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Arch Oboler's The Twonky is one of those films that seems, as you are viewing it, that you are lost in the course of a particularly devious but playful fever dream. (I resist describing things as "an acid trip," first because it is stupid, and secondly, because I have never been on one.) When I first saw it years ago on a UHF channel, it was in the middle of the night, and I actually was barely conscious due to illness. I kept images of a walking, manipulative but loyal television set tormenting poor Hans Conried in my head for ages, always wondering "what the hell the name of that movie was?" I would tell people about it and they would think I was crazy. I have seen it a couple of times recently, and while I treasure having the film in my knowledge, it is almost best remembered as that very fever dream. No matter my joy over The Twonky, it can't compare for my long-standing adoration of George Pal's still scary version of H.G. Wells' sci-fi classic. Many of the scenes still define screen science-fiction for me, despite years of directors trying to outdo it. It's not just sight, but the sound of the film, that live in my memory. If you don't know what I mean, then you haven't seen it. Visit http://cinema4pylon.blogspot.com/ for more.