Ishirô Honda Irradiates Film Noir

Bijo to Ekitaininigen (THE H-MAN) (1958)
Directed by Ishirô Honda
Special Effects Director: Eiji Tsuburaya
Starring:
Akihiko Hirata as Inspector Tominaga
Yumi shirakawa as Chikako Arai
Kenji Sahara – Dr. Masada
Makoto Satô – Uchida

The great Japanese director, Ishirô Honda, made films constructed like Russian nesting dolls: The surface layer is always something grand and commercial, certainly, but once opened, layers of treasures come into the light.

Honda never saw things simply, or easily. Like the artist he was, he would see the core of any film he was assigned (he worked for Japan’s Toho Studios) through his own crystal prism. Thus, his 1956 masterpiece, Gojira (Godzilla), a film about a giant lizard destroying Tokyo (and magnificent on those simple terms), becomes a film about the horrors of nuclear war and the essential goodness of mankind. And no assigned project was given anything less than the full Honda vision. Thus, his 1969 Gojira Minira Gabara Ōru Kaijū Daishingeki (All Monsters Attack), while often thought of as the worst film in the Godzilla franchise, is actually a delicate and moving film about a child’s alienation in a harsh, urban world of crushing poverty.

Which brings us to The H-Man, which is a prime example of the kind of sci-fi thriller that Toho Studios loved to make all through the atomic age and beyond. In short, a number of humans have been mutated by radiation into a gelatinous, glowing liquid – driven to slither and ooze from Tokyo’s sewer system to cover and absorb more humans. It’s a wonderful premise and one guaranteed to put butts into movie seats (the well-known American film, The Blob, had a very similar monster but, as both films came out the same year, the similarity seems purely and wonderfully coincidental). Given the assignment, Honda instantly applied himself to making a gangster film, placing the film’s focus on the story of a tough cop, Inspector Tominaga (Akihiko Hirata), and his crack team of untouchables.

Tominaga is determined to crush the Tokyo underworld. Sure, some members of the drug and crime gangs have become blue radiated slush that goops under doors and down walls, but that is beside the point. For much of the film, they are criminal scum first, radiated monster ooze second. Honda has envisioned a direct and linear crime film with an undertone of effective, very creepy sci-fi – not the other way around. And Honda will have his way!

The movie opens, as do so many films from this era, with an atomic explosion. As the titles roll, we see the bomb dissolve into a shot of a ship, drifting on a night sea. The ship appears deserted and is shrouded in fog. Clearly, a mystery ship, somehow effected by the radiation of the atomic blast. Honda’s editing in this opening sequence is masterful, as he moves the camera over the wet decks of the ghost ship, supported nearly subconsciously by forlorn foghorn, dissolving into a shot of water sluicing along a gutter into a Tokyo sewer with the sound of hissing rain. We see a pair of feet running along a rain-spattered night street, and sooth as silk we have moved into a noir world of shadows and crime.

The camera pulls back, and we see a Tokyo night street slick with rain and streetlights. It is obvious that we are watching a crime in progress, as a getaway driver is nervously smoking and awaiting his partner. A man emerges from a nearby sewer, lifting the grate and replacing it, carrying a satchel of stolen goods. His partner at the wheel impatiently beeps the horn, as the thief races to the back of the car and begins to open it with a key. Suddenly his body stiffens and a look of horror and pain grip his wet face. He drops the satchel as if partially paralyzed. He struggles, barely managing to pull a small automatic from his inside coat pocket. Small gurgles of agony are forcing themselves through his clenched teeth. With a crazed expression he aims the pistol down, staring at something near the ground, just off camera; and his eyes have gone white-rimmed. He begins firing wildly, appearing to be shooting himself in the leg.

His driver behind the wheel, upon watching his partner firing his pistol wildly at his own foot and generally behaving like a lunatic for no apparent reason, decides very quickly to dissolve their partnership and tromps the gas pedal with all his might, speeding off down the street. Left alone now, the thief staggers around in the rain a moment before he is struck by a car. Everyone runs to the scene but finds nothing but a pile of wet clothes, a hat and shoes. The satchel of stolen goods is left on the street in the rain. Again Honda’s camera pauses for a moment on the fall of the rain, dancing over the vacant clothes and satchel, and again the camera moves smoothly, following the rush of water were it sluices through the grate of a nearby curb sewer.

The satchel is full of stolen drugs, a great deal of drugs worth a ton of yen. Police determine that was stolen from a local thug, who is brought in for questioning. Local thug quickly revels the seller, a drug dealer named Misake (who police suspect stole the drugs back in a double-cross). Detectives bring in Misake’s girlfriend, Chikako Arai (Yumi Shirakawa), who is a singer in a local nightclub, for questioning. She is plunked down across the interrogation table from Inspector Tominaga, who up to this point has only orchestrated his team of detectives in the investigation. This is the first time we see this ice cold son of a bitch in action, and it is immediately clear our little songbird is in a world of trouble.

We first see Chikako’s reaction to Tominaga’s voice as he interrogates her, see her reaction to the inspector’s questioning. Her face is pale, and she is having trouble maintaining eye contact. She swallows hard and nearly flinches at Tominaga’s voice, which isn’t loud at all – simply hard:
“You say you live with him, but don’t know what he’s been doing?”

We cut to Tominaga’s face. His face is flat, angular, eyes black and bright – a hawk spotting a field mouse in the grass far below. Chikako’s words come in a rush: “when I ask him he yells at me and tells me it’s none of my business.”

Tominaga’s face registers nothing. If she had hopes for a moment of sympathy, his reaction crushes them to ashes. He watches her a moment, then reaches into his jacket pocket for his lighter. “Television set,” her remarks casually, Three-mirror makeup stand.” He places a cigarette in his mouth. “You have a lot of nice things.” His detectives take their cues perfectly. If Misake is doing nothing wrong, how can he buy you nice things! barks one detective, who thrusts his face at her. Don’t be stupid! shouts another. You knew he was dealing drugs!

“I bought the TV!” she says urgently.

Instantly Tominaga strikes: “You sing at a night club, right?”

Chikako realizes her mistake but cannot change course now. The Russians have a saying: In lies, you may always go forward, but you cannot go back. Either she admits she knew her boyfriend was dealing drugs, or she admits making more a month than her “career” would allow. She lowers her eyes. “Yes,” she says. She will have great difficulty meeting the inspector’s eyes for the rest of the interrogation.

Tominaga speaks softly, gently applying the teeth of the trap: “How much do you earn a month?”

“Depends on the month,” says Chikako. Tominaga simply stares at her. “About 50 or 60 thousand yen,” she says finally, staring down. One of the detective smirks and crosses his arms. Tominaga simply smiles. He has forced her to admit that she is a prostitute.

“So that's how you can buy a TV,” he says, almost gently.

