News Magazine of the Screen (1957)

The news magazine of the screen is presented as a public service and as a special service to the students of Central and Western Massachusetts by the Massachusetts Mutual Life Insurance Company. Now in its second century of service. At United Nations headquarters in New York, the General Assembly meets in fateful session. Members of the Soviet delegation sit stony-faced as the story of Russia's ruthless suppression of Hungary is spread out for all the world to see. US representative Lodge asks for a resolution condemning the Communist intervention during last fall's Hungarian revolt. Memorable scenes recall that country's hour of hope and heartbreak and a proud people who held freedom more precious than life itself. Their struggle thrilled liberty-loving men everywhere. Then suddenly the courageous freedom fighters were fleeing for their lives. The world wept with the refugees driven from their homes. Russia without mercy or conscience was ravaging the country that had so grievously wounded it. Soviet forces quickly sealed off the border with Austria, but before the iron curtain slammed down, a last truck careened to freedom. From their hearts as from their flag, the Hungarian people had ripped Russia's hated symbol. Hungary's ordeal is not forgotten. The United Nations overwhelmingly accepts Ambassador Lodge's resolution and Russia stands condemned for all time. West German Chancellor Konrad Adenauer deals still another blow to the Communist cause, winning election to a third term with the greatest vote rolled up in any of his campaigns. Along the border, Communist signs had said a vote for Adenauer was a vote for atomic war. Propaganda literature was planted everywhere, even on trains entering West Germany. But alert agents confiscated the material before it could be distributed. The red strategy failed miserably. The West German people would not renounce the iron-willed chancellor who at 81 remains young in the enduring ideals of democracy. The aircraft carrier Saratoga tests a new mirror system designed to smooth the hazardous job of landing fast-flying jet planes. A pilot using the technique is guided aboard ship by a beam of light reflected from a large concave mirror. Four bright source lights are directed into the mirror at the right of screen, forming a so-called meatball, which is reflected to the pilot of an approaching aircraft. If the plane is too high, the meatball will move up. If it is too low, the spot will drop. On target is the mirror center. From the time he first sights the meatball until he touches down, the pilot has 20 seconds to perfect his approach. This contrasts sharply with the three or four seconds available when he is waved in by a landing officer. Since the installation of the new mirror landing system, crash landings aboard carriers have been cut by more than a third, an impressive saving in planes and men. From the forbidding frontier of the Arctic ice cap at the top of the world come rare films made by a task force of Army engineers. Amid eternal snow and cold, military and civilian personnel are finding out how to erect settlements on the ice cap, how to conquer an area vital to America's defense perimeter. Trail markers guide supply trains. There are five Army camps in all, 14 to 220 miles apart in this land of eerie silence and sudden storms. Meteorological stations are set up to collect important weather data. A handful of troops and scientists will man the outposts during the long Arctic night. Ice samples come in for study by the engineers. A dynamite charge is planted to blast a cornice atop the entrance to an ice tunnel. The Arctic, which has kept its icy secrets for centuries, is yielding at last to the scientific assaults of man. In the Santa Ana Mountains of California, brushed by a little brook, is a rustic retreat, not for humans, but for birds. Here doves have their own private swing, a wire stretched across the rippling stream. There is food for all. A paste made of ground peanut hearts, flour, and bacon drippings is a favorite dish. Each morning, curator Henry Banks pours a tasty nectar into specially designed hummingbird feeders. By nightfall, hundreds of birds have helped themselves to the delicacy. When finally filled, the feeders are set up in a row and it is not long before the birds arrive. In intimate close-up, the camera catches a hummer helping itself. Note the rapid propeller-like wing beat. It is from the humming sound made by its wings that the bird derives its name. Found only in the Americas, the beautiful little birds vary in length from 2 and 1/2 to 8 and 1/2 inches. The tiniest species weigh less than 1/10 of an ounce. From an observation porch, visitors can watch the hummers feast on the nectar, a blend of sugar and water. Despite their fragile appearance, the birds have been found on mountain slopes 16,000 ft high, just below the snow line. A bee is attracted to the feeder, but the wire bee guard keeps it from the nectar. The hummer with its long, narrow bill is able to reach between the wires to obtain the food. Unaware of the bee or indifferent to it, the hummingbird finds peace and plenty in the mountain sanctuary. It's cotton picking time down south in Colombia, South America, where a new industry is already showing signs of healthy progress. 