Could you survive a nuclear attack?
Note: I wrote the following piece when I was 16 years old.
It is an everyday Saturday morning. You have just finished drinking your coffee and reading the paper, and you are now watching a television program for a few minutes before you plan your day’s activities.
Suddenly, your program is interrupted and you see the letters EBS flash onto the television screen. Your first thought is that this is another test of the Emergency Broadcast System. A frantic announcer’s voice appears and says, “This is not a test, I repeat, this is not a test. Northern based radar stations have detected the launching of hundreds of missiles, the estimated time for their arrival is 30 minutes. I repeat, you have 30 minutes to reach safety. …”
Immediately you panic. You circle the room, terrified, completely ignorant as to what to do. You begin to calm yourself so that you can think straight. Your first decision is to reach a bomb shelter, but you have no idea as to where the nearest one is. You center your attention once again to the announcer. He seems to have calmed somewhat also, because he is now busily rattling off street names and the appropriate shelter for these streets.
You listen, and soon he announces your street along with a few neighboring streets and gives the location of their bomb shelter. You are thankful you live in a large city where adequate protection may be found. After hearing the location of your shelter, you hurriedly change your clothes, then go outside, unlatch the garage door and drive to the location.
You are greeted by a locked door. A few others are pounding piteously on it, trying to gain entrance. The shelter has been filled to capacity in minutes. You are sick to your stomach. You shake uncontrollably, and curse yourself for not preparing for this day.
A policeman advises you to go home and construct a makeshift shelter in your basement, if you have one, using heavy furniture for the shelter’s walls. Your hope in renewed.
You return to your car to only discover it has been completely encompassed by other automobiles, making it impossible to move. Forgetting about it, you begin to run home, making it in 3 minutes. You now have 20 minutes left to prepare for the attack.
You stagger into your living room, exhausted from the run, and descend into the basement to inspect the area you have in mind for the makeshift shelter.
A 6 foot long section of concrete, about 5 feet high, protrudes from the wall. It had been constructed for some unknown purpose by the previous owner of the house. You decide to use it plus your couch, two bookshelves and a chester drawers for the remaining walls.
You manage to drag the bulky couch down the stairs and arrange it to your liking, but in the process, you break off one of the legs. The remaining pieces of furniture are easier to carry down. For the roof, you use the only thing possible, a big square slab of plywood. After the shelter has been completed, you turn to gathering supplies.
To your dismay you discover there are no large containers in our house to store water in. You do manage to find a quart container that once held bleach, but the mainstay of your water supply containers are glass jars that you have been cleaned and saved for a recycling project you were part of. There are only 9 of these, and you hare forced to empty a few more jars of food that would normally require refrigeration. After you have gathered your water and hauled it to the shelter, you begin gathering food. You pick out several canned items from the shelf, along with a few containers of milk that will have to be drunk quickly lest they sour, and a few eating utensils. After this has been taken care of, you begin to gather clothes, blankets, and a first aid kit that you have previously bought for your car in case of an accident but had failed to put in the trunk.
You glance at your watch and see that you have 10 minutes left. You get one more jar of water and a few more items to eat. You are terrified, but you feel more secure.
You bend to your knees and pray to God, asking him for his help in your survival. Your prayer is interrupted by a bright flash. It is blinding, even in the center of your home where the light of day rarely falls. You dash down the stairway and enclose yourself in the shelter. Seconds later, there is a terrific thud and a wave of heat. A glass window, the only one in the basement, smashes, showering pieces on the plywood roof. Other windows break. The ground heaves as in an earthquake, causing slight structural damage to your home. It is lucky for you that you live on the outskirts of the city or the damage might have been greater. The foundation of the house shudders and several pipes are ruptured. You sit in pure terror, your heart thudding as never before. The situation you are now in has provided many an author the subject for books, and you did not even enjoy reading them, much less taking part in them. The air becomes incredibly stuffy, and one of your precious jars of water has been broken by the shock wave of the explosion.
You lay there, cramped, hot, damp from the water, you feel sick. It is pitch dark, preventing you from even making out the outline of the walls that surround you. Sleep comes hard. You wake up several times during the night. Once you hear someone prowling about the house and you wish you had a gun. Later that night you wake up and have to use the bathroom. Before the explosion occurred you had arranged a garbage can for a makeshift toilet, and even had a supply of plastic bags to store the waste in. After you finish you tightly bundle the bag with a wire twist, then you remove a drawer from the chester drawer and drop the bag in the can, then, you put the lid on and return the drawer to it’s berth. A highly efficient operation, you think, and commend yourself for your ingenuity. You again sleep till you are unable to any longer. You smell the faint odor of gas and hope that the leak does not poison you. You drink a jar of your water and open a can of mixed vegetables. You then drink the entire quart of milk that you brought along. Your legs ache, and you frequently have to rub cramps out of them. The air is constantly stuffy; you never seem to be able to get enough oxygen. As the day progresses, you become more and more bored. At first, you listen to the sounds of the outside world. Occasionally you hear the sounds of people talking, and once you hear the sounds of a savage fight between two dogs. But other than that, there is complete silence.