Eventually detectives show Chikako some of the personal items that were found in the vacated, soggy clothes at the crime scene, which she identifies as Misake’s. Tominaga thanks her for her time, allows her to leave. She bows deeply, still unable to raise her eyes, and exits. Letting her go? says one of the detectives. “She’s very pretty,” says Tominaga, his voice brutal in its casual tone. “Misake won’t leave her alone.” He has broken the girl and strapped her down like a lamb to bait wolves.

But Misake is no longer Misake, of course, having been absorbed by the H-Man (or H-Men, it is never clear how many there are). We are to quickly learn that the ghost ship, seen at the beginning of the film, is in fact the origin of the H-Monsters. The ship has passed through a radioactive fallout from a nuclear test, turning the crew into radioactive, hungry goo.* Once pulled into dock in a Tokyo harbor, the monsters slither and slurp off the decks and into the nearby city. The underworld is the first element of society to encounter the H-Men because, like the irradiated monsters, they use Tokyo’s sewer system as a base of operations – the gangers for it’s privacy, the monsters for it’s moisture.

In fact, the film stages it’s wonderful finale in beneath the city’s streets, in the dark, wet caverns of the sewers, as police storm through the tunnels with cleansing fire! But let’s flesh out a few of the details as we take care of The Good Stuff!

The Good Stuff, Part I: Eiji Tsuburaya and the horror of real time.

Yes, Ishirô Honda was intent on making a fine crime film, but that didn’t stop his oft-partner, special effects genius, Eiji Tsuburaya, from making a first-class sci-fi film full of horrors and nightmares.

To discuss Tsuburaya’s achievements in anything short of a book is impossible if not insulting. For those wishing a full and proper treatment, let me recommend August Ragone’s Eiji Tsuburaya! Master of Monsters; where those curious can discover the man behind the golden age of Japanese science fiction film (the photo I have included of Tsuburaya on the set of Mothra is scanned from Ragone’s book). Suffice to say here he was the man that built the Tokyo for Godzilla to stomp. Miniaturization was his specialty – his genius – and for the most part, all his effects were done in “real time,” meaning that nothing was ever done on a computer or with stop-motion animation. Men in rubber suits, mostly, fit the bill; smashing and crashing their way through entire cityscapes designed by this artist.

In The H-Man, the challenge was to simulate the effects of monster slime dissolving and liquefying a human host. Tsuburaya used life-sized latex dolls, dressed them, then let the air out while filming at a slightly increased speed - accompanied of course with appropriate strangled screams and slurps. The effect was so dramatic, many scenes were edited down for the American release to lessen the horrifying punch. To simulate the blob-like monsters flowing ooze, Tsuburaya constructed sets to roll on 60 degree slants so that the gelatinous slime could slide up legs and walls.

Even something as simple and easy to miss as the fist scene with the ghost ship, drifting on a foggy sea, was all done in miniature in the massive water tank on the grounds of Toho Studios. The ship here is astounding and quite typical of the work of Tsuburaya. The final burning of Tokyo (more on this later) is all miniatures as well. Simply amazing.

The Good Stuff, Part II: Akihiko Hirata – Cool at the Center.

I have been a fan of actor Akihiko Hirata since I watched his mad doctor save Tokyo in Honda’s 1954 Gojira. His tortured, moving performance was just so perfectly controlled, so reserved and – yes – just plain cool. There is something about a Hirata character that always seems unhurried and slightly remote from the frantic thrashings of his fellow humans, particularly when others are devoured by chaos and panic. He dwells always in the perfect eye of the hurricane.

His character here, Inspector Tominaga, never raises his voice or even looks angry. Yet men jump when he speaks, suspects wilt under his gaze; even friends approach with caution. His secret is this: when he speaks, it is the hard, blunt truth without any sugar for easy consumption. When he easily corners and breaks the nightclub singer, Chikako, slowly defining the way she actually makes her money; she crumples as if having to face this truth for the first time.

After Chikako identifies a few of her boyfriend’s personal belongings, and is on the point of tears, Tominaga stares straight into her eyes and says. “It would be best for Misake to turn himself in. His friends will kill him.” Chikako hears, and knows instantly that it is the truth, and any residual resistance she has – any last protective urge she may harbor for her drug-dealing boyfriend, is smashed. Her face is blank, terrified, and very pale as the cruel honesty of this bastard cop nests itself in her mind.

Every sci-fi movie must contain at least one slightly dreamy-eyed but hugely brilliant scientist who will come to the law or military with a pet theory of alien invasions or atomic mutation. No exception here, and before long we are given Dr. Asada (Kenji Sahara), an assistant professor specializing in biochemistry. He has a theory about atomic radiation and its ability to transform a human into liquid, and he has read about the strange disappearance of the criminal, Misake. This has led him to sniffing around Misake’s girlfriend, Chikako, which has gotten him arrested and brought before the desk of Inspector Tominaga.

But wait! Asada and Tominaga are old friends. Whew, what a relief! The professor visibly relaxes as Tominaga kids him about drinking in clubs when he should be working in the lab! Yuk, yuk – just two old friends kidding one another. Dr. Asada even gives one of the lowly detectives a smirk, as if putting him in his place. We caught him talking to Chikako Arai, says the lowly detective, giving his boss a note Asada had written to the girlfriend/singer.

Tominaga stares at the note a moment and sits down. He looks up at his friend, no longer smiling. “This is your handwriting?” he asks.

The professor nods yes, a simple statement of fact. Nothing to worry about at all.

The Inspector continues to stare at the professor. One senses a change. “How do you know Misake and Chikako?”

The professor hasn’t caught the shifting tide. He answers easily, “I read about them in the paper.”

Tominaga grins, displaying a smile that resembles the natural, joyless expression of a crocodile. “You normally go see people that are in the newspaper?” Suddenly we notice a tone that is not friendly. Not friendly at all. We also notice that the professor has not been invited to sit. He stands coat in hand, suddenly understanding that the floor has dropped out from under him. He blanches, "Well, I . . .“ He seems unsure of his footing. A uniform cop has mercy and slides a chair over to him. The professor drops into it. “What if I don’t tell you?” he asks.

“We’ll put you in jail,” answers Tominaga, still smiling.

The professor/friend suddenly is simply a suspect on the hot seat. “I guess I have no choice,” he says in a soft voice all full of humble.

That’s right, Mr. assistant professor with the nutty theory, you have no choice. Because this guy with the toothy, unhappy smile and pearl-black eyes isn’t your friend, he’s a cop. Before he is a mother’s son, before he is a husband or father, before he is even a man, he’s a cop. An officer of the law that will put your brainy ass in jail before you have time to piss your tweed trousers. So loosen that tie, Poindexter, and start talking.

The Good Stuff III: Honda and the Hottest Club in Tokyo.

