The Retroist

Since today is “Back to the Future” Day, I decided it would be a good day to release this bonus track where I talk a bit about The DeLorean and Back to the Future. This is largely me thinking out loud about the car and its significance in the film. Not just as a time machine, but also as a model of car. If you have thoughts about the car or random tr…

I was born into the world of 3.75-inch action figures. Sure, during my life, larger figures or dolls existed, but I quickly lost interest once Kenner released its Star Wars figures. This only intensified a few years later when Hasbro re-created the G.I. Joe Franchise at the smaller format. While other great toys would be released at different scales, the 3.75-inch figures were central to how my friends I would play. So it was very memorable and sometimes confusing when a new set of figures showed up to be played with. Could they be integrated into our ongoing GI Joe play and, if so, which team would they be on?

This is exactly the questions we were asking when a friend brought two action figures from Remco, based on the Universal Monsters, he had gotten a few years earlier. He had two of the figures in the set, Dracula and Frankenstein’s Monster (who we just called Frankenstein). I am pretty sure that during out first time playing with them, we just put them both in Cobra. They were monsters after all, so they wouldn’t be on the side of good. Eventually though we split them up. Dracula was a bad guy, but we had Frankenstein, who had been unwittingly brought to life, become a part of GI Joe. We used them until their joints got too loose to stand upright and Dracula’s cape was long gone.

Once we stopped playing GI Joe, I didn’t really think about them much until over a decade and a half later when I spotted one of the figures on eBay. I didn’t win the auction, but it did make me curious and I discovered that, while I had played with the figures, I didn’t know much about the toy line. It might not have been a big hit, but it was interesting. I want to tell you a little about these toys, but first a little bit about the company that made them, Remco.

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Remco was an American toy company founded in the 1940s by Sol Robbins and Ike Heller, a pair of inventive businessmen who saw the appeal of toys that could do more than just sit still. The name came from “Remote Control,” which made sense since their early products were electrically powered submarines and cars that kids could actually steer (a very cool novelty at the time).

During the 1950s and 1960s, Remco built its reputation on clever gimmicks and licensed tie-ins, putting out toys based on “Batman,” “The Monkees,” and “Lost in Space.” They had a knack for making things that felt just a little futuristic, often powered by simple motors and powered by batteries that gave the illusion of high tech. By the 1970s the company was struggling to keep up with changing tastes and larger competitors, and in 1974 it was taken over by Azrak-Hamway International, better known as AHI, which kept the Remco name alive for toy lines like the Universal Monsters and Sgt. Rock action figures. For kids growing up in the 1980s, those later toys were often their first exposure to the brand, even if the name itself was a holdover from the postwar era.

AHI’s acquisition of Remco played a big part in how their monster toys took shape. The company already had a deal with Universal in the early 1970s, which led to one of their best-known lines, the “Official World Famous Super Monsters.” These were eight inch figures based on the classic Universal creatures, including Frankenstein’s Monster, The Mummy, Dracula, The Wolf Man, and The Creature from the Black Lagoon. They weren’t exactly in the same league as Mego’s Mad Monster figures, but that was part of the appeal.

They were cheaper, sometimes a little odd-looking, but full of personality. Plus they had a true license association. The costumes were bright, the sculpts exaggerated, and they looked like something you’d spot hanging on a rack near the register at a discount store. AHI worked the license hard, too, with everything from wind-up monsters to water pistols, all carrying that same mix of charm and chaos. It was a smart use of the Universal name, and it cemented AHI’s reputation for making the most out of what they had. Something they would push further under the Remco banner. Before the smaller format figures they did a larger format figure.

Remco’s 9 inch “Official Universal Monsters” figures came out in 1979, right as the company was trying to keep up with a market that was moving toward smaller action figures. The line included six monsters, Dracula, Frankenstein’s Monster, the Wolf Man, the Mummy, the Phantom of the Opera, and the Creature from the Black Lagoon. Each one had a cloth costume and glow-in-the-dark face and hands, which meant they looked super cool in a dark bedroom. Each monster came with an iron-on patch and in the case of Phantom of the Opera (maybe others), a glow-in-the-dark skull ring (looks like a skull and crossbones).