You eat, drink, and sit. You become so bored that you frequently daydream and resort to reading the labels on the cans. During the day, a slight amount of light managed to filter it’s way into the shelter, but as it progressed, this decreased in intensity, then disappeared.
You go through the same cycle you did the night before until the next day when the light entered the shelter. You begin exploring the perimeter of your shelter trying to discover something previously unknown. To your surprise and pleasure, you discover a book in one of the drawers. There is not enough light to read by, so you search through your belongings and produce a candle and a book of matches. You set up the candle so that it will not topple, then, taking a match from the book, you light it. There is a “puff” and your enclosure is engulfed in flame for a second. Your hair, eyelashes, nostrils and other portions of your body are burned. Thankfully the shelter did not, but you are flabbergasted by what happened. You wince in pain as you apply a sav from the first aid kit to the worst areas. You later deduce that the gases from the broken pipeline had been trapped in the shelter. You try piteously to read the book, but it is to much of a strain. Feeling sorry for yourself, you burst into tears. After a period of crying, you feel better and sleep.
You wake the next day with a fever. Later in the day you become sick to your stomach, but fight off the urge to vomit. During the night mosquitoes have completely riddled your arms and legs, but you are too sick to care. You do not eat anything that day, and you drink little. The next day you feel better, but because you did not get a tight lid for your garbage can toilet, a terrible stench has resulted. You decide that day you will come out of your shelter. You have been crammed into a tiny area for days, sick, thirsty, cramped, and near death from sheer boredom. You did not know it at the time but you had a mild case of radiation sickness. You eat, use the bathroom, and remove one of the drawers so you may have light to read your book by. When it gets dark, you drink the last container of water, and are able to finally get a decent night of sleep. The next morning you awaken to find yourself totally soaked, and a thin layer of water covering the floor. Somewhere, a water pipe had broken and water was draining into the basement. You rise and unbarricade yourself. It feels wonderful to stretch your weary self. A bright beam of sunshine streaks through the broken window, displaying the cracked woodwork above your head.
You ascend the stairs and explore the house. The water is coming from the kitchen. A broken pipe juts through the floor amid broken glass. In fact, every window in your house is broken. The house across the street has completely burned to the ground. Down the street you can see a camp with many tents and a Red Cross truck parked nearby.
You find the gas valve and shut it off, take a drink of water that remains in the pipes, then change your filthy clothes, and leave your house to see what has become of the world.
This has been a story of what could happen to anyone in a time of nuclear war. The person in the story was extremely lucky in surviving.
What did he (or she) do wrong?
The first thing was that she panicked. No mater how hard it may seem, you must stay calm in a situation like this. One cannot think clearly if in a panic.
The worst thing she did was not planning ahead. She did not know where the bomb shelter was among a multitude of other things. You should know the location of the nearest bomb shelter to your home. In the story, when she did discover the shelter’s whereabouts, she took no supplies with her, and she drove to it. Bomb shelters are limited in the amounts and types of supplies they can carry. You should take clothing and any other materials needed for your family. You should not drive unless you can park somewhere out of the way. The roads should be left open for emergency and military vehicles.
If you do not think you could reach a public shelter, construct one of your own in your basement or back yard. A temporary shelter can be constructed out of heavy furniture such as the one in the story. It would be best to take advantage of any shielding you can possibly find. If you happen to have a piece of furniture in your temporary shelter with drawers in them fill them with sand. Be sure that your shelter is well ventilated.
You should have several plastic gallon containers handy for the storage of water.
You should also have food that can be kept over long periods of time without spoiling. Items such as clothes, blankets, utensils and medical supplies are also very important. You should make sure your utilities are shut off (gas and water), because like in the story, a pipe could be broken and you could be poisoned or catch some diseases from water that has flooded your shelter.
A makeshift toilet can be made from a garbage can. Small portable toilets can be bought, the garbage can is used for disposal. Make sure the lid fits tight or you could wind up like the person in the story. You should also carry some type of insect spray.
There are hundreds of other suggestions I could give you, but probably the most important is to acquire a Civil Defense manual. In this book, everything you would like and need to know is covered and written simple enough for nearly anyone to understand.
It could, some day, save not only your, but your family’s life.
