Shepperton Screams (Part VIII): Asylum (1972) dir. Roy Ward Baker

For sixteen weeks, Jose Cruz of The Grim Reader and I will be delving into the complete horror filmography of Amicus Productions and regaling you with our spirited discussions. Below is our mutual consideration of Amicus's fourth anthology, ASYLUM (1972). Check back every week for more dialogues and (naturally) more nightmares.

GR: As the lights go up and we see a car roaring up to the graveled drive of the dusky, imposing insane asylum, the rousing strings of Mussorgsky’s “Night on Bald Mountain” blaring overhead, it seems like Amicus is revving up that great big Gothic engine that ran so many of their other horror vehicles. But a curious thing happens at the onset of the company’s fourth anthology film, the straightforwardly titled ASYLUM (1972), when Dr. Martin (Robert Powell) walks through the mist-shrouded, wrought-iron gates and steps into the main foyer of the madhouse. Director Roy Ward Baker (helmer of such Hammer fare as SCARS OF DRACULA [1970], THE VAMPIRE LOVERS [1970], and DR. JEKYLL & SISTER HYDE [1971]) eschews the mad horror fever vibe for a more muted approach. The feeling that I received upon watching the film is that everything became very crisp and antiseptic, the usual gaudy colors and gallows humor almost completely disposed of in favor of a more clinical approach to terror. Some might see this as a detriment, a sign that everything is going to become as bland and tasteless as hospital cuisine. But if you ask me it’s a nicely revitalizing take that signals the new direction that’s being taken in the film, where even Robert Bloch’s adaptations of his own stories subtract any of the tongue-in-maggoty-cheek humor that was such a staple of his work.

I guess I just have a thing for quiet horror, and as much as I adore the high melodramatics of black-hearted Bedlam-keepers and savage forms of patient therapy, I find the sun-dappled, whispery quality of the insanity on display here to be much more unnerving than babbling insect-munchers in straitjackets. In my original review of the film, I made a comment that the inmates (more directly Baker, Bloch, and company) feel no need to play up the craziness of the surroundings just because there’s a newcomer taking the tour. All the patients go about their day doing exactly what they normally do; sewing invisible clothes; giggling in the mirror; playing with dolls. Even these moments are played with such casualness that one might not be entirely sure that these people are mad but rather the victims of some horrible universe that has seen it fit to punish them and lock them away. Whatever the case is, the patients are never fazed that an outsider is amongst them. They have far greater things weighing on their minds, for whatever is left of them.

For my money there really isn’t a sour note in the whole show. Each of the stories is icily framed and composed, moving along towards their inevitable climaxes where the main effect that seems to be striven for is not so much shock or disgust like other tales from the Amicus oeuvre as a spidery sense of dread that nestles at the base of the heart. There are still some of the “whacky” plot hallmarks that we’ve come to expect from the house of Rosenberg and Subotsky: phantom limbs that crawl about to enact justice for their dismemberment; a craggy-faced mannequin that comes to life thanks to a magical suit; robotic automatons that strut around like wind-up playthings. 

But all of these items are never given the flourish you see in other films like TORTURE GARDEN (I’m thinking especially of how Freddie Francis framed the diabolical piano Euterpe with his leering fish-eye lens and purple lighting). This is not to say that there’s anything wrong with those methods (for the record there isn’t and I freaking love them), it’s just that Baker’s tactics are different here. I don’t find myself grinning when the chopped-up body parts stir to life like I do when ol’ Euterpe gives Barbara Ewing the heave out the parlor window. I feel unsettled. I don’t mean to imply that Baker is making the supernatural occurrences in ASYLUM seem real, just that his downplaying of the humor and the seriousness with which he approaches the various ghastly apparitions suffered by the patients reminds us that these things are very real to them and thus helps to remind us that though their stories may be fabrications their damaged minds certainly are not. And that’s the real point at the end of the day for Dr. Martin, isn’t it? To find the mad wolf in sheep’s clothing. 

Were you game for the search of Dr. Starr, or did you find that ASYLUM drove you past the breaking point?

NT: A "muted approach" is certainly one way of putting it. A glum, humorless film, ASYLUM is-- in my estimation-- the worst anthology Amicus would produce. I call it humorless, but it's worth noting that the film nonetheless sends me into fits of laughter with its wriggling, butcher-paper wrapped limbs, animated mannequin in a technicolor dream coat, and murderous, mind-controlled, pint-sized silver Lego "mannikins." I know you see an unsettling dread in these objects, but I simply cannot. I think ASYLUM features some of the dumbest horror set pieces that Amicus would adapt from author Robert Bloch's particular literary madness. Yet, the film never acknowledges-- even in passing-- the absurdity of its sundry stories. Backpedaling furiously from the outright comedy of their last anthology's final segment, the divisive vampire chuckle-fest "The Cloak" from THE HOUSE THAT DRIPPED BLOOD, the Amicus brain trust now appears to believe that the injection of any intentional humor or irony into their films would be taking the low road. Rather, they allow each of the film's segments to play out as if it were a mini-masterpiece of genuinely terrifying cinematic horror. This is an egregious error, again demonstrating Amicus's regrettable mid-life crisis of tone and direction. It's a simple equation, really: Ludicrous horror stories + Totally earnest presentations = Unintentional comedy. 

And the laughs come echoing off the walls of the asylum. I'd charge that ASYLUM, in its attempts to establish itself as a legitimate horror film, instead stumbles into the overwrought, the needlessly bombastic... for lack of a better term, let's call it the horror equivalent of melodrama. Remember when TORTURE GARDEN, the Amicus anthology with the most successfully balanced tone that we've watched thus far, used Chopin's "Funeral March" to put an ironic wink into its ridiculous yet sincere murder of Barbara Ewing by a grand piano? Here, we have "Night on Bald Mountain" opening the film in austere, Old Dark House pretentiousness. Seriously? (Even THE OLD DARK HOUSE (1932) is a deliberately funnier film than ASYLUM.) Case in point, examine the goofy, overlong scene in which Robert Powell stares in concentration at the pencil-sketched histories of psychiatric medicine adorning the asylum's front staircase. The rather poorly drawn figures and scenes are lingered upon as if they were depictions of genuine fright, while the pilfered classical score pumps away audaciously in the background. When the camera goes so far as to dramatically spin around and zoom in on one of the silly drawings, you might sense the over-seriousness I've diagnosed.

