It Came from Outer Space (Jack Arnold, 1953). From the boom years of modestly budgeted, big studio science fiction, this tale of space creatures who alight on Earth is based on a story cooked by no less a luminary in the genre than Ray Bradbury. A spacecraft crashes in the Arizona desert and the shuffling, shaggy globules that emerge start body-snatching the locals as they work to repair their vessel. Characterizations are thin, the acting is stiff, and director Jack Arnold stages most scenes with a perfunctory efficiency. The film strives for social commentary on flaring prejudice against outsiders, but screenwriter Harry Essex lacks the acute sense of human psychology and adeptness at layering in moral underpinnings Rod Serling brought to similar storytelling in The Twilight Zone, which launched a few years later. There are definite charms to It Came from Outer Space, but they are entirely dependent on nostalgia. The film plays best as an artifact of a certain style and era.
The Fastest Guitar Alive (Michael D. Moore, 1967). This dippy western likely contributed to Hollywood abandoning the notion of banging out star vehicles for rock ‘n’ roll singers. Roy Orbison plays Johnny Banner, who travels the range with a guitar equipped with a retractable rifle barrel. With his partner, Steve (Sammy Jackson), and a small fleet of dance hall girls, Johnny is on a spy mission for the Confederate Army in the waning waning days of the U.S. Civil War. There are double-crosses and other shenanigans galore, and the film stops dead every few minutes for a musical number, most co-written by Orbison. Predictably, Orbison isn’t a very good in the film (though his gentle urgency and halting cadence calls to mind the delightful William Sanderson at times), but his thespian talents don’t lag all that far behind those of his castmates, who claimed acting as their day jobs. The Fastest Guitar Alive is most painful in its flailing attempts at comedy, notably the downright embarrassing depiction of a Native American tribe that includes comedian Ben Lessy as its befuddled chief.
At the Heart of Gold: Inside the USA Gymnastics Scandal (Erin Lee Carr, 2019). As it should be, this documentary about the abuse of girl gymnasts at the hands of a trusted and institutionally protected team trainer is a lingering gut punch. The crimes of predator Larry Nassar are duly detailed, but director Erin Lee Carr also provides plenty of space for the raised voices belonging to the survivors of his fiendish manipulations and appalling physical intrusions. And she brings an equally sharp, journalistic attention to the broader culture around the sport of gymnastics, which thrives on abusive power dynamics and borderline abusive coercion of eager girls at its most innocent, pummeling athletes into shape before they’ve reached their teens, obsessively eying future Olympic gold all the while. Carr expertly relies on classic documentary techniques — straight-to-camera interviews, extensive use of dramatic archival footage — and the result is sturdy rather than staid. At the Heart of Gold is agonizing and vital.