American International Pictures

American International Pictures' motto was, "Make 'em fast and make 'em cheap." Really cheap. Samuel Z. Arkoff, who founded the scrappy little studio with the late Jim Nicholson, recalls the time producer-director Roger Corman was given a mere $29,000 to make the 1955 horror flick "The Beast With a Million Eyes." "Roger said, 'I can't do it [for that budget],' " recalls Arkoff, now 83. "I said, 'Roger, you can do it.' So he went off to Palm Springs to make the movie."

American International Pictures' motto was, "Make 'em fast and make 'em cheap." Really cheap. Samuel Z. Arkoff, who founded the scrappy little studio with the late Jim Nicholson, recalls the time producer-director Roger Corman was given a mere $29,000 to make the 1955 horror flick "The Beast With a Million Eyes." "Roger said, 'I can't do it [for that budget],' " recalls Arkoff, now 83. "I said, 'Roger, you can do it.' So he went off to Palm Springs to make the movie."

Regarding "Bypassing the Big Picture," by Michele Willens (Nov. 28): In your article on direct-to-video movies, the technique that Charles Band boasts about for deciding which films to make was in fact pioneered by one of the three greatest film executives of the latter half of the 20th Century, the late James H. Nicholson, co-founder of American International Pictures. (The others are Nicholson's partner Samuel Z. Arkoff and Roger Corman.) In the mid- to late '50s, AIP established very close ties with the owners of independent theater chains in the South, Midwest and Southwest, who had a much better understanding of the tastes of their audiences than exhibitors based in New York or today's ivory-towered types.

Even before Sam Arkoff had thumbed through the Hollywood trade papers and a faxed report on the weekend box-office results, as is his custom each Monday morning, he was already convinced that one new movie would be a sure-fire flop. Titled "Suicide Kings," the film is a low-budget kidnapping thriller--but it wasn't the subject that concerned Arkoff. It was the film's title.

Anybody who thinks all movies should be deep-think masterpieces by visionary auteurs probably won't be camping out at the Nuart Theatre for its ongoing American International Pictures festival. Max von Sydow won't be playing chess with Death there. But other games--less taxing perhaps--are being played. Beach blanket bingo, for example. And Death is certainly not being overlooked.

Even before Sam Arkoff had thumbed through the Hollywood trade papers and a faxed report on the weekend box-office results, as is his custom each Monday morning, he was already convinced that one new movie would be a sure-fire flop. Titled "Suicide Kings," the film is a low-budget kidnapping thriller--but it wasn't the subject that concerned Arkoff. It was the film's title.

Annette Funicello, the dark-haired darling of TV's “The Mickey Mouse Club” in the 1950s who further cemented her status as a pop-culture icon in the '60s by teaming with Frankie Avalon in a popular series of “beach” movies, died Monday. She was 70. Funicello, who was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis in 1987 and became a spokeswoman for treatment of the chronic, often-debilitating disease of the central nervous system, died at Mercy Southwest Hospital in Bakersfield, Walt Disney Co. spokesman Howard Green said.

Disco music and movies are warmly embraced these days as part of pop culture nostalgia. The era, which began in the mid-'70s, encouraged a whole generation to dance and party — often to excess. And don't even mention the outrageous clothes. It was an era that ended abruptly; a year after the final disco-themed movies were released in 1980, the AIDS epidemic began and the fun was over. Most of the disco movies are considered campy cult faves, but 1977's "Saturday Night Fever" is a bona fide classic.

The Academy of Science Fiction, Fantasy and Horror Films will present Samuel Z. Arkoff the Golden Scroll Award on Saturday. The honor is for "outstanding career achievements" in recognition of the 503 features American International Pictures (AIP) produced and/or released. Arkoff was the co-founder of AIP and today is chairman of Arkoff International Pictures.

Al Simms, 86, entertainment industry executive for 60 years. Born Al Ciminelli in Rochester, N.Y., as one of 17 children of Italian immigrants, Simms began his career as manager of the nationally broadcast "Horace Heidt Youth Opportunity Show." He later worked with singer Frankie Laine. For 28 years, Simms was associated with American International Pictures, working as director of the music department, head of personnel, general manager and assistant to the president.

Anybody who thinks all movies should be deep-think masterpieces by visionary auteurs probably won't be camping out at the Nuart Theatre for its ongoing American International Pictures festival. Max von Sydow won't be playing chess with Death there. But other games--less taxing perhaps--are being played. Beach blanket bingo, for example. And Death is certainly not being overlooked.

Regarding "Bypassing the Big Picture," by Michele Willens (Nov. 28): In your article on direct-to-video movies, the technique that Charles Band boasts about for deciding which films to make was in fact pioneered by one of the three greatest film executives of the latter half of the 20th Century, the late James H. Nicholson, co-founder of American International Pictures. (The others are Nicholson's partner Samuel Z. Arkoff and Roger Corman.) In the mid- to late '50s, AIP established very close ties with the owners of independent theater chains in the South, Midwest and Southwest, who had a much better understanding of the tastes of their audiences than exhibitors based in New York or today's ivory-towered types.

I was a star-struck 9-year-old when I saw Annette Funicello in person. Funicello, Frankie Avalon, Morey Amsterdam and Jody McCrea were promoting American International Pictures' sun-and-surf musical comedy “Muscle Beach Party” and had stopped by a parking structure at the Hillsdale shopping center in San Mateo, Calif., as part of their whirlwind publicity tour. Hundreds of teenagers, kids and their parents screamed as Funicello appeared wearing a full-length mink coat that the press said was given to her by her mentor, Walt Disney.

If you were a girl in the 1950s, Annette Funicello was the ideal of feminine goodness, your fantasy best friend forever. If you were a boy, she was your dream date, demure, doe-eyed and just different enough to set hearts pounding. The most adored of Walt Disney's original 24 Mouseketeers, Funicello later exchanged her mouse ears for a swimsuit in a series of 1960s beach movies, but she remained a reassuring figure, fun-loving yet chaste in an era of rapidly shifting social values.