Luis Dominguez (art originally appeared on the cover to Warren’s Famous Monsters of Filmland #93, October 1972).
SPECIAL THANKS
Pat Calhoun • Dewy Cassell • Robert V Conte • Barry Forshaw • Heritage Auctions • Phil Hore • Steve Kronenberg • Tim Leese • Justin Marriott • Will Murray • John Navroth • Michael Price • Anthony Taylor • Ryan Vandergriff
WITH DEATH AT YOUR SHOULDER THE SKELETONS AND SKULLS THAT TERRORIZED THE PULPS by
Peter Normanton
In the 14th century, the mocking visage of the human skull would have stricken the most stalwart with dread, for such imagery was the embodiment of the horrors wrought by the Black Death; the tendrils of its mortiferous embrace still unfurling across almost every town and city on the continent of Europe, poised to spread its unwelcome decay into both Africa and Asia. As this unrelenting contagion escalated, various artists of the Renaissance became obsessed with the specter of Death, their canvases giving life to a cadaverous being they perceived to be a cowled, scythe-bearing skeletal presence beyond the ken of mortal man. Between 1523 and 1525, renowned portrait artist Hans Holbein the Younger created a series of woodcuts, little more than two by two inches, portraying a cross section of
the populace plagued by this same specter. His dark imagining brought this frightful likeness to the few who had access to the tomes being published at this time. William Shakespeare later shocked his audience with a skull in his play The Tragedy of Hamlet, Prince of Denmark, a scenario curiously emulated on the January 1928 cover of Tales of Magic and Mystery [below]. The artists who followed reflected on the temporary nature of our existence, employing this skeletal iconography to unsettling effect. This would take a greater hold when the pulps began to appear on the newsstand, then the danse macabre was brought to a far wider audience, hungry for the thrills and excitement promised by the provocative covers fronting these lurid publications.
To further their position on the stand, certain themes
became a beeline to success, themes which the publishers of the day were only too keen to exploit: Gun-toting bad guys; pretty girls in a state of undress; girls in peril; deranged doctors conducting experiments on these hapless girls; rampaging robots; alien monsters; futuristic rocket-ships; and as we are about to see, the forbidding image of the human skull. In fact, those publishers who saw fit to thrust a scantily clad young lady into the clutches of a mobster or death-dealing doctor with a skeleton thrown in for good measure, were almost certainly onto a winner.
Before this sinister imagery came to the fore on the crime and weird fiction pulps, the caricature and political satire of Cartoons Magazine, published by Henry Haven Windsor between 1912 and 1922, was in full swing. Windsor’s publication never made regular use of these skeletal figures, but Fred Morgan’s cover for the September 1914 edition [left], no doubt conceived in the weeks leading up to the outbreak of war, was one of the earliest skeletons to hold court over one of these pulp magazine covers. This emaciated general carried an obvious warning, one the crowned heads of Europe chose to ignore, but even his sardonic smile couldn’t have foreseen the atrocities to come.
Unspoiled Skeletons
When the weird pulps first began to make their mark, Weird Tales wasted no time in calling upon a cowled specter for its November 1923 issue. This foul manifestation was summoned to turn the spines of its readers ice-cold. As with so many of these early pulps, the artist’s name has
long since been forgotten—a great shame, for he conveyed the threat confronting this extremely inquisitive fellow in an accordingly chilling manner, who to his horror had stumbled upon an eerie crypt concealing several wellpreserved skeletons. Of course, such unspoiled skeletons were there to exacerbate the tension, as they would on countless covers of this unsettling ilk. This issue of Weird Tales, numbered Vol. 2 #4, is of particular note, as it included “The Invisible Monster,” later known as “The Horror at Martin’s Beach,” a tale co-written by HP Lovecraft and his wife-to-be Sonia Haft Green [above]
Rather than imposing the accepted ghostly apparition on their readers for the cover to the November 1926 issue of Ghost Stories [above], an overly amorous skeleton entered the scene to terrorize an unsuspecting young lady, painted by another artist whose name has sadly been lost to posterity. Published by The Constructive Publishing Corporation, this issue of Ghost Stories has become one of the most sought after magazines of the period, owing to it being printed on slick paper, and more significantly for its showcasing of the first published work penned by Agatha Christie in the United States, “The Woman Who Stole a Ghost,” also known as “The Last Seance.” Although she was already well and truly established in Britain, Agatha was not referenced on the cover alongside this saucy skeleton, but she had finally spread her wings to pastures new.
“And then his skeleton appeared,” and they weren’t exaggerating as Hans Waldemar Wessolowski’s cover to Clayton’s Astounding Stories Vol. 8 #2, cover-dated November 1931, will attest. Hans was better known in
Disney has been in my blood—and bones—for as long as I can remember. From the early-to-mid 1970s, my mother would take my two brothers and me to the weekly Disney matinee at the Jerry Lewis Theater in Massapequa, New York. There, we were treated to cartoons featuring Mickey Mouse, Donald Duck, Goofy, and unusual subjects including The Legend of Sleepy Hollow and Trick or Treat. This was all before the main films, such as Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs and Blackbeard’s Ghost would be shown.
