The Incredible World of James Bond

On November 26, 1965, the day after Thanksgiving, NBC fittingly pre-empted The Man From U.N.C.L.E. to run The Incredible World of James Bond, an hour-long documentary that, given its sweep and licensing rights to all the Bond films made up till then – Dr. No, From Russia with Love, Goldfinger and the upcoming Thunderball – survives as the definitive statement on a cultural phenomenon.

I watched the show when it originally aired, an eleven-year-old already stuck in the snare of Bondmania (not to mention Beatlemania and lurking around the corner in just four months’ time, Batmania) and it was a trip watching scenes from Goldfinger – the Aston Martin, Oddjob’s electrocution, the laser beam aimed at Bond’s family jewels – in our living room.

The full movie wouldn’t air on network television until September 1972.

The Incredible World of James Bond also gave us a rare glimpse of the very proper Ian Fleming wandering about Goldeneye, his Jamaican estate, in a safari jacket, cigarette holder clenched in his mouth, with a reminder that Fleming didn’t look any farther than his bookshelf for a name for his fictional spy, a nature guide titled Birds of the West Indies by ornithologist James Bond.

A segment on Bond tie-in merchandise included the elusive, only-rich-kids-can-afford-it 007 Road Race set and the 007 attache case, plus a line of men’s wear, perfect for lounging about after consuming the Bond’s room service breakfast in From Russia with Love (and shown in a segment covering his refined tastes) of green figs, yogurt and coffee, very black.

What recently triggered all this was the sudden appearance on YouTube of this ad which ran during the program and suckered me right in:

Here’s my original copy of the album, delivered on January 14, 1966.

Adjusted for inflation, a single U.S. dollar in 1966 had the purchasing power of about $10.19 today, making the record, and factoring in the purchase of a bag of Fritos, a bit of a ripoff for the kind of budget LP found in supermarkets and bargain bids, but it seemed well worth it at the time.

The record found a place in my collection and came in handy when I made tapes for road trips in my 1973 Toyota Corona – standard model, no ejector seat – as one of my favorite tricks was to fade out the Bond theme into Johnny Rivers’ Secret Agent Man.

The album would have also made excellent background music while I watched the slot cars in that road racing set go around and round. Anybody who could afford the racing cars wouldn’t have thought twice about spending another buck on the record.

The Outfit

This post is part of the Robert Duvall Tribute Blogathon hosted by 

Taking Up Room – Reviews. History. Life.

Writing as Richard Stark, Donald Westlake authored 24 novels about a career criminal named Parker (just Parker), who has been described as ruthless, amoral, cold, methodical, efficient, murderous and humorless.

They all fit.

Ranking the movies adapted from Parker novels, at least those I’ve seen, the less said about The Split (1967) with Jim Brown the better. Payback (1999) with Mel Gibson is Parker as superhero. The best is Point Blank (1967) with Lee Marvin and The Outfit (1973) with Robert Duvall.

In The Outfit, Parker is renamed Earl Macklin, who learns upon his release from prison that there are contracts out on him, his brother Eddie and their partner Cody (Joe Don Baker) as payback for a bank the three robbed, not knowing it was a front for the Outfit crime syndicate.

Thugs kill Eddie and threaten Macklin’s girlfriend Bett (Karen Black), leading Macklin to decide that the Outfit owes him $250,000 – “to make things right” – and until he gets the money, he plans to rip them off of whatever he can.

Macklin and Cody knock off a series of Outfit operations, getting the attention of its boss Mailer (Robert Ryan), who agrees to the $250,000 payoff. An arranged meeting is an ambush that Macklin and Cody barely escape and that, plus Bett’s death during a bogus police traffic stop, sets into motion a seemingly suicidal plan to attack Mailer’s heavily guarded compound.

Robert Ryan and Robert Duvall 

Having Bett around is something new for Macklin, and Cody upon meeting her, makes his mistrust known to Macklin: “You start worrying about the girl, you forget your work.” Maybe Cody was spooked by her beret-style headwear reminiscent of Faye Dunaway in Bonnie and Clyde, knowing full well how that ended.