About the author:
Del Stone Jr. is a professional fiction writer. He is known primarily for his work in the contemporary dark fiction field, but has also published science fiction and contemporary fantasy. Stone’s stories, poetry and scripts have appeared in publications such as Amazing Stories, Eldritch Tales, and Bantam-Spectra’s Full Spectrum. His short fiction has been published in The Year’s Best Horror Stories XXII; Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine; the Pocket Books anthology More Phobias; the Barnes & Noble anthologies 100 Wicked Little Witch Stories, Horrors! 365 Scary Stories, and 100 Astounding Little Alien Stories; the HWA anthology Psychos; and other short fiction venues, like Blood Muse, Live Without a Net, Zombiesque and Sex Macabre. Stone’s comic book debut was in the Clive Barker series of books, Hellraiser, published by Marvel/Epic and reprinted in The Best of Hellraiser anthology. He has also published stories in Penthouse Comix, and worked with artist Dave Dorman on many projects, including the illustrated novella “Roadkill,” a short story for the Andrew Vachss anthology Underground from Dark Horse, an ashcan titled “December” for Hero Illustrated, and several of Dorman’s Wasted Lands novellas and comics, such as Rail from Image and “The Uninvited.” Stone’s novel, Dead Heat, won the 1996 International Horror Guild’s award for best first novel and was a runner-up for the Bram Stoker Award. Stone has also been a finalist for the IHG award for short fiction, the British Fantasy Award for best novella, and a semifinalist for the Nebula and Writers of the Future awards. His stories have appeared in anthologies that have won the Bram Stoker Award and the World Fantasy Award. Two of his works were optioned for film, the novella “Black Tide” and short story “Crisis Line.”
Stone recently retired after a 41-year career in journalism. He won numerous awards for his work, and in 1986 was named Florida’s best columnist in his circulation division by the Florida Society of Newspaper Editors. In 2001 he received an honorable mention from the National Lesbian and Gay Journalists Association for his essay “When Freedom of Speech Ends” and in 2003 he was voted Best of the Best in the category of columnists by Emerald Coast Magazine. He participated in book signings and awareness campaigns, and was a guest on local television and radio programs.
As an addendum, Stone is single, kills tomatoes and morning glories with ruthless efficiency, once tied the stem of a cocktail cherry in a knot with his tongue, and carries a permanent scar on his chest after having been shot with a paintball gun. He’s in his 60s as of this writing but doesn’t look a day over 94.
Contact Del at [email protected]. He is also on Facebook, twitter, Pinterest, tumblr, TikTok, and Instagram. Visit his website at delstonejr.com .
“Dr. Strangelove or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb” Starring Peter Sellers, George C. Scott, Sterling Hayden, Keenan Wynn, James Earl Jones and Slim Pickens. Directed by Stanley Kubrick. 93 minutes. Rated “approved.”
Mladen’s take
Ever have one of these days?
You can’t find the car keys until you’re already late for work. Then, the starter clicks a couple of times before cranking the engine. Finally on the road, you get a flat tire. While you’re changing the flat, the vehicle slips off the jack and crushes your foot. In the ER, you get a doctor who has prescribed himself a few too many medications and he mucks repairing your foot. An infection comes along while you’re recovering from the faulty service. Antibiotics fail and the only way to contain the infection is by amputating your leg. The intern performing the amputation sneezes during the procedure, severing your femoral artery. You die.
The simile illustrates, roughly, what happens in Stanley Kubrick’s masterpiece, “Dr. Strangelove or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb.”
I watched the 1964 movie a couple of weeks ago. It’s clear that “Dr. Strangelove” is entirely relevant today. In short, Kubrick imagines thermonuclear Armageddon unfolding as a series of seemingly absurd, unlikely events stacking atop each other until the only people left alive are the ones who made the all-destructive atomic war possible.
The idea in “Strangelove” that mistakes, be they failures of thought or products of psychosis would lead to the planet’s fiery, H-bomb-induced demise could have come from today’s headlines. A USAF bomber was flown from North Dakota to Louisiana in August 2007 with six nuclear warhead-tipped cruise missiles hanging from a rack. No one at the wing, including the flight crew, knew the nukes were aboard the bomber until it arrived at Barksdale Air Force Base. A year earlier, American supply troops sent ICBM nose cone fuzes to Taiwan thinking they were helicopter parts.
Attention to details, particularly the movie’s calm demeanor as the B-52 crew receives the order to nuke an adversary and the meticulous, as-a-matter-of-fact way it arms a warhead, left me feeling that war was largely a bureaucratic affair uprooted from consequences. Following procedures, rather than questioning them, drove humanity over the edge in “Strangelove.”
To me, “Strangelove” offers sardonic relief best captured in the military motto – “Peace is our profession” – that frequently appears in the movie. I know nuclear holocaust is on the way. You know nuclear holocaust is on the way. Kubrick and “Strangelove” allow me to laugh at the prospect.
Del‘s take
At the risk of dating myself I remember the Cuban missile crisis, backyard bomb shelters and drills where we kids would be hustled into an interior room at the school to ride out the onslaught of inbound ICBMs.
It was not funny.
But that was life in the early ‘60s and oddly my recollection of those events seems framed in a black-and-white panorama of worry and fear, much like “Dr. Strangelove,” which deploys its dark humor to accentuate the absurdity of mutually assured destruction.