I'm not certain who to blame for all this. Director Roy Ward Baker is certainly no talentless hack (I don't think we'll see Freddie Francis enter The Criterion Collection anytime soon, unlike Mr. Baker), and he would in fact embrace the Amicus house style with his later, much more successful anthologies for the company (THE VAULT OF HORROR [1973] and THE MONSTER CLUB [1980]), but this initial showing is rough-going. The massive cast of esteemed actors (Robert Powell, Patrick Magee, Peter Cushing, Charlotte Rampling, Britt Ekland, and Herbert Lom) perform the material admirably, but the material does them few favors. Bloch is easier to blame, and producers Subotsky and Rosenberg easier still: these folks have been in this horror business long enough to have a sense of what works and what doesn't. Or at least you'd think so.

Believe it or not, I do actually admire some things about the film, though more in theory than in practice. Before I rant about all that, perhaps it’s better to turn it back over to you, so you can temper the taste of my bitter medicine with some sweets.

GR: Good God man, are you trying to spoon me lye?

Obviously, everyone has their own tastes and I can even agree with you on certain points, but I just can’t seem to see the “glum and humorless” aspects in ASYLUM that you do, besides the fact that it doesn’t ever really play for laughs which is something that’s not necessarily uncommon in a horror film. It does diverge from the typical Amicus style, but I don’t have any qualms about that whatsoever either. The creative forces attempted to take a more stoic (but not suspense-less) approach to horror and, if you ask me, they mostly succeeded in that task. I understand that my opinions may be taken into question after the dubious affection I showed for THE DEADLY BEES (1966), but I think ASYLUM proves itself to be worthy of its brethren and quite dark and disquieting during its best moments.

Again we have another spin on the “investigative wraparound,” here involving the aforementioned Powell being posed an unconventional task by the wheelchair-bound Magee in order to gain employment within the eponymous facility: he must interview a series of patients in order to determine which is the fallen Dr. Starr, former co-head of the institution who is now mentally lost due to some traumatic event. It’s these interviews that serve as the lead-ins to the quartet of terror tales.

The first, “Frozen Fear,” is the one that involves those infamous ambulatory parcels that feature so prominently in the film’s advertising. This is Bloch at perhaps his most comic book-esque, the story so short, sweet, and stingy that it’s quite easy to envision it under the artistic pen of Jack Kamen or “Ghastly” Graham Ingels from any one of William M. Gaines’ suspensbooks. Walter (Richard Todd) is the devious, cravat-wearing husband who loathes his voodoo-worshipping wife Ruth (Sylvia Syms) enough to murder her so that he may run off with perky brunette Bonnie (Barbara Perkins). But alas, that pesky magical amulet Ruth always wore makes it tough to stow her neatly chopped and wrapped body parts away in the new freezer… they just won’t stay still! Now, that description would lead one to suspect something indelibly silly is going to occur, but this segment is truly and honestly eerie, in no small part due to the sturdy conviction demonstrated in front of and behind the camera.

One specific element that surprised me was how bloodless the killing of Ruth was. The rest of ASYLUM is similarly free of splatter, but the death by hatchet could have easily been shot to its full exploitative level to satisfy the sanguine-thirsty audience, but Baker and Bloch appropriately opt to have the messy aftermath take place all in our minds, suggesting the gruesome aftermath only with the presence of some plastic tarpaulin, a mop, and of course those little parcels wrapped in brown butcher paper. If one is willing to suspend their disbelief and take the events that occur next as the visions of a mind crumbling under trauma, then the sight of the segmented Ruth moving in her crinkling wake towards the conniving Bonnie might not seem so ludicrous, but I find it all incredibly creepy no matter the context. How can you not suppress a little shudder when you see those twitching fingers tear from the paper to grab the air vent grating as they reach closer and closer to the screaming Bonnie? The only thing our little homewrecker can do is try to ward the grasping and gasping appendages away like so many hungry ants and just chop and chop and chop…

“The Weird Tailor” concerns the forces of black magic and the supernatural a little more directly than the incidental tag of “Frozen Fear.” An impoverished clothesmaker, Bruno (Barry Morse), is requested by the mysterious Mr. Smith (Peter Cushing) to stitch together a suit from a peculiar, glowing cloth following explicit directions outlined in a little black book riddled with pentagrams. The need for rent money overrides his sense of foreboding, but upon making the delivery to Mr. Smith’s abode, Bruno discover that clothes really do make the man—rise! 

As much as I do like this story, the only time that it really seems to sing is when Cushing is on the scene as the morose Smith. The pall of depression that no doubt still hung over the actor from the passing of his dearly beloved wife is so perfectly and poignantly captured in his performance. Only a man who has lost someone so beloved to him could so accurately embody the anguish that follows death. The entire segment is worthy for inclusion for Cushing’s final scene alone. Bruno enters Smith’s shadow-choked home to discover, propped in a casket and illuminated by the glow of black candles, Smith’s deceased son whom the suit was made for in order to bring him back to life (information which, by the way, is cleverly communicated to the viewer by a series of macabre illustrations from the little black book sans commentary). 

When Bruno first inquires Smith about what lies in the locked room, Cushing has this beautiful moment where you see it almost pains him to mention it. It’s only there for a second before he very calmly pushes past it and gently answers “Never mind.” Then of course when Bruno tries to flee the coop Smith holds him at the point of a gun, but Cushing’s attitude is more pleading than predatory and not for one instant becomes melodramatic. His red-rimmed eyes, the desperate tremor in his voice; it’s all painfully beautiful and Cushing truly elevates the material to poignancy in his brief moments onscreen. The closer with the living mannequin seems like a non-sequiter in comparison, an unnecessary twist that Bloch has to furnish his tale with because that’s his thing. What do we get for all the heartache and tragedy that Cushing brings to his role? A mustached dummy with an oatmeal face strangling Barry Morse. Not the classiest way to end things, but I do admit I’m an animated automaton/doll/ventriloquist dummy apologist.

