Lunch Box of the Week: 18 Wheelers

Theme Song of the Week: Convoy (C.B. McCall)

Michael Myers and "The Shape" of Terror in Halloween (1978)

Forty years ago, John Carpenter created a masterpiece of the horror genre, Halloween (1978).  Although the “slasher” trend has come and gone (and come back and gone again, in the 1990’s), the villain of Carpenter’s film, Michael Myers -- the Shape -- remains a potent terror in 2018.

So the question becomes: what is it, precisely, about John Carpenter's Halloween and its iconic “monster” that stands up to --- and actually encourages – continued study and fascination?

Understand, it’s not just the scrutiny of scholars, authors, bloggers, list-makers and admirers the globe around. Forty years after the film's release, Halloween's reputation only continues to grow, a fact evidenced by the premiere of a sequel later this week. 

Mainstream audiences feel the same way about Michael. Specifically, viewers of Halloween gaze intently at that blank, white, featureless (William Shatner) mask of "The Shape,” and then immediately recognize, at least subconsciously, that in terms of Michael, everyone is missing some crucial aspect of understanding.

Michael's true motives -- just like his concealing, ivory face-mask -- are not entirely filled in; not fully circumscribed. His personality and purpose seems oddly incomplete, and thus the shadowy, featureless mask fully and trenchantly reflects the inability to conceptualize or understand the thing that he represents.

From this lack of understanding grows the seeds of terror. 

Why does Michael kill?

Is he the Boogeyman?

What drives him? How does he survive point-blank bullet strikes? 

As in life itself, Halloween provides no easily digestible answer to myriad questions about mortality and murder, destiny, choice, and chance.  The film itself note this, at least tangentially, in the scene set in Laurie’s high school English class.  The teacher discusses there the concept of fate. Some people just cannot escape their fate, she insists. It is Laurie’s fate to become intertwined, forever, with Michael’s spree.

But even the idea of fate does not explain perfectly Michael’s existence or nature.

Yet Halloween does brilliantly provide the attentive viewers some intriguing clues about Michael Myers and the things he signifies. Some of these hints actually seem to conflict with one another; and some are just barely enunciated. But again, this very facet of ambiguity makes the film and the iconic character himself  resonate more powerfully in the mind of the viewers.

Stated simply, Halloween permits the imagination to fill in the narrative, explanatory gaps, and again, a sense of terror takes hold. Audiences see reflected in that blank, chilling mask all the things it fears -- all the things it doesn't understand -- about our lives in this mortal coil.

To boil this down Halloween provides us at least four important "leads" about Michael Myers true and highly unusual nature.  And it is important to remember that all of these clues don't take into account the "Laurie is his sister"-revisionism of the sequels. and the Zombie remakes).

These clues are, in no specific order:

1. Michael Myers is a Physical Representation of Laurie's Id.

This is the Freudian interpretation of John Carpenter's Halloween.  The Id is a component of Freud's so-called "psychic apparatus" or "structural model for the human psyche,” and basically, it houses the unconscious, basic drives, and instincts of the human animal. It controls the desire for sex and our other appetites too. It is amoral, chaotic, and egocentric.

Consider now the buttoned-down, Laurie Strode (Jamie Lee Curtis). She is both a good student and a responsible babysitter. She symbolizes the rationalist Ego, the part of the brain that holds the reins of control over our lives and seeks to "please" the Id in a socially and culturally acceptable fashion. The Ego represents common sense; even consciousness itself. This is the Freudian "borrowed face," the veneer of appropriateness plastered over the Id.

Accordingly, underneath the mask, Michael represents Laurie's Id, unfettered and on-the-loose, lashing out at those around her who more "honestly" contend with their drives and libidos (Annie and Linda) than does the Ego.

Laurie even seems to "activate" Michael Myers, at least in a sense, by singing aloud a modern magical incantation (a ballad) on the day he stalks her. The lyrics to that ballad go: "I wish I had you all alone, just the two of us," and set up, rather nicely, the thrust of Michael's murderous mission on October 31st. He systematically kills all of Laurie's friends and acquaintances until it is, indeed, just the two of them. Laurie’s friends have sex (or hope to have sex), and Michael destroys them because they express what Laurie cannot.

Now, of course, some readers may rightly remind me that Michael cannot possibly be a product of Laurie's Id, since Michael was alive and killing before she was even born (back in 1963). That's correct. But do we know for certain that Laurie's mission of murder isn't the very thing imprinted upon that mentally-deranged mind behind the blank-white mask?

