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SMIGHT, JACK (1926–2003). American director.
My own theory about Smight's star-crossed record is
rooted in what may be the most revelatory aspect of his filmography, its
omissions: no official writing credits, and no reports of Smight stepping in to
do uncredited revisions of his scripts. If, then, he lacked the ability or motivation
to modify what his writers handed to him, that would make Smight entirely
dependent upon the quality of their work: given an excellent script, he might
make an excellent film, but he would be helpless if the script was
significantly flawed. If one adds that he also seemed most comfortable only
with the mildest forms of science fiction, it becomes possible to explain the
twists and turns of his long career.
Smight first came to Hollywood with Graves, whom he had
first met in high school, and though both were getting jobs by the 1950s, they
oddly only worked together on one of Smight's last films, the police drama Number
One with a Bullet (1987). As one examines his early directing credits in
television, the one that stands out—the first version of Gore
VIDAL's play Visit
to a Small Planet—is hopefully not lost, since it was surely a better
representation of Vidal's intent, and of the story itself, than the abysmal
film starring Jerry LEWIS. Smight then entered Rod
SERLING's The Twilight Zone, with mixed results: with
good scripts and performers, he capably executed two of the series' most
underrated episodes, "The Lonely" and "Twenty-Two," but he couldn't deal with
the logical problems and miscast actors which, along with the cheap, clumsy use
of videotape, doomed "The Lateness of the Hour" and "The Night of the Meek."
Perhaps preferring less outré assignments, Smight shifted his energies
to more conventional series, including The Law and Mr. Jones, The
Defenders, Arrest and Trial, and Dr. Kildare, and was soon
rewarded with a series of major films featuring stars like Paul Newman and
another of his actor friends, Rod STEIGER. But it all came crashing down when
he took on the difficult task of turning a collection of unrelated short
stories, Ray BRADBURY's The Illustrated Man
(1951), into a coherent film. With three uninvolving adaptations of Bradbury
stories interspersed with interminable, grating scenes of Steiger constantly
screaming at an inert Robert Drivas, The Illustrated Man may qualify as
one of the most unwatchable science fiction films ever made, and it is
difficult to imagine anyone sitting through it unless they are driven to do so
(as I was) by a research project. How Smight failed to recognize that his
script and actors were all wrong, and why he failed to do anything about it,
will forever remain a mystery. After the film predictably proved a complete
bomb, Smight did get to direct two more, under-the-radar failures, but The
Illustrated Man effectively ended his film career.
However, demonstrating an admirable resiliency, Smight
returned to directing episodes of crime series (Columbo, McCloud,
Banacek, Madigan) and a number of television movies, achieving
one standout success: Frankenstein: The True Story; for while
Christopher Isherwood and Don Bachardy's script was far from an accurate
adaptation of Mary Shelley's novel, despite their title, they did strikingly
bring the homoerotic elements of the story to the forefront, and Smight's work
with a remarkable cast that included James MASON, Agnes
MOORHEAD, John GIELGUD, and Ralph RICHARDSON could not be
faulted. It was surely this film that inspired Hollywood producers to put his
name back into their Rolodexes, resulting in two of his most entertaining
films, Airport 1975 (1974) and Midway. But as if determined to
demonstrate that, The Illustrated Man notwithstanding, he could handle a
science fiction film, Smight then signed on to direct an adaptation of Roger
Zelazny's novel Damnation Alley (1969); but again saddled with a
wretched script and unpalatable stars (Jan-Michael Vincent and George Peppard),
the result was another horrible film, although the giant cockroaches at least
offered a modicum of guilty pleasure.
Having again destroyed his career with a self-inflicted
wound, Smight did remain active for another decade or so, with minor films and
more television work, before deciding to retire at the age of sixty-five. A
dedicated family man who had given his wife, Joyce Cunning, most of her roles,
he also helped his son Alec Smight launch a successful career as an editor for
television series, and one hopes that he enjoyed a blissful retirement of
hanging out with his old friends Graves and Steiger, whose careers had also had
their ups and downs, sharing their memories of the good
times without brooding about what might have been.
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