Johnny Sokko and His Flying Robot (1969)

Never underestimate the power of nostalgia. From movies and TV shows to Facebook reunions with high-school hook-ups, the associative power of time and place in our emotionally immature brain is an awfully attractive force 15 or 20 years down the line. And although it’s hard to imagine the next generation watching Jersey Shore with fond memories, trust me, it’s gonna happen. Besides, it’s no more ridiculous than one’s affection for Johnny Sokko and his Flying Robot (1969), a Japanese TV series that combines Godzilla-inspired monsters with kid-friendly espionage escapades.

Built off the success of Ultraman (1967) -produced by the effects man responsible for Godzilla and his menagerie of monster pals - Johnny Sokko was based on the work of manga artist Mitsuteru Yokoyama. Not exactly a household name in America. But American International Pictures was smart enough to see that the gimmick of a young boy who can control a 50-story robot to fight off alien invaders would likely have worldwide appeal. They promptly purchased the show, re-edited, re-scored and re-dubbed; a tradition that lives on today in the form of Power Rangers and its multitude of TV incarnations.

But as bizarre and baffling as today’s programs can get, they don’t have half the goofy appeal of Sokko. Produced at the height of popularity for James Bond and The Man from UNCLE, the show is as much a weekly pint-sized spy adventure as a giant monster mash. Linked up with his robotic buddy via radio-controlled watch, Johnny is part of U.N.I.C.O.R.N., a worldwide spy-busting organization up against the Gargoyle gang, intergalactic invaders who seek total control of the planet earth. Most of those plans involve some sort of monster related espionage, unleashing a new menace each week with creative names like Tentaclon, Torozon, and the monstrous Flying Jawbone.

As you might have guessed, the monster designs are more amusing than terrifying; like floats in some twisted version of the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade. But the colorful creations are perfectly in keeping with the juvenile tone of the series as a whole. Frequent gunfire and dozens of bloodless death per episode remind us that what qualified as “children’s’ programming” was much more lenient back in the day.

However, fantasy is front and center in nearly every scene, particularly the signature image of Johnny flying through the sky in the hand of his metallic bodyguard. That, my friends, is the stuff nostalgia is made of.

Shout Factory’s 4-disc collector’s edition gathers all 26 episodes in the series. Picture-wise, the opening credits are pretty rough, but things clean up nicely once the main show kicks in. A comprehensive set of liner notes outline the history of the show and provide a synopsis for each episode.