Horror scholar and professor Vera Dika wrote that "Carpenter openly represents Michael as Laurie's "id." This reading is supported by the inclusion of footage from Forbidden Planet (1956)...The earlier film had portrayed a situation in which the unconscious desires, or the id, of the main character became manifest and threatened to destroy him and his world. Similarly, Laurie is almost destroyed by the strength of her repressed unconscious impulses. Her battle with Michael is a substitute for the sexual act." (Vera Dika, Games of Terror: Halloween, Friday the 13th and the Films of the Stalker Cycle. Fairleigh Dickinson University Press, 1990, page 51).

John Carpenter himself lends some credence to this Freudian interpretation of Halloween by noting that Laurie, "The one girl who is the most sexually uptight just keeps stabbing this guy with a long knife...Not because she's a virgin but because all that repressed sexual energy starts coming out. She uses all those phallic symbols on the guy...she doesn't have a boyfriend, and she finds someone -- him." (Danny Peary, Cult Movies. Delacorte Press, 1981, page 126).

This theory won't exactly find popularity with feminists or "Final Girl" proponents, since it positions Laurie as the repressed "creator" of the monster in Halloween, not a Girl-Powered heroine. In this reading, Laurie’s suppressed sexual appetite and longing is the drive that brings Michael to life as “The Shape” and even selects his victims. In this way, the noble Laurie somehow becomes responsible for Michael; or at the very least, connected to him in a very intimate, very personal way.

2. Michael Myers is Just a Developmentally Arrested Child Playing Halloween Tricks.

There's a such a thing as "psychological neoteny," the retention by adults of what are generally considered juvenile traits. In Halloween, Michael Myers seems "arrested" n an early point of childhood, acting out instances of so-called play but, because of his delayed maturity, failing to understand the true consequences of his actions.

A hallmark of childhood is the total and immersive interface with a world of make-believe play. In theory, make-believe play should teach a child to self-regulate and even learn self-discipline; a quality known as "executive function." But in Michael's specific case, nothing positive results from the fact that his mind is "frozen," essentially, in childhood. It's as though he's an overgrown kid, playing an elaborate trick-or-treat game without any acknowledgment of the harm that very game is causing to others outside himself.

It is impossible to deny the "game"-like aspects of Myers' behavior in the original Halloween. He sets a "stage" or "show "for Laurie in Lindsey's house: a prank involving the corpses of her friends and a stolen grave marking/head-stone.

Also, at least to some extent, it seems that Michael strongly identifies with young Tommy Doyle...since he follows the boy home from school too. Halloween II and later films seem to forget that Michael actually stalked two people on October 31st, 1978: Laurie and Tommy. Perhaps this is because Michael is essentially delayed at Tommy's age, and sees Doyle as a contemporary; or surrogate.

Michael evidences some interesting physical reactions after he kills the teenagers on Halloween night that also, if interpreted in a certain way, bolster this theory. He just stares and looks at them, tilting his head to one side. One must wonder if this Michael acts this way because the dead are -- counter to his  childish expectations -- not getting up and continuing to play. 

Michael has killed them, but doesn't really understand the finality of death. He is thus quizzical and curious over the corpses, wondering why the teens don't want to play anymore.

We can also judge that Michael is developmentally arrested at/or around 1963, the time when he committed his first murder (an action that no doubt also slowed down his formal education, another characteristic of many with delayed maturity.) 

3. Michael Myers is the Physical Embodiment of Fate

As note above, early in Halloween, there is a fascinating if brief scene set in a high school English class. Laurie is in attendance, listening only sporadically as an off-screen teacher drones on endlessly about the concept of fate in literature.

The unseen instructor then asks Laurie about her reading assignment, and Laurie answers by making a distinction between two authors, Samuels and Costaine.

She notes that "Costaine wrote that fate was only somehow related to religion, where Samuels felt that fate was like a natural element; like Earth, Air, Fire and Water."

The teacher further notes that Laurie is correct, that Samuels definitely "personified" fate. "It [fate[ stands" where a "man passes away."

Who else stands where a man passes away? 

Michael, of course, a character who survives stabbings and shootings and keeps on coming like a runaway freight train. He is Fate "Personified" (as Samuels dictated) and you can't kill something like Earth, Air, Fire or Water, can you?