On Sunday nights, NBC-TV would air The Wonderful World of Disney with original, non-theatrical content like Child of Glass and The Ghosts of Buxley Hall. Later, when cable TV became available in our community, a larger variety of Disney programming aired on Home Box Office, a.k.a. HBO. By the mid-1980s, Disney Home Video released dozens of titles in multiple formats, retailing for $40 and above. At those steep prices, renting titles was better than purchasing them. I devoured every Disney program I could get my hands on. I was an unapologetic Disney fanatic!
When Cartoon Classics Volume Three: Scary Tales was released in 1983, Donald was the clear star of compiled vintage shorts. However, this videocassette unlocked the door to an entirely different era with two cartoons then considered “filler” content: “The Skeleton Dance” followed by Mickey Mouse in “The Haunted House,” pioneered by Walt Disney, his chief animator Ub Iwerks, and music composer Carl W. Stalling. These three individuals created two moody, black-and-white masterpieces that have attained legendary status since their debut in 1929—over 95 years ago!
The genesis of “The Skeleton Dance” stems from moviegoers’ love for Mickey Mouse, the world’s first synchronized-sound cartoon series. Although silent animation accompanied by live music existed more than two decades before, demand for additional Disney short subjects utilizing the Powers Cinephone technology (owned by Patrick A. Powers, who also distributed the same cartoons through his company, Celebrity Productions) was too great to ignore. Various historical accounts cite Stalling as the man who made the suggestion to Disney to create a separate film
series designed to maximize audio-and-visual capabilities for multiple genres starting with… skeletons!
Mickey Mousing
Intrigued by the possibility such a concept could launch a second revenue stream for his fledgling studio, Walt Disney approved the story and production, providing Iwerks and Stalling with an opportunity to intertwine their talent. Iwerks storyboarded and animated each frame (with assistance from Disney’s small art staff), while Stalling scored and arranged them by combining original music with a section of Edvard Grieg’s 1891 composition, “March of the Dwarfs.” This new technique would later be nicknamed “Mickey Mousing” and, within two months, their labor of love became the first Silly Symphony!
This “dance macabre” story is simple: several sinister skeletons appear from behind a gravestone and dance the night away in comedic fashion— sometimes making music with their bones—much to the dismay of the bats, cats, and other nocturnal creatures witnessing the undead’s antics. When a rooster’s “cock-a-doodle-doo” rings in the dawn, the fleshless corpses frantically hide inside one grave, possibly to return another night…
The earliest known screenings of “The Skeleton Dance” are recorded as June 1929 in Los Angeles and San Francisco, CA, followed by its New York City premiere that July. Yet, according to the book Of Mice and Magic: A History of American Animated Cartoons, its release date is May 1929. Jerry Beck, the book’s coauthor and current consultant on MeTV’s MeToons programming, provides some insight:
“That first date was likely sourced by Disney Studios’
internal reference guide known as the “All Pictures Book”—which, by the way, is no way definitive, as it does omit numerous titles. It could also mean the date that the final negative was issued from the film lab or, in many cases, its initial regional release. Being an animation historian for close to 45 years and having started my career in film distribution, my perspective regarding the earliest Disney animation is to use noted release dates as rough guidelines—at least until if and when bona fide documentation is discovered from those periods that can prove otherwise.”
While “The Skeleton Dance” garnered positive reviews from critics and audiences, strife between Disney, Iwerks, and Powers over money and creative control led to the end of their partnerships. Disney would sign an exclusive distribution deal with Columbia Pictures, while Iwerks launched his own animation company, financed by Powers and a number of other investors. Stalling would create and arrange music for both companies. At first, all those who had been a part of Disney Cartoons were enthusiastic about the enormous opportunities that lay ahead. However, their plans were soon thrown into complete jeopardy.
The Crash
The Stock Market Crash on New York’s Wall Street in October 1929 is considered one of the worst times in American history, its shattering impact precipitating the economic downturn of the Great Depression. When the stock market went into free fall, the “Roaring Twenties” came to a most abrupt end, leading to a period of absolute despair. For many of those whose lives were thrown into turmoil, the magic of motion pictures would become an inexpensive way of coping with the hardship that followed.
My father Benny was hired as an usher for Lowe’s Pitkin Theater in Brooklyn, New York, which opened in November 1929. At just 16 years of age, Pop’s first-hand experiences of the Golden Age of Cinema included silent films being accompanied by a live organist, to the earliest “talkies,” live-action stunt artists, comedians,
DID YOU KNOW GHOST RIDER’S ORIGIN WAS LINKED TO SUPERMAN?
By Phil Hore
There are few comic book characters to have amassed a cult-like legion of fans in the way Ghost Rider has, yet despite this huge recognition still doesn’t rate as
series, for Ghost Rider is interminably tormented by temporary triumph!