I’m very interested to know what your thoughts are on the third tale, “Lucy Comes to Stay.” “Homicidal split personalities” was one trope that eluded the cutting edge of your scalpel upon your initial estimation of ASYLUM, so I couldn’t help but wonder if it holds any kind of clout with you. In it, young Barbara (Charlotte Rampling) comes back home after having a little nervous breakdown, one kickstarted by her best friend and (we will find out) alternate persona, Lucy (Britt Ekland). We only get a feel for Lucy’s tendencies in degrees, as she coaxes Barbara to stop taking her medicine and live a little on the wild side. 

There’s some more nice understatement implemented by Baker here that gently scores the ascent to Bloch’s admittedly foreseeable climax. Look for instance when Ekland sits in front of a mirror during one of their little talks; Rampling is framed in the foreground of the mirror’s reflection so that the effect becomes a sly nod that when Barbara looks into the glass she sees Lucy. This also neatly ties in with the concluding wraparound of Barbara’s tale. When Dr. Martin asks the lady where her friend Lucy is, Barbara acknowledges the mirror in her room (possible safety issue there?), laughing. “Lucy Comes to Stay” is the most subdued entry here, with hardly an absurd bogey to be found. That is, besides the gentle Swiss features of Miss Ekland. The uneasiness is nicely bumped up as the story goes on as Lucy cuts the phone lines in the house and gives poor George (James Villiers) an impromptu coronary operation during his evening paper. I think that at the very least you would agree that “Lucy Comes to Stay” is the most inoffensive, harmless yarn that’s also free of any unintended humor. For me, it’s a modest enough time; Lucy never overstays her welcome.

As if this film weren’t atypical enough of what we’ve seen from the folks at Shepperton Studios, ASYLUM introduces its fourth story, “Mannikins of Horror,” as not an isolated narrative but one that is directly integrated in the wraparound with Powell and Magee. This may very well be the first (and only that I can think of) instance of something of this nature occurring in a portmanteau horror film (WAXWORKS, the silent German picture from 1926, incorporated a somewhat similar idea when the poet character who created that film’s vignettes found himself face-to-face with Jack the Ripper in the “final story,” but this was found out to be a nightmare so one wonders if that truly counts). Anyway, Herbert Lom is the patient here, Dr. Byron, who spends his idle hours making miniature, robotic figures that possess molded clay facial features and steel bodies (a cheaper route than fully clothed humanoids, no doubt). Byron claims that these figures are completely anatomically correct (besides the, you know, robot bodies) and that through the incredible power of his mental will, he is able to inspire animation and control in their cold little heads.

As defensive of ASYLUM’s rights as I am willing to be, I will concede to you that of all the stories “Mannikins of Horror” is the one that is the easiest target of giggle fits. I can sympathize with your sentiments of the film’s over-seriousness as it shows especially in this segment. Lom gives it everything he’s got, commanding in his booming voice even as he shows us his cabinet full of toys. Seeing Little Lom make its sloooow approach to Magee’s parlor (even using a dumbwaiter as a means of transportation!) extinguishes much of the terror that could be generated from the premise; compare the automaton here to the quick-as-lightning and ferocious He Who Kills from Dan Curtis’ contemporaneous TRILOGY OF TERROR (1975). The dolly used here is much more patient in its attack, inching that long, sharp pin closer and closer to Magee’s neck. As gripping as Olga Karlatos’ meeting with a huge splinter? Probably not. But it does give you a slightly queasy feeling for what’s to come, and the smashing of the automaton to reveal its very real and very red insides complemented by Lom’s agonized screams briefly brings us back to the old Amicus world (not to mention showing you how fond Bloch was of recycling; see “Sweets to the Sweet”). It’s a bit of a downer too because the original “Mannikins of Horror” is a legitimately original and creepy story that gets sadly shoehorned into ASYLUM, skimping out on the loving details that Bloch gives to the anti-hero’s careful construction of his prized figurines and how he fancies himself a Frankenstein. Now there would’ve been a story!

Somewhat surprising (and silly) too is that, despite the great terror that Powell depicts at seeing the brutal remains of Dr. Byron, he seems relatively okay by the next morning, not at all the kind of composure one might have upon discovering that dolls can kill, an odd note that would have been eradicated had “Mannikins of Horror” been a standalone yarn that just ended right at the discovery of the mutilated doctor. That one aspect is sloppily handled, but we forget (or are made to forget) this once Powell finds out another of the asylum’s dirty secrets and here the story does end. For him. By the time the final stinger comes, we already have a good idea of what’s going to happen next, in order: New victim arrives, sinister figure acknowledges the audience, cue creepy music. So yes, ASYLUM is by no means a perfect film, but I don’t think it deserves to be committed for reasons of inanity. It might lack the color and gusto of Amicus’ other notable films, but if the spirit is willing there is enjoyment to be had. 

Call me crazy. 

NT: You’re crazy.

I don’t really mean that. Maybe what I mean is that I’m the crazy one. See, my problem is that I’m psychologically incapable of seeing an Amicus portmanteau film as “dark” or “disquieting.” My doctor tells me it’s a problem of expectations. I’ve seen all the other Amicus portmanteau films, so I know that they’re brightly hued, wickedly humorous testaments to the fact that horror cinema can be messy fun when it wants to be. This is a good thing; this is what I watch Amicus films for. But then I see ASYLUM, and what I glimpse are the same pulpy, over-the-top components that those other films possess, but here they’re employed without the slightest whiff of irony. The jolly good time that could be had with them is perverted and diminished by the truly frightful grasps the film makes at horrific legitimacy. 

Try as you might, neither you nor the filmmakers will ever convince me that a motorized mannequin leg wrapped in butcher paper and wriggling towards its bug-eyed victim is an object of disquiet. I sense through our conversations so far that you’re more forgiving of ludicrous concepts when they’re carried out with conviction. (The entirety of THE DEADLY BEES notwithstanding, I think we see in your much-loved “Creeping Vine” segment from DR. TERROR a problem similar to that which I see in ASYLUM’s tales.) I don’t fault you for this appreciation, but I can’t agree with it. I think filmmakers should be aware of their limitations and work around them. With a script this hackneyed and effects this goofy, those involved in the making of ASYLUM should have known better than to shoot for 1960s Hammer levels of grandiosity and sincerity. Can so many people on set have taken a look at the finished “mannikin” sporting Herbert Lom’s pint-sized head and all at once thought to themselves, “There, we’ve done it: we’ve created terror incarnate”? The mind boggles.

