National Affairs: Wonderland Avenue Special

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After looking at the 28-minute television film, Operation Ivy, last week, the U.S. public could hardly be blamed for feeling that it had been given too slight a review of the first full-scale thermonuclear explosion and too much of sonorous background music, theatrical hokum and bureaucratic lens-hogging. The film, released 17 months after the event (just in time to heighten world apprehension abroad over last month's two bigger explosions), was subject to massive and at times confusing cutting in the name of security. But even so, it might, as some of its scenes dramatically demonstrated, have remained what it deserved to be—a simple record of a soul-shaking and historic event.

In its best moments, Operation Ivy gave the viewer a fascinating look into the curious world of atom experimentation. It showed the flat, coral islands of Eniwetok, the test tower rising above the surrounding sea. and, in views of vast test devices, evidence of the enormous toil and expense necessary to prepare for the explosion. The camera (from 50 miles off) showed the mushroom cloud rising through menacing black skies like a great, poisonous-looking gob of whipped cream.

Sugar-Coating. But the Government (the film was shot by the Air Force, reviewed by the Atomic Energy Commission, and released by the Federal Civil Defense Administration) was unable to resist sugarcoating. The finished product was all too worthy of the street from which it sprang—the address of the USAF laboratory, as the film publicity releases proudly state, is 8935 Wonderland Ave., Hollywood 46, Calif.

Instead of using a behind-the-scenes voice for narration, the producers of Operation Ivy employed Television Actor Reed Hadley, star of Public Defender and Racket Squad, to saunter through the picture in khaki uniform, lighting his pipe, leaning negligently against bulkheads, and standing against the tropic sky. Actor Hadley (who was whisked secretly to the Pacific in 1952 and who was not allowed to let even his wife know where he had been until last week) could hardly be blamed for doing his conscientious best in the role assigned him. But a great deal of his job was devoted to the dull and time-filling task of identifying various dignitaries who stood, embarrassed but proud, before the camera for their due share of glory.

Outmoded Art. One look at the explosion indicated that civilian defense must be rapidly becoming an outmoded art. But the last few minutes of the film was devoted to a talk by Civil Defense Administrator Val Peterson, who sat at his desk and emitted such platitudes as "What you have just seen . . . [affects] the safety of our communities and the well-being of our homes and our families." He asked for preparation at home to guarantee "assurance that the American people are prepared to withstand any assault. "This," he added, with bitter, unconscious humor, "is no simple thing to do."

By some miracle of restraint, none of the participants in this macabre soap opera claimed that the bomb made marvelous underwater suds.