It may surprise some of you to learn our tale does not start with Marvel; rather it begins with one of their rival comic book publishers. Vin Sullivan had made his reputation editing Action #1 in 1938, but after the successful launch of Superman he decided to leave DC to establish his own publishing company, Magazine Enterprises (ME).
superhero boom that had done so much to boost moral and sustain the comic book industry, was all but over. New genres were now needed to take their place. Crime, horror, war, and other themes were on the rise; ME entered the western field with a gunslinger going by the name of The Calico Kid.
Ghost Riders In The Sky
Created by writer Ray Krank and artist Dick Ayers as a backup story in issue #11 of ME’s western title Tim Holt, Rex Hart was a Federal Marshall with a secret identity, the gunfighter they called the Calico Kid. This lasted for only a few issues (and strangely a number of TV episodes on western programs like Loredo), before Rex adopted a new identity, The Ghost Rider. The Kid’s horse Ebony was also replaced by the much spookier Specter, and at some point Rex Hart was changed to Rex Fury. The redesign proved popular and sales soared. The Ghost Rider could soon be found shooting it out across
numerous covers, the gunplay in his second through to fifth appearances penciled by Frank Frazetta.
In Alter Ego Vol. 3 #10, Roy Thomas interviewed Ayers about designing the new character and his collaboration with Vin Sullivan:
“Vin… told me to go see Disney’s Sleepy Hollow Ichabod Crane, the Headless Horseman—and then he told me to play the Vaughn Monroe record, Ghost Riders in the Sky. And then he started talking about what he wanted the guy wearing.”
Though not supernatural, the team made this Ghost Rider appear as if he were a spirit, owing to his outfit. Fury’s costume was covered in phosphorus on one side, with black material on the other. This allowed Rex to flip items like his cape, making it look as though parts of him, in particular his exposed head and hands, were floating like a true specter.
The Ghost Rider rode about investigating apparent supernatural cases. Occasionally he might fight a werewolf or some other creature of the night, but usually these crimes had a more mundane origin, making Rex an early version of the Scooby-Doo gang. Thanks to the title’s popularity, you could soon order a mail-in, glow-in-the-dark mask just like the one Ghost Rider wore [above]. According to one account, these are among the rarest collectibles in comicdom, with only two surviving masks known.
Beatings, Suicides and Murders
No supernatural foe could defeat the Ghost Rider, but there was one comic related arch-nemesis that would temporarily put an end to his ride for justice. In the late 1940s and early ’50s, crime and horror comics came under intense scrutiny as they became considered the cause of nearly all the woes in society. It was during these years a new grouping in the social order had emerged, and no one was happy about it! Before WWII it was simple; there were children and then there were adults. Then blossoming out of this unsupervised world, where fathers and older brothers were overseas, and mothers were working the jobs these soldiers had vacated, came a new breed: the teenager!
Orson Welles, creator of Citizen Kane, reinventor of Shakespeare, panicmonger responsible for network radio’s The War of the Worlds (as seen just two issues ago), and nagging conscience of the film noir movement, died at the age of 70 in 1985, during a stretch of apparently robust health and renewed ambition. Welles had “spent much of his life living down the fact that he had conquered radio, theater, and films by the time he was 25,” as Daily Variety’s Todd McCarthy observed. And yet the notion of Welles as conqueror rings somehow false when one considers his self-sacrificial enslavement to the cinema.
It bears remembering that Welles’ inaugural studio feature, Citizen Kane (1941)—a study in horrific obsession, long accepted as a film of greatness— was in its day a resounding flop. An immediate, repercussive commercial failure obscured Kane’s greater worth as an innovator. Many affiliated careers suffered as RKO Radio Pictures took punitive measures against practically every talent who had lent a hand to the radical extravagances of Citizen Kane
“It would’ve been much better for all concerned, if I’d just’ve gotten Citizen Kane out of my system, bade the studios adieu with a big fat razzberry, and gone straight back to the legitimate stage,” Welles told me during an early-1970s press conference, between takes of a narration track on an installment of Rod Serling’s Night Gallery. Welles added: “Or at least, I should’ve gone back to radio.”
He continued: “The cinema, damn her eyes, is the most demanding concubine any fool could try to keep, and she’s had her hooks sunk into me ever since Kane. It’s love as an addictive poison.”
The tone seemed too good-humored to match the words—but then, Welles’
The Late Sea
Seventy-Eight Years of Joseph L. Mankiewicz’s Classic Motion Picture, The Ghost and Mrs. Muir
By Ryan Vandergriff
“Perhaps he did come back and talk to us? Wouldn’t it be wonderful if he had? Then you’d have something—you know what I mean—to look back on with happiness.”