This revelation of Michael as Agent of Fate opens up the whole "Boogeyman" Argument; that perhaps there is actually a fifth natural element, Earth, Air, Fire, Water...And Evil.  

If so, then Michael as a representative of this natural force and thus unstoppable; in kiddie slang, The Boogeyman.

The film's discussion of fate contextualizes Michael not as a supernatural avenger, but as a heightened, natural one. He is not magical, but rather a force as natural (and as essential?) as Air or Water.

So there is an order to the universe, it's not just what we had in mind, to quote another John Carpenter film.

4. Michael Myers is an Indictment of Contemporary, Rational Society: The Inexplicable and Undiagnosable Run Amok in The Scientific World

Finally,  John Carpenter’ Halloween suggests (or at least implies...) that Michael Myers represents some kind of modern-day "dragon" in a society that no longer recognizes dragons as real monsters.

As I wrote in The Films of John Carpenter, Halloween willfully "deconstructs" the technological, contemporary world so that, as viewers experiencing the film, we actually appear have more in common with ancient proto-humans huddling in caves than with our rational, 21st century brethren. In particularly, nothing in Halloween works the way it is supposed to work by our "rationalist," "daylight" standard of thinking.

From a certain standpoint, after all, Dr. Loomis (Donald Pleasance) is a total and complete failure as a psychologist, unable not only to heal Michael Myers, but to understand what drives his murderous impulse. Loomis's role in Halloween is not that of a doctor, nor of a psychiatrist, but explicitly that of St. George: hunting down and slaying the dragon.

Similarly, Michael Myers suffers from no diagnosable or treatable psychological disorder. He is "purely and simply Evil."

If you look in the DSM-V, you won't find "Evil" listed as a malady.

It is utterly unacceptable that rational, middle-class teenagers in Haddonfield should die at the knife of Michael Myers on the eve of the 21st century. That's just not supposed to happen in modern-day America.

For one thing, there is the blanket of parental protection and love, which should shield children, right? Yet in Halloween, the parents (and most adults for that matter...) are mostly an afterthought. We see Laurie's father only briefly, never see the school teacher, and never get to meet the parents of Lynda, Annie, or even Tommy Doyle.

Adults do not represent a positive, let alone helpful force in this horror vision.

Well, okay, if parents can't help save the children (who represent our tomorrows...), then there's modern medicine and cutting-edge science, which should not only diagnose Michael, but keep him behind bars. Right?

Not surprisingly, it fails too. The "system" fails, and Michael escapes.

What about another important societal construct then: the law? Well, kindly Sheriff Brackett can't even protect his own daughter, let alone capture a mad-dog killer. Not a single cop on patrol even notices Michael's car parked on the street!

All the carefully-constructed traditional bureaucracies and cherished codes of justice, belief, and conduct ultimately offer Annie, Lynda and Bob zero protection. These kids are on their own. 

They are prey.

In fact, these teens have it much worse than our cave-men ancestors in pre-history. At least the cave-men knew to be afraid, knew to fear the forces in the dark that they could not comprehend. 

The characters in Halloween are thoroughly unprepared and unable to conceive of a reality that includes Michael Myers, and that's why they are such easy pickings. The movie thus indicts modern society rather fully: it is woefully unprepared to combat what may be a "natural force," Evil Itself.

J.P. Telotte wrote that "What Carpenter seems intent on demonstrating is how consistently our perceptions and our understandings of the world around us fall short...We are conditioned by our experience and culture to see less...to dismiss from our image contents those visions for which we might not be able to account..."(American Horrors: Essays on the Modern American Horror Film: "Through a Pumpkin's Eye: The Reflexive Nature of Horror." University of Illinois Press, 1987, page 122).

This reading takes on a specific relevance today, in 2018, in a world of so many school shootings, when the law, the government, and the media can’t save our children from being senselessly struck down in their classroom on a regular basis. Halloween in some way feels like a canary in the coal mine, a warning that our American institutions are failing, in no small part because they can’t or won’t reckon with a threat like Michael Myers.

Finally, one must reckon with the idea that not any one of these four interpretations above is absolutely the "right one" to come to a perfect understanding of Carpenter's film.

Rather, Halloween retains such power because the truth of Michael Myers seems to dwell in all these interpretations.

Ultimately, Halloween preserves the Shape's mystery and permits the audience to decide about the important things like meaning.

