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By BOB MADISON
Many fantasy and science fiction films revolve around
fantastic modes of transportation: From airships to starships,
the genre is about the transcendence of escape. The metaphor
is so obvious as to be almost invisible. The wonder machines
of fantastic cinema take the viewer on fabulous journeys
in the air and beneath the sea, into the center of the earth
and to distant planets. No wonder kids of all ages -- who
yearn to light out and spread their wings -- are attracted
to the genre. Following is an alphabetical checklist of
fantastic cinema's Top 10 "ships of wonder." Many
of these films are not particularly distinguished even by
the relative standards of SF-fantasy films (so don't expect
me to argue that At the Earth's Core is good film). Yet,
each and every one of the movies listed below is about a
voyage in a truly marvelous mode of transportation. So ...
buckle up and enjoy the ride.
At the Earth's Core (1976)
This is a dreadful movie with an absolutely fabulous ship
of wonder. Earth's Core opens with sweeping, panoramic
views of the construction of the Iron Mole; a ship designed
to bore into the very center of the Earth. These opening
moments are terrific, and capture the spirit of fantastic
Victorian exploration. The Iron Mole is a gleaming, nickel-plated
beauty. Sadly, the film falls apart right after the opening
credits. Based on a book by Edgar Rice Burroughs, Earth's
Core descends right into silliness as soon as Mole Captain
Doug McClure and ship-designer Peter Cushing land in the
dinosaur-infested Pellucidar (the land in the middle of
our Earth). Cushing -- perhaps the finest actor in genre
films -- was never worse. McClure -- well, he was Doug McClure.
The Mahars (as the evolved dinosaurs are called in Pellucidar)
are men in ill-fitting suits. The sets look leftover from
Saturday morning's Land of the Lost. But the Iron
Mole -- now, there's a machine! Rent the film, look at the
opening, then turn it off and imagine a better picture.
Atlantis: The Lost Empire (2001)
An unusual animated feature from Disney -- a dismal failure
upon release that may yet be better appreciated on video
and DVD. Atlantis, better than most pictures, captures a
real Jules Verne/H. Rider Haggard feel, despite the fact
that it is not directly based on work by either author.
It concerns a young visionary who believes he has located
the lost city of Atlantis. He is aided by a mysterious millionaire
who has bankrolled a futuristic (both by pre-World War I
and 2001 standards!) submarine, the Ulysses. Like the much
inferior At the Earth's Core, Atlantis is at its
best when aboard the Ulysses. The supersub is a masterpiece
of design: a huge glass sphere at the ship's nose, with
a long, crenellated body. Design-wise, it ranks with Disney's
earlier Nautilus -- in fact, perhaps Atlantis' mysterious
millionaire was somehow involved with Nemo. Who knows? Sadly,
the Ulysses is destroyed just moments after its launch,
and the film suffers for it. The remaining adventure --
the conversion of mercenaries into good guys and the rescue
of Atlantis -- is all good stuff, but I kept missing the
sub.
Atragon (1964)
This Japanese curiosity features an invasion of the upper
world by the underwater city of Mu. Seems the Mu-vians have
had it in for us ever since the days of Atlantis, and now
it's time for them to come topside and take control. Fortunately,
an exiled Japanese naval commander has lived on a deserted
island with a group of followers since the close of World
War II. There, they have built Atragon -- a super, flying
submarine with a giant screwhead nose. Atragon spins itself
into Mu's undersea stronghold and the fight is on. I can't
say I like this movie; I can't even say that I understand
it completely. (My copy is a video of Japanese original
with subtitles and ... well ... it's downright strange at
times.) But Atragon itself is a masterpiece of design; the
ship repels sea monsters, flies (!) and can bore through
underwater cities. It has got to be my favorite piece of
Japanese science-fiction machinery, right after Mecha-Kong.
(Gimme a break. Wouldn't you want a 60-foot robot gorilla?)