Considering that you’ve already covered the film’s four tales in great detail, I’ll dispense my pills of wisdom succinctly:

As much as I’ve already poked fun at it, “Frozen Fear” is easily the most enjoyable of the lot. As you note, it features the same sort of exaggerated domestic violence and supernatural karmic revenge that would make it a perfect fit in Baker’s next Amicus film, the EC horror comics adaptation THE VAULT OF HORROR. Alas, a certain devilish spark that would bring this episode fully in line with those later adaptations is absent: it simply doesn’t know that it’s funny. How can a character, after chopping his wife into bits and shoving her into the freezer, say to himself, with seemingly no self-awareness at all, “Rest in pieces”? The humor is obvious in the material, but the presentation appears blind to it. The above line does not inspire a giggle from his audience, but a groan. Later, I laughed when those “chilling” bits of reanimated frozen meat would have had me scream. The moment when a lady started chopping herself in the face with an axe serves as an appropriate metaphor for my frustration with this segment.

Similarly, any potential “The Weird Tailor” could have had is foiled by a bizarre concept and crummy execution. The notion of an astrologically powered technicolor dream coat isn’t unsalvageable, but this tale has no idea how to end in a way that pays off the established emotional poignancy. The impoverished tailor (Barry Morse) is sympathetic in his desire for the collection of money owed for services rendered, and his accidental murder of the crazed but equally sympathetic Cushing (as a grieving father) makes this resolution a tricky one. Rather than exploring this moral quandary, the filmmakers shove in that (as you so aptly put) oatmeal-faced living mannequin to lead us out. Ugh. What if, instead, the tailor had used the magical suit to cover up the murdered Cushing’s body, and what if this resulted in Cushing rising from the dead and being horrified to discover that the astrological power had been wasted upon him rather than his beloved corpse of a son? The tailor, in dumbstruck silence, watches this all in horror and regret. There. I wrote in two lines and two minutes a better ending than our filmmakers could muster.

You noticed the omission of “Lucy Comes to Stay” from my previous lambasting of the film, but rest assured this wasn’t because of any affection. I agree that it’s inoffensive and free of unintentional laughs, but that actually makes it more difficult to sit through than the silly ones. This segment, in its generic slog, is almost totally unremarkable. Thus, I will spare myself the effort of remarking upon it any further. A waste of Rampling and Ekland’s considerable talents.

Lastly, there’s “Mannikins of Horror.” Ah, “Mannikins of Horror.” What can I say about the segment that can’t be made immediately apparent to any viewer who lays eyes on the miniature Herbert Lom doll? It’s an extremely lightweight segment, but its central idea isn’t a terrible one (astral projection and the transference of consciousness in the hope of committing nefarious murder by proxy!) While I haven’t read Bloch’s original story, it’s not difficult to see that much has been omitted in order to fit it into the confines of the frame narrative.

And that frame narrative is what really interests me about ASYLUM. This is as complex as their wraparounds will ever become, and I think it’s incredibly effective, at least conceptually. If you recall, one of my beefs with THE HOUSE THAT DRIPPED BLOOD is that its frame story, though similarly ambitious (and also integrated with the final tale), was given little screen time to develop. Conversely, ASYLUM nearly forgoes a fourth story entirely in favor of further exploring Powell’s search for the insane Dr. Starr. There are easy gripes to pick with this wraparound, as you note, and these problems significantly devalue it. (The revelation of a cackling, just short of drooling Dr. Starr also harms the “casual insanity” aspect you argued early on.) However, I quite like the implication provided by the intertwining of the frame story with the “Mannikins of Horror” segment: supernatural occurrences are a reality. The fact that Lom really can project his mind into a killer Lego man is proof of this. Thus, we’re encouraged to re-examine the three tales that Powell’s character has already heard and casually dismissed through psychological diagnosis. Were these patients perhaps telling the truth about their supernatural experiences? Wisely (or perhaps by sheer accident), the film doesn’t provide us an answer, and we’re left to consider it on our own as the credits roll.

Unfortunately, I’ve yet to consider the possibilities, as I was preoccupied by the happiness that overcame me at seeing those credits begin. I had (and have) checked out of the ASYLUM for good.

Next week: What Became of Jack & Jill? (1972)

Shepperton Screams (Part VII): I, Monster (1971) dir. Stephen Weeks

For sixteen weeks, Jose Cruz of The Grim Reader and I will be delving into the complete horror filmography of Amicus Productions and regaling you with our spirited discussions. Below is our mutual consideration of Amicus's I, MONSTER (1971). Check back every week for more dialogues and (naturally) more nightmares.

NT: The year 1971 saw Amicus return to standalone horror films with the release of I, MONSTER, a variation on the literary STRANGE CASE OF DR. JEKYLL AND MR. HYDE. Until then, Amicus hadn't produced a standalone horror since 1966, when their insect-infused murder mystery THE DEADLY BEES failed to stir up much of a buzz with filmgoing audiences. Five years is a long period of time in small budget genre filmmaking-- heck, Amicus made eight additional films between the releases of THE DEADLY BEES and I, MONSTER-- so it's not absurd to imagine that Amicus honchos Milton Subotsky and Max Rosenberg were hesitant to dip back into horror in any context outside of their winning anthology formula. Consequently, the producers simply adopted another studio's once-winning formula for their next venture: I, MONSTER is a Hammer film in everything but credit. It's well-acknowledged (even within their own films; see: THE MONSTER CLUB [1980]) that Amicus made their horror films in a contemporary setting because it was cheaper to do so, but here we find ourselves transported back to an atmospheric vision of late Victorian England. The film's source material (for once) isn't the pulpy pages of a Robert Bloch story, but instead the classic, more mannered horror of Victorian author Robert Louis Stevenson. The starring roles are filled by Christopher Lee and Peter Cushing, who-- though certainly no strangers to Amicus's films-- here seem to be correcting the error Hammer Productions made in never casting the constant duo in any of their versions of the JEKYLL & HYDE story, as they had for so many other cinematic monsters.