50 million pounds are being harvested, the biggest crop in history. The growers need and get an assist from daredevil aerial crop dusters. The flying fumigators loading up with insect-killing spray puddle jump over Colombia's agricultural areas, protecting the rich cotton harvest. Flying a tiny single-engine plane, the pilot must hug the countryside, for the closer he is to the ground, the more effective is his chemical smoke screen. A slip could mean disaster for the aviator who makes pass after pass at the cotton fields. Watch him dip under the tree. Here he comes again. The pilot must also challenge the tricky mountain currents that swirl around the Andes. Here climbing to a height of 6,000 ft, he sprays a crop growing on the slopes. His wheels seem almost to touch the ground as he again starts down the mountain, a 120 mph roller coaster ride with split-second timing essential every inch of the way. Sweeping across a field, the pilots practice their hedge-hopping techniques. Cattle scatter in fright as the crop dusters return for a second run. Aviation teams up with scientific farming to help Colombia's crop of cotton. The San Francisco Academy of Science houses one of the most extensive collections of timepieces in America. Here for visitors young and old, unfolds the fascinating story of time and time telling, the work of one man, Dr. William Barclay Stevens. Dr. Stevens began his collection with this early American wooden movement clock. That was almost 50 years ago. Since then, he has been a man with time on his hands. A combination sundial and compass from China is among the treasured exhibits representing many countries and dating back hundreds of years. This German 14th century sandglass has four divisions marking 1/4, 1/2, 3/4, and 1 hour. Columbus used an hourglass on his voyages to America. Early watches were so inaccurate that portable sundials like this were carried to check them. The sundial was the first man-made timekeeper. The oil clock gave light as well as time. The lowering level of the burned oil marked the hour. In the match alarm clock, the door flipped open striking a match to help the sleeper find his timepiece. The noon gun sundial fired a cannon to announce midday. The sun's rays focused through a magnifying glass lit the fuse that ignited the charge. As the gravity clock rolled down its incline, the motion kept its works running. The descent took 12 hours. The watch exhibit, too, has its unusual timepieces. This braille watch has raised dots to help the blind feel the time. Early watches ranged from 1/2 oz to almost 2 lb. The elephant clock illustrates the pendulum, the most important single discovery in making the clock an accurate timekeeper. The candelabra clock recalls Galileo, who observing a swaying chandelier, developed the principle that pendulums of equal length always swing in equal time. To this day, the story of time holds fascination for all. The year is 1919, and this can be called America's first guided missile. Constructed barely 16 years after the Wright brothers' first flight, the crude craft had a 41 horsepower engine. It was controlled by gyroscopes and designed to carry 200 lb of explosives. Tests with a flying torpedo ended again and again in failure. But undiscouraged, air service mechanics put the pieces together and kept on trying. Still, the research pioneers continued to tinker and test and learn. And finally, after repeated disappointments, they sent aviation's first guided missile into flight. The aerial trailblazer followed a wobbly, erratic course as it bobbled through the sky controlled by a nearby plane. Who could have dreamed that someday guided missiles would be built to span oceans and cross continents? Today at Air Force research centers, the emphasis is not only on missiles, but also on men. The physical limits of a pilot must be known before he is hurtled into space by powerful rocket engines. That is why volunteers risk their lives in safety tests for American airmen. Machines have their limits, too. Here, a piece of metal is dropped into a jet engine, which in slow motion is ripped apart. Pilot ejection tests on rocket sleds at supersonic speeds provide important data and spectacular pictures. A far cry from the old guided missile is the new Falcon. It contains as many electronic elements as four television sets, all crammed into the space of a coffee can. An air-to-air missile, the Falcon reaches blinding supersonic speed in seconds. The nose strikes through the target exploding its cargo of destruction. Raised into position, a giant ground-to-air missile is fired right past our camera. Here is a streaking