At one point in the film, super cop Tominaga decides to take his crack team of detectives to the club where Chikako sings (and drug gangsters hang out) and start cracking some heads. He’s gotten real tired of the nutty professor and his crackpot theories of radioactive melting men. Where his egghead friend imagines Misake an atomic mutation, our crime-buster imagines a straight forward drug killing among double crossers. Much like his educated friend, though, Tominaga does have a little pet theory he’s eager to work out: He suspects the missing Misake will show up the club of his girlfriend or, at the least, his associates must know where he is. Tominaga strongly suspects if taken to a back room at police headquarters, and thereupon beaten badly with a rolled up newspaper or truncheon, many of Misake’s criminal associates will reveal Misake’s fate or whereabouts briskly and without further irritating delay. Eager to field test this hypothesis, team Tominaga head down to the Cabaret Homura, just in time for cocktail hour and Chikako’s floor show.

The following scene in the jazz-drenched nightclub is a beauty for several reasons. First, if I had to choose one nightclub in the history of movies for an evening’s entertainment, it would be this one. Ladies and gents, Club Homura swings! From the hot band all dressed in cream-colored suits to the gorgeous dancers, it looks like one fine time. The service looks absolutely top flight, and the singer (Chikako) can really give purr the sultry (on this evening, she sings in English – a little number called “How Deep is My Love”). I can’t think of another film where a club scene so perfectly captures the Atomic Age in all its splendor.

More importantly, this scene gives Honda a chance to use his camera, and he tells this short, one-act tale of cops vs. robbers with a keen, wordless efficiency that boggles the mind and treats the eye.

We watch as Inspector Tominaga sits at his table, entertaining his lovely date, while he sketches the club’s layout on a pad of paper; placing a circle at the tables where he can identify members of Tokyo’s criminal underworld (to his companion, it seems he is idly doodling). With a nod of his head, he positions two-man teams throughout club, some at the door, others at the bar. While this goes on, a waiter is scurrying around, telling the gangsters of Tominaga’s presence.

Then, when the club band breaks into their loudest number, Tominaga springs his trap. He begins smiling at each gangster, one by one, tipping his glass to them as if telling them of his plans for a back-room interrogation. “Who is that?” asks his foxy date, noticing him giving a table his frosty, rapacious grin. “Some friends,” he says, not breaking eye contact with the table of criminals.

And, one by one, they wilt under the weight of Tominaga’s steel-trap smile and decide to head for the exits – grabbing their girls by the upper arms and hastily snuffing out cigarettes. And, one by one, Tominaga gives his teams a signal whereupon they spring after the prey like packs of hunting dogs. The sound of the band wailing on hot jazz cover up the gunshots as thugs wrestle with cops at the doors. The beauty of the scene is that it is done with virtually no dialogue. We have nothing but Honda’s smooth camera work and direction to tell the tale, and it is more than enough.

While arrests are being made and arms are twisted harshly behind backs, we discover that Tominaga was correct, after a fashion. Misake does return to the club, only in the form of the sludgy, creeping, radioactive H-Man, intent on feasting on some old friends to stay alive, particularly an old friend named Uchida (Makoto Satô) who double-crossed Mistake on the original drug theft. The H-Man can’t catch up to his double-crossing ex-friend, but he does manage to liquefy several members of the club and one cop in particularly gruesome fashion for a night’s work. So, this scene serves also to get cop and scientist on the same page, working together. Tominaga has been a hard man to convince regarding theories of a radioactive slush killer, but watching one of his best cops turn to bubbling slime gets him on board in one hot hurry.


The Good Stuff Part IV: – All worlds meet in the bowels of Tokyo or Fire Solves Everything!

After escaping the slimy mitts of the H-Man, Uchida kidnaps the club singer, Chikako (whom he has always lusted after, even when she was Misake’s) and heads for the city’s sewers, where he has stashed his own cache of stolen drugs, for the movie’s rip-snorting finale.

The river of waste and decay that run along the concrete tubes beneath the city, like ribbons of a grotesque bowel under the city’s skin, is the dank, claustrophobic universe were all worlds meet. For while Uchida retreats to his awful sanctuary, trudging through the knee deep pollution with automatic in one hand and Chikako’s wrist in the other; the blue, glowing mutants have fled to their sanctum sanatorium as well, running in thick rivulets along the walls chasing after the fleeing pair.

Honda draws both words - the one of sci-fi horror and the one of gritty urban crime – patiently together, pulling all concerned toward the twilight world of Tokyo’s sewers with a watchmaker’s precision. He winds the tension in his watch, too, with a master’s stroke: He has the authorities declare a marshal law and has Tokyo evacuated. He clears the stage, then, for his grand finale. While Uchida drags a filth-drenched Chikako through the sewers’ tunnels (actress Yumi Shirakawa certainly earned her pay here), Inspector Tominaga plans his attack on the creatures beneath his city; and considering what Tominaga has in mind, the complete evaluation of the city of Tokyo is not an overreaction. No ifs, ands, or buts - Tominaga intends to put this case to rest in the first attempt.

In a packed boardroom, using his pointer like a epée, Tominaga bends over a grand map of the city’s sewer system and lays out his plans. His voice is so official, his commands so sharp, it takes a moment to grasp what he has in mind. “The gasoline attack will begin at 10:00 p.m.,” he says, indicating dozens of push pins stuck in the sewer map at various locations. “Once the public has evacuated, we will ignite the gas simultaneously."

Yes, Tominaga’s plan of attack is to dump thousands upon thousands of gallons of gasoline into the sewer system and light it. The push pins indicate the “fire ignition groups” that will set of this giant gas bomb “simultaneously.” Well, yep, that should do ‘er. The dozens of officials listening all nod their heads in approval once Tominaga has finished. Yes, yes. Fine plan. You guys sure you don’t see a potential problem with Tominaga’s tactical masterpiece? Anyone? No? Well, OK, then, light it up.


Does it work? You bet. H-Mann all gone. I’ll add this, though: Tominaga would use a sledgehammer to open a music box with a sticky clasp, and frankly, I love him for that. Also, I’ll tell you this much more. The skunk Uchida doesn’t get cleansed by fire. Nope, he doesn’t get off that light. He goes by goo in what I have learned in researching this movie gave lots of young movie watchers severe nightmares.

You really should see this film. It will make you feel smart to have seen it. It’s that good.

Now, let's go to the club and watch Tominaga in action! -- Radiation Cinema!


* The fate of the boat in the film is, sadly, based on fact. A Japanese fishing vessel, The Lucky Dragon No. 5, encountered the heavy fallout resulting from the Castle Bravo nuclear tests at Bikini Atoll. All 23 crewmembers suffered from acute radiation syndrome, the symptoms of which include, headaches, nausea, bleeding from gums, burns, etc. Within 6 months, the chief radio operator, Aikichi Kubouama, 40, was dead from injures. At the time of the test, the ship was operating well outside the danger zone, as given in US Government warnings, but the test was twice as powerful as expected.

