"They're here already You're next " These were the last words spoken by Kevin McCarthy in the 1956 classic, "Invasion of the Body Snatchers." He was looking right into the camera when he said it, at an audience caught in the grip of Cold War paranoia. Studio executives forced director Don Siegel to shoot a new, less alarming ending. In spite of their tampering, the film remains one of the most terrifying and closely dissected motion pictures ever made, inspiring contradictory readings from both ends of the political spectrum. This book is the result of a film fan's obsession. In short, it's everything you've ever wanted to know about "Invasion of the Body Snatchers" - the battles with the censors and the front office, the deleted sequences, the addresses of the locations, and much, much more.

When Spyros Skouras was forced to resign as commander in chief of 20th Century-Fox, Darryl F. Zanuck was persuaded to return to the studio to take charge. As the studio was on the brink of disaster, Zanuck put the brakes on every project in the works and fired just about everyone on the lot. Except for one man, the only one working for the studio who made their bread-and-butter pictures which, at this point in time, was the only kind of movies the studio could afford to make. And that man was Robert L. Lippert. Robert Lippert, you say? Never heard of him. Lippert produced over two hundred movies, tailored to the small town exhibitors who had to change their program two or three times a week. And they loved him for it. Kansas theater owner Bill Leonard told his fellow exhibitors to "just line up with these Lippert pictures and you and your patrons will be happy." So? I still never heard of him. Ever heard of James Clavell, the author of Shogun? Or Andrew McLaglen, the director of McLintock? Or Sam Fuller, the director of Pickup on South Street? They were just some of the people who got their first break in the business from Lippert. And if none of those names ring a bell, have you ever heard of The Fly (1958)? Lippert made that one. His name isn't on it but he produced it never-the-less. This book is all about the man who was once left like a sack of laundry on the steps of an orphanage. It's about his battle with the Screen Actors Guild, his stormy marriage and, of course, his movies.

William Castle, for instance, was a master promoter. In one scheme involving The Tingler, Vincent Price warns in the movie that "the only way to stop the monster is to scream. That's the signal to the projectionist to throw the switch. Under ten or twelve seats were some electric motors, war surplus things that Castle got a bargain on. The motors vibrated the seat, in the hope of scaring a scream out of someone. Just in case it didn't Castle planted someone in the audience to get the screams rolling." This book is about flamboyant promotion, the con artist side of the movie world--everything the ballyhoo boys did to separate the customer from the price of a movie ticket—Emergo, HypnoVista, 3-D, Wide Screen, Cinemagic, Duo-Vision, Dynamation, Smell-O-Vision, plenty more. Supporting the text are 107 photos and illustrations, some never-before-published, and a filmography.