And unlike Bonnie and Clyde, there’s nothing romantic about Macklin and crew. They move around between crummy motel rooms, Macklin and Cody living in a foxhole, wiling away the hours with trivial small talk, sharing cigarettes and bottles of beer.

Robert Duvall as Macklin: "Cold and ammoral"

Director/screenwriter John Flynn adds some terrific hardboiled dialog. “I don’t talk to guys wearing aprons,” says Macklin to a bartender blocking him from speaking to an Outfit goon. At one point an exasperated Mailer barks, “I want (Macklin’s) ass wrapped in cellophane!”

Along with Ryan, the supporting cast includes film noir veterans Elisha Cook Jr., the always scary Timothy Carey, Jane Greer and Marie Windsor, plus familiar faces Richard Jaeckel, Sheree North, Joanna Cassidy and Henry Jones. In a nod to The Maltese Falcon, Carey refers to Macklin as a “gunsel,” Humphrey Bogart’s name for Elisha Cook.

The Outfit was one of Ryan’s last movies. He died of lung cancer three months before the movie opened.

The grand finale siege of Mailer’s compound involves lots of shooting and explosions courtesy of a bundle of dynamite sticks, complete with timer and suction cup attached to the bottom of a table, right out of a Roadrunner cartoon. Flynn ends the movie with a cheesy Starsky & Hutch freeze frame of Duvall and Baker laughing, an adrenalin rush after beating the Outfit (and which doesn’t quite fit the Parker image).

That's a wrap. Roll credits 

Duvall’s Macklin allows himself moments with Bett specifically when talking about his grandfather where he comes off as human and nearly sentimental, but those are the only glimmers of daylight in an otherwise dark existence. Macklin is grimly professional and intense, and there’s very little that’s likeable about him. But that’s how it’s supposed to be.

Craig Morton

Craig Morton spent a decade sometimes playing quarterback for the Dallas Cowboys stuck, as he was, between the careers of Texas folk hero Don Meredith and national legend Roger Staubach.

In 1974, the New York Giants traded a 1975 first choice and a 1976 second choice for Morton, hoping his rocket launcher arm and Cowboy background could right a Giants ship that was listing at 1-5 and about to go under.

Craig Morton: Bad team, ugly helmet logo

For a moment, it looked like a brilliant move. In his first full week as a Giant, Morton led the team to an upset win over the Kansas City Chiefs, a glimmer of daylight in a gloomy year that saw the Giants lose the rest of their games that season.

But with a roster of guys either on the wrong side of 30 or rookies, the Giants’ issues went further than quarterback, compounded by three years spent wandering the wilderness with home games played at the Yale Bowl in New Haven and at Shea Stadium while Yankee Stadium was under renovation and Giants Stadium was under construction.

Over the next two years the Giants finished 8-25 with Morton. He was traded to Denver and took them to Super Bowl. The Cowboys used the first-round choice from the Giants to select defensive tackle Randy White, who’d end up in the Hall of Fame.

The Giants only dug themselves an even deeper hole, turning to Paterson Plank Joe Pisarcik at quarterback.

“We needed Morton, we had to have a competent quarterback. Maybe we paid too much for him. We probably did. But there was no choice, not really, and I’d do it again,” Giants general manager Andy Robustelli said later. “I think Morton was the right guy but on the wrong team.

“Craig often needed a kick in the ass to get his attention and let him know he couldn’t call his own tune. Instead of being the positive influence I had sought, the opposite occurred. I take nothing away from Craig’s football abilities, but he was not the kind of leader we sought.”

Craig Morton died earlier this month, age 83. His time with the Giants was short but it felt like an eternity at the time, Morton forever running for his life, playing for a team that was forever on the road.

Postscript:

Had they existed back then, the internet, ESPN, sports talk radio and every barroom and office baseball and football fantasy league would have blown up on October 22, 1974.