They also had the Monster Crush feature, a little button on the back that made their arms snap together in a grabbing motion that felt pretty impressive when you were a kid. It also makes me think these creatures were just supposed to be grabbing and wrestling one another. Well no matter how you played with them, the mix of glow plastic and fabric clothing gives them an old-school charm. Almost like the toys themselves had wandered out of an old movie horror set.

They made one accessory, a motorized lab table called the Monsterizer, complete with lights and a crank-able table that looked straight out of Frankenstein’s lab. It was part accessory and part showpiece and sadly the only playset for this scale of figures. Still, even if not a completist, it was something you’d want even if you didn’t have all the monsters. This commercial shows it in action. The kids in it are great and their accents sound a lot like the one I had growing up.

Together, the figures and the Monsterizer made up a short but memorable line that stood apart from the smaller toys flooding the market at the time. For a lot of kids, this was their first chance to actually hold a decent version of the classic Universal characters instead of just seeing them on late-night television. While they are popular, they didn’t last long, replaced or supplemented where they were still in stores, with the 3.75 inch figures.

After the 9 inch figures, Remco brought the Universal Monsters down to the 3.75 inch size that was quickly becoming the new toy standard in 1980. The same six characters returned, Dracula, Frankenstein’s Monster, the Wolf Man, the Mummy, the Phantom of the Opera, and the Creature from the Black Lagoon, now molded in plastic with painted detail instead of fabric clothing. The figures came on individual blister cards that used dark, moody artwork more in line with old movie posters than the bright packaging seen on most action figures of the time. Although, they did give it a bit more flair and color when they later introduced glow-in-the-dark to the figures.

Remco also produced a vinyl carrying case that unfolded into a simple printed play scene, more a display piece than a full playset, but a clever way to store and show off the figures.

There was also a smaller version of the Monsterizer made to fit the new figures. It kept the same basic idea, a lab table with colored lights that flickered. It gave the line a bit of the same stage-show feel as the larger toys. The first run of figures did not glow in the dark, but Remco later reissued them with glow paint for the heads and hands except for the Mummy and Creature which were remolded from glow plastic. The change gave them a much-improved an eerie look under low light. (Thanks to Amra_the_Lion for clarifying the paint vs plastic.) The Mini Monsters may have been simple, but they carried the Universal designs into the early eighties in a way that felt faithful and still slightly old-fashioned, which is part of why they still have a following today.

The Mini Monsters line didn’t last long, probably about two years. Most evidence points to the first release appearing around late 1979 or early 1980, with the glow reissue following in 1981. By 1982, the figures were already disappearing from shelves. There’s no sign of any new sculpts or additions after that, and Remco had moved on to other licenses and small action figure lines by the mid-1980s. Here is a later ad for the glow-in-the-dark version of them being sold at Toys-R-Us. At $2.48, they were in the same ballpark as other figures of the same size.

It’s fair to say the line underperformed more than it failed outright. The toys were well made, but they came out at a time when kids were focused on Star Wars, G.I. Joe, and superheroes. The Universal Monsters were already fifty years old, and though still popular on late-night TV, they didn’t have a fresh movie or cartoon pushing them. Remco’s decision to stick with those classic designs meant the toys appealed more to older kids or collectors than to the younger audience driving sales. Without a tie-in or ongoing promotion, the line had nowhere to go after the initial wave sold through.

So while the Mini Monsters didn’t collapse in the sense of a recalled or canceled line, they just faded quietly. They sold well enough to get the glow versions, but not enough to expand. Today, that short run works in their favor, since the limited number of figures and variations make them an easy, nostalgic set for collectors to complete.

The Monsterizer, the glow plastic, the quiet packaging, all of it had a kind of charm that most toys of the time didn’t bother with. You could tell Remco was trying to give those old Universal faces a little stage of their own, even if the audience had mostly moved on to fighting Darth Vader or the evil forces of Cobra. These toys weren’t chasing a blockbuster or trying to tie in with a new movie, they were just banking on the idea that kids still liked old horror. And some of us did. The line didn’t last long, but maybe it didn’t need to. It did what it set out to do, giving those monsters one more good run before they slipped back into late-night TV, model kits, and super cool set of Burger King toys. Now they stand as a bridge between two eras, part toy history and part love letter to the kind of monster movies that never really go away.

