Seconds: your first choice for chills Reviewed by Bruce Cantwell Someone is following Arthur Hamilton (John Randolph) through Grand Central Station. The hunter moves as if floating, an image from a disturbed unconscious. He catches his prey just as Hamilton steps aboard a Scarsdale-bound commuter train. "Hamilton?" he calls. Hamilton turns. The apparition slaps a crumpled piece of paper into the banker's hand as if he's serving a subpoena. Mission accomplished, he turns on his heel and floats away through the sea of humanity. Welcome to the nightmare world of John Frankenheimer's modern twist on the Faust legend "Seconds." In this monochromatic existence, James Wong Howe's distorted lenses capture every bead of sweat on Hamilton's pale forehead. Jerry Goldsmith's unsettling score hails from Psycho's strings to The Phantom of the Opera's pipe organ. Hamilton, a man who has worked long and hard to rise through the ranks of the banking profession, much to the neglect of his wife and daughter, has something on his mind. Last night, an old Harvard tennis buddy gave him a call long distance: from beyond the grave. Mrs. Hamilton (Frances Reid) can tell something's troubling him but he hasn't confided in her in years and he sure as hell isn't going to start now. Instead, he follows the instructions from his late pal. He goes to the address hand-printed on the crumpled wheet of paper. He is taken to a peculiar office building where a fellow at a desk, Mr. Ruby (Jeff Corey) casually explains to him that his death has been arranged, that his will has been ammended to care for his wife, daughter and himself in his new life, and that he will be physically transformed into a new man with a successful background as an artist, something he has always wanted to be. He is indeed transformed into a new man, Antiochus Wilson (Rock Hudson), relocated to a beautiful studio in Malibu complete with trusty manservant John (Wesley Addy) and an attractive blonde neighbor just down the beach Norma Marcus (Salome Jens). This is where the plot thickens. It's surprising how well this 1966 thriller holds up. It feels much less dated, for instance, than John Frankenheimer's exercise in brain-washing and assassination The Manchurian Candidate that was made a few years earlier.

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