Many of the sequels and indeed the Rob Zombie 2007 remake fail to live up to the original Carpenter film because they work diligently towards an opposite and inferior end; because they seek to diagram in details the answers about Michael for the audience's consumption and peace of mind.

Yet peace of mind -- closure itself -- runs counter to what good horror ought to be.  Who wants to leave a horror movie content that everything is known; that everything fits into a neat little box?

Personally, I want my slumber troubled; I want my mind bothered by the things only the genre can show me and tell me. If I desire peace of mind or resolution from ambiguity, I'll watch network television.

As a direct result of all the well-meaning but psychologically facile explanations of the sequels and the remake, the magic of Michael Myers is somehow bled away.

When one understands that Michael is simply hunting his biological sister down, he becomes nothing but a garden variety wacko with a tough hide.

When he is infused with supernatural powers and becomes a genetically-engineered Druid observing Samhain, he's just another easily explainable Devil, only one with an alternate religious belief system.

And finally, the magic of Michael Myers is totally squandered when viewers bear witness to the peculiarities of his abusive childhood; when they come to understand that he was raised in a violent, redneck household and is merely carrying on in the family tradition.

Thus the later movies, and especially the re-imaginations nullify The Shape's Power. They turn it to ashes.

When considering "The Shape," it is better to ponder and speculate about Evil's True Nature than to know it all. Oscar Wilde once wrote that the greatest mystery in life is actually "one's self," and Halloween remains such an indelible viewing experience 40 years later because -- in addition to technical expertise and canny imagery – the Carpenter film leaves more than abundant psychic space for our imaginations to ponder the story, and the enigmatic man in the Shatner mask.

The View from My Screen #5

Guess which series. And which episode?

Horror Lexicon #5: The Cassandra Complex

Dr. Sam Loomis (Donald Pleasence) in Halloween IV: The Return of Michael Myers  (1988)

This is one of those horror tropes that I always get an absolute kick-out of: The Cassandra Complex.  

In Greek Myth, beautiful Cassandra -- daughter of Troy's King Priam and Queen Hecuba -- is given the great gift of prophecy.  She can see and know the future.  

The only problem is that Cassandra is equally cursed.  No one will ever believe her accurate testimony, and so she is perpetually ignored and cast aside, only to watch fate take its brutal and -- for her -- expected course.

In the modern horror film, the Cassandra Complex is an important thematic factor.  Sometimes I call this trope "Just Ignore the Old Crazy Person," because the Cassandra figure is often a drunk or elderly person whose testimony can easily be dismissed or overlooked.  

Crazy Ralph (Walt Gorney) in Friday the 13th (1980).

Consider for a moment, Crazy Ralph (Walt Gorney) in Friday the 13th (1980) and Friday the 13th: Part II (1981).  

This (presumably alcoholic and homeless...) old man tries to warn those sex-crazed teens that they are in real trouble, and yet they pay him no heed.  How can they ignore him?  Well, he's not rich, gorgeous, young and upwardly mobile like they are...

Like Ralph, the Cassandra figure in horror movies is frequently someone who can provide important exposition about the danger ahead, or the precise nature of the villain, but for whatever reason, is not respected or listened to.  The most famous "Cassandra" in contemporary horror is likely Dr. Sam Loomis (Donald Pleasence) in John Carpenter's Halloween (1978)  He's a trained psychiatrist, an accomplished professional and Michael Myers' attending doctor, yet he is doomed, over and over, to see his serious concerns minimized.  And then, once law enforcement officials do believe Loomis, they blame him for Michael's killing spree.

Or consider Jezelle Gay Hartman (Patricia Belcher) of Victor Salva's Jeepers Creepers (2001), who possesses an unwanted insight into the nature of the monstrous Creeper, but is unable to make imperiled teens Darry (Justin Long) and Trish (Gina Phillips) listen to her about the very real danger they face.  She tries...and fails, then must live with the consequences of "knowing."

What's the point of including such characters, dramatically-speaking, in a horror narrative?  

In large part, Cassandra Figures serve as explicit reminders that man proposes, and God disposes, or that fate will have its way.  Even when people are directly warned about looming (Loomis?) dangers, they don't necessarily pay attention, or find themselves able to escape the fate the universe has set out for them.  The Cassandra Figure is the canary in the coal mine, the one who learns of danger ahead, but whose message just can't be heard in time to change fate.