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During Halloween when I was a kid, the great thing you could get was a full-sized candy bar. Sure we loved getting our bags filled with smaller candy bars, but we took them for granted. When I would get home, I’d run up to my room to keep my candy safe from my sisters (or my mom), and pour it on the floor. Separating all the various candies into piles of perceived value, I never questioned where the smaller format candy bars came from or why they had become a staple around the Halloween season. It turns out, their history was pretty interesting.

The idea of selling smaller versions of candy bars didn’t start with Mars. Stores had been labeling smaller candy for decades under the “junior” label. Curtiss Candy Company, the maker of Baby Ruth and Butterfinger, started packaging and selling “Junior” size bars in the 1950s (even though the Junior label was around before that). These smaller bars gave them a way to reach new situations like school lunches and parties while keeping the candy familiar. They were wrapped individually, easy to pack and hand out, and recognizable as the same treats people already liked, just in smaller form. So, of course, they were already being sold in conjunction with Halloween.

Mars, the powerhouse candy company, entered the picture later. They saw all the protentional in a reduced size. In 1961 the company began offering its own “Junior” size bars, a portioned version of its regular products. Still, there is a problem with the name itself, junior implies smaller. So what if they came up with a name that suited a smaller candy, but didn’t just mean that you got less.

In April 1968 Mars replaced the “Junior” label with “Fun Size” and began rolling out the new format nationally on Milky Way, Snickers, and their other best-selling brands. The name made the small bars sound like something more than just smaller candy, and it caught on quickly.

Curtiss had been using “Junior” for years, but in August 1971 it began using the phrase “Fun Size” on its own Baby Ruth and Butterfinger bars. Mars viewed this as a threat to the identity of its new brand and took Curtiss to court in 1972. Others have written about the legal back-and-forth, like this Tedium article from 2018, but what interested me more was how this small idea changed how candy was made and sold. Still, let me discuss some of the basics I learned about these legal wranglings.

The company argued that people already connected “Fun Size” with Mars products and that Curtiss should be stopped from using it (even though Curtiss was using junior before Mars started using it). The court disagreed, saying Mars hadn’t yet built a strong enough link between the term and its candy. Curtiss was allowed to keep using the label while the case continued.

Mars went to federal court in 1974, this time going after Standard Brands, which had acquired Curtiss by then. The new suit focused on whether Mars could claim exclusive rights to “Fun Size” and whether others were infringing on that claim. Mars didn’t win immediate control, but the company stayed persistent. On October 19, 1976, it secured federal registration for the mark FUN SIZE (Reg. No. 1,050,880), giving it formal ownership of the term in the candy category.

The trademark, however, didn’t give Mars total control. Courts had already ruled that “Fun Size” was too descriptive for consumers to associate it only with one company. Mars couldn’t stop others from using it in a descriptive way, and later cases confirmed that point. Some competitors continued using the phrase openly, including Curtiss and its later owner, Nestlé, which kept selling “Fun Size” Baby Ruth and Butterfinger bars for decades. Other companies chose variations such as “Snack Size,” “Treat Size,” or “Miniatures,” which you have probably seen if you have bought any candy in the last 50 years.

So, by the end of the 1970s, small and individually wrapped bars had become a standard part of the candy aisle. “Fun Size” remained tied most strongly to Mars brands, but the phrase itself spread into common language and was no longer something any one company could own outright. It became a shorthand for miniature candy in general, a label that grew even more valuable as it became linked with Halloween. But store-bought candy didn’t always dominate the holiday. Before the late sixties and seventies, Halloween treats could be very different.

Before smaller sized bars took over, Halloween treats varied greatly. While junior bars or just smaller sized candies were available, a lot of families didn’t stockpile branded candy in advance. Many handed out homemade treats like popcorn balls, cookies, fudge, or candied apples. These were often made in large batches and wrapped loosely in wax paper or cellophane. In many neighborhoods, these homemade items were a point of pride, and kids knew which houses had the best popcorn balls or the biggest apples. When I was growing up, the majority of treats were pre-wrapped large brand candy, but houses with older people living there still gave out these treats.