The Order of Flesh and Green Blood

CREATION OF THE HUMANOIDS (1962)
Directed by Wesley Barry
Starring:
Don Megowan as Captain Kenneth Cragis
Erica Elliot as Maxine Magen
Don Doolittle as Dr. Raven
George Milan as Acto
Dudley Manlove as Lagan
Francis McCann as Esme Cragis Milos
David Cross as Pax

Two decades before the fearsome, luminescent replicant, Roy Batty, strode through the noir streets of future Los Angeles in 1982’s Blade Runner, Wesley Barry’s 1962 Creation of the Humanoids forced men of flesh to consider themselves while gazing into the flat eyes of synthetic men. The basic premise of the movie, humankind confronting a nearly-human machine of its own design, is an irresistible theme in science fiction; and examples are legion; from Fritz Lang’s Metropolis to the Terminator franchise. It is a theme that begs those big, happy questions: What is it that makes us human? What is God? What is Life?

What makes Creation unique is the conclusions that it reaches about these timeless questions, as well as a pervasive, beautiful melancholy that saturates the movie from beginning to end. This is a movie drenched in pretty pictures, all floating before the eye in lush Eastmancolor.

But let’s back up. Creation is not an action movie, as a comparison to Blade Runner might suggest. Oh, Lord, is it not an action movie. In fact, there isn’t a credible moment of action in the entire picture. This is a movie of ideas; ideas layered over ideas – a movie so brimming with words, Creation is hardly a movie at all. The very word “movie” suggests moving pictures. Really, there is little of that here. Creation is even more still and earnest than most stage plays.

Creation feels more ancient than either movie or play; and is structured more like a classic, Greek tragedy. Actors do little more that stand at the center of carefully constructed sets, recite their lines in an unemotional monotone, and then stand very still as we fade to black and begin the next shot. Creation even has more than one scene of Greek chorus, where actors are gathered together to repeat and emphasis basic themes and plot points. No one sings, mind you, but these scenes of chorus are so contrived and static, the actors probably should have.

If this all makes you want to go screaming into the night, please don’t be frightened away. Creation is an odd-ball, no doubt, but it is so unusual and captivating visually, I found myself watching with a riveted attention; simply because it was unlike anything I had ever seen before, and I had no idea what was coming next.

Our tragedy begins with images of nuclear holocaust. As tinted film clips of an atomic blast roll onscreen, the male voice of generic documentary brings us up to speed. “It did happen,” says the voice. “The atomic war. It was short. Lasted about forty-eight hours. Within two weeks, ninety-two percent of the human race had perished to bomb and radiation. Those left, with their birthrate below 1.4 per union, turned to robotic automation to help them rebuild their cities and maintain a high standard of living.”

In newsreel fashion, the voice then walks us through the history of robotic development. The great leap forward in android history came with the invention of the “magnetic indicator neuron duplicator;” a device about the size of an acorn which, when implanted in a mechanical man, duplicated portions of the human nervous system and learning processes. Eventually, the R1 robot was developed, which led to a rabid succession of improved models until the R20 line duplicated perfectly the though processes and functions of a man.

Yet, humans found it “psychologically impossible” to work alongside a machine they had to converse with (God, this is so true. Surely I am not the only one that has told the sweet, female voice, reminding be of an unclasped safety belt, to f### herself).

So, refinements were made to the general appearance, finally resulting in the R21 line, which were smooth, blue-skinned, hairless creatures; closely resembling men in appearance. “Our story concerns them,” concludes the narrator voice, and our story begins in real time.

Our first scene establishes our protagonists, as two members of the Surveillance Committee from the Order of Flesh and Blood (a powerful, self appointed sect which “protect” humankind against robots) confronts two robots.

“Alright,” says Committee Member Ward (William Hunter) bluntly, “let’s see your assignment cards.” He holds his hand out, awaiting compliance. As a blue-skinned robot holds out a pair of cards, offering no resistance, one is reminded instantly of many similar Johannesburg street scenes in the days of Apartheid, when ID cards were required for black-skinned citizens instead of blue-skinned robots.

“What are you Clickers doing out tonight?” demands the Committee Member, looking over the cards.” Which is to say, continuing for a moment with our Johannesburg analogy, what are you niggers doing out tonight? "Clickers" being an equally derogatory slur used for the robots.

“we are on free time,” says the lead robot, Mark (Richard Varth), “we are not obligated to answer.”

“As a member of the Surveillance Committee of the Order of Flesh and Blood, I demand an answer.” Says Ward.

Immediately the power of this organization is felt in the still pause of the robots. The lead robot turns to look at the Committee member for the first time, his eyes like shiny, gold marbles. “We are going to the Temple to be recharged.” His voice is so flat and even, one can’t help but suspect layers of underlying, black hatred.

“What say I keep you here until your power runs out?” asks Ward, his voice darkening. “How would you like that?”

The second robot, who has not spoken, has been watching the Committee member in sidelong glance, his stillness somehow coiled with ominous potential “I would have to report such interference to the police,” says lead robot, staring straight ahead.

Things are on the brink of turning ugly. As Ward begins to speak, the second Committee member, much larger, speaks for the first time, and it is instantly apparent who is in charge:

“Release them,” says the towering uniform, who is Captain Kenneth Cragis (Don Megowan). Without further conversation, the cards are returned to the smooth, blue robots, and they leave.

Once they are alone, Cragis briefly explains to Ward that he has released them because he suspects they might be up to something “The Order” might be interested in. He has noticed that the silent robot had a forged assignment card. The punishment for this is so great (disassembly), he reasons something big must be afoot to justify such a risk.

“If they are being recharged,” says Ward, “they’ll be in there about an hour.”

Cragis stares hard in the direction of the temple. “We’ll wait.” He says, looking grim.

We next find several R21s gathered in their “temple” of brightly colored technology, complete with a mammoth, computer/alter, referred to as Mother/Father, where comes the source of all power and programming. The temple also has tall, slender transparent tubes, which act as pews. The robots stand in these clear cylinders, nearly catatonic, and are recharged - humbling themselves. The atmosphere is one of devote worship.

While two or three robots are being thus re-charged, a sleek, blue pair of R34s, Acto (George Milan) and Lagan (Dudley Manlove, of Plan 9 From Outer Space fame), are standing near the huge computer/alter eagerly awaiting the new arrivals (R34 is the highest level of robot model allowable by law).

“What’s keeping them?” asks Acto, whose tall, lean body and assertive manner define him as lead robot.

“The subject robot has not completed the transformation process in the duplicating lab,” explains Lagan, referring to the silent robot with the forged card. “Where did you get him?”

Acto has his hands clasped behind his back. The lenses of his eyes shine, catching a silver light. His eyes seem to give off illumination, and it is not clear at all what he sees. It might be pure digital information – a steady blur of ones and zeros, mapped into density variables. “We bought him new on the black market. He has no name. He is unassigned and un-adapted. He has a forged assignment card.”