Martin Landau in Without Warning (1980)

Oftentimes famous but under-employed actors, such as Donald Pleasance, or Martin Landau in Without Warning (1980), fulfill the Cassandra role.

The Cassandra Figure/Cassandra Complex appears in (but is not limited to) such films as: 

Halloween (1978), Blood Beach (1980), Friday the 13th (1980), Without Warning (1980), Friday the 13th Part II (1981), The Boogens (1982), Just Before Dawn (1982), Monster in the Closet (1987), Halloween IV:The Return of Michael Myers (1988), Friday the 13th Part VIII: Jason Takes Manhattan (1989), Jeepers Creepers (2001) and Joss Whedon;s horror film, The Cabin in the Woods (2012).

Jon Lormer in The Boogens (1982)

The Twilight Zone (Season 1): "A Nursery Rhyme For the Age of Space"

The genre anthology Black Mirror (2011 - ) is beloved by today's audiences as a series obsessed with the nexus of human nature and technology. The titular black mirror is the reflective surface of a contemporary i-Phone, for example.

But going back nearly sixty years, it is possible to understand how Rod Serling's The Twilight Zone (1959-1964) also stood on the vanguard of American's culture's imagination about technology. Where today, Black Mirror ponders social media, video games, the cloud, and other evolving 21st century technologies, The Twilight Zone stood on the cusp of a very different world.

Consider, on October 1st, 1958, just a year before The Twilight Zone debuted, NASA came into being. And in 1959, some six months after NASA's foundation, the seven astronauts of Project Mercury were named. The first American in space, Alan Shepard, did not take that famous journey until May 5, 1961, years into the Twilight Zone's run. 

So as The Twilight Zone bowed, America stood on the precipice of a journey mankind had never undertaken before. 

Man-made rockets were going to carry the human race further than it had ever traveled. But no outcomes, no details were yet known about what might be "out there." The Twilight Zone, in its original era, dealt in the realm of "anticipatory anxiety" about the next step in human development.

It is appropriate then, that no less than four episodes of The Twilight Zone's inaugural season obsess on the opening journeys of the space age, on man's first, tentative, frightening steps away from planet Earth.  

It is true that other episodes in the series' run -- and also others in its first season -- explore a later age of "established" space flight ("The Lonely," "Elegy," "The Long Morrow,") but it is fascinating today to remember the four episodes from the 1959 season that fretted and worried about what the first astronauts to leave the safety of Earth's atmosphere would discover upon their historic flight.  

These are the stories that The Twilight Zone imagined would be "Chapter One" in the annals of man's' space age.

The premiere episode of The Twilight Zone, "Where is Everybody," not only began the network run of the series, but also initiated this recurring theme about the beginnings of manned spaceflight.  "The place is here, the time is now," Serling's narration notes, as it introduces the audience to a man (Earl Holliman) who finds himself wandering in an isolated, lonely town. 

Throughout the episode, he keeps running into the inescapable conclusion that he is totally alone in this atypical town.  There is not a soul to be seen, or heard.

And at story's end, viewers learn that this "last man on Earth" is actually an astronaut in training, one sitting in a hanger, on an air force base, in an isolation chamber. After he goes crazy from the loneliness of the experience in town (really an hallucination), an Air Force officer observes that "next time, it won't be a box in a hanger."  

In other words, the next time it will be real. 

A real life human being will have to deal with being alone in space, far away from his home, family, and every other human being, for a long period. Will he face what Holliman did, the episode wonders, "an enemy known as isolation?"

A few episodes later, another first step to space generates terror in The Twilight Zone. In "And When the Sky Was Opened," the X-20 rocket is launched with much fanfare. It travels 900 miles into space from Earth's atmosphere, the first such voyage of this type. When it returns to Earth, however, something strange occurs.  

The three astronauts who made the journey to Earth orbit are erased from existence, one at a time. Finally, even the rocket, the X-20, disappears from the world. It is as if someone, or some thing has taken them somewhere; ripped them from consensus reality. As the episode observes, the astronauts and their vehicle are "no longer a part of the memory of man."  

Today, this episode plays on an understandable if irrational fear about progress and technology, framed in an almost religious way. Would God be angry, the episode asks, if man were to leave his home, forsaking the Earth? Would an angry deity punish the men who dared to make that journey? Not by killing them, but actually by wiping them from the face of reality?  

These heroic men face terror and oblivion as an unseen force wipes away their histories and lives, before their eyes.  