It was a Tuesday, the NFL’s last call for trading. The Giants followed the Morton deal by sending incumbent quarterback Norm (Losing Pitcher) Snead to San Francisco for two draft choices. The Green Bay Packers in desperation traded five choices, including two first rounders, to Los Angeles for 35-year-old quarterback John Hadl. Kansas City sent John Matuszak to Houston for Curley Culp.

And if all that wasn’t enough, in a mind-blowing deal, the New York Yankees and San Francisco Giants announced they had swapped Bobby Murcer “the next Mickey Mantle,” for Bobby Bonds, “the next Willie Mays.”

Nowadays, trades are rare and if they happen at all they’re based on data or salary cap implications. In 1974 it was all driven by gut instincts and angry team owners.

Ted Turner

Ted Turner died on May 6 at the age of 87.

Major league baseball owners today seem like a mostly faceless, bloodless lot, incorporated and data driven. There was a time, however, when an MLB owner meeting resembled field day at Arkham Asylum, a miserable crew including bullies (George Steinbrenner, Yankees), racists both obvious (Clark Griffith, Twins, and Marge Schott, Reds), and closeted (Tom Yawkey, Red Sox), the mercurial nouveau riche (Charlie Finley, A’s) and clueless traditionalists (Philip Wrigley, Cubs).

In 1976 they made room for Turner, who’d purchased the Atlanta Braves to a) keep them in Atlanta and b) provide content for his WTBS cable superstation, eventually giving them a nationwide audience and allowing them to be marketed as “The Atlanta Braves: America’s Team.”

Turner may at first have come off like a vulgar frat boy; sportswriters were quick to name him “The Mouth of the South,” but he brought a sense of humor and clever marketing. Braves players had their nicknames stitched on the backs of their uniforms. All except pitcher Andy Messersmith, who agreed to have the word CHANNEL over his number 17, a walking promotion for Turner’s UHF station on channel 17. The commissioner’s office put a quick end to that. In 1977, he took over as temporary manager of the Braves, complete with tobacco chaw, for one game (they were on an epic 16-game losing streak). The commissioner ended that move just as quickly.

Media magnate as manager

But even if you weren’t a fan of the Braves or baseball it was hard not to like Turner. He built a media empire that included for better or for worse CNN (thus creating the 24/7 news cycle we can no longer escape), WTBS (with its Saturday and Sunday afternoon marathons of The Man From U.N.C.L.E. and The Wild, Wild West), the Cartoon Network (reviving the old Hanna Barbera cartoons) and, best of all, Turner Classic Movies.

He was also an ex-Republican who saw the light and went blue, publicly feuded with Rupert Murdoch, challenged the World Wrestling Federation (owned by Trump suck-ups the McMahons) with a rival league World Championship Wrestling, married Jane Fonda, championed healthcare reform, nature conservation and alternative energy resources.

Wait, you mean there was a time when you could actually admire a billionaire?

Masters of UHF

Before cable television there was UHF.

Usually accessed on portable televisions with a secondary UHF channel dial and rabbit ears – which seemed to make UHF viewing synonymous with childhood bedrooms and cramped first apartments – requiring one to navigate, Admiral Peary-like, through staticky snow while adjusting the antenna just so.

UHF was the bargain basement of television and an often-interesting alternative to what the networks had to offer. There were some UHF shows available to viewers in New Jersey that were not just fun to watch but offered a strong homemade vibe that made them feel like labors of love, an enthusiasm transcending their inexpensive sets, wobbly camera work and visible boom mics.

When the UHF Hall of Fame gets launched, The Uncle Floyd Show will be among the first class of inductees. Billed as a kid’s show (if “kid” means over the age of 15), it was a daily half-hour of puppets, sketches, corny jokes, double entendres, insider humor and Floyd’s barrelhouse piano playing. Floyd’s cast of regulars lit a fuse of anarchy that threatened every show with collapse before its thirty minutes was up.