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Loose candy from bulk bins was also common. Stores sold caramels, hard candies, and candy corn by the pound, and families would portion them out into small paper bags or give them out by the handful at the door. A few of the best households bought full-size candy bars, but they were expensive to give to every child, so they tended to appear in smaller neighborhoods or from particularly generous homes. We marked these homes and would often try and return for multiple bars.

Some people gave out small toys or novelty items, like whistles, plastic rings, or even comics books. The mix varied by neighborhood or town, but you really never new what you were gonna get as a kid back then. The thing is, neighbors knew each other, and the idea of questioning the safety of what you received was not widespread. Halloween candy was not yet as standardized, and factory packaging played a much smaller role than it would just a decade later.

That familiar mix of homemade and bulk treats started to change more dramatically in the early 1970s and it wasn’t just because of the newly available smaller sized bars. A series of news reports about alleged tampering made national headlines, beginning in 1970 with a widely publicized case in New York and continuing through the decade. The most infamous incident came in 1974, when eight-year-old Timothy O’Bryan died after eating cyanide-laced candy on Halloween night in Texas. The case turned out to be a murder committed by his father, but at the time it was reported as a Halloween poisoning and became a defining story.

The coverage surrounding these cases created widespread anxiety about trick-or-treating. Parents were urged to check their children’s bags carefully. Some hospitals offered free X-rays of Halloween candy to look for foreign objects. PTAs, schools, and local police departments began advising families to discard anything homemade or loosely wrapped.

Candy companies responded quickly. Mars, Curtiss, and others began printing banners on their multipacks with phrases like “Individually Wrapped for Your Protection” and “Sealed for Safety.” Grocery store ads echoed the same language, positioning factory-wrapped candy as the responsible choice for Halloween. Within just a few years, individually wrapped branded candies went from being one option among many to the expected standard.

All of this happened even thought the reports of tampering turned out to be false. Police investigations frequently uncovered hoaxes, pranks, or accidents, such as children inserting objects into their own candy to scare siblings or parents mistaking harmless defects for tampering. Studies in the 1980s found no verified cases of random strangers killing or seriously injuring children with Halloween treats. The fear persisted, though, fueled by sensational news coverage and community warnings. Factory-sealed candy fit neatly into that atmosphere, offering parents a simple way to feel more secure. Homemade treats and bulk candy faded from most trick-or-treat bags, and factory packaging became the easy go-to thing to give out on Halloween night.

While safety is good, their might have been another motivation for these companies. Shrinking the bar was smart business. Mini versions used the same ingredients and often the same equipment as regular bars, so production costs stayed nearly the same, but the smaller portions could be sold at a higher price per ounce. That means stronger profit margins without much extra investment. Multipacks also simplified shipping and encouraged bulk purchases, whether or not is was Halloween. I buy bags of peanut putter cups all year long

When I first started thinking about these small candy bars scattered across my bedroom floor when I was a kid, they just seemed like a novelty, a smaller version of something I already knew. But behind that small wrapper was a much larger story. Fun size bars didn’t just make candy smaller, they changed how it was sold, how it was shared, and how a holiday worked. These little bars don’t just fill trick or treat bags, they are an integral part of Halloween. Now if you will excuse me, I am going to eat way too many well-deserved fun size treats.

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Heavy Metal Music and Horror Films are a potent combination, so I am always surprised that heavy crossover isn’t as a common as one could expect. Still a few movies have done it in different ways. On the newest episode of the Retroist Podcast, I want to talk about a movie that integrates it fully and completely, Trick or Treat. This movie didn’t do great when it was first released back in 1986, but it has since gone on to have a cult status.

I begin the episode by discussing seeing this movie with my friends. They had wholeheartedly embraced metal music, while I was more of a tourist at this point. So there most movie chats about it went mostly over my head. Still, I did find the movie enjoyable and even more so when it was available on VHS. It is my time of horror, a little weird, creepy, but the violence is toned-down. I then discuss the film itself. Talking about how it got made, who made it, the actors, music, cameos and much more.