Throughout the temple it sounds as though an ambient wind is blowing distantly – a nearly inaudible, faint tone of computer beeps and tape whir – not without a pleasant sweetness - the never-ending hymn of the Mother/Father.

“Who arranged it?” asks lagan. Neither robot faces the other as they talk.

“The inspector in Factory Three,” says Acto. “He stole him off the assembly line, just prior to numbering.” Acto pauses, sensing a remote unease in his circuits. “Unfortunately, an inventory was taken, and the inspector was caught.”

“That is unfortunate,” says Lagan loudly. Lacking perhaps Acto’s subtle programming, Lagan’s vocals make it clear that the inspector’s capture and presumed severe punishment is only unfortunate to him in that it threatens their illicit and dangerous work (the punishment can be assumed severe as no punishment offered for any transgression in the film is ever less than a death sentence. For robots, disassembly is the safest route. Why take chances? For humans digressing from the code of Flesh and Blood? A complete memory swipe is always on tap). “Mark (an R34) should bring him up from duplicating any minute now,” says Lagan.

While the two wait for Mark to bring them the black market humanoid fresh from the “duplicating” lab, Acto is suddenly compelled by some impulse to stare up at the ceiling, or heavens, and work a dial on the central Mother/Father computer. The background hymn increases to a pretty, Theremin warble as the smooth, glass pew tubes lift and the re-charged supplicants exit the temple in single file, fully refreshed with a full measure of the spirit.

As the recharged worshipers leave, Mark and what appears to be a man in a generic blue worker’s uniform enter the scene.

“The delay was unavoidable,” explains R34 Mark. “we were stopped by two members of the Surveillance Committee of the Order of Flesh and Blood, and I was questioned.”

Neither Acto or Lagan respond. Acto is starring, starring, with his large, shiny eyes as he lightly touches what appears to be a human face with the tips of his smooth, blue fingers.

What’s afoot for these two calculating R34s is a bold program of profound self-improvement. A small collection of robots, led by Acto and Lagan, are hard at work creating successive model improvements on their own R34 line.

And they have had incredible success. Working in conjunction with a human scientist, Dr. Raven (Don Doolittle) the R34 robots have perfected a synthesis of human and robot, a humanoid R96 model; equipped with the emotional repertoire of a human. Dr. Raven has accomplished this by collecting humans within 6 minutes of their death, creating a copy in the temple’s duplicating lab, and then implanting the perfect simulacrum with the “thalamus device,” which is derived from the thalamus gland of the dead specimen combined with robot circuitry. This device holds the emotional center - memories and thoughts - of the dead human. Once wired in by Dr. Raven, the awakening R96 will not realize anything has happened. In fact, the subject will assume they are still the human original.

And that’s the beauty part. The new R96 can resume their original human life, whatever it might have been before death – integrating perfectly into the world of flesh and blood humans. The R34s, however, can recall them back to the temple at will, placing them into a tube/pew for an “interview,” where their R96 components can report on any human plans that might endanger mission success.

What is the ultimate mission of the robots? Well, you have no doubt guessed. The complete replacement of the human race with this advanced generation of humanoids. Simple as that; and the inescapable, pristine logic of the plan is that it is as fated for success as the turning of the earth. It is a self-generating, self-empowering plan: As a human dies, they are duplicated and given a thalamus implant; after which they are sent back into the world of humans as unwitting, immortal spies. This network of spies weaken the human fabric with each new member, and their members grow with the inevitable death of every human. Tic Toc. It is only a question of time.

“Is the duplication satisfactory, Acto?” says Lagan in his loud, brusque voice. “It has to be perfect.”

Acto has been running his hand along the body perimeter of the other, just along the surface, sensing the minutia of the duplication. Suddenly his hand quivers a bit in excitement. “The structure is excellent!” he says with the barest hint of emotion which, even though hardly more than a subtle change of pitch, is far beyond his rebel partner’s limited range. He calms himself by investigating further, moving his hand along the surface of the duplicated humanoid.

“The pores should be larger,” decides Acto, staring perhaps at a digital graphics grid in his optics as his hand gathers data. “And he should have more hair. Thicker.” Acto reaches his hand up slowly, and there is something unmistakably intimate in the way his hand lingers over the other’s shoulder, nearly touching the side of the face. “He needs a 1/8 inch mole behind the lobe of the left ear,” he says softly.

As Acto’s hand lingers, Lagan is already barking orders: “Report back to the duplicating lab immediately and have the corrections made.” It is clear that Acto is the soul and brain of the rebellion. Lagan supplies the muscle and brute force.

The new “man” nods once. Acto allows his hand to drift back down to his waist. For the first time, he appears to look at the duplicated human. “You can still alter your decision,” he says simply, “if it is against your circuits.”

“My circuits are un-offended,” answers the duplication without any drama.

Acto brings his arm up slowly to cross his chest in a salute of respect. The duplicate returns the salute, and Mark and the duplicate leave. The duplicate is then taken to the laboratory of Doctor Raven (Don Doolittle), who is perhaps the crankiest, least threatening mad scientist in the history of B-movies. The doctor, a diminutive fellow dressed in filthy lab coat (not bloody, mind, simply dirty), meets them at the door of his lab. He allows them entry after bitching a moment that all Clickers look the same to him; how is a corrupt co-conspirator expected to tell apart?

Judging by the good doctor’s un-kept mane of wiry hair, his grimy clothes, and his general compulsive twitchiness, it is a safe assumption that this is one scientist that has fallen upon some very hard times. My guess is either he has a severe substance abuse problem or, far worse, has lost all his government funding. Whatever. “Now, what about the money?” he demands before the work starts, to which Mark responds by handing over a stack of clear, plastic “credits.” Along with this monetary gain, the leaders of the robot rebellion have promised an aging Dr. Raven immortality; a new, synthetic duplicate body to go with his own thalamus devise.

The doctor is forced to cash in on this part of the deal sooner than expected as, no sooner has he completed the thalamus transplant, Cragis and the Committee of Flesh and Blood are pounding at the door. Cragis, as planned, has followed Mark and the duplicate to the doctor’s laboratory. As Cragis and committee members pound at the door, eager for blood like Bavarian peasants storming the castle of Frankenstein; Dr. Raven, promptly and without delay, wets his pants.

“Flesh and Blooders!” he squeals, nearly crying.

“It was inevitable,” says Mark, standing erect, eyes forward. “We must accept it.”

Dr. Raven, not quite able to adopt the robot’s Zen view of acceptance, continues to piss himself. He runs about the lab, twirling in the corners like a mouse in a box with a snake. “I suggest you eliminate yourself,” advises Mark, turning on the newly minted R96, saying, “Perhaps he can pass. We can at least save him.”