Then, they just fade away.  

Was their offense so great, hoping to get a "God's eye" view of the Earth?

"I Shot an Arrow into the Air," the third Twilight Zone episode featured in this survey, is oddly, a variation on the premise of "And When the Sky Was Opened." In this tale, the Arrow 1, "the first manned aircraft into space" (think, the X-20!) is launched, with a crew of eight men aboard. 

Something goes wrong during the flight, and that accident is called "a practical joke perpetrated by Mother Nature." 

The rocket disappears from all tracking devices, radars, and watch posts on the Earth. A man in mission control discusses the lost rocket, and calls its story a "nursery rhyme for the age of space," an apt description of this Twilight Zone leitmotif.  The underlying fear is that something like this might happen, in real life, and quite soon. Astronauts sent to space could die in an accident, or even become marooned there. With six decades of hindsight, we know that space travel and accidents are not strangers, as Serling's series predicted.

The remainder of "I Shot an Arrow into the Air" follows the surviving astronauts, who believe they have landed on an arid asteroid, and go in search of water. One astronaut, however, is desperate to survive, and kills his ship-mates for their water canteens. 

After killing his captain, the last surviving astronaut crosses a mountaintop only to see, in the valley, below, a sign for Reno, Nevada. The Arrow 1 never left Earth at all, and now the astronaut is a murderer, and will pay for his crimes. He killed for a canteen of water on twentieth century Earth, only miles from civilization. 

This episode's stark photography and story are a clear influence on Serling's Planet of the Apes (1968) screenplay. In that story, astronauts also crash-land on Earth, mistaking it for another planet, and must traverse an arid wasteland in search of water and food. 

More to the point for this essay, however, "I Shot an Arrow into the Air" worries that mankind, when faced with life on an inhospitable world, will regress to his most barbaric, selfish nature. He will murder to stay alive. The underlying idea is that man may not be ready yet, to take to the stars. As "Chapter One" in the annals of manned space flight opens, there is the fear, displayed in this tale, that man is not the evolved creature of rockets, but still a cave man.

Finally, "People are Alike All Over," another first season episode, showcases yet another rocket "taking a highway into space," this time heading for Mars. Man is depicted "unshackling himself...and his tiny groping fingers into the unknown," Serling's narration tells us. 

The episode then showcases a fearful scientist and astronaut on the rocket, Conrad (Roddy McDowall). He is terrified of what might await mankind on the red planet.  He has good reason to be scared, as he soon finds out. After the rocket crashes on Mars, Conrad is captured by Martians and put on display in one of their zoos, where he spends the rest of his natural life, the man "from a primitive planet."

The photo above foreshadows Conrad's entrapment on Mars. In the shot above, he is trapped or caged by his fears of the space flight (which has not yet occurred, in the story). In the shot below, he is trapped or caged by what he discovers on his journey: man's inferiority in a cosmic sense.

Nearly sixty years later, it is easy to gaze at all these Twilight Zone tales and read them as simply "twist-ending stories" about failed space missions. Instead, one must remember the original context of the first season, and stories such as "Where is Everybody?", "And When the Sky Was Opened," "I Shot an Arrow into the Air" and "People Are Alike All Over."  

These tales were watched by a citizenry standing on the brink of a new frontier, not knowing what would await our brave astronauts out there. Would the first people to leave Earth find loneliness and nothingness, at a great distance from the rest of us ("Where is Everybody?") Would they face the wrath of an angry God by developing a technology that allowed them to leave this Eden-like home ("And When the Sky Was Opened?")  Would they face catastrophe, and revert to barbarism in a Darwinian battle for survival ("I Shot an Arrow into the Air?")  Or would they become the playthings of beings far more advanced than mankind ("People Are Alike All Over?")

Today, these science fiction stories remain ones that chill the blood. But imagine living in 1959, as NASA was founded, as the first astronauts were selected.  How must it have felt not to know what the opening chapter of space flight would look like? 

The Twilight Zone exploited these timely, and disconcerting fears brilliantly in its first season, and in these four tales, in particular.

Sci-Fi Headline of the Week #5

Pop Art: Hogan's Heroes (TV Guide Edition)

Model Kit of the Week: Hogan's Heroes Jeep (MPC)

Comic Book of the Week: Hogan's Heroes (Dell)

Board Game of the Week: Hogan's Heroes: "The Bluff Out"