Destination Moon (1950)
We leave the ocean depths for the depths of space with George
Pal's Destination Moon, which heralded the science
fiction film craze of the 1950s, and also had the distinction
of being one of the last serious SF films of the decade!
The film is art-as-propaganda in favor of space exploration
with a screenplay co-written by novelist Robert Heinlein
and based, slightly, on his Rocketship Galileo. The
film's expansive spirit is reflective of much of the era's
SF, but with a militant, right-wing slant. If you want to
get a taste of the era's thirst to build a rocketship and
conquer space, you would be better off reading Arthur C.
Clarke's wonderful Prelude to Space instead of seeing
Moon. Design is what sells Moon today; first
and foremost, there is the stunningly conceived lunar landscape
created by artist Chesley Bonestell. Bonestell's moon is
infinitely preferably to the drab pile of rock mankind found
in 1969. Equally stunning is the ship that gets us there,
the Luna. The Luna is all sleek lines and sharp fins --
and one can trace the influence of its design in cars for
years to come. The ship is a metallic wonder -- a true vehicle
of the imagination.
Master of the World (1961)
Once again, the ship steals the film when Vincent Price
uses the Albatross to become Master of the World.
This entry in the Jules Verne sweepstakes, which started
with Around the World in Eighty Days (1956), was
a rather cut-rate affair. The special effects were never
quite up to Richard Matheson's screenplay (a combination
of Verne's Clipper of the Clouds and Master of
the World), and Price, as Robur the Conqueror, never
really takes off. Charles Bronson is on hand in one of his
early heroic roles. (Previously, he had been Price's mute
goon in House of Wax.) Henry Hull delivers an embarrassing
performance as a munitions manufacturer, and Vito Scotti
provides some ill-conceived comic relief. The ship, however,
is magnificent. Master's Albatross is exactly as
Verne described it -- in fact, it exactly corresponds to
the model currently on display in Verne's home-turned-museum
at Amiens. A massive airship equipped with propellers, the
Albatross is a worthy airborne kin to Nemo's Nautilus. As
a film, Master of the World is strictly earthbound,
but it's wonderful airship soars.
Star Trek: The Motion Picture (1979)
Perhaps the best-known space-faring vessel in fantastic
cinema is the starship Enterprise. It has appeared, in different
incarnations, in nine films of varying quality, but no film
displays the craft's tri-column design better than 1979's
Star Trek: The Motion Picture. Long excoriated by
critics, ST: TMP is actually the best, most intelligent
film of the series. Filmmaker Robert Wise obviously studied
Kubrick's 2001: A Space Odyssey, for this first film
adventure for the television cast quakes with echoes of
the Kubrick film. ST:TMP tries to break new ground,
moving the television concept further, which, more than
anything, helped make the film a failure. The later, more
television-inspired films were more in tune with audience
tastes, and that's a shame. Rarely have we had a better
chance to view the Enterprise. In the first third of the
film, Scotty (James Doohan) takes Kirk (William Shatner)
on a tour of the Enterprise exterior. For the true believers
in fantastic travel, it is the highlight of the film.
The Time Machine (1960)
Not all ships of wonder travel through physical space --
some travel through time. George Pal's The Time Machine
is one of the few undisputed SF champs. Pal's film faithfully
captures Wells' story in broad strokes, but fudges on some
of the details. Where Wells had the Morlocks and Eloi evolve
as a natural progression of a class-conscious Victorian
society, Pal postulates that the world of the future is
the result of atomic warfare. The source material is vague
enough to accommodate either notion; where Pal deviates
more markedly is in the depiction of the Time Traveler himself.
At the end of the novel, the hero lights out for parts unknown
-- it could be the future or the past. In Pal's more positive
view, our hero returns to the future to help build a new
world. One of the major charms of this film is the Time
Machine itself. Seldom has simplicity been so evocative
or so elegant. The machine is essentially a plush Victorian
chair, a simple control panel, and a huge spinning wheel
at the back. The whole thing is mounted on a platform fitted
with riders -- a sleigh to sail through time. The actual
prop -- completely restored -- is in the collection of Mr.