In 1982, Zacherle, another king of the UHF dial, appeared on The Uncle Floyd Show:

After his host gig on Chiller Theatre on New York’s WPIX ended, the Cool Ghoul returned to the airwaves (albeit UHF) from 1965 to 1967 with Disc-O-Teen which answered the question, “What if American Bandstand had no budget and was hosted by a crypt-keeping undertaker instead of the clean-cut Dick Clark?”

Disc-O-Teen ran on weekday afternoons, broadcasting from a theatre in Newark. Kids danced to the latest records and hung homemade bedsheet banners around the studio while Zach introduced lip-synching bands like the Box Tops and Every Mother’s Son, asking them non-sequitur questions, addressing the girls as “my dear” and the boys as “old boy.”

The kids looked like the those you'd see in high school hallways between classes, not the Stepford-teens with clothing allowances of American Bandstand or the professional dancers found on Soul Train.

UHF was also the home of Rockers 80, as Jamaican deejay/veejay Earl “Rootsman” Chin showed reggae music videos and scored several impressive interviewing coups, including Bob Marley, and Mick Jagger and Keith Richards.

Parts of Chin’s interview with Marley can be found online, although it can be difficult to understand without closed captioning, given Chin and Marley's heavy Jamaican patois and it’s seriously laidback (aka sluggish) vibe, no doubt courtesy of ganja smoked before filming. The video clips omit the end of the interview as I remember it, with Chin telling Marley that he’s “the greatest,” to which Marley replies, “No, Jah is the greatest.”

The Jagger-Richards interview, circa 1978, is remarkable in that both seem to be enjoying themselves, possibly thanks to the Heinekens they’re knocking back throughout. It also marks one of those rare occasions when Jagger’s been filmed with a beard (which is pretty impressive):

Rockers 80 was sponsored by the Kew Motor Inn, which still exists in Kew Gardens, Queens. Nice to know that its "theme rooms', including the Safari Room, Chin would list in the ad copy are still available at, according to the hotel's website, “very reasonable short-stay rates” – a wink/wink, nod/nod phrase that could explain the allure of UHF TV: the potential for inexpensive fun.

Two-minute warning

Listening to a playlist of songs that last no more than 120 seconds was a terrain marked by rockabilly, surf instrumentals, British Invasion hits, the Elvises Presley and Costello, Maurice Williams and the Zodiacs’ Stay, the shortest song (1:34!) to hit #1 on the Billboard Hot 100 and the punk novelty of speeding up old songs (U.K. Subs’ 1:41 version of She’s Not There).

Not surprisingly, Lennon-McCartney and Brian Wilson are good at this type of minimalism (And Your Bird Can Sing, For No One, I’ll Cry Instead, Dance, Dance, Dance, most of the Wild Honey album). Buddy Holly too (Rave On, Not Fade Away).

There are short stories like the Coasters’ Love Potion Number Nine and Willie Nelson’s The Troublemaker. The Stones’ I Wanna Be Your Man (1:43), the Boxtops’ The Letter (1:58), the Clash’s Career Opportunities (1:53) and the Byrds’ Girl With No Name (1:56). Each over in a couple of hundred heartbeats.

Three other songs jumped out as well for their sudden timeliness.

The singer in Mushroom Cloud (1961, 1:57) isn’t losing sleep over school or because he’s bugged at his old man or that his girlfriend’s parents don’t approve. It’s the specter of nuclear annihilation and the powerlessness that comes with it: “We party, we laugh, and we pray again/And we play it cool and try not to think of the mess we're in.”

The lyrics, written by Boudleaux Bryant and sung by Sammy Salvo, fall opposite to the song’s poppy 50s standard format, complete with Ray Conniff-style backing vocals. Bryant, along with wife Felice, wrote Love Hurts and most of the Everly Brothers’ hits, including All I Have to Do Is Dream, Bird Dog, Bye Bye Love and Wake Up Little Susie. Salvo was a regionally well-known Alabama pop singer who later left show business to own a meat-supply business.