The doctor picks up a pre-arranged vile of dark liquid, begins to bring it to his lips, then gulps. “ah, ah, I can’t!” he whines. “You don’t know what it is to die!”

Mark helps the R96 sit upright on the operating table. As the synthetic body comes out of the surgery, it appears drunk or disoriented. “If you don’t, they will take your memory from you.” The robot shrewdly reminds the doctor of his horror of “personality cessation,” which had made him so vulnerable to the robot’s offer of immortality in the first place.

This straightens the doctor right up, but he is still unable to take his own life. “Are you sure the committee will keep its end of the bargain?” he pleads, trying to gather his courage. “I’m positive,” replies Mark. As the voices and pounding increases to a terrifying crescendo, Dr. Raven finally hurls the vial of poison at the ground.

“You kill me,” he says frantically to Mark. He rushes over and all but throws himself against the robot. “Please. Kill me!”

“You know I can’t,” says Mark his voice calm. “You know I am contra-circuited.” (Much like the robots controlled by Asimov’s Rules of Robotics, the robots of Creation have been programmed never to harm man.) Something very much like a smile crosses Mark’s face. He gestures with his hand, indicating the new, very disoriented R96. “Maybe he has enough human instinct by now to . . .”

Not really giving a shit about the robot’s subtle use of irony, the doctor hurls himself at the humanoid. “Kill me!” he pleads. “Kill me!” The humanoid, believing himself a very confused and terrified human as he lurches into conciseness, chooses a fight response in his disorientation and obliges the doctor by throttling him to death. Mark stands by, ramrod straight, with what most definitely is a gentle smile on his face, while the new humanoid crushes Raven’s windpipe.

Cragis and the Flesh and Blooders storm inside, billy clubs at the ready. The new R96 knocks Cragis down with a solid roundhouse, then is himself quickly clubbed to death. One of the huffing and exalted members of the Order of Flesh and Blood kneel beside the dead humanoid. He calls Cragis over to examine the gash put in the humanoid’s head. “This one’s a robot, too,” he says.

“No, it can’t be,” says Cragis.

The order member indicates the gash. If that skull’s not metallic, he says, “I’ll take another course in metallurgy.”

“So, a robot finally became violent,” says Cragis. “There’s no doubt he killed the old man.” Cragis looks over at the body of Dr. Raven, laying like a heap of filthy rags beside the operating table. Cargis’ eyes become thin -- glittering with purpose. “This is what we have been waiting for,” he says, displaying a timeless sense of politics. “Now the government will have to listen to us.”

After this scene the complete focus of the movie becomes the plight of Cragis, which will all be told in a two or three very static, set scenes; full of much talk and very little walk. A great deal happens to Cragis henceforth, including love, disgrace, and a final horrifying revelation about himself; all of which in the hands of say, a Ridley Scott, might have resulted in a film coursing with tension and drama. Not here, as neither the movie or its director has the slightest interest in raising your pulse rate. Really, this movie doesn’t posses a high gear. What follows is an admittedly beautiful ride on cruise control. Don’t get me wrong, though, it’s a ride well worth taking.

In fact, Creation of the Humanoids turns out to be one of those films that lingers in the mind, enriched into a kind of extended life by a sheer deluge of sophisticated ideas and startling images. Let me tell you about it in The Good Stuff.

The Good Stuff, Part I: The Order of Flesh and Blood

After the first recorded act of violence by a robot, an emergency session of the Order of Flesh and Blood is called to order in the massive, darkly shadowed Hall of the Committee. Prime committee members align themselves behind a row of podiums on an enormous, dark stage. Behind them, seeming to float in the blackness, is the massive neon symbol of the Order of Flesh and Blood: a brightly colored circle – Teutonic in its simple overwhelming size. We are watching the stage in a long shot, so the size of the stage is emphasized. The members appear small behind their podiums – nearly faceless. The low murmur of voices hushes as the center member steps up to his podium, moving into a bright ball of light. We see his face in sudden close-up, lit in stark shadows from below. His rich voice reverberates in the vast chamber, opening the emergency session with the traditional chant:

“The Body of the Order of Flesh and Blood is born!”

The phrase is repeated by the members in a low, rumbling mumer as the frantic meeting of The Order begins. As the principals discuss the growing threat of the humanoids in increasingly chilling terms, one is suddenly and shockingly reminded of a similar party meeting; one in Germany in 1938 where events were discussed with a similar, terrifying passion. The resulting blood lust led to Kristallnacht.

The Night of Broken Glass was, after all, the result of a German official’s assassination by a Jew; very much like our robot killing in Creation. "What we have feared has come to pass!" belows a member of the Order of Flesh and Blood during the meeting; and surely someone must have said those very same words years ago as a prelude to a night of Nazi terror.

In fact, the similarities between The Order and The Nazi Party, as it existed in pre and post-war Germany, are just too striking to be coincidental.

As the film begins, we at first imagine that the Surveillance Committee, established by the Order of Flesh and Blood, to be a futurist police force - an organization of the public good. They have pretty, glittering blue uniforms, and they clearly have the power to question and arrest. But as the film progresses, we quickly learn the truth: The Order of Flesh and Blood is a terrorist, supremacist organization whose members are fused into a horrifying unity by a mutual fear and hatred of the “Clickers” (Jews). Order Members carry a ceremonial dagger, as did elite members of the Luftwaffe and SS, and both organizations are stepped in ritual and quasi-religious ceremony.

And much like the “fringe” Nazi Party in pre-war Germany, The Order has quickly risen to power, suddenly producing a bowel-clenching fear in citizens that had perhaps once considered them a harmless collection of loons. Early in the picture, when a young woman dares speak up to a questioning Cragis, it is clearly an act of near suicidal bravery, bringing to mind young, doomed members of the White Rose.

“That is an attractive woman,” says Cragis’ partner after she struts away.

Cragis watches her a moment. “Yes,” he says, his voice like ice cracking in water. “Very.” Finally he looks at his partner with something like a smile, his bright blue eyes re-dilating like a hawk’s after intense focus. Yes, says his expression. She is beautiful. She is beautiful, and she is marked.

The power of The Order has grown suddenly so fearsome that its members no longer fear the official police force; nor are the members of the Order’s Surveillance Committee bound by civil law as they prowl the streets looking for robots. This shift in power is made evident in a brief scene in which Cragis and his partner are waiting for the pair of robots to exit the temple and are confronted by cop:

“What are you self appointed defenders of humanity up to now?” says a member of the government’s police force, clad in his official red cape and helmet.

“Why don’t you beat it,” snarls Cragis’ young partner, Ward, “while you still have a beat to beat?”

The cop puffs himself up. “Since you have so much to say, I think I’ll take you in for questioning.”

Cragis smiles calmly, his arms crossed. “That’s as good a way as any to get your rank lowered.” Turning his attention to Cragis, the policeman’s expression immediately crumples a bit at the edges. Cragis’ voice has lost any semblance of friendliness and booms ever so slightly, as if making an announcement others should hear. “I am a Captain in The Order, and my professional rank is 8.”