symbol of the incredible speed with which aviation research is conquering the skies. Governor DeWitt Clinton of New York. His dream changed America's destiny. For he was the father of the Erie Canal, the golden gateway to the west more than a century ago. Opened in 1825, the Erie Canal was the first empire builder in our history. It was the only water highway through the long Appalachian mountain chain. Supplying a route for the settlers to go west, it gave them a means for shipping their goods back east. Overnight, the canal opened the east to the west and the west to the east. In New York state, towns sprang up all along the 500-mile route. Buffalo and Albany, the terminal cities, grew rapidly, and New York City became the greatest port city in the United States and eventually the world. Clinton's folly, the critics called the inland waterway. How wrong they were. The Erie Canal became the thread that wove a far-flung nation into a unified America. An abandoned ditch choked with debris, this is a remnant, one of the original canal locks. 40 ft wide and 4 ft deep along most of the way, the canal seems pitifully small by modern standards, but in its day, it was a monumental achievement. There were no roads to haul supplies. Its builders had no previous engineering experience and only the crudest of tools. The men cut through solid rock by hand and black powder, building 82 locks to overcome a difference of 571 ft between the water level of the Hudson River and Lake Erie. It took 8 years to complete. It would remain in use some 80 years. The task of replacing the old canal with a new waterway began in 1905 and continued for 13 years. The modern barge canal follows the picturesque pioneer route along part of its journey across New York state. Lock two at the eastern end of the new canal dramatizes the change from 19th to 20th century barge travel. Operated by electricity, each of the 57 locks can raise or lower a vessel in 20 minutes. The giant steel gates can be opened in 30 seconds. There is room for any vessel up to 300 ft in length. The depth of the waterway has been lowered from 4 to 12 ft. Now, barges carrying up to 1,000 tons of cargo can make the canal voyage. Hoisted snugly into lock two at Waterford, this barge will be raised 33 and 1/2 ft at the start of its westward passage to Buffalo. Grain, chemicals, sugar, pig iron, heavy machinery, and fertilizers are the leading cargo shipments. As the rear gate shuts to enclose the barge within the lock, sluice gates open to pour water into the huge concrete chamber. The vessel rises swiftly and easily as if pushed upward by a powerful lift. In a few seconds, it is at the top of the lock. Ahead stretches a broad, fresh level of water, a highway that since the Erie's opening has been the main track of America's commercial development. The junction of the Hudson and Mohawk River seen below made possible the conquest of the Allegheny divide. The original canal utilized the Mohawk Valley, the middle link between the Great Lakes and the Hudson. Lock 17 at Little Falls has a lift of 40 and 1/2 ft, the highest in the system. Little Falls is typical of the cities that sprang up with the canal's completion and became busy centers of trade. In the 20 years after the Erie's opening, New York's population almost doubled. The Empire State had been born. The swirling currents of history have failed to diminish the commercial importance of the canal. Hundreds of ships use it every year traveling upwards of 2 million miles with cargo loads. Each lock is 328 ft in length, 45 ft in width, and up to 50 ft in height. With all its branches, the Erie Canal is nine times longer than the Panama Canal. In one stretch of 2 miles, the waterway drops 169 ft through five locks. This is the most remarkable flight of locks in the world, but the transformation along the banks of the Erie was even more spectacular. Lockport was and still is one of the important ports on the canal. 320 miles from the eastern end of the Erie, it owes its life to the pioneers who believed in Clinton's folly. The doubters were many. Even Thomas Jefferson had said, "To talk of making a canal 350 miles through a wilderness is little short of madness in this day." Today's vessel riding smoothly through the step up at Lockport symbolizes the dreams that became deeds to make America great. A century ago, the cry, "Low bridge!" rang out on wooden canal boats as settlers dodged under old spans on their way west. The spirit of adventure that drove them on still rides the Erie Canal. No other waterway in America did what the Erie did. It was from the beginning a golden cord and bond in our national growth. At both ends, east and midwest, and in the middle, it rubbed Aladdin's lamp. America awoke, catching for the first time a sweeping look at its limitless future. This film is one of a series on current affairs, presented as a public service by the Massachusetts Mutual Life Insurance Company, now in its second century of service.