One of the biggest sensations at the North American box office in 1947 was the classic film noir Out of the Past. Moviegoers flocked to get a glimpse of cinema bad boy Robert Mitchum get suckered into femme fatale Jane Greer’s tangled web in this Jacques Tourneur-directed masterpiece. When they had finished with that bit of celluloid darkness, a starved for entertainment post-World War II crowd rushed to make other films like Buck Privates Come Home, Road to Rio, Gentleman’s Agreement, The Bishop’s Wife and Green Dolphin Street bona fide hits. And if it wasn’t Bud Abbott and Lou Costello or Crosby and Hope making off with the laughs, or Gregory Peck and Celeste Holm forcing folks to second-guess some of their own behaviors towards their fellow man, then it was the odds bodkin offerings of trifles like The Egg and I and Life with Father that was really making waves at local movie ticket counters across the nation. Yet out of all of the glad Hollywood tidings which John and Jane Q. Public had to pick and choose from a mere two years after VJ-Day, it was perhaps one of the more heartfelt and offbeat love stories ever committed to celluloid which ultimately failed to raise much attention among all of the lookyloos on the home front and, in fact, disappeared specter-like from the nation’s consciousness before anyone ever really got the opportunity to become acquainted with it: The Ghost and Mrs. Muir.
Based on the 1945 novel of the same name from author R.A. Dick (the nom de plume of 47-year-old Irish scribe Josephine Leslie), The Ghost and Mrs. Muir opens in the early 1900s to tell the story of a young widow named Lucy Muir, who moves herself and her daughter Anna (as well as her ever-loyal housekeeper
Martha) into a quaint seaside home called Gull Cottage. Mrs. Muir does so at the extreme opposition of her distrustful inlaws and a very nervous estate agent, a Mr. Coombe. Why the nerves and uneasy feelings? As it turns out, a lot of people living around the tiny English seaside village of Whitecliff believe the otherwise cozy-looking Gull Cottage to be very much haunted. And, in typical movieland fashion, they’re very much right; Gull Cottage is indeed haunted...
Faster than audience members can intone “It was a dark and stormy night,” Mrs. Muir comes face-to-face with the phantom rattling about the cottage and, coming as no big surprise to anyone paying attention to the opening exposition from Oscar-nominated scriptwriter Philip Dunne (How Green Was My Valley), the ghoul sending such alarm into the new tenants of Gull Cottage isn’t really ghoulish at all, but rather the slightly grumpy and mischievous spirit of its former owner, the dashing Captain Daniel Gregg. In a clever twist that all but guarantees creative tension (not to mention a laugh or three), only Lucy Muir can see and hear the captain. Successfully securing her ear, Gregg turns out to be a talkative sort, and it isn’t long before he’s swatting away Mrs. Muir’s misconception that he died by suicide. Instead, it turns out that the good captain met his maker due to an ill-timed kick from his foot onto a precariously placed gas heater in his quarters. It’s of such twists and vagaries of fate that this altogether unusual and heartfelt fable begins its journey.
The Original Odd Couple
of income goes belly-up; she now faces the possibility her time at Gull Cottage might be coming to an end. Necessity being the mother of invention, the diminutive Mrs. Muir and her resident ghost hit upon a plan wherein he will dictate to her his seagoing memoirs; she will then have it published under her pen name, thus collecting all profits and staying on at the cottage.
It’s while working together on the memoir they realize they have fallen in love with one another. In any other film, that would be a climactic moment leading to the happy ending which audiences are obviously rooting for. However, by the very nature of their individual circumstances, Mrs. Muir and Captain Gregg can never consummate their newfound love, leading to one heck of a story conundrum.
Things grow even more complicated when another monkey wrench is thrown into the proceedings, this one in the form of a lecherous writing contemporary of Lucy’s, Miles Fairley. Facing an impossible future with her beloved Captain Gregg, Mrs. Muir romantically throws in with Fairley, who is idolized by all of kiddom and celebrated as the popular children’s author, “Uncle Neddy.” With the writing on the wall, and feeling it not proper to interfere in the business of the living—not to mention of the heart—Captain Daniel Gregg reluctantly
Though in life Gregg had wished to transform Gull Cottage into a retirement community for those seamen who had decided to hang up their anchors and galoshes, there is a spark he picks up on from Mrs. Muir which steadies his own tempestuous manner, so he decides that she and her young girl have just as much a right in the home as any bargain basement Captain Kidd does. The original “odd couple” strike an arrangement which sees the Muir’s remaining comfortably settled in their new digs, and Gregg agreeing with the young widow to only allow himself to be seen by her, then begins referring to his new living tenant as “Lucia.” Before too long, Lucy’s only source
THE GHOST AND MRS. MUIR
ATLAS DIGEST BONEANZA
by Pat Calhoun
In the early 1940s, a number of digest-size crime and mystery softcover books began to appear on the market.
As word spread of the hardcover publishers selling reprint rights to recent novels for a song, the digest publishers were assured a wealth of cut-rate content. Martin Goodman added digests to his pulp, comic, and magazine holdings in 1942. Goodman was a master of packaging, his digests were cleanly produced with colorful covers, and the series quickly took on an interesting “branding” motif by having skulls, skeletons, and bones featured on the majority of the covers. Flash forward to now, and when Good Editor Peter announced an upcoming Cryptology issue with a “skull” and bones theme—we decided that a gallery of these Atlas gems was a must inclusion.
The first series of Atlas crime digests ran from 1942-1945 with 35 entries, 21 of which feature the skull and bones motif on the cover. Goodman had a couple of great “cheesecake” artists working for his true crime mags, Peter Driben and Cardwell Higgins, both of whom contributed fabulous images to the digest series.