For those of you who missed this cinematic classic, here’s the plot: An Air Force general becomes convinced the communists are subverting America through fluoridated water. He dispatches a wing of nuclear-armed B-52s to destroy the Soviet Union. The Strategic Air Command is made aware of the situation and huddles with the president in the “War Room” to devise a strategy for recalling the bombers. The Russian ambassador is brought in and reveals the existence of a “doomsday device,” a network of cobalt-jacketed hydrogen bombs that will spread lethal radiation across the world if Russia is nuked. The bombers are recalled, but one, damaged by an anti-aircraft missile, continues on its mission. …
“Strangelove” provides a canvas for stunning performances by George C. Scott, Sterling Hayden, Keenan Wynn, Slim Pickens and most notably Peter Sellers of “Pink Panther” fame, who plays three roles, that of R.A.F. Group Captain Lionel Mandrake, President Merkin Muffley and Dr. Strangelove himself, a wheelchair-bound Nazi scientist who wages a minute-by-minute battle with his black-gloved hand for control of his loyalties – to his new American friends or his old friends at the Reichstag.
But “Strangelove’s” best performance comes from the screenplay, written by director Stanley Kubrick, which skewers all the institutions Americans relied on to guide them through the Cold War: the military, the government, and what most people would call common sense. As the B-52s streak toward the Soviet Union, Scott’s Gen. Buck Turgidson argues for an all-out attack – and why not? “We could catch them with their pants down!” Turgidson enthuses.
“Strangelove” is so steeped in historical context that nobody under the age 45 is likely to grasp its sophistication and nuance – a skill of perception sadly lacking in contemporary audiences. Yet “Strangelove” is one of the 20th century’s greatest films, serving up a damning indictment of bureaucracy, the military-industrial complex and a simple-minded us-or-them worldview that cannot exist in today’s interconnected global village.
“Gentlemen!” President Muffley shouts as Turgidson and Russian ambassador Alexi de Sadesky grapple over a secret camera. “You can’t fight in here! This is the War Room!”
As John McCain might say, “That, my friends, is ‘Dr. Strangelove. ’ ”
Mladen Rudman is a former journalist and technical editor. Del Stone Jr. is a former journalist and author.
Video
Image courtesy of MGM.
“The Haunting” Starring Julie Harris, Claire Bloom, Richard Johnson, Russ Tamblyn, and Lois Maxwell. Directed by Robert Wise. 1 hour, 52 minutes. Rated G. Shudder.
Del’s take
The opening paragraph of Shirley Jackson’s “The Haunting of Hill House,” upon which “The Haunting” is based, may be the finest paragraph of fiction ever written:
“No live organism can continue for long to exist sanely under conditions of absolute reality; even larks and katydids are supposed, by some, to dream. Hill House, not sane, stood by itself against its hills, holding darkness within; it had stood for eighty years and might stand for eighty more. Within, walls continued upright, bricks met neatly, floors were firm, and doors were sensibly shut; silence lay steadily against the wood and stone of Hill House, and whatever walked there, walked alone.”
That paragraph sets the bar for excellence in writing. To match that standard of excellence in another medium, a movie, represents a challenge almost as frightening as the story itself. Robert Wise almost succeeded with “The Haunting,” a scary, atmospheric adaptation of Jackson’s novel released in 1963.
To critique a movie 58 years after the fact seems unfair. Times, people and technology change. By today’s standards “The Haunting” looks silly and shrill. But strip away years of desensitization, computer-generated movie effects and a few evolved cultural standards and “The Haunting” becomes a terrifying excursion into the unknown.
The story is about Eleanor (Julie Harris), in every sense an “old maid” to borrow an expression from that time, who yearns to escape her past. She spent the better part of her adult life caring for her disabled mother and carries a great deal of guilt for not answering her mother’s call for help the night she passed away. When she is invited to participate in a paranormal experiment at Hill House by an anthropologist, Dr. John Markway (Richard Johnson), she takes the family car against her sister’s wishes and drives off into the New England countryside. At Hill House she is joined by a purported psychic, Theodora (Claire Bloom) and young Luke Sanderson (Russ Tamblyn) who is due to inherit the house. The four are besieged by spooky goings-on, including things that go bam bam bam in the night, and ultimately must decide if these are actual events or if they have been primed by the house’s menacing ambiance to imagine them.
Both the book and movie present a question about ambiguity – are there really ghosts at Hill House, as events would suggest, or is poor Eleanor, driven near to madness by a life of caring for her demanding mother while her sister and family go about their lives with purposeful ignorance, simply imagining the voices, loud noises, and sinister airs of that rambling Victorian mansion? One thing is certain: Eleanor is desperate for attention and Hill House gives it to her, and while she seems to recognize the poisonous consequences of that attraction she doesn’t seem to care. She wants to be wanted and she never wants to leave. Hill House has become her lover.
“The Haunting” shows its age with voiceovers to communicate the neurotic internal monologues of Jackson’s protagonist, and quick zooms to suggest a ghostly presence pounding at the bedroom door. A more subtle approach would have more effectively conveyed Nell’s escalating emotional tension (see Jack Clayton’s 1961 production of “The Innocents”). We can also assume a modern audience would not sit still for the slow pacing. Other efforts – Jan de Bont’s 1999 iteration, or the recent Netflix mini-series loosely based on Jackson’s novel – reflect a more modern approach, although one could argue they were not nearly as scary as the Wise production as the novel’s menace is communicated by nuance and implication, not monsters jumping out of closets.