The cop licks his lips – swallows. “8,” he says, his eyes unable to hold Cragis’ stare. At some point Cragis’ partner has hooked his thumbs into his belt buckle and has perhaps moved a step closer to the officer of the law. “Well, stay out of trouble,” says the cop, making a last grab for dignity.

“Are you threatening me?” asks Cragis with a brutal lack of mercy.

“No Sir,” says the policeman, finally wilting completely. He lowers his face. “Sorry, Sir. Have a good night, Sir,” he adds for good measure, slinking away.

If the brightly-lit, cruel grins these two top-dog, bullyboys allow themselves at the policeman’s retreat doesn’t shiver your spine, simply be thankful.

The Good Stuff, Part II: The Passion of Esme

Captain Cragis has risen to such power in the Order that, like the emperors of ancient of Rome or the great Khans of the Mongol Empire, his title and name become synonymous with leadership. He is often referred to as “The Cragis.” Despite this, Cragis has a shameful problem that threatens to tumble his position in the Order: His sister, Esme (Francis McCann) has entered into “rapport” with a robot, an R34 named Pax (David Cross); that is, she has applied and been approved for a personal robot; and has had her human personality and the robot’s circuitry “merged.”

The movie is very patient in describing this process of rapport, content to drop bits and pieces of information throughout. It becomes clear that the practice of synch between a human nervous system and robot circuitry, once thought nearly obscene, has become increasingly popular. So much so that it is accepted among free thinkers, like Esme Cragis and her friends. It remains a black stain, however, in the eyes of The Order, who consider these mixed relationships a further indication of the rising power of the machines; and the women who are in rapport are seen as deviant, wanton traitors.

In one of the movie’s central scenes, we find The Cragis confronting his sister about her disgraceful, degenerate conduct. As Cragis arrives, Esme is staring out a window in one of the movie’s lavishly colored sets, while her “partner” stands nearby, simply waiting for a time when he might be useful. The film is never explicit, but clearly an element of Pax’ customization, his rapport with Esme, is physical as well as emotional; his, ahem, attributes having been designed to compliment hers for her ultimate and complete satisfaction. His digital programming and circuitry has been fused with Esme’s neurological and corporal being, and he can not only sense her every need but has the ability to answer her every craving endlessly. He never ages, wrinkles, goes bald, develops halitosis or a pot, or has his broad chest sag into man boobs. When she is sad or simply desires communication, he will listen - really listen - until she is finished talking. Esme’s problems and concerns are Pax’ paramount - indeed his exclusive - reason for existence. As the imagination works with these principals a moment, it becomes clear that Cragis has a very long row to hoe if he expects to talk her out of this relationship.

“I’ll see who it is, Esme dear,” says Pax as the doorbell warbles, and immediately we sense that Cragis is swimming against a very stiff current. We watch Esme glide across the room easily, listening to her brother bluster his way into the house off camera:

We can hear Pax’ voice in gracious greeting: “Oh, please do come in. Though we have never met, I know that you are . . .”

“Out of my way, you stinking Clicker,” booms Cragis’ voice. “I’m here to see my sister!” Not the best of starts.

“Cragis,” says Esme, displaying a brief moment of unease, as her brother strides into the room and plants his feet as he confronts her.

“The Cragis,” he reminds her, thrusting his jaw out. “Esme, what have you done?”

Esme seems to let out a breath, at ease now and oddly on comfortable and familiar ground. Her brother has always been quite the ass hole. “Cragis, why have you come here?” she asks, her voice a bit impatient and disappointed.

“To throw that Clicker out!”

“That would be a dramatic gesture,” she says in a measured voice, smiling. “You like dramatic gestures, don’t you.” Her voice becomes a bit deeper – harder. “You won’t throw him out, because you can’t.”

“You’re answer is no?” Cragis thunders.

“My answer is –“ and here Esme raises an eyebrow at her brother, her smile like a fish hook stuck under her brother’s skin “—go ahead and try.”

Cragis huffs a bit, but realizes that it is impossible for Pax to leave unless Esme instructs him to, and there is fat chance of that. Nor is Cragis fool enough to try the rough stuff with an R34, despite the fact that he towers over Pax as though the robot were a small child (actor Don Megowan was 6’6”).

What follows is a long scene which holds our attention simply because it has some of the best dialogue in the movie, despite the fact that it is shot with a purposeful lack of imagination (Director Barry is steadfast in his refusal to succumb to the dramatic potential in any scene. Throughout he is often given fine swaths of script and wonderful sets, but his camera remains welded to its spot as though set in concrete. He is not given much help, either, by the films’ “score,” which is nothing more than a patter of cerebral, toneless beeps and Theremin trills).

The characters spend the scene discussing what, exactly defines a man; and more importantly, what is the essence of love? Cragis’ position is simple. Pax is not a man! Pax was purchased like a vacuum cleaner. Being “in rapport” with a machine is unnatural and perverted.

The scene holds two wonderful moments: the first when Esme mentions a former lover, a certain Miles, who she describes as a “filthy, stinking, drunken, insensitive beast.” Sure, says Cragis, Miles had his eccentricities, but at least “he was a man.”

Esme has been waiting for this chance. She looks her brother in the eye. “Pax is more of a man than Miles, or you, could ever be.”

Cargis, seizing the moment to prove himself an insensitive beast as well as a dimwitt, charges across the room and pulls out Pax’ eyes, or rather the covering lenses that give his smooth, shiny optic marbles the appearance of human eyes. “Stripped of his sham, he’s not very pretty, is he?” hollers Cragis. He throws the lenses to the ground, and we hear them patter softly on the floor.

Cragis grabs Pax’ arm and holds it out harshly; then pulls his ceremonial, silver dagger from his belt. As Pax’ circuits emit a strange, shrill warning, Cragis thrusts his dagger into Pax’ upper arm, draws the dagger along down to the elbow, and reaches inside and pulls out a hunk of Pax’ fine wiring. Holding the filaments in his hand, he bellows. “There! That’s how much of a man he is!”

Esme is profoundly disappointed in her brother rather than angry. She thanks him sadly for proving her point. “Pax could never do to you what you have just done to him.” She looks at her humanoid lover, and her eyes soften. “You had better go put some sealer on your arm, dear,” she says. Without a word Pax picks his eyes off the floor and quietly leaves the room.

Gradually The Cragis’ rage dissolves into a brother’s stern persuasion, and finally into a kind of pleading urgency: How could you do this to me? he asks. How could you love that thing?

The scene’s other fine moment comes as Esme really tries to explain herself to her brother. The two have moved to sit together in the vast room:

“Pax and I are in rapport," says Esme, leaning toward her brother. "We are in harmony. He understands me perfectly. He instinctively knows what I want. I think of something, and it’s done, because he thinks of it at the same time. There are no arguments. He’s dedicated to keeping me happy. And I am happy.”