The second digest Goodman published, $1,000,000 in
Corpses, was the first to make use of this skull imagery, and it is most likely Higgins’ art. Author Edward Aarons, who went by the pseudonym Edward Ronns, later wrote a popular 42-novel series about Sam Durrell, CIA agent. Goodman soon dropped the title banners, giving more room to the cover image. The Herman Peterson scripted Murder RFD is the first Peter Driben cover, and it’s a honey. Another sensational Driben cover graces The Traveling Corpses. Author Kurt Steel penned three other novels in the Atlas digest series.
Next up is a stunning cover by an unidentified artist for Death is the Host, released in January 1943, although the story was originally published as Death Paints the Picture. It is a disturbing image—triumphant in its darkness; bone appetit. The tale within is also of note for readers of our magazine, for the lead character, one Homer Buff, is a syndicated newspaper artist. Then Higgins returns with a beautifully weird cover on D as in Dead. The magnifying glass became something of a minor motif, appearing on several back covers. D as in Dead (B as in Banshee (1946), T as in Trapped (1947) etc.) is part of
It’s hard to believe such an amiable fellow could have created some of the most notorious covers of the much maligned pre-Code horror years, yet Herman “Hy” Fleishman was indeed the warped mind behind the insanity about to be laid before your eyes. And before we embark on this madness, a word to the wise: that which follows
is not for the easily shocked. I think this rules out virtually everyone in here, so we shouldn’t have too many problems. Born in November 1927 in the borough of Manhattan, Hy went on to spend his youth in Brooklyn, the spawning ground for so many of the comic book creators of his generation. If not for the darkly humorous covers he embellished for Dark Mysteries and the latter issues of Mysterious Adventures, Hy may well have gone unnoticed, like so many others alongside him, fated to be little more than a footnote in comic book history. However, these deranged covers would ensure horror comics enthusiasts for generations to come would have a wry grin on their faces at the very mention of his name. Hy entered comic books in a similar way to scores of his contemporaries in the years after WWII, using the proceeds he received from the GI Bill, following his discharge from the Navy, to fund his studies at the New York City College, before moving onto the esteemed Burne Hogarth’s Cartoonists & Illustrators School. Those long hours spent in the classroom were to provide a solid foundation for his eventual entrée into the field of comic book art.
Censorious Court Case
His break came with one of the lesser known publishers of the day, Story Comics. This small publishing house was owned by lawyer William K. Friedman, who had represented Harry Donefield, prior to him taking on the position as publisher at DC Comics, when the New York City Commissioner of Licenses attempted to have certain of his pulps,
Above, the man responsible for this outrage, Hy Fleishman. Image courtesy of Dewy Cassell.
Hoist High the Skull and Crossbones! THE PIRATES of the CARIBBEAN, FROM THEME PARK RIDE to MODEL
By John Navroth
After a tower crane dropped it into place between the Mad Tea Party and Dumbo the Flying Elephant rides at Walt Disney’s Fantasyland in Anaheim, California, the Chicken of the Sea Pirate Ship and Restaurant was “launched” on August 29, 1955. Inspired by the 1953 Walt Disney animated film Peter Pan, the scaled-down galleon was anchored in a small pond (with the addition of a large skull waterfall in 1960), where visitors would board the ship and wander until they worked up an appetite for lunch, conveniently provided by the restaurant just a few steps away. Sponsored by the
KITS
Chicken of the Sea canned seafood company, hungry patrons had their choice of various tuna dishes, including sandwiches and salads (the author fondly remembers munching on a tuna sandwich with a bag of Fritos that had been purchased earlier from the Casa de Fritos vending machine in Frontierland). The restaurant was re-named Captain Hook’s Galley (after the villain in Peter Pan) in 1969 after Chicken of the Sea discontinued their partnership. The attraction continued until 1982 when it was discovered that after nearly three decades, the ship’s wooden hull was waterlogged and rotting, making any further excursions onboard unsafe.
During the time the pirate ship attraction was open for visitors, Walt began developing plans that would enlarge the pirate theme into a more expansive venue. He and his staff worked with Arrow Development which had been building theme park rides for Disneyland since 1953. The original concept was for it to be a
walk-through museum, but after the success of the It’s a Small World ride at the 1964-1965 New York World’s Fair, Disney opted for the same type of “water-conveyance” ride for his new project, with the idea that passengers would thrill to the sights and sounds of colonial New Orleans and West Indies scenes, replete with glimmering piles of treasure and, of course, skeletons and pirates. Lots of skeletons and pirates.
The ride’s engaging visuals were the result of a core group of Disney’s most talented animators and “Imagineers.” One of the “Nine Old Men,” so-called by Walt himself for their many years in service to the Magic Kingdom, animator Marc Davis conceptualized and designed the characters and developed the story. His sketches were so exceptional they were eventually used and sold as postcards. Claude Coats had been an accomplished animation background artist since 1935 and became adept at designing the most effective layout for an attraction’s ride. John Hench, the Senior Vice-president of WED Enterprises, Disney’s design and development company, provided his expertise in art direction. Blaine Gibson, who first worked at Disney as an animator and designer, was brought on board to initially sculpt small-scale maquette prototypes, and then create all
the remarkable life-size people and animals that would populate the various scenes. Multi-talented Xavier “X” Atencio was assigned to write the script, with Walt Disney personally overseeing the entire project.