Trick or Treat is one of those movies that feels like it could only have been made when it was made. It takes all the fears parents had about heavy metal music, mixes them with teenage alienation, and turns it into a great horror story. The music and the fan culture of metal is as the center of the story, which was rare at the time. It is campy, but it has a surprising amount of heart, which is why it still stands out today.

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• This is the 351st episode of the Retroist Podcast and episode 1 of Season 18.

• This is a new episode for a new season. It was not how I planned to start it, but it is happening. Might have a few missteps, but episodes will flow like spice again.

• Gene Simmons is surprising subtle in his role. Its not ground-breaking, but I am always impressed when I see him here compared to some other films he has done.

• Marc Price is also good in this film. Hard to separate him from his Skippy role, but this was a good role for him.

• The Orange and Yellow Flowers Paper Cup makes an appearance in this movie. Can you spot it!?

• This film might be the best horror film for looking at 80s stereo equipment up close.

• I wonder why they didn’t use a Technics Cassette Player in the film?

• I cringe when they destroy the stereo system in the film, but I love when the system starts glowing from the inside. I wish mine did that.

• Bonus clippings can be found over on Patreon for Supporters.

• Some fun retro audio in this one. I want to include double what I did, but it was getting too long.

• Music on the show is, as always, by Peachy.

Thanks for listening to the show and I hope you have a great weekend.

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As a kid, seeing the Brigantine Castle commercials on TV was both scary and exciting. The ads showed the dark towering building rising out of the Jersey surf, shadowy figures moving through fog, and actors jumping out at screaming visitors. They made it look larger than life, like a horror movie set you could actually walk through. When my family finally took a trip to the area, the idea of seeing it in person had been playing in my head for at least a year.

Driving over the bridge into Brigantine (which is an island), I swore that the castle came into view before anything else. It looked even taller than it did on television, perched over the ocean on its pier like something that didn’t quite belong in a beach town. We went straight to it. Standing in line, hearing the waves under the boards and the muffled shrieks from inside, only added to the feeling that this was a big event. I was still finding out what horror and being scared on purpose was all about, so this felt like a big step towards something that older kids did. So, while I was nervous, I went in with my sisters.

That first visit was thrilling and terrifying, but that’s not really what I think about all these years later. It was the oddness of the place. A fake gloomy castle built over the ocean and meant to be enjoyed in the warm New Jersey summer sun. My imagination was on fire. It made me wonder how it ended up there. I assumed it was something old, but the truth isn’t very frightening. It all started a few decades earlier.

Seahorse Pier stood on the north end of Brigantine before the construction of Brigantine Castle. It was known as a fishing pier and beer joint and served as a modest local gathering spot. Over time, storms damaged the structure and upkeep lagged, leaving it in poor condition by the early 1970s. The pier was deteriorating and in need of costly repairs, which made it less suited to the growing emphasis on larger, more modern attractions in nearby shore towns.

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By the mid 1970s, Brigantine officials were looking for ways to bring more visitors to the island, and the pier’s decline presented both a problem and an opportunity. Enter Carmen Ricci, a businessman with a flair for theatrical attractions. Rather than tear the structure down, Ricci proposed building something entirely new on top of it, something that would catch attention from miles away. His plan was to turn the worn pier into the foundation for a towering haunted castle with turrets, winding passages, and costumed performers. It was an ambitious idea that promised to turn a fading local fixture into a major draw for summer crowds.

Construction began early in 1976 on the site of the old Seahorse Pier, and crews worked through winter and spring to get it ready in time for the summer season. On Memorial Day weekend of 1976, the castle opened its doors to the public for the first time. A giant medieval style structure with towers rising on the pier was visible from across the water as drivers crossed the bridge into Brigantine. For a quiet shore town, it was unlike anything else.

The castle’s haunted walk-through became its main attraction. Guests entered through a darkened, castle-themed façade and made their way through twisting hallways, dimly lit rooms, and surprise encounters with live actors. It was theatrical and immersive, closer to a staged production than a carnival funhouse. Alongside the haunted attraction, there were arcades, gift shops, food stands, and fishing at the far end of the pier, making it a full destination rather than a single ride.

The opening drew large crowds and plenty of press attention. Television ads had already built anticipation across the Philadelphia and New York markets, and curious families arrived by the busload. For Brigantine, which had long been overshadowed by Atlantic City, the castle was a sudden landmark. Its first season was a success, and it quickly became part of summer trips for both locals and vacationers.