It might not be possible for any filmmaker to successfully capture all the dark corners of “The Haunting of Hill House,” but of the efforts so far, the Wise version most faithfully represents Jackson’s acclaimed book. It is not supremely excellent, like Wise’s 1951 effort “The Day the Earth Stood Still,” but it’s spooky as hell and well worth the nearly two hours of viewing time.
It deserves an A-.
Mladen’s take
A-, Del?
Have you already eaten too much corn candy in anticipation of Halloween?
Has the lingering sugar high distorted your ability to review a movie accurately?
C, Del. “The Haunting” is a C. The film is somewhat entertaining shlock. It’s shlockiness can’t be excused because it was made in 1963.
“Nosferatu” was released in 1922. Still bone chilling. Still eerie.
“Invasion of the Body Snatchers,” 1956. Still ghastly. Still gruesome.
“Psycho” psyched audiences in 1960. Still oedipally demented. Still remembered.
“The Haunting” hovers on just this side of watchable.
“The Haunting” is pinned to an emotionally traumatized person as is “Psycho.” Eleanor, like Norman, can’t help herself. That’s where the similarity between the two films ends.
“Psycho” pulls a stunner at the end. Norman turned victimhood into rage, disorientation, and remorselessness potent enough to rationalize murder. All that “The Haunting” does is keep Eleanor a victim to the disappointing end. First, she is mistreated as a child by her family. Then she’s mistreated as an adult by the diabolical house that also stars in “The Haunting.” Pathetic.
Norman is malevolent. Eleanor mews.
“The Haunting” has some merit. The movie mocks fire-and-brimstone Christianity. It allows for the possibility of the paranormal.
The movie has a couple of solid horror moments, too. Who’s holding Eleanor’s hand during a nightmare? Couldn’t have been Theodora. She was sleeping on the other side of the bedroom. There’s the doorknob and restless door. Both scenes are decent creepiness left to the imagination.
The film’s story is coherent. The first-person exposition pushing “The Haunting” along not too annoying.
The soundtrack would have been better suited for a sci-fi movie of that era rather than a horror flick. Once you’ve heard the simple high key tapping of the piano in “Halloween,” it’s tough to withhold comparison to other horror films no matter the year they were made.
The men in “The Haunting” were dressed as stereotype required. Tweed for anthropology Professor John and a fine jacket with some sort of emblem on the breast pocket for playboy capitalist Luke. Costume design for the ladies was appropriate, as well. Eleanor wore poofy 1950s dresses with flared skirts and sufficiently tight bodices to silhouette perky breasts. Theodora, and I believe this was done to show defiance of social norm and fit her character, wore black, including slacks. She, like Eleanor, was nicely sculpted.
C, Del.
And, this is the finest opening paragraph in fiction:
“Call me Ishmael. Some years ago – never mind how long precisely – having little or no money in my purse, and nothing particular to interest me on shore, I thought I would sail about a little and see the watery part of the world.”
The finest opening sentence in any paragraph of any fiction book written is:
“Listen: Billy Pilgrim has come unstuck in time.”
Mladen Rudman is a former journalist and technical writer. Del Stone Jr. is a former journalist and author.
Image courtesy of GPA Productions.
“This Is Not a Test” Starring Seamon Glass, Thayer Roberts, Aubrey Martin, Mary Morlas, Michael Greene and others. Directed by Frederic Gadette. 1 hour, 13 minutes. Unrated. Streaming on YouTube, Internet Archive.
Plot synopsis: A sheriff’s deputy sets up a roadblock on a lonely mountain road early one morning after receiving word of a possible nuclear attack. Soon several motorists gather at the checkpoint and must work together to save themselves.
Are there spoilers in this review: No.
Del’s grade: C-
—
Del’s take
The Bulletin of Atomic Scientists has published a Doomsday Clock, a metric to measure the risk of nuclear war, since 1947 when the clock was set to 7 minutes to midnight.
In 2024 that clock was set to 90 seconds to midnight. Given recent events in Ukraine, Gaza and Israel-Iran, 90 seconds is not only prudent but generous. It reminds those of a certain age that while the Cold War may have been waged 60 years ago, history has an odd way of repeating itself when humanity takes its eye off the ball.
A number of movies from that era reflect the national angst over atomic warfare, movies like “On the Beach,” “Fail Safe” and “Doctor Strangelove.” Add to that cinematic paranoia the 1962 film “This Is Not a Test,” a low-budget production that comes nowhere near the quality of a “Fail Safe” or “Doctor Strangelove” but serves one useful purpose, that of cautionary tale. It’s just not the “cautionary” you might expect.
“This Is Not a Test” was filmed in 1962 in Los Angeles County. Because none of the actors are known, they aren’t listed in the credits. No release date was given, but the studio was listed as GPA Productions.