The problem is that with I, MONSTER Amicus made a circa-1960 Hammer film in 1971. In 1960, Hammer released THE TWO FACES OF DR. JEKYLL, and one can easily chart the similarities between the subtle and restrained approach of that film and what we find in I, MONSTER. Yet the English cinematic horror of 1971 was not what it was in 1960. In 1971, English audiences were subjected to the lurid horrors of films like THE ABOMINABLE DR. PHIBES, THE BLOOD ON SATAN'S CLAW, and PSYCHOMANIA. More tellingly, 1971 saw Hammer release their second turn at Stevenson's story, the salacious gender-bending romp DR. JEKYLL & SISTER HYDE, alongside other bold, violent, and raunchy material like COUNTESS DRACULA, HANDS OF THE RIPPER, and LUST FOR A VAMPIRE. In contrast to what was happening in English horror cinema at the beginning of the 1970s, Amicus's over-serious, only slightly sleazy literary adaptation feels woefully out of step with the times. What's all the more ironic is that up until this effort the rest of Amicus's films acted as nose-thumbing heralds for the new garish style of horror cinema about to infect the country's screens. Thus, I, MONSTER feels like a misguided step backwards, a grab at the hopelessly out of reach carrot of respectability that couldn't have possibly occurred at a more inopportune time.

All of this noted, I don't dislike the film. It's far from the most daring cinematic adaptation of Stevenson's novella, but in the Amicus filmography its ambitions at least eclipse those of something like THE DEADLY BEES. I think there are aspects of I, MONSTER worth remarking upon, even if their cumulative effect inspires heads to nod off to sleep. But first, just to make sure you didn't fall into the land of slumber yourself, I'll turn the screen back to you for your general impressions.

GR: A “step back” is exactly the thought that I had after watching I, MONSTER (1971). (I actually wrote “two steps back” in all honesty.) Which is a real shame because, as you noted, the horror genre was going through such a wonderful experimental transition at this point after films like TARGETS (1968) had signaled the changing platform of the world’s terrors that all the elements seemed to be in place for something innovative or at least remotely entertaining to be assembled from Stevenson’s engaging little mystery, if nothing else than a faithful adaptation. But though certain details in the film remain quite close to the text (this is one of the few versions that retains Enfield’s “story of the door”), Subotsky makes some very odd exclusions and changes in his screen story. For instance, why does the film acknowledge its debt to the novel in the opening credits but has the name of the main character(s) changed from Henry Jekyll and Edward Hyde to Dr. Charles Marlowe and Edward Blake? I fancied Subotsky was working in a literary allusion to Christopher Marlowe, the 17th century playwright who had penned the first famous version of the Faust legend for the stage—a drama that also shares a central figure who meddles in the nature of man through dark and mystical means—but I think that may be giving him a bit too much credit. My main beef with I, MONSTER is that everything seems so half-hearted and lackluster that it leaves me without much to praise or damn really. I say this all as a sucker of Victoriana, and while all of the fog and gaslights and heavy draperies and muttonchops brought a smile to my lips, the whole affair moved along at such an unwavering hum that all those images and aesthetics left my mind as quickly as they came in.

It might be too easy to lay all the blame at the feet of director Stephen Weeks (the filmmaker was twenty-three when he helmed I, MONSTER and he had only made short subjects up until that point; he only directed three other movies afterward, two of which were versions of the Sir Gawain legend), but it must be said that there isn’t too much style augmenting Subotsky’s mainly substance-free script that could have at least made the shortcomings of the screenplay work as a visually evocative horror piece. There is one good and surprising sequence where Blake’s trampling of a child (who I noticed was Chloe Franks from THE HOUSE THAT DRIPPED BLOOD [1971] though IMDb does not list her in their credits) is seen as a hazy dream where the characters move in slow motion and the villain is depicted as only having two mad eyes staring from a white, blank face, somewhat reminiscent of the excellent scene from the spaghetti Gothic NIGHTMARE CASTLE (1965). Alas, it is so fleeting as to be almost subliminal. 

I got the impression that Amicus was a tad nervous getting back into the standalone mode, and you see little hints that they were trying for that spicier flavor that Hammer was working into their productions. Repressed sexuality is discussed more than given any actual weight in the movie, but we do get a peek at some illicit photographs of models sans corsets and pantaloons in Dr. Marlowe’s study drawer that hint at a naughtiness the film never fully explores. Ditto too for the drug addiction implications of Jekyll/Marlowe’s scientific experimentation, though his gold case where he keeps the transforming liquid looks like a classy druggie’s kit. It’s too bad that they couldn’t go full bore with the trashier aspects, though this was never truly the Amicus house style anyway. There are things to like here, but at the end of the day I can’t seem to rid myself of the feeling that the audience was bereft of a truly solid piece of work. 

Now, if you are up to it, I turn it back it to you to fill us in on the specifics of your thoughts on this middling, bubbling brew.

NT: It's a queer evaluation to make, but to me it seems that Subotsky's script is so ambitious that it winds up tripping over itself in its attempts to incorporate as many novel interpretations of the Jekyll & Hyde story as it can, resulting in a film so thematically muddled and underdeveloped as to appear hollow. In the first act, Marlowe's admission to being a student of Freud couches his experiments quite literally in theories of psychoanalysis and psychology generally, though the novella and nearly all of its adaptations only elliptically address these issues. Marlowe's desire is for his serum to unleash his patients' primal Id while doing away with the pesky Superego. On a larger scale, this would, in effect, rid the population of society's enforced suppression of their basic desires, which fashions Marlowe (at least temporarily) into a sort of counter-cultural rebel with a cause (he gets into a knife fight, too, just like James Dean), who is setting out to free the minds of others with his groovy wonder drug. (Even if his serum only serves to make men into babies, women into sexpots, and cats into banshees, it's what their Ids wanted, isn't it?) 

From this interpretation, we then move into the drug addiction narrative, which you mention above. This theme could bear fine, relevant fruit on its own were it allowed the time to ripen, but soon enough the film has plucked it and cast it aside in favor of introducing yet another piece of thematic implication, this one involving the physical abuse Marlowe suffered from his father as a child. The film hints, in no uncertain terms, that the serum and its remarkable aging effects are transforming Marlowe, physically and temperamentally, into his own abusive, alcoholic, sexually frustrated father. Again, intriguing, but what does the film do with it? These specific thematic approaches to Stevenson's tale aren't as disparate as I, MONSTER makes them seem, and a smarter, tighter script could have found a way to condense and elaborate upon them. Instead, the film devotes much of its last act and a half to faithfully adapting specific scenes and sequences from the novella, all of which have lost the bulk of their relevance in this new context. The result? A final twenty minutes that beg your brain to hit the snooze button. And with a film that falls short of eighty minutes total, that's unfortunate.