During its best years, the castle was well run, with long summer lines and busloads of visitors from nearby cities. From what I read in online groups, many of the people working inside were locals, which gave the place a grounded, familiar feel. The pier became a gathering spot for people who weren’t even going through the haunted walk. Some came to fish or get food, others to meet friends and watch the crowds. Of course not everyone in Brigantine were happy with the Castle.

Some in the town didn’t appreciate the influx of tourists, especially because they didn’t feel like they were included in the decision-making around its approval and construction. The complaints are valid and easy to understand. I grew up in a town that eventually added multiple malls and the number of cars randomly driving through our neighborhoods, lost or trying to find a back-way into a shopping center caused constant headaches for locals. Much like with our malls though, Brigantine Castle had already been built and was attracting crowds that didn’t really have any insight into local opinion. Here are some highlights from a letter written to the local paper in the summer of 1977.

Ricci made regular updates to keep the experience fresh. Rooms were changed between seasons, effects were added, and performers developed routines that kept people coming back. For a few years, the castle held attention well beyond its opening excitement.

The castle’s strong run lasted for roughly five to six seasons, from its opening in 1976 through the early 1980s. By 1982, signs of trouble had started to show. A winter storm that year caused real damage to the pier structure, and the cost of repairs was high. At the same time, nearby Atlantic City’s casino boom was changing how people spent their time and money. Visitors who once came for family attractions were being pulled toward the casinos, and Brigantine began to see fewer day-trippers.

Large scale attractions elsewhere in the state were also drawing the kinds of crowds that once might have visited Brigantine. Great Adventure, which opened in 1974, had quickly grown into one of the region’s biggest amusement parks, offering full days of rides and shows that made smaller seaside attractions seem modest by comparison. Up the coast, the Haunted Mansion at Long Branch (also from Ricci) opened in 1978 and became a major draw of its own. It offered elaborate effects and a purpose-built structure that didn’t face the same maintenance challenges as Brigantine’s pier. Both of these destinations competed directly for visitors’ time and money, raising the bar for what people expected from haunted attractions in New Jersey.

By the mid 1980s, Brigantine Castle was struggling to keep up with rising costs and new safety standards. The structure sat on an aging pier, and years of storms and salt exposure had taken a toll. Maintenance became expensive just as attendance began to level off. A tragic 1984 Six Flags fire led to stricter regulations for haunted attractions, which meant costly upgrades would have been required to keep operating. Insurance rates climbed, and engineers warned that major repairs were needed to keep the pier safe. Faced with mounting expenses and shrinking revenue, the owners chose not to open for the 1985 season. A once burgeoning landmark stood empty, marking the end of its run.

After it closed in 1985, Brigantine Castle sat vacant for more than two years. It remained intact but deteriorated without upkeep. Storms continued to wear away at the pier, and sections of the boardwalk and façade showed visible damage. Efforts to find a buyer or a new use for the property didn’t go anywhere. The cost of bringing it up to new safety codes and repairing the pier was too high to make a relaunch realistic.

Demolition had started by late 1987, but before it could be completed a fire broke out on the night of September 25, 1987, and destroyed what was left of the castle and much of the pier. Two men were later charged with arson. After the fire, the remains were cleared away, and only pilings were left visible along the shoreline. The site was never rebuilt, and the castle’s disappearance marked the end of that era for Brigantine.

To this day, nothing stands where Brigantine Castle once towered over the water. The site at 14th Street North and Brigantine Avenue is now open beachfront, with only a few pilings sometimes visible at low tide. What was once a busy summer destination has blended back into the shoreline. Locals still point out the spot to visitors, but there are no signs or structures left to suggest the castle was ever there.

For a brief period, a small shore town had a towering, theatrical attraction that felt bigger than its surroundings. It arrived during the golden age of local attractions, when independently run piers, haunted houses, and arcades still thrived along the coast. Television ads reached wide audiences, and one creative idea could draw crowds without competing against corporate theme parks. The castle fit that moment perfectly, combining local ambition with smart promotion. It created jobs, gave families a shared experience, and turned a fading pier into a landmark. Even though it’s gone, it represents a time when places like this shaped summer memories in ways that large chains rarely could.