How is the movie cautionary?
Apart from the obvious – that nuclear war is bad – it serves as a reminder to those who would take us back to the “good old days” (Are you listening, MAGAts?) that those times weren’t really all that good. Watching “This Is Not a Test” in 2024 shows us how far we’ve come as a society, and how far we’ll fall if we give in to the forces of ignorance and hate that would turn back the clock, in this case toward a social doomsday.
In “This Is Not a Test” the characters exhibit blind obedience to and trust in authority, embodied by the sheriff’s deputy, who over the course of the film evolves into a cruel autocrat. The motorists, i.e. “voters,” follow his commands without complaint or question, handing over their car keys and unloading a truck to use as a makeshift bomb shelter. I’m hard pressed to say people of today would behave like that given the sizeable number of voters who would entrust their freedoms to a criminal and traitor. But at least some of us have grown as human beings over the years.
Women are treated like property. That was often the case in movies from this period, but in “This Is Not a Test” women operate almost exclusively as instruments of male dominance and facilitators of their own downfall. A wife cheats on her husband with another man and the husband meekly skulks away. One man wins, another man loses, and the woman? She means no more to the story than a knife or a gun, used to achieve those ends.
Booze unloaded from the truck becomes a symbol for disrespect, not only for the deputy’s authority but for human decency itself. Those who consume it are depicted as morally bereft and unworthy of salvation.
And then there’s cruelty to animals, horrifying by today’s standards. In one scene a mentally ill man destroys crates carrying chickens and hurls live birds into the ground. In another scene the deputy chokes a woman’s poodle to death because it’s using up all their oxygen. Animals don’t even figure into the equation of life.
So yeah, the “good old days” weren’t really all that good, and while I understand that when people yearn for the past they’re talking about gas that cost 30 cents a gallon or Momma’s homemade biscuits, they need to remember there were other things about the past that weren’t so great, and maybe what we have today ain’t so bad.
“This Is Not a Test” is not particularly well written or acted, and it doesn’t measure up to those other movies I mentioned. But it’s useful in showing us just how much we’ve grown as a society, and how far we’ll fall if we turn the clock back to the doomsday of the past.
I give it a C-.
Del Stone Jr. is a former journalist and writer.
About the author:
Del Stone Jr. is a professional fiction writer. He is known primarily for his work in the contemporary dark fiction field, but has also published science fiction and contemporary fantasy. Stone’s stories, poetry and scripts have appeared in publications such as Amazing Stories, Eldritch Tales, and Bantam-Spectra’s Full Spectrum. His short fiction has been published in The Year’s Best Horror Stories XXII; Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine; the Pocket Books anthology More Phobias; the Barnes & Noble anthologies 100 Wicked Little Witch Stories, Horrors! 365 Scary Stories, and 100 Astounding Little Alien Stories; the HWA anthology Psychos; and other short fiction venues, like Blood Muse, Live Without a Net, Zombiesque and Sex Macabre. Stone’s comic book debut was in the Clive Barker series of books, Hellraiser, published by Marvel/Epic and reprinted in The Best of Hellraiser anthology. He has also published stories in Penthouse Comix, and worked with artist Dave Dorman on many projects, including the illustrated novella “Roadkill,” a short story for the Andrew Vachss anthology Underground from Dark Horse, an ashcan titled “December” for Hero Illustrated, and several of Dorman’s Wasted Lands novellas and comics, such as Rail from Image and “The Uninvited.” Stone’s novel, Dead Heat, won the 1996 International Horror Guild’s award for best first novel and was a runner-up for the Bram Stoker Award. Stone has also been a finalist for the IHG award for short fiction, the British Fantasy Award for best novella, and a semifinalist for the Nebula and Writers of the Future awards. His stories have appeared in anthologies that have won the Bram Stoker Award and the World Fantasy Award. Two of his works were optioned for film, the novella “Black Tide” and short story “Crisis Line.”
Stone recently retired after a 41-year career in journalism. He won numerous awards for his work, and in 1986 was named Florida’s best columnist in his circulation division by the Florida Society of Newspaper Editors. In 2001 he received an honorable mention from the National Lesbian and Gay Journalists Association for his essay “When Freedom of Speech Ends” and in 2003 he was voted Best of the Best in the category of columnists by Emerald Coast Magazine. He participated in book signings and awareness campaigns, and was a guest on local television and radio programs.
As an addendum, Stone is single, kills tomatoes and morning glories with ruthless efficiency, once tied the stem of a cocktail cherry in a knot with his tongue, and carries a permanent scar on his chest after having been shot with a paintball gun. He’s in his 60s as of this writing but doesn’t look a day over 94.
Contact Del at [email protected]. He is also on Facebook, twitter, Pinterest, tumblr, TikTok, and Instagram. Visit his website at delstonejr.com .
Image courtesy of United Artists.