SF, collector Bob Burns. Much thanks, big guy.
Tucker: The Man and His Dream (1988)
Directed by Francis Ford Coppola, this is one of cinema's
great science-fiction movies. What -- Tucker not
SF? Think about it for a minute. Inventor-engineer-maverick
Tucker creates a new type of automobile, threatening current
design and the automotive industry -- a storyline with all
the elements of a classic Edisonade. Dirty dealing and insiders
crush his dream; though he did, in the end, create a new
type of car with innovations now standard in today's automobiles.
The effect of innovation and new technology on individuals
and society is the very heart of science fiction ... in
fact, it could be a definition of the genre. The fact that
(most of) Tucker is true does not alter its SF roots;
it just makes it more interesting. (Tucker, with
its maverick's push to build a science-fictional craft,
can be seen, in its own way, as an earth-bound Destination
Moon.) The sleek, futuristic design of Tucker's car
-- the Tucker Torpedo -- is just one component of this,
one of the best-designed films of the past 20 years. Coppola
originally conceived of Tucker as a musical, and
the finished film has all the stylization of that exacting
form of entertainment. Tucker made 50 cars before Detroit
closed him down -- and all are on the road today. A true
ship of wonder.
20,000 Leagues Under the Sea (1954)
Well's turn-of-the-century competitor was Jules Verne; both
men vie for the title of Father of Science Fiction. With
20,000 Leagues Under the Sea, Verne created two of
the most celebrated characters in SF literature -- Capt.
Nemo and the Nautilus. Walt Disney (beating George Pal to
the punch) spared no expense with the movie version in 1954,
casting top-tier stars Kirk Douglas and James Mason as the
film's antagonists. (Mason would return to Jules Verne territory
with the superior Journey to the Center of the Earth.)
The overall care to production values is best demonstrated
with the Nautilus, which may take the honor of the movies'
best-realized ship of wonder. The ship is a marvel, an atomic
submarine fitted with gaslight; Nemo's command center sports
lush carpets and an organ to put Radio City Music Hall to
shame. There are many versions of this classic story, but
none have beaten this in the conception of Nemo's fantastic
vessel. (When special effects king Ray Harryhausen created
his own Nautilus for 1961's Mysterious Island, he
slavishly copied the exterior of the Disney submarine.)
Disney's film version departs significantly at times from
Verne's text, but it is unbeatable entertainment. There
are plans to release the film to DVD in the near future;
wait for that rather than the current pan and scan version
available on tape.
Voyage to the Bottom of the Sea (1961)
Somewhat waterlogged, we move to Voyage to the Bottom
of the Sea and the Seaview. Like most of Irwin Allen's
canon, Voyage doesn't make a whole lot of sense,
but remains fun, anyway. Walter Pidgeon is Harriman Nelson
(better played by Richard Basehart in the resulting television
series), designer and builder of the Seaview, a futuristic
atomic submarine. During its maiden voyage, the Van Allen
radiation belt sets afire (!); Nelson and aide-de-camp Peter
Lorre believe that it can be reversed by shooting an atomic
missile at it. (Um, yeah.) Joan Fontaine explains that the
badges they wear change color when they are exposed to lethal
levels of radiation; if you ask me, I think I would like
to know before lethal exposure. The novelization
of the film was written by one of science fiction's most
esteemed authors, Theodore Sturgeon, and Raymond Jones later
adapted the "Voyage" television series for print. In any
incarnation -- film, novel or teleseries -- the Seaview
is a honey. It's much like a sleeker, '60s version of Atlantis'
Ulysses, and the furnishings remind me of my grandmother's
moderne furniture. And how many SF films feature Frankie
Avalon? Voyage is currently available on a DVD double
feature with Fantastic Voyage (1966). It's an ideal
way to spend a Saturday night.
Bob Madison is the founder and CEO of Dinoship,
Inc., an entertainment company specializing in science
fiction, fantasy and wonder products.
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