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In 1987, Kay-Bee Toy Stores were flourishing in malls across the United States. When I went to the mall, it had become my first stop. Whenever I read the paper, I would set aside anything they sent so I could plan and fantasize about what toys or video games I should save up for. Fun fact, I was horrible at saving up for anything, so my life was mostly …

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On the September 2025 Monthly Update I talk about what’s been going on with the site and podcast, but also some other things going on in my life and some random thoughts I have. They include:

• Taco Bell’s Pizzazz Piza

• Force Beam

• The Iron Giant

• Ferris Bueller’s Day Off

• Adult Content in 80s Movies

• Like Cola

• Cyclamate

• Collapsible Cups

• Adult Content

• Generational Cont…

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Like Cola was 7-Up’s attempt to break into the cola market. It was a smart time to attempt it. Diet colas were very popular, but people were starting to look at caffeine and wonder if it was something that they actually needed. Since 7-Up had some expertise in marketing and selling caffeine-free beverages, it seems a natural step for them to take. Wit…

I still remember when my sister spotted the Force Beam toy in a newspaper ad right around the time Star Wars first came out. She held the paper up and showed me, pointing at the photo with a smile because she knew how much I was obsessed with the movie. The ad made it look like the closest thing you could have to a real lightsaber. While the ad was black & white, it still appeared to glowing and dramatic in a way that seemed almost magical to me then. From that moment the image stuck in my head, and I kept going back to it again and again, staring at the paper and imagining what it would feel like to hold one, to actually hold a lightsaber. As Christmas drew closer, I quietly held onto the hope that it would show up under the tree, thinking that if I was lucky enough to get it, there would be no better gift in the world.

But why a Force Beam and not an official Star Wars toy? When Star Wars exploded in May 1977, there was no merchandise ready to meet the sudden demand. Kenner, which had just secured the toy license, had only a few months to design, tool, and produce action figures and other toys. That timeline was impossible to meet before Christmas, since creating molds, setting up production lines, and shipping toys from overseas factories usually took close to a year. Instead of figures and lightsabers on shelves, Kenner offered the famous “Early Bird Certificate Package,” which let parents buy a cardboard stand and a mail-in promise that figures would arrive in 1978. This gap between demand and supply is what gave bootleg and knockoff toys like the Force Beam a chance to appear during the 1977 holiday season, filling shelves while the official products were still months away.

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That Christmas morning came and went without a Force Beam waiting for me, and at first I felt the sharp sting of disappointment. Other kids were a lot luckier. But the toy never left my mind, and in a strange way not having it made me more interested in it. I kept saving ads when I saw them, seeing if my friends had gotten one, and studying every detail I could find about how it worked. Over time, it turned from just a toy I wanted into something bigger, a piece of Star Wars history that fascinated me. In fact, some of my earliest eBay searches were for trying to track down a Force Beam of my own (at a reasonable price). Sadly, it never happened.

If you want to see a Force Beam in action, and how it was sold in stores, check out this video from December of 1977.

Before I talk about why this unlicensed bit of Star Wars magic existed, let me explain what the Force Beam was and how it worked. The Force Beam was a simple battery powered toy built around a flashlight style handle with a colored plastic filter and a long translucent tube attached at the end. When you switched it on, the bulb in the handle shone light through the hollow tube, giving the effect of a glowing blade. The tube came in red, white or green and stretched to about three and a half feet, making it long enough to swing like a sword but also flimsy enough that it bent or cracked with rough play. The whole build was light and inexpensive, more of a novelty than a sturdy weapon, but in a dark room it produced just enough glow to pass as a lightsaber stand-in.

While I never acquired a Force Beam, I have tried to figure out exactly where it and some its variants came from, here is what I have figured out about a few of them. In the U.S., the Force Beam appeared by Christmas 1977, distributed by Jack A. Levin & Co. of New York. These toys were sold at department stores, through comic ads and at novelty outlets. Memorable because they were packaged as an unlicensed glowing sword at a time when no official lightsaber yet existed. Surviving examples list Levin as distributor but carry no “Made in U.S.A.” stamp or Durham branding, which leaves their actual origin uncertain. Collectors often assume they were imported, since Levin was known as a distributor rather than a manufacturer, but no factory source has been confirmed.