“The Magnetic Monster” Starring Richard Carlson, King Donovan, Jean Byron, and others. Directed by Curt Siodmak and Herbert L. Strock. Writers Curt Siodmak and Ivan Tors. 76 minutes. Rating: Approved. Amazon Prime.
Mladen’s take
The Atomic Age fuses with a quark-y idea, valent script writing, and energetic performances to form the nucleus of “The Magnetic Monster.”
This elemental gem of a sci-fi movie is only 76 minutes but tells the story, and captures the fear of the unknown about radioactivity, in 1953 with panache.
There are no goofy sound effects in “The Magnetic Monster.” No overdone dumbing-down of science. There are no mad scientists, though there’s one not-too-bright physicist, in the film. There’s gentlemanly sexism. Dare not there be a woman engineer or researcher. Instead, we get a clever pregnant wife, a diligent switchboard operator, and a very athletic store clerk with one helluva body.
Now that I irritated, or is it irradiated, Del long enough by withholding a film summary, here you go.
An appliance and hardware store near a Government facility populated by “A-men” (atomic men) is magnetized. Watch out for the engineless push lawnmower with some dastardly looking blades bolting at you because you’re in the way of the pull of the polarized attractor with thirst for pure energy. A-men Drs. Jeffrey Stewart (Carlson) and Dan Forbes (Donovan) are dispatched by the Office of Scientific Investigation chief scientist to uncover the facts and cure the problem. Geiger counters tick. A man is found dead in a secret, makeshift laboratory. Off go Stewart and Forbes to get to the bottom of the incident.
The disaster that unfolds isn’t a nuclear reactor going China syndrome. The disquiet and radioactivity haven’t been released by a detonating A-bomb. “The Magnetic Monster” menace is tough to find and, when found, tough to throttle. It has to be fed to keep contained. Each subsequent feeding requires magnitudes more food and, in one instance, takes blacking out a city to provide the needed electricity. The magnetic monster grows after it eats like the Republican party bloats as it chews our democracy. That means the next monster feeding will require a bigger source of power. How long before the Earth, the solar system, the galaxy, the constellation, or the universe are consumed because the beast needs matter converted to energy to stay satiated? Oh, Einstein, what have you caused with that E=mc2 thing.
I loved this black-and-white movie for its effort to pay attention to science. For showing us wavy lines on cathode ray tubes. For demonstrating how fast those new-fangled jet-powered airplanes with straight wings can fly. For the cool, realistic explosion of a volt-injecting machine the size of a building. Thank you for at least making the effort to show that decaying metals are heavy, literally. And, dadgum, you made a block of gray material smaller than a breadbox the plausible villain.
A-, Del. “The Magnetic Monster” is an A-. Need a rationale? If you think “The Haunting” is an A-, there’s no way you can think anything less of “The Magnetic Monster.”
Del’s take
A- my ass.
“The Magnetic Monster” is at best a C. It has a couple of things going for it and a lot of things that don’t, so let’s touch on the positives first.
Number 1, forget the story. “The Magnetic Monster” is a time capsule of life in the 1950s, and while much of that life is better left to history, other aspects invoked a pleasant nostalgia for conduct and commodities that I wish existed today.
For instance, the cars. The cars are behemoths of chrome and steel, fitting of all the old nicknames – land yachts, battle cruisers and road hogs. No doubt they got crappy gas mileage and polluted the environment, but man, they sure were nice to look at. Designers back then were still trying to create art, not aerodynamically efficient blob mobiles. We all could use a little more art in our lives.
Men and women dressed for work. The ladies wore dresses and skirts with hats and gloves, while the men were clad in suits and ties. Call me old-fashioned but I think a more formal workplace dress code imparts a more formal manner of job conduct and thinking. Much of the work today seems like it was done by somebody wearing a bathrobe and house slippers.
People back then – at least in the movies – seemed more articulate. Their speech was almost patrician, with a whiff of an English accent in some – a welcome departure from the onslaught of slurred, mispronounced vulgarities we are subjected to these days.
From there “The Magnetic Monster” sleds downhill.
I’ll be first to point out life in the ’50s might have been grand for white males but not many others. Women, as illustrated in “The Magnetic Monster,” occupied the lower rungs of the corporate ladder or were kept at home in the kitchen, barefoot and pregnant. In many of these movies you don’t see people of color unless they’re about to be devoured by the title threat.
Value judgments aside, the movie makes a laudable attempt to sell a scientific plausibility, and unlike many B movies of the ’50s you never see an actual “monster.” That’s because the monster is radiation, though I was confused about the relationship between magnetism and radioactive particles that sicken and kill people.
From what I’ve read, much of the “science” in “The Magnetic Monster” is nonsense, which is not necessarily a cause for dismissing the movie. The science in virtually all science fiction movies these days is nonsense. Don’t get me started on “Star Wars.” Still, while it must have sounded impressive to an audience of that era, I heard mostly nonsense.
The movie itself relies on special effects “borrowed” from a German science fiction film of the 1930s called “Gold.” It also features brief cameos by a computer called “M.A.N.I.A.C.,” which are good for a chuckle. I’d wager an Apple Watch has millions of times more computing power. Such is the march of technology.
