms of the campy aspects of the story, I refer to one scene primarily. Morbus, using a “temporal projector” is able to scan Dr. Smith’s memories and see his sins.  

Instead of showing us Smith’s evil behavior -- sabotaging the Jupiter 2 (“The Reluctant Stowaway”), nearly killing Professor Robinson (“Island in the Sky”) or his attempt to sell Will to aliens (“Invaders from the Fifth Dimension”) -- the episode shows viewers a ridiculous scene of him stealing a chunk of Penny’s chocolate birthday cake.

Then, adding insult to injury, it reveals images of him as a youngster, making mischief, tattling on a fellow student and stealing copies of exams as a high school student. Such scenes might have been tolerable, except for the fact that they cast Harris – not other actors – as a six year old and as a seventeen year old.  They are impossible to take seriously.

Smith pretty much always looks bad, but “A Visit to Hades” does a terrible job developing the character of Judy Robinson. Now remember, she is a twenty-something year-old scientist, and an accomplished one at that.  

But this episode casts her as a fickle teenage girl. Judy flirts capriciously with Morbus, dissing Don and saying girls “like to have a choice.” This scene occurs after she is inexplicably rude to her mother, and complains about wanting to be left alone.  Then, she gets captured in Hell, starts to cry, and throws a temper tantrum at Morbus. She perks up only momentarily, when Morbus presents her with a diamond.  Then she's back to being a crybaby.

So…Judy’s fifteen years old now?

Sadly, Judy is probably the most underdeveloped character on the whole series. She has had one episode focus on her so far (“Attack of the Monster Plants,”) and that’s it.  So this episode should have been an opportunity to explore her persona more fully. 

Instead, the episode totally demeans the character and makes her act like a child. There’s just no way that Judy would reasonably behave in this fashion after roughly two years on the frontier, and everything she has been through. She is a tough survivor, at this point, not some egotistical teen.

The episode reaches its nadir, however, in the final scene, during which a belligerent Major West tries, and fails, to punch out Morbus, and then Judy hits him on the head, accidentally, with the lyre.  

The episode should have just gone all the way and featured animated balloons reading “ZONK!” or “POW!” over the action.

Eagle-eyed sci-fi movie fans may recognize the monster of the week: it’s part Metaluna mutant from This Island Earth (1951) and part Creature from the Black Lagoon (1954).

Next week: “The Wreck of the Robot.’