But despite his relative inexperience and brief filmography, I hesitate to blame director Stephen Weeks for the messiest aspects of this production. I actually found myself quite impressed with the collaborative work between him and cinematographer Moray Grant (who was working with Hammer at the time on wonderfully atmospheric films like VAMPIRE CIRCUS [1972] and SCARS OF DRACULA [1970]). Many scenes are expertly imagined and executed, from Utterson's nightmare (which you mention above) to a personal favorite scene in which the devious Edward Blake woozily chats up a woman in a pub (which features the principal actors and all the surrounding extras slowly and perpetually shambling to the right hand side of the frame for the scene's duration while the camera follows them on a dolly, as if they were stuck in some sort of inebriated, partner-less ballroom dance or-- better yet-- trapped in a Peter Greenaway film). 

Moreover, I love that Weeks apparently felt no compulsion to rein in Christopher Lee's performance. Not content to simply chew the scenery, Weeks and Lee have his Blake/Hyde blow-torch it. Though the performance veers right along the edges of camp (someone should have perhaps pried the mirrors out of Lee's hands), it never fully descends into that trap: Lee goes so far out, commits so readily to his balding, increasingly stooped and mangled makeup, that a real sense of pathos begins to build in us for this abused, egotistical addict. Though much of this sympathy dissolves by the time we're hit with the standard issue thriller climax, it's notable that the film managed to generate any sympathy to begin with. The IMDb trivia section informs me that Peter Duffell, director of THE HOUSE THAT DRIPPED BLOOD (1971), was originally tapped to direct I, MONSTER but refused (perhaps giving credence to last week's hypothesis about his working relationship with Amicus). I'm happy he did refuse, as I could see a tonally indecisive director like him tempted to urge Lee to blissfully cross his eyes and whistle whenever he took a hit of the serum. If you can say nothing else about Weeks's direction, you can at least admit he was committed to a particular tone and vision, as hopelessly out of fashion as they may have been.

We might call I, MONSTER a botched, antiquated experiment in the Amicus filmography. That would be fair. There are greater sins one could commit, and when we contrast it with the botched experiment of Dr. Charles Marlowe displayed on screen, it no longer seems so egregious. For one, the experiment of I, MONSTER didn't require the stabbing to death of any pretty felines. There we go. That might be the nicest thing we can agree upon about the film: at least its production didn't murder any cats!

GR: Wow. I really hate to admit this, but I actually don’t remember any of that information or insinuation about Marlowe’s father at all. Typically I can follow along with a film no matter how unattached I might be to the events transpiring on the screen, but those details have abandoned my memory as completely as London fog dissipating at dawn. You discussed how the film’s final moments prompt the viewer to tune it all out and I suppose that I just did that much too well. This is quite the shame because that plot device actually sounds very interesting, but perhaps I would have only been disappointed by the lack of follow-through on that end. It’s accurate to say that Subotsky crams in too many (not completely disparate) ideas into the script so that the end result becomes a “Best Of” clip reel of all the themes that other adaptations and revisions to Stevenson’s story have incorporated (there’s also a bit where Marlowe discovers he’s transforming into his dark half one Sunday afternoon in the park like Fredric March did in Rouben Mamoulian’s 1931 iteration). This seems like a repeat of his old DR. TERROR practices, grasping at whatever threads looked intriguing or enlightening only to abandon them all like a cat becoming bored with a ball of yarn. (That last metaphor was written in memory of Trixie, Dr. Marlowe’s clobbered pet cat.) 

Lee’s characterization of the odious Blake is indeed noteworthy, especially as he very rarely got the chance to indulge in portrayals that really allowed him to let loose with wild abandon as opposed to being the ever-stoic pillars of evil that he depicted so many times. One of the rarities of seeing Christopher Lee in a movie that’s shown to us in I, MONSTER is also one of the most terrifying, and that’s when he smiles. Just the way his lips curl up in that depraved little grin is enough to convince you that Marlowe has peered into the abyss and has decided to cannonball into it with glee. Lee gives his moments as Blake some real gusto, especially his predatory stalking of the pub floozy and the way he barks “Now, look!” at Lanyon (Richard Hurndall). The gradual degradation of his features is cannily handled as well, like how his teeth become more pronounced, the skin seems to pale over time, and how Lee sinks his head down to produce a weird double-chin effect. It all builds up to the point that Lee resembles a diseased, jowly maggot slithering through the streets in his dark coat on the hunt for the dank flesh of corruption. That said I have to admit that the other half of that portrayal, our intrepid Dr. Marlowe, has to rank as one of the most “blah” Jekyll personas ever to strut across the laboratory in the search for the Truth. There is no real sense of conflict or drive to propel Marlowe forward in his researches; he is the epitome of the objective scientist, almost reaching the level of apathy as he discusses his findings and hypotheses to the stuffed shirts at the gentlemen’s club with all the vigor of an untenured professor giving a lecture to a room full of pigeons. Lee seems to lack the fire in his belly that you see depicted by Barrymore, Tracy, and even Palance in their respective versions. This might have been meant to act as some kind of layer of verisimilitude or an alternate take on Jekyll as concentrated scientist, but as a conductor of engaging drama it is basically a failure.

The rest of the film does have its share of modest flourishes and hiccups of originality. I had forgotten about that tracking shot in the seedy bar until you mentioned it, and it is a starkly dynamic way the scene is interpreted compared to some of the other stale stagings we’re forced through (most noticeable are the numerous club scenes I mentioned above where the characters sit like statues amongst the cushions with that cliché stock music you hear queued up anytime the world of the rich and fancy is presented to us playing in the background for an added dash of triteness). That scene between Blake and Lanyon becomes near-Expressionistic as it depicts the fiend downing the serum before focusing in on his looming shadow, showing it unwavering upon the wall before revealing the composed and clean Marlowe walking back into the frame. The whole bar scene actually has some other standouts, like when the floozy humiliates Blake in front of the crowd for his gruesome looks. The moment he takes to sheepishly gaze from side to side as the drunk party guffaws at the joke is a refreshingly humanistic approach to the Hyde character. We get a chance to look past his status as the Id personified to view him as an actual person capable of shame in spite of his unrelenting villainy. The later chase of said floozy is blocked a bit oddly, but it ends on a disturbingly effective note when the dame, finally cornered, moves to take off her clothing, apparently thinking that Blake is looking to sexually assault her. She has this attitude of “Alright, alright, if this is going to happen then let’s just get it over with,” but it’s only when she realizes the permanent punishment Blake has in mind that she truly begins to show fear. That was probably the most brilliant and terrifying moment from the entire film, and it’s the one thing that warrants congratulating Subotsky for, whether he fully understood the entire chilling implication of this seemingly throwaway detail or not upon adding it to the script. It speaks to a horror beyond mad science and transformations into boogeymen, to the universal ugliness that we force on each other and how we will, eventually, come to accept it as part of our everyday life. 

