St Thomas More High School - Utopian Yearbook (Philadelphia, PA)

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six nights a week? The Saga of the West, the Modern Epic, the Western Film! Count the evenings misspent which fail to produce its quota of cattle-rustlin', insist the devotees of horse opera. For it matters not that the usual Western is no Academy Award contender, or its stars candidates for Oscars. A loyal following finds enjoyment enough in the simple plots and simpler plotters of derring-do. Tell them that Westerns are customarily leveled at the eight-year-old-mind, and people blithely answer: Who's caring? They're fun! So, we suffer from the cult of Hopalong Cassidy. Now, the typical dramatic fare linds its open- ing in an aura of peace and contentment. To the accompaniment of guitar music, the Good Guy of the silver screen makes his entrance on horse- back, either singing or humming for maybe whistlingj something about little doagiesf' His beautiful horse is geared down to three miles per hour, so that its clopclop will keep the singer in tempo. Whatever else his qualifications, the goodie must be a smooth-looking cookie. If he can be a United States Marshall, so much the better, though he may have to conceal that fact through six and a half reels, in order to ally himself with the local gang. Generally he will ride into town accompanied by a reputation for marksmanship, stage robberies, and the ability to carry more likker than his ten gallon hat. Such evidences of lawlessness seldom fail to win him the undying respect of those on whom he must eventually get the goods. See? As the star approaches the closing bars of They'l1 Dangle at Dawn, especially composed for the picture by Sammy QSwing and Swayj Kay, a shower of lead greets him. Whereupon our hero, disconcerted by such an interruption, fear- lessly gallops in the direction of the shots. The picture has been miserably directed if, in more than seven seconds, the hero fails to reach the wounded side of old Bill Stebbins, lying beside his busted-down buckboard breathing his last nineteen breaths. Having propped the dying man's head by removing his own coat, and rolling it under the snowy hair, he whispers softly: What's it all about, Old Timer? Touched by this tenderness, the Old Timer stops bleeding long enough to cough and splutter the entire account of his life-long en- 66. counter with the varmin. Trouble started the very day Slinky Slade came to town. Slinky, of course, is the badieg or, in this picture, the 112 badieg the first, the real brains of the mob, is usually the town's leading citizen, the banker, or the local saloon proprietor. For the present we won't say which. But back to the close-up of the goodie. Holding the Old Timer, as aforementioned, he proceeds to sympathize: Yeh, I know how it is! Since the world is round, nuthin is on the levell The tragic tale continues to unwind, with the victim's pleading with our star to look after his only daughter's interests, at least until she can manage to put her ranch on its pre-Slade, money- making basis. Here it is thought advisable for the hero to reveal his true identity. Thus assured, the Old Timer resumes his bleeding, rolls off the lap of his comforter, and, in a state of ecstasy, expires with the words: Atta boy, son. Go get the dirty dogs. Embittered, and muttering imprecations of revenge, our goodie rides gallantly into town with the body of the dead rancher slung limply over Old Paint, his ever-dependable steed. To impress the badies, he carries the corpse into the saloon, lays it on the bar, and snaps: Did anyone here lose a dead man up the road a-spell? Further to remove all suspicion of his ultimate purpose, our star whips out an illus- trated poster, proving that he is wanted for several murders and such, in Canada, Mexico, Cuba, Guatemala, and numerous States. The gang unanimously accepts him into its fold. He smiles. Several days later, convinced that he is now above suspicion, he decides that after breakfast he will ride out to the dead rancher's shack to visit the daughter. He hopes she is purty. She is. Approaching the shack, by the way, he dis- covers gold on the ranch. Provided now with a motive, he devises the perfect plan for rounding up the whole gang, including the leader. But wait- a vacationing member of the mob, chancing to ride by, sees what is going on, and returns to town to astonish his cohorts with the announcement: He's no bad guy. That's Dead- pan Dan the Lawman, the most feared marshall this side of the border. He's greased lightnin' with a shootin' iron. . THE UTOPIAN

