Months after an accidental exposure to a radioactive mist, Scott Carey, an ordinary middle-aged suburban husband played by Grant Williams, starts to become smaller. The change is minor at first, with our lead wondering why his pants and shirts are inexplicably too large for him, despite no change in his daily habits. Casual bewilderment turns to alarm as Scott continues to shrink, eventually turning into a child-sized man whose relationship with his wife has become a farce, and, ultimately, being reduced to the point where his existence is threatened by common house cats and spiders.
The 1957 black-and-white sci-fi horror film,
The Incredible Shrinking Man, directed by Jack Arnold and based on a Richard Matheson novel, epitomizes everything about older creature-feature movies that paved the way to my interest in cinema at a young age. The practical special effects, including split-screen techniques, rear-projection, forced perspective, and oversized props, are not always seamless, but they elicit a suspension of disbelief that most mega-budget digital visuals cannot match in present day. The film's sense of wonder transports viewers back to an era where science and religion went hand-in-hand with regard to mankind's quest for knowledge. More than anything, the end result unfolds with a fast-paced ease that appeals to younger audiences while also taking the time to address adult anxieties.
My childhood self was put on edge by a scene where Scott is attacked by a cat while living in a dollhouse and by the centerpiece showdown where Scott, with a sewing needle as a handheld weapon, battles a spider. My adult self is now scared at the prospect of being diminished as a man, both in a physical and figurative sense, by circumstances beyond my control. There is a true despair inherent in the sequences where Scott grows increasing irritable towards his wife, played by Randy Stuart, because he can no longer provide for her or please her in conventional ways.
This story of a capable person becoming more and more alone in the world takes on a new meaning for those of us who live by ourselves during the COVID-19 pandemic, where many feel just as forgotten by the outside world as Scott does when he wakes up after falling into the basement of his home. The fact that the bulk of
The Incredible Shrinking Man takes place within the confines of a normal house accentuates its relatability for those in the grasp of isolation, where mundane sights take on an unease all their own. This radical departure from most 1950s sci-fi movies, which were set on exotic islands or even other planets, showcases writer Matheson's trademark of creating terror out of the ordinary, a speciality that would influence Stephen King decades later.
The 81-minute run time, a lost art today in the age of 150-minute epics, gives us a lot to unpack, in terms of existentialist themes and fatalism, while also keeping the proceedings wildly fun. The shrunken Scott's simple cellar journey to the top of a wooden box has double the thrills of most mountain-climbing documentaries. The less-is-more aspect of the filmmaking immediacy mirrors how our main character's quest amps up in storytelling urgency when he is so tiny that he is left to his own devices.
This
Criterion Blu-ray, the final step in my upgrade of all of the Universal Sci-Fi Classics DVDs to high definition, delivers the filmic goods with video quality, with amazing audio to boot. The Jack Arnold documentary, my favorite of the extras, makes me want to revisit
It Came from Outer Space and
Creature from the Black Lagoon again.
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