"Harry Belafonte on the abandonedly-plagued streets of NYC"The simmering, the boiling, the glaring and the "sexual frustration" of a world that has been given the Paraldehyde treatment; Harry Belafonte's masterful performance (given to the herky-jerky amusements of the time)—admist the evolution of The Twilight Zone—makes you flail in his personal (and quite "believable") malodorousness (''hindsightopia"), proceeds as he's one of three cityfolk roaming around the deserted plague of New York City (but don't think of Vincent Price in The Last Man on Earth) after an eruptive plague of atomical poison while inspecting a mine (in which he becomes "trapped").
In the twinkling turn, Matheson's I Am Legend forms itself within the psyche' (for those one's whom are aware), tho not at all as rompous and compressed; this Where-is-everyone turn-of-the-tide may be synonymous with past 'pastes', but the solitary confines (a part that would reflect a scenario of progressive pronouns in today's malcontentious World News hoaxes) is a wavelength apart from the flame and fury (making space for something different), the amusement at which the sun hangs up the phone on the moon. Timing. Assets. And, for the era, the evaluations and psychology of the tensions of Race and the rivalries of the two man "one woman" rivalry (think Corman's The Last Woman on Earth versus the demagnetizing effects of the ''crowning touch'' of some roadside family irate at one another, but cling to one another during incidents of unripened fruition!).
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