The majority of what’s left on screen though, as I said, seems to lack any real punch, and while I’d be more than happy to acknowledge Weeks’ commitment to a defined thematic tone for I, MONSTER, his film goes directly against the praise that I ended my estimation of Peter Duffell and his frenetic THE HOUSE THAT DRIPPED BLOOD (1971) with: “[B]ut one thing it isn’t is boring.” And to say that of a film that strives for a high-thrills ending that includes Christopher Lee and Peter Cushing (or their stunt doubles) throttling each other only to have Lee set ablaze and sent screaming down a flight of stairs only for both him and any sense of excitement we might have had to land with a resounding thud is just such a terrible let-down. I won’t go so far as to say that making I, MONSTER was a waste of time, but I’ll probably not be taking a swig of this concoction again on a black winter morning any time soon.

Next week: Asylum (1972)

Shepperton Screams (Part V): Torture Garden (1967) dir. Freddie Francis

For sixteen weeks, Jose Cruz of The Grim Reader and I will be delving into the complete horror filmography of Amicus Productions and regaling you with our spirited discussions. Below is our mutual consideration of Amicus's second horror anthology, TORTURE GARDEN (1967). Check back every week for more dialogues and (naturally) more nightmares.

NT: If I may be so bold: this week's film, TORTURE GARDEN (1967), is the first perfect Amicus horror film. I don't mean to imply that the film is a flawless vehicle for classic English cinematic frights (it's close, but it's not); rather, I'm saying that Amicus's fifth horror outing is the first to achieve the delicate balance of humor and terror, of gore and smirks, and of self-awareness and pulpy earnestness that would come to typify the best of Amicus's work as a production company. And though it's not as frequently lauded as its descendants, I'd eagerly rank TORTURE GARDEN among those best. Diverse yet thematically unified, cheeky and decidedly wicked, this is the horror anthology par excellence.

Director Freddie Francis and screenwriter Robert Bloch return yet again to Amicus's fold, and each throws down his finest effort to date. This is a well-crafted piece, swift and deliberate in execution, making cuts so fine they're difficult to feel until the blood starts running. And with a cast featuring Peter Cushing, Jack Palance, and Burgess Meredith (in full-bore Penguin mode), the film has the palpable grandeur of a prestige project, which Amicus hadn't managed to pull of since THE SKULL (1965) and which helps the film look and feel expensive (even if it wasn't).

TORTURE GARDEN also rests on one hell of a wraparound segment. Amicus would go on to pull off weirder and more memorable set-ups for the anthology conceit in THE HOUSE THAT DRIPPED BLOOD (1970), ASYLUM (1972), and THE MONSTER CLUB (1980), but TORTURE GARDEN's carnival show/neural time travel act is my favorite. I adore its bizarre, disjointed blending of religious mythologies (why, pray tell, is the Christian devil aided by a Greek goddess?) and its defiant glorification of low entertainment (Satan spends his days on Earth as a carnival barker). Burgess Meredith as the flamboyant, fake mustache-weraing, eyeliner-smudged Dr. Diabolo is a marvel to behold, and his admission that his act is solely for kicks-- though it risks him losing out on a few meaty souls-- creates for Amicus the freewheeling, blue (or perhaps red) collared master of ceremonies that it deserves.

In our discussion of Amicus's prior anthology, DR. TERROR'S HOUSE OF HORRORS (1964), we (or, more specifically, I) griped about that film's tendency towards feeling like an arbitrary assortment of stock horror elements. TORTURE GARDEN appears to operate in a similarly desultory fashion-- we have stories about a head-devouring witch cat, a cabal of glitzy Hollywood cyborgs, a jealous sentient piano, and Edgar Allan Poe's reanimated and overworked ashes-- yet the film possesses a thematic integrity binding its multifarious parts together. DR. TERROR had normal, likable folks running afoul of random supernatural nastiness, and thus its series of droll comeuppances held an air of gloominess about them; TORTURE GARDEN, in contrast, fills its ranks with deplorable (if perhaps perversely charming) rogues, making their imagined fates all the sweeter while binding the varied tales together through a shared sense of Evil Ambitions being foiled. There is even (by Satan's tongue) a whiff of satire in the blasted thing. I'd like to speak about each of the tales with specifics, but for the moment I'll turn it over to you for your general impressions. Were you as wooed as I by Atropos's dazzling threads?

GR: Here, here! They say that practice makes perfect, and Amicus proves that for a studio that people might have taken for granted as a low-rent Hammer (then and now) they were more than capable—and successful in the case of TORTURE GARDEN (1967)—in creating their own patented formula that no one else could claim. The film is the first to perfectly embody that macabre mix of biting black humor and ghoulish horror that had been the legacy of the genre anthology since the time of radio programs like LIGHTS OUT and INNER SANCTUM MYSTERIES. It’s interesting to note that, on the whole, all of the studio’s solo efforts thus far (THE SKULL, THE PSYCHOPATH, and THE DEADLY BEES) strove for a feeling of genuine and respectable suspense while bypassing any winking humor whatsoever, the kind of films that their contemporaries were making. That free-wheeling giddiness that we see crop up in so many of Amicus’ portmanteau films is sadly absent in their single-story films, at least intentionally. It’s that essential spark that brings the creepy clockworks of TORTURE GARDEN to vivid life.