Animated Skeletons
The Pirates of the Caribbean opened on March 18, 1967 in Disneyland Anaheim’s New Orleans Square. Admission for the ride was an “E” ticket, the highest-valued in the park’s ticket book purchased at the gate, and designated for Disneyland’s most popular attractions. Lasting for about 15 minutes, the ride took two dozen passengers seated in one of 50 French bateaux-style shallow-bottom boats through a number of settings, including Dead Man’s Cove, scenes with numerous animated skeletons, animals and people, an assault by pirates on an island fort, and of course, the rum-soaked sailors singing the ride’s theme song, “Yo Ho (A Pirate’s Life for Me),” written by Academy and Grammynominated George Bruns (music) and Xavier Atencio (lyrics).
Passengers were treated to over 50 audio-animatronic animals and birds, as well as 75 animatronic pirates and townspeople. The experience was further enhanced by audio voiceovers by talents such as Paul Freese, who had
George Wilson’s painted cover art for Dell and Gold Key Comics from the 1950s through the 1980s is the stuff of legend. While publishers such as DC, Marvel, and Charlton offered covers with line art and mechanical four-color process coloring, Wilson’s brush strokes—and those of Western Publishing’s (who packaged and printed the comics for Dell and owned the Gold Key label) other cover artists like Mo Gollub and Vic Prezio—soared above the competition on spinner racks to grab the eyes of young readers. For many years, the company’s books outsold Superman, Batman, and many of the other popular characters offered by the leading publishers.
Western Publishing understood that superhero comics were the bread and butter of publishers like DC and Marvel, and wisely chose to diversify their subject matter into other genres. One area they leaned heavily into were stories of
the supernatural, especially ghost stories, as well as mystery and suspense. After the fallout of the Kefauver Congressional hearings of the 1950s on the correlation between reading crime and horror comics and the rise in juvenile delinquency in the United States, these genres were taboo to most publishers who abided by the edicts of the Comics Code Authority.
The Authority was a self-regulating body created by publishers after the hearings to make sure that comics maintained a wholesome image to the public. Neither Dell nor later Gold Key submitted their titles for approval (Western Publishing split with Dell in 1962 when Dell raised the cover price of their comics to 15¢, while every other publisher went to 12¢. Gold Key was created as an in-house imprint for Western at that time), stating that they regulated the stories themselves and kept their comics safe for readers of all ages.
A movie featuring a walking, talking skeleton skulking through a haunted house. Another scattered with images of floating skulls and shrunken heads. A third centered around the possessed and malevolent skull of the Marquis de Sade. What better way to pay tribute to this issue’s Skull and Bones theme?
Along with The Tingler (1959), House on Haunted Hill may be producerdirector William Castle’s most beloved film. In the 1940s, Castle proved to be an efficient and effective director at Columbia’s B-movie unit, cranking out tidy programmers for the studio’s noir-drenched Whistler mysteries. In the 1950s, he turned to the horror genre after viewing Henri Georges-Clouzot’s masterpiece Les Diaboliques (1955). Fascinated by audience reactions to the shocks generated by Clouzot, Castle decided to produce and direct his own horror film. He collaborated with screenwriter Robb White, mortgaged his home, and sank $90,000 into Macabre (1958), a Les Diaboliques rip-off released by Allied Artists. Macabre lacked the style and surprises that made Clouzot’s film a sensation—and Castle knew it. He segued from director to showman by promoting the film with a unique idea, guaranteeing a $1,000 Lloyd’s of London insurance policy to the survivors of anyone who died of fright while viewing Macabre (if death by boredom had been covered, Lloyd’s would have gone bankrupt). The gimmick paid off and Macabre reaped five million dollars at the box office.
Allied Artists immediately conscripted Castle for another film, and he opted for an old-fashioned ghost story. Castle wanted a known star for the picture, but one he could afford on a relatively modest budget. According to his take-it-with-a-grain-of-salt
“I—AND I ALONE POSSESS THE POWER OVER LIFE AND DEATH! I AM BEYOND YOUR FEEBLE LAWS! YOU CAN NO MORE JAIL A SHADOW—OR PUNISH IT—” — Death-Man
Many pop culture enthusiasts consider 1966 as the Year of the Bat—the Batman, that is! Those who watched the Batman television show during its original run on ABCTV (1966-1968) witnessed firsthand the birth of a popculture phenomenon. Merchandising and publicity familiarized millions with the Caped Crusader, Robin the Boy Wonder, and their extraordinary adversaries: the Riddler, Penguin, Catwoman, Joker, Mr. Freeze, and other characters created specifically for the program.