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FQ 1-4. N E CARRY P J ,uw ff flin g as-fzf X -N Qs ai! an-915 :lla ,gx Duff ,em ,. ' ff '. ,rl 4,...gu in ' , M, .,... rg ri .rl BY RONALD CENTRONE '51 Alf gh! LQ HERE IS NO need to glance at the clock to leam that it is 6:03. Anyone passing a million homes knows the familiar time signal which heralds the nightly Western. Bang, bang. . . pid-dinnnngl Yes, mothers, with dishtowels draped over their wrists: fathers, with the evening newspaper jammed awkwardly under their arrnsg big brothers, with unfinished dinner plates balanced on one kneeg elder sisters, still plunging bobby pins aimlessly into their hair- dosg and finally, the kiddies-bless theml-all make their accustomed way into the living room to pay the usual homage to TV's hallowed Hr by gs ' N- gy L-ll-Esllvccx K f7 T ,,'?'i A ', ' rpi l Q 3,5535 .- n 0 I V I-In 1 1. j' - 1eggg,1.ff - .h V. 4.1, I Y x fi -lla - 'f u f' ' - Q K , I . I .1 . rg . I ,,, F5 N' .Q.-if f' t , -ff: ' f fn I c' Tiff 1 1 '-' ' h . - 'K .-4 x f ' L0 'Q P , , . r B A B K ' ' i ' V 1' l 7 is 1' ' ,. I W? ' ' e' f . 1 ' -I : pf' 4' .n F11 W. J KA., gg i X0 ,v I N -, . -5 --. ' . I K Q wg M.-. - ll- K 5, .u , ,Q X X d f g, b X ,X ' 7-. . V53354 . 7' iz . -T'-.'-f , V .. . ,,. . . 'v - ,. -X TLA... ' 5: V 'T ii' 4--' U. , 5 1 fr . x - I 7- ' ' Y 5 -L' I' ..'-:-ff' , 153' K 'if ' Y ' ,.i,- 4 z 4, 'va r- F, . ,gf ,I 4 ' A . . ' .LE . A' ' ' I -1' -Q75 f '- J' 5 3 ,pf Agfi - 'Hig if '- Q. 3 i ,4' .-.Viv .V . ' Q ' , ' A ' ' u 11 3 - -- .fig F35 . -P X, vig!! iz... J 1.1: 553 , .. y. i n-:fm 1' 3:3 , A .....' 4 'W5 W17C?' LEW' 'Eff' -if .. v5'f.wfq-,S ':1 f?i. Y ' L, rw-9 . . . f ,fl J' 9 W' .P li , 5 . 'f ' ' 1 1 jf' 6 r 4 A W:-32 1 4 rife , ' 4, 5, Ja l yi l 1 ? I v I n lil QA 'I I f x S p-095 ti g w ' a J C .J iffy- - i 1 lm, L if ' X nl V P h t , f . 1 rg x X .x shrine. What is it that magnetizes them thus, THE UTOPIAN .

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After struggling with them in a terrific conflict in which he kills 8, wounds 3, and knocks out 13, he outsmarts the others and escapes. Next, he rides into town and organizes a posse. The posse handcuffs all the badies except the boss, who deserts his accomplices in a vain attempt to escape the long arm of the law. Our hero alone spies him and pursues assiduously. This is known as the chase, the dramatic climax. Gradually our hero, thanks to Old Paint's superior speed, overtakes the badie-boss as they are cresting a ridge. Leaping from his horse, Dan unhorses Slade. Together they roll 150 yards downhill amidst clouds of dust. Some- what dizzy, they regain their feet and begin to whale the daylight out of each other. QSome- times this melee follows five minutes of gunplay in which the hero ducks all the bullets, then throws away his own revolver in order to fight it out man to man, with bare knucklesj. The badie, natuarally, is no match for the goodie, a clean liver. So, Dan picks up what is left of Slade and tells him: You're gonna swing for this, Slade! Slade retorts, O.K., but not alone! The real boss is-- Two shots ring out, Slade slumps, slain. Dan wheels around, seizes two more guns from Old Paint's saddle holster and blazes away. Even Old Paint's eager to get in on this one. The real boss turns out to bef Tch! Tch! Shamelj Black Bart, the town's respected sheriff. That reminds Dan of several other bits of un- finished business in the next county, so before anybody gets ideas of making him sheriff, he rides off silently into the West, stopping at Nell's ranch long enough to say he'll be back someday, if she'll wait for him. But don't get the idea that this play-actin' business is as easy as it sounds. No, sir! Mere ability to ride a horse backwards counts for little. To star, one needs the uncanny skill of finding short cuts over strange territory, and must be able to split a card sideways with one shot at fifty paces, and fire 17 times from a six-shooter without stopping to reload. Deadpan Dan, of the present feature, for instance, proved his right to play the part by tossing a deck of cards into the air, whipping out his -gun, and without even looking, shot a hole clean through the middle of the ace of spades! And the cards weren't marked either. These are but a few of the reasons why fathers, mothers, sisters, brothers and kiddies would rather miss their supper than the 6:03 edition of Guns a-spittin' Lead! The public appreciates quality, but as for ME, don't carry ME back to the lone prairie! IH!!!!lll!!l!nt!! N THE OUTSKIRTS of Nagasaki, japan, there was located the Mac Arthur Hospital, a mercy base originally built in 1945, shortly after the Allied occupation. The hospital, under the supervision of the U.S. Army, was con- structed primarily to care for those poor sur- viving victims of the atomic blast, but just re- cently it had been turned into a regular armed service hospital so as to insure expert medical THE U TOPIAN . BY THOMAS MENTZER, '51 treatment for the wounded evacuees of the Ko- rean battlefields. The hospital was divided into four major wards, one of which was set aside for those crit- ically wounded and still in danger of death. It is in this last mentioned ward that two men stand conversing in low tones at the bedside of one of the patients. The man in khaki spoke. .67