“The Magnetic Monster” was the first movie of a trilogy, which included “Riders to the Stars” and “Gog,” both shot in the mid-1950s.
I mentioned two things in the movie’s favor. The other is that it’s short, a hair over an hour.
I enjoyed some aspects of “The Magnetic Monster” but mostly I thought it was boring. The ’50s produced some wonderful science fiction movies – “The Day the Earth Stood Still” and “Forbidden Planet,” but this is not one of them. It’s a product of the days when people feared the atom, the Russians and the unknown. Now, we know that climate change, incompetent politicians, corporate greed and evolving pathogens present a much greater threat.
Come to think of it, I wouldn’t mind returning to those simpler days. At least in some ways.
Sorry, Mladen. C.
Mladen Rudman is a former journalist and technical writer. Del Stone Jr. is a former journalist and author.
Image courtesy of United Artists.
Del reviews ‘Red Planet Mars’
“Red Planet Mars” Starring Peter Graves, Andrea King and Herbert Berghof. Directed by Harry Horner. 87 minutes. Rated approved.
Del’s take
Maybe you’ve noticed I’m reviewing more Netflix, Prime and Hulu offerings these days. That’s no accident.
My MoviePass account expires at the end of this month and I won’t be renewing. When I first joined, the MoviePass deal was unbeatable – watch as many movies as you like in one month for a piddling $7. I wondered how they could make money and they didn’t. Soon they were altering the terms, adding steps and otherwise making it impossible to use your MoviePass for anything but low-rated matinees only once per week. With my new work schedule I could not have seen more than one movie per month, if that. Not much of a deal.
I subscribe to Netflix, Prime, Hulu, Shudder and Curiosity Stream. I can also choose from Vudu and Tubi TV. Needless to say I am not deprived of video content.
But finding the good ones can be a challenge. More than once I’ve searched Google for the best hidden gems on Netflix. I even have a browser extension that lets me search all the “hidden” categories Netflix does not include with its interface.
It stands to reason if I am having this problem, others likely are too. And that is the direction I am taking “Movie Faceoff.”
I will continue to review theatrical releases when I see them, and if I can ever coax Mladen away from the Great American Novel he’s working on, we’ll do them together. Meantime, I am reviewing some of the gems – and dogs – I find on my streaming services. And that brings me to this latest offering, “Red Planet Mars.”
“Red Planet Mars” is one of the most remarkable science fiction movies I have ever seen. Released in 1952 by United Artists, the movie stars a very young Peter Graves at the height of his Nordic grandeur.
The basic plot of the story is as follows: Astronomers spot what appear to be artificial canals on Mars that are transporting water from a rapidly diminishing polar ice cap. At the same time an American scientist (Graves) has established a kind of crude radio communication with the inhabitants.
At first, the communication is a simple repetition of signals sent from Earth. But Graves’ son, Stewart (Orley Lindgren) suggests transmitting the numerical value of pi to see if the Martians, if they are indeed Martians, will carry those values to the next decimal point. They do, and a dialogue is established after the cryptographers who decoded the Japanese military signals during World War II figure out how to interpret their language.
The Martians soon reveal an astonishing grasp of science, informing Graves that they live to be 300 years old, use cosmic energy as an energy source and grow enough food on a single acre to feed an entire city.
When these messages are revealed to the world, the world responds with panic and hysteria. Farmers, afraid their crops will be rendered valueless by new growing methods, demand government compensation. The oil industry freaks out (they wouldn’t do THAT, would they) and the medical community has a shit fit. The stock market collapses, riots spread across the country and the western world grinds to a halt.
Simultaneously an evil subplot is playing out. The Russians have a spy listening in on the broadcasts, a Nazi scientist who invented the technology that enables Graves to contact the Martians. The Russians intend to use the chaos as a means to subjugate the west and take over the world.
That is until the messages from Mars detour from the standard our-technology-is-superior-to-yours script and move off in a weird, unanticipated direction. Tables get turned and “Red Planet Mars” becomes something that rises above the modest aspirations of a killer B movie.
The clothes, home furnishings and cars are vintage 1952, but the giant flat-panel TV mounted on Graves’ wall is anything but, suggesting “Red Planet Mars” is set in an alternate universe.
But what’s astonishing about the movie is its willingness to address the deep issues of first contact, or the Cold War conflict between east and west. It does so in surprisingly thoughtful ways, so atypical of the ’50s B movies with their bug-eyed monsters and giant insect predators.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m not saying “Red Planet Mars” is a “good” movie. It’s definitely a product of its time. The viewer must make a deal with himself to overlook the overacting, the offensive patriarchal viewpoints, crappy special effects and script clinkers so common of movies of that day. But do that and you may be surprised.
I will say I liked the movie a lot. It entertained me right to the end.
I would grade “Red Planet Mars” at B+ purely on the merits of its ambition.
Stone is a former journalist and author.