However, avid Batfans gravitated toward the medium where the Dark Knight began in comic books almost three decades earlier: Batman, Detective Comics, World’s Finest, and Brave and the Bold. Published by DC/National Periodical Publications, these Bat-titles offered stories by talented creators who, in addition to pitting the dynamic duo against the aforementioned rogues’ gallery, sometimes introduced all-new villains.
One such character is Death-Man, a skull-andcrossbones-wearing gang boss, who made his eerie debut in Batman #180, cover-dated May 1966. For a mere twelve cents, fans could enjoy the full-length novel “Death Knocks Three Times,” a 24-page, threechapter tale distinguishable from many of the day’s campy, G-rated Batman stories.
The issue’s stunning cover, illustrated by comicbook greats Gil Kane and
Murphy Anderson (both uncredited at that time), captures a unique intensity. The mysterious culprit holds a gun and screams, “I’ll be the death of you yet, Batman and Robin!” With apparent super-human strength, the unnamed threat wrestles Batman with both arms while kicking Robin off his feet near a dug grave with a headstone conveniently marked, “RIP Batman and Robin.” What more could entice Bat-readers to grab the issue and devour it with anticipation from cover to cover?
Although “Death Knocks Three Times” is fully credited to Batman’s co-creator “Bob Kane” (to fulfill old contractual obligations that have since been changed), it was written by Robert Kanigher, penciled by Sheldon Moldoff, and inked by Joe Giella. The story opens in a style reminiscent of the television show; captions read in the same manner as its producer Lorenzo Semple’s narration in each episode. Its formula is virtually the basic Batman structure from that time: Gun-wielding villain and henchmen steal money or jewels, Batman and Robin arrive to thwart the crime, the obligatory fight ensues with fists, kicks and Batarangs (Pow! Bam!! Crack!!!), criminals get away and later place Batman and Robin in a death trap, only to escape within seconds before their doom, and eventually the culprits are caught and returned to Gotham State Penitentiary.
Mention the name of the actor Michael Gough to horror aficionados, and a certain response to the characters he played springs to mind. The best way to describe that response is in reference to a film that he is not in. In Terence Fisher’s The Revenge of Frankenstein (1958), viewers were given an early example of the kind of ingenuity in ringing the changes on pre-existing material that became Hammer’s stock in trade, as the eponymous Baron cheats the guillotine and is primed to resume his bloody experiments. The fact that the audience does not immediately despise him for the ruthless (and homicidal) deception that brought about his freedom is due as much to the casting of Peter Cushing as to the writing and direction, but this would not have been the case had the part been played by another Hammer alumnus, the far less sympathetic Michael Gough. At the time, Gough was noted for his sneering expression and supercilious voice, although there was far more to the actor than the villainous characters he habitually portrayed. When, many years later, the director Tim Burton, a long-time Hammer aficionado, cast Gough as Batman’s obliging butler in his highly successful revival of the Bob Kane/Bill Finger superhero, he uncovered surprisingly likeable facets of the actor’s personality that had been ruthlessly repressed in his heyday as a horror actor. And, in fact, I watched entranced as Gough gave a delicate and understated performance at London’s National Theater in Arnold Wesker’s Love Letters on Blue Paper. But, let’s face it, horror fans most relish Michael Gough when
Forshaw
he is playing ruthless and lethal characters, don’t we?
The road to Dracula
The resonant-voiced actor—who was born in 1916 and died in 2011—was born and initially brought up in Malaya. In England, he trained at the Old Vic school alongside such actors as Laurence Olivier and Vivien Leigh, making his stage debut at the Old Vic in 1936. He started in film playing intense young men during the 1940s—his first films, in 1948, were Blanche Fury, Anna Karenina and Saraband for Dead Lovers—before his career shifted inexorably into villainy and his stock in trade became the narcissistic scientist or authority figure who murderously abuses his power and inevitably pays a heavy price. A significant moment came in 1958, when he played the troubled Arthur Holmwood in one of the films that defined Hammer as Britain’s key progenitor of horror, Dracula (Horror of Dracula in the US). Ironically,
The mid-1960s continued to be a prolific period for Hammer Film Productions. In 1964, the company announced all of five films, going one better a year later to make it six, thus cementing their reputation as the leading producer of horror films in the UK and the US.
The Reptile (initially titled The Curse of the Reptiles) was released by Hammer in March 1966, the fourth in a series of films made back-to-back using the same sets in the hope of saving money. It was preceded by Dracula: Prince of Darkness, The Plague of the
Zombies, and Rasputin the Mad Monk. All four made it to cinemas in 1966, with Rasputin the Mad Monk screened in some countries as a double feature alongside The Reptile.
The story is set in the south-westerly county of Cornwall, England. Among seasoned followers of these films, it is recognized for it being half of the Hammer “Cornish Duo,” the other half being The Plague of the Zombies which was set in the county’s tin mines. Tin mining operations had been prevalent in the county for hundreds of years until the latter part of the 20th Century.