Held Up Without a Gun (1981, 1:21) by Bruce Springsteen and the B-side of Hungry Heart, was inspired by the 1979 oil crisis (or at least the first stanza is): “I was out driving, just taking it slow/Looked at my tank, it was reading low/Pulled in an Exxon station out on Highway One/Held up without a gun.”

Never minding the rest of the song (in this case the last 40 seconds), autobiographical lyrics about a “damn fool with a guitar” signing a bad management contract. Heard today it’s yet another reminder of the endless loop of economic realities we're trapped in. 

Shape of Things to Come (1968, 1:54) from the teen-exploitation flick Wild in the Streets always had an ominous feel, from the fascistic name of the fictious band (Max Frost and The Troopers) to its lyrics darkly promising the wrong kind of change ("There's a new sun/Risin' up angry in the sky").

The film’s plot is about a rewrite of the Constitution that lowers the age requirement for voting to 14, creating a youth bloc that gets Max Frost (Christopher Jones), a narcissistic rock star, elected president. Frost runs as a Republican.

It’s still a pretty cool song.

The Ballad of the Green Berets

Sixty years ago this month, the most popular record in America was The Ballad of the Green Berets, written and sung by Sgt. Barry Sadler. It was the #1 record on Billboard’s Hot 100 for an astounding five weeks, at a time when there was still a wave of patriotism over U.S. involvement in Vietnam – the idea that the war was an immoral quicksand pit sucking up American lives had yet to hit home.

Lyndon Johnson’s approval rating was 67 percent in early ’66; it would drop steadily from there, as would the 48 percent of American college students in favor of the war.

Sadler was a Green Beret medic wounded in Vietnam, so there was a whiff of authenticity about The Ballad of the Green Berets, which he wrote during his convalescence. Performing the song on The Ed Sullivan Show launch pad, the record took off, selling nine million copies and becoming the top-selling record of the year. Sadler also recorded what amounted to a concept album, Ballads of the Green Berets, that sold a million copies during the first five weeks of its release.

The record’s success was a reminder that while the Top 40 was mostly reflective of the musical tastes of teenagers, occasionally adults flexed their wallets and had some say. Some other examples: Everybody Loves Somebody and Hello Dolly in the middle of 1964’s Beatlemania, and later in 1966, Strangers in the Night. All #1 records.

Younger kids may have helped with The Ballad of the Green Berets as well, the eight- and nine-year olds pretending to be Vic Morrow and Rick Jason in their backyards playing with toy guns.

The irony of The Ballad of the Green Berets at the top of the charts is that it created a logjam of songs in the top ten that, at least in their titles and universal themes, spoke more powerfully about the emotional churn of soldiers trapped overseas and their families: California Dreamin’, My World Is Empty Without You, Homeward Bound, Nowhere Man, Daydream.

The song didn’t sit well with on the British pop charts. Mick Jagger called it “terribly sick,” and various Beatles offered up words like “crap” and “propaganda.” Paul Jones, of Manfred Mann, said, “The main point is that the American State Department is clearly annoyed because they cannot get people to volunteer to fight in Vietnam.”

Emotionally manipulative and jingoistic, The Ballad of the Green Berets, coupled with the moronic Gomer Pyle, U.S.M.C., whose run as one of the top three network shows pretty much ran parallel to the war and was filmed with the cooperation of the Marines, were a low-key recruitment effort that missed the mark badly.

After The Ballad of the Green Berets, Sadler did some television acting, wrote a series of men’s adventure paperbacks, then was found guilty of manslaughter when he shot an unarmed man in an argument over a woman. He met up with more violence after moving to Guatemala and was shot in the head while sitting in a cab. Left with brain damage and quadriplegic, he died in 1989.

On Spotify, The Ballad of the Green Berets has more than 9.7 million total plays and songs by Sadler are played more than 53,000 times a month.