“You love that . . . that machine?” asks Cragis, truly confused.

Esme looks back at her brother with sympathy, even love. He has always been such a big, simple thing; always there to beat away all her bullies. She searches for his understanding.

“I love Pax,” she says.

It is a long discussion, but Cragis really never has a chance. It is impossible to change the mind of a happy woman.

The Good Stuff, Part III: The Love and Baptism of The Cragis

After the scene with Esme, the movie hurtles toward a finale.

During the confrontation with his sister, a visitor appears. It is the same smart-mouthed young lady that sassed him earlier, who turns out to be a close friend of Esme’s. The friend, Maxine (Erica Elliot), and Cragis fall in love at first sight and begin a relationship soon after. They begin meeting, neither quite understanding their powerful attraction, as they seem to have nothing in common. They wish to “enter into contract,” but Cragis at first thinks it’s a poor idea, as he is sterile. He explains that as a small boy he used to play in an old creator formed by a nuclear explosion. The place was so hot with radiation, says Cragis “that at night it used to glow with a blue light.” He naturally believes that he is not fit for contract, as he can not have children. Eventually, though, love will out and Cragis aggress to contract with Maxine.

As they are walking through the city together one evening, a strange feeling comes over them. They both feel an odd sensation, as though they were being summoned, or perhaps that someone is watching them. As they look around themselves in fear, two R34s (Acto and Lagan) approach the couple:

“Cragis. Ms. Megan,” says Lagan in his flat, loud voice. “Would you come with us?” The two lovers seem unable to disobey.

The next, and last, scene finds Maxine and Cragis back at the temple, amid the hymns of bloops and beeps, standing stock still and semi-catatonic in two of the recharging tubes. We quickly learn why these two seemingly opposite humans were so powerfully and desperately attracted: They are not human at all, or at least, not completely human. They are both advanced, R96 model humanoids - synthetic duplicates of once-living humans, given the dead humans’ complete memory and emotional set by thalamic transplant. Cragis has proven a most important, useful spy because, when not in a tube for an “interview” by the robots, he is privy to the highest level Order planning. Ironically, it is the Cragis R96 spy that has most hastened the “end” of the human race.

The attraction between Maxine and Cragis resulted because of their latent, humanoid similarities, theorizes Acto. He conducts his standard interview with Cargis, asking Cragis questions about the order. Near the end of the interview, the R34s are joined by Dr. Raven, younger and less grumpy now after his death and resurrection as an R96, complete with a young, synthetic body.

Acto tells him that he is about to end the interview with Cragis and Maxine, and will return them to the street where they can resume their “human” lives.

“I think not,” says Dr. Raven, who will now take charge of the R96 project. Raven thinks that Cragis has served the humanoid cause well, albeit unknowingly, and deserves to learn the truth. Besides, says Raven, I have an experiment that I have been wanting to try.

After being awakened, Cragis and Maxine are naturally confused as to how they have ended up in the robot temple. After Dr. Raven introduces himself, Cragis says: “You’re lying! Dr. Raven was old, and he was dead!”

“I didn’t like being old,” says Dr. Raven, “and dead.”

Cragis even attacks the R34s. Well, sort of. He draws his trusty dagger, but the robots simply reach out calmly, hold his arm still, and extract the dagger from his fingers. When told he is a robot, Cragis laughs, detailing his profound hatred for the Clickers and his revulsion at even being inside their “machine shop.” Acto wisely hastens things along considerably by having a fellow R34 plunge Cragis’ own dagger hilt-deep into his chest. Maxine screams and Cragis staggers back, starring down at the knife and the green blood soaking his shirt (the R96s have green blood because their veins are made of copper).

The sight of his own green blood covering the blade of the extracted dagger goes a long, long way toward stamping out any argument, but still Cragis cannot let go.

“I’m no Clicker,” he says, his voice weak, nearly pleading, his own words hollow. “I’m no R96 or anything. I hate robots! I’m a leader in the . . . the Order of Flesh and Blood!”

“And the only Robot,” says Acto proudly, “who can claim that distinction,”

Cragis staggers a bit. We hear the blade clang and rattle as he drops it on the floor. His face becomes childlike in its need to convince; to hold on to his dead beliefs.

“I don’t know what you’re talk . . . I’m me, I . . .” Cragis turns, takes a few staggering steps. When he turns back around, he is near tears. “I was a child,” he says. “I grew up. I remember it all!” He holds his hands out and stares down at his upturned palms. He struggles for words, but Cragis isn’t really a man, or humanoid, of grand words.

“I had little hands,” he says, struggling. “They grew larger. I . . . I grew up.”

Dr. Raven watches him closely, allowing Cragis in his own time to finally relinquish his human self, his own childhood, the memories of his own mother and father; his sister, Esme. Cragis has to understand that Cragis is truly dead and gone (Dr. Raven has reminded him of the day of his actual death by heart attack, which he assumed was nothing more than a brief illness); that he is , in fact, a synthetic copy of his own image.

Finally, Raven feels the time is right to deliver the real kicker.

The Good Stuff, Part IV: Dr. Raven and Adam’s Rib

Dr. Raven patiently tells Cragis that the Humanoids' goal is not to destroy mankind, but to preserve it in the only way possible.

For humanity is doomed, has been since the atomic holocaust obliterated more than 90% of the population and covered the earth in radiation so heavy the air glowed blue at night. Mankind, in effect, is sterile and barren; has a single generation left at best. The radiation levels are simply too high, the mutation and sterility rates too great, to sutain human life on the planet. Within 200 years all human life will be gone.

But Dr. Raven has a plan. Throughout the movie, we have been told that the R96 models are “only 4 points off human.” The ultimate goal, as Raven finally tells Cragis, is the production of a line of R100s, of which Cregis and Maxine will be the first. Once given this final upgrade, the pair will be created human beings - born -- and will be perfect. More importantly, they will have the final missing element the R96s lack: The ability to reproduce babies of flesh and blood. Dr. Raven describes the process as a series of simple operations – “Hardly more difficult than removing a rib.”

The movie ends with Dr. Raven turning to look directly into the camera, stepping right through the fourth wall. He looks at us and says smiling: “And we were successful, or you wouldn’t be here!”

Yes. This is a movie stuffed to bursting with ideas -- ideas and strong images.

The flow of images in this film is so potent, in fact, our imagination can easily keep making them after the movie is over. The next image that comes to my mind's eye is Cragis and Maxine walking naked, hand in hand through a garden; a garden where precious little is forbidden them. But flesh is very, very weak.

The final image I have is of Cragis, huddling and shamed, saying “I was afraid, because I was naked; and I hid myself.”

Let’s watch a brief scene in the Story of Man! – Radiation Cinema!