If by now, you have become a regular reader of Cryptology, some of the names assigned to the making of this film will be oh so very familiar. Production duties were handled by Anthony Nelson Keys, the screenplay was provided by Anthony Hinds (under the pseudonym of John Elder), with John Gilling occupying the director’s chair. With this being the “Cornish Duo”, it seems fitting Gilling was also tasked with directing The Plague of the Zombies.
Casting for The Reptile took place in the early months of 1965,
Earlier in this issue we got to see firsthand how the pulp magazines, that held sway on the stand during the first half of the 20th century, made such macabre use of the skull motif to draw attention to their latest product, in what was a viciously competitive market. When comic books came to the fore, their publishers were quick to follow suit. For the readers of these comics, it soon became obvious, just as in the pulps of the period, that death was all but a hair’s breath away.
The hideous glare of the human skull, of course, went hand-in-hand with the more diabolical side of horror, but it also made its ill-boding presence felt on many a crime pulp. Soon after the advent of the comic book in the latter part of the 1930s, it wasn’t long before this leering visage had become a menacing prospect on the covers of certain Golden Age superhero titles. As early as the cover to
Captain America Comics #3, dated May 1941, Alex Schomburg’s brushstrokes took an inordinate amount of pleasure in exposing the depraved machinations of Cap’s archenemy The Red Skull. With the turn of the page, Alex’s excess was echoed in the hanging scene on Joe Simon and Jack Kirby’s splash page from the accompanying story “The Return of the Red Skull.”
Many of the comics from this period were inclined to push it as far as they could, but this appalling spectacle would have been far too strong to have made it to the cover to this or any other issue of Captain America Comics at this time. However, even though hidden away in these pages, its appearance would have enraged a group of righteous individuals who already considered these comics “A
National Disgrace and a Challenge to American Parents,” as per the headline in the Chicago Daily News for May 8, 1940. This minor snippet went on to refer to these comics as “sex horror serials.” In defense of this issue of Captain America Comics, there was no sex on show, but it is hard to deny this lynching was the stuff of darkest nightmare.
If you hadn’t had your fill of The Red Skull, he was up to his dirty tricks on the cover to the debut of Young Allies Comics, his foul subterfuge this time coming courtesy of Jack Kirby and Syd Shores in the Summer of 1941. Comic books may have been in their infancy, but the sight of this hate-filled villain abounded with a potent few other comics could ever hope to match.
Mortiferous Imagery
Before we get too carried away with this Nazi miscreant’s evil deeds, we should keep in mind the mocking image of the human skull was nothing new in these comic books. Towards the end of 1940, although cover-dated January 1941, one of the foremost artists of the day, a fellow by the name of Lou Fine, crafted an ominous looking skull for his cover fronting Hit Comics #7. Several years later, Alex Kotzky adopted this imaginative approach when promoting his Midnight cover for Smash Comics #50, dated February 1944, although the attendant story was somewhat light-hearted, with ne’er a skull in sight. Smash Comics had endured an earlier encounter with this mortiferous imagery on the splash page to The Ray episode for issue #27, dated October 1941, “The Atom Smasher.” Rendered by a youthful Reed Crandall a deathly wraith looked on, waiting to claim its next victim. Little did these
introducing the Mr. Justice 9-pager “The Monk Summons Death” in Blue Ribbon Comics #21, an illustration that may well have given its young readers the heebiejeebies. If Jim had continued in his career in comic books following his return from the war, he may well have become one of the stars of the pre-Code horror era, because as this rendition demonstrated, his brush strokes were steeped in a dark edge that set him apart from so many of his contemporaries. The same could also be said of Clement Weisbecker, who rendered a chilling splash of Death as the prelude to the “Tale of the Terrible Trunk” in MLJ’s Black Hood Comics #11, from Summer
young readers know, this cowled figure was poised to propagate his malfeasance in the comic books set to take over the newsstand early on in the next decade.
The Golden Age years would see several other artists go onto make effective use of this perturbing iconography, among them Al Plastino in his splash page for the Major Victory opener in Dynamic Comics #2, from December 1941. A few years down the line Dynamic Comics returned to this chilling tableau when Gus Ricca was handed the task of embellishing the cover to its 13th issue, dated January 1945. It’s such a shame this title now had to resort to so many reprints, for there was a discernible inference of horror permeating this and other covers from this period.
A couple of months after the appearance of Dynamic Comics #2, Jim Phillips summoned the specter of Death for his splash
1944. However, a career as a fine artist beckoned, ushering yet another aspiring horror artist away from the shadow laden world of preCode horror.
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The Evil
CRYPTOLOGY
#5 SKULL & BONES ISSUE! Ghost Rider from comics to movies, skeleton covers from Atlas Digests and pre-Code horror comics, HY FLEISHMAN’s 1950s skeleton covers and stories, Disney’s skeletons, ’70s Pirates of the Caribbean models and Last Gasp’s Skull Comics, the films of William
A little over a year later, the comic book industry was in search of a new winner. Now WWII had come to a welcome end, the publishers faced an alarming period of adjustment, as the sales of the once popular superhero comics slumped, forcing them to explore new avenues. Amid the experimentation of this period came three covers that