At the same time, American kids could also find very similar toys from other quick-moving companies. One called the Star Beam, made domestically by Durham Industries, Inc. in New York and marked “Made in U.S.A.” in 1977. But these were just the tip of the of fake lightsaber iceberg. Prepare to be inspired by John Joyce, a 12 year old, who with his father managed to get 20,000 of his Star Force Rays on shelves by Christmas.

Taken together, the evidence shows that American shelves carried at least one confirmed homegrown saber toy and another nearly identical line with unclear but probably overseas origins. This doesn’t really cover it though, since lots of different companies were out there making light up swords under different names.

But that was just in the US, in Britain, the toy reached children through Loydale Limited of Wokingham. Beginning in 1978, Star Wars Weekly famously carried full page mail order ads offering a 41 inch illuminated Force Beam for £2.95 plus postage. The ads leaned heavily on Star Wars imagery, even showing Luke and Leia lookalikes in early versions, before shifting to more generic artwork after what seems to have been legal pressure. Like the Levin distributed U.S. examples, these UK Force Beams do not carry any “Made in” marks or Durham branding. All that can be confirmed is that Loydale acted as the seller and promoter, which makes it likely but not proven that the UK stock came from the same supply chain Levin was using in the States.

What we can say with confidence is that not all of these toys came from one source. The Durham Star Beam is documented as U.S. made. The Levin and Loydale Force Beams, however, lack country of origin markings, leaving their true manufacturing base unknown. They may have been produced in Asia or Europe and funneled through different distributors, but so far no packaging or records have surfaced to prove it. A trade advertisement claimed that more than 250,000 units had been sold in Britain and called the Force Beam the fastest selling science fiction action toy in the country, though no audited figures support that number. For the United States no sales totals are known, only that the toys were available in time for Christmas 1977 and circulated widely enough to be well-remembered.

I am not sure exactly how, but the Force Beam managed to exist without a visible court case. This seems surprising given how closely it mimicked Star Wars imagery. Timing probably played a big part as to why not. The toy reached the market in late 1977 and early 1978, before Kenner had its own lightsaber ready and before Lucasfilm had a strong licensing enforcement structure in place. The makers avoided using the trademarked word “lightsaber,” calling their toy the Force Beam instead. That left less direct grounds for an infringement case. The companies involved were also small and quick moving. Jack A. Levin & Co. in the United States was a distributor rather than a major toy maker, and Loydale Limited in the United Kingdom was a mail order firm that could vanish easily if challenged.

There are signs of pressure, even if no public lawsuit followed. As I mentioned, those U.K. ads used art that looked almost identical to Luke and Leia. Later versions dropped those characters in favor of more generic figures. That change suggests Marvel UK or Lucasfilm objected behind the scenes, and the ad was toned down to avoid further trouble. Collectors generally read this as the likely result of cease and desist letters rather than formal litigation.

Lucasfilm did pursue other cases once its licensing office was better established. In later years it sued over “Light Saber” medical devices, replica sabers, and even a laser pointer marketed as a lightsaber. Those cases prove that the company was willing to defend its marks aggressively. The absence of a Force Beam lawsuit most likely reflects its short lifespan, small distribution network, and the speed with which official Kenner products hit shelves.

Looking back, it is almost fitting that I never unwrapped a Force Beam on Christmas morning. The toy itself was fragile, a quick cash-in that faded as soon as the official lightsabers arrived, but the mystery around it has lasted far longer than its plastic tube ever could. Not getting one kept the idea alive in my head, and years later I still find myself chasing down old ads, collector photos, and scraps of information about how it was sold in the U.S. and the U.K. The Force Beam may have been a stopgap toy, but for me it has become another symbol of that first wave of Star Wars mania, when kids wanted anything that felt like a lightsaber and the market rushed to fill the gap that Kenner couldn’t yet fill.

While working on this post, I started playing around various old ads and thought with some work, one of them would make a t-shirt that I would like to get. So I added it to the store, check it out, and grab your own Force Beam T-Shirt.

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