And TORTURE GARDEN lets us know right from the start that it’s here to show us a good time. What better visual representative do you need for that theme than the tantalizing cry of the carnival barker, here the irrepressible Burgess Meredith as Dr. Diabolo, to lure you in to the dark den of entertainments on hand? If Cushing’s reserved Dr. Schreck (one can’t help but wonder if him and Diabolo have a practice together) was too mild for your tastes, than Meredith’s portrayal is sure to satisfy your sugar tooth because he’s wickedly sweet as the clotheshorse doctor, relishing in every grave warning and enticement and looking like an old dandy the whole time. Diabolo’s secreted spookhouse room seems like it would be more fitting of the DR. TERROR’S HOUSE OF HORRORS title—definitely more appropriate than a deck of cards anyway—but the central gimmick Bloch uses here to weave the characters’ potential futures is an ingenious one, as you’ve mentioned. Here we see the “multiple threads” idea we discussed in regards to DR. TERROR brought to literal life, beautifully and simply illustrating how the characters are all hanging at the edge of a moral precipice where all it takes is a quick snip of the steel shears to send them screaming down into the pit.

That also brings to my mind the somewhat unconventional nature of Diabolo’s storytelling session. We find out shortly after the first tale concludes that what the characters are seeing are only prospective fortunes and will only occur if they continue pursuing their latent, dark desires. So Diabolo becomes, in spite of his devilishness, almost a guardian angel of sorts, warning the humans away from the wicked path. He’s essentially saving their souls, very unlike Satan to do based on the popular conceptions we’ve seen of him. So Diabolo’s funhouse basically becomes one of those “hell houses” that Christian groups run around Halloween to show their guests how poor life decisions can ultimately lead to fire and brimstone. I think the Bloch estate is overdue some royalty checks!

I think one of the main reasons that the tales in TORTURE GARDEN seem so much more unified and whole is because they were culled from established, published sources, short stories that had seen their premiere in magazines that Bloch adapted himself. These yarns had already been once around the block (bloch?), so to speak, so they have a level of sophistication that Subotsky’s rough, off-the-cuff pastiches from DR. TERROR don’t possess. This is the first time that Amicus has presented us with an anthology that boasts stories that have a real fullness to them, some more than others. And with that, I think this is a good spot to turn it back over to you so that we may discuss all those sinful little threads in more detail.

NT: And what prickly threads they are.

Amicus slops on its first genuine bucket of gore in the anthology's initial segment, "Enoch," which concerns the peculiar dietary habits of a witch's long-entombed feline familiar. We learn that this beautiful tortoiseshell kitty cat, Balthazar, eats human heads, and thus the segment's climax finds a decapitated (decatitated?) corpse proudly displayed on screen. A handful of years after BLOOD FEAST (1963) broke certain grisly barriers of acceptable screen depictions of cartoony violence, Amicus follows suit, in spirit if not in extremity: we see that it's going to be a goofy, gory road for the production company from here on.

Therefore, "Enoch" stands as a fine introduction to Amicus's new and improved aesthetic and tonal limits, as it revels in its own devilish conceits and the cheaply thrilling visual efforts used to sell them. It is, obviously, not easy to convince your audience to fear a pretty kitty, even if he's of the mind-controlling and brain-eating variety, and so the filmmakers don't bother. Rather, they wring the concept for every last drop of bloody fun, falling back on over-the-top extreme zooms, close-ups on whiskers, and auditory cat howl psychic blasts to heighten the aura of cinematic sensationalism that pervades the piece. The always irascible Michael Bryant (see: THE STONE TAPE [1972]) is great here as the ruthless nephew who can only utter a short "Damn" under his breath when his cruel game of Medicine Keep-Away results in the death of his unbeloved uncle, and he performs well otherwise considering he's acting against a cat in most scenes. In a way, we can read this segment as a parable about the sacrifices of cat ownership. We enter into a psychic agreement with our felines stating that they'll give us gold coins of companionship and entertainment, but in return we have to clean up their sanguinary messes. This parable also underlines a concept learned by every cat owner sooner or later: your cat actually owns you, and he's not afraid to bite your head off if you displease him.

The film's second segment, "Terror Over Hollywood," is the film's weakest on the level of narrative (the circumstances that lead to our anti-heroine discovering the robot conspiracy are so ludicrous as to be distracting: Hollywood hoods assassinating a top motion picture star-- or was it his double!?), but the film's satire is exquisite. It imagines a world not unlike our own, in which celebrities sacrifice their organic physical forms to stay at the top of their youth-obsessed business for longer (if not forever). It's easy to see the cyborg bodies of the segment's characters as akin to the plastic surgery-addled bodies of our seemingly ageless celebrities. The episode underlines the crushing pathos of the sort of desperation that would lead one to become, as the film puts it, "a living doll" that eschews love and a normal bodily existence for a perpetually successful career. It's telling that the segment's ending, in which our aspiring starlet Carla (Beverly Adams) actually succeeds in her goal of achieving stardom by being converted into a cyborg, is unambiguously coded as horrific. Pity those actors who refuse to accept the twilight of a career.

Between the final two segments, "Mr. Steinway" and "The Man Who Collected Poe," it's a real toss-up as to which emerges as my favorite of the entire anthology. Do I favor mean-spirited animate grand pianos or a fidgety Jack Palance as an obsessed collector of literary ephemera? Don't make me choose.

The appeal of "Mr. Steinway" is obvious. Euterpe, the gorgeous Music Goddess-possessed piano belonging to musician Leo Winston (John Standing, of THE PSYCHOPATH [1966]), is the film's most audacious (and best) supernatural creation. An evil, envious piano that pushes its owner's lover out of a window while it humorously plays Chopin's "Funeral March"?: be still my heart. Beyond the joy derived from observing this delightful absurdity in action, the episode also acts as an exaggeration of the perennial conflict between a person's love for another human being and the passion that person holds for an activity or object. When Dorothy (Barbara Ewing) enters Leo's life as a romantic partner, she is almost immediately perturbed by the amount of time he spends playing music with Euterpe when compared to the amount of time he devotes to her. (Granted, she is the sort of person who gifts framed pictures of herself to others, so a certain self-centered quality is to be expected.) Dorothy then tries her best to possess Leo by extricating him from the pull of his possession, but of course his piano possession is possessed and possessive of Leo, too, and not willing to give him up without a fight. It's all very clever when you spell it out. The message here: don't stand between your lover and his passion/possession.

Lastly, "The Man Who Collected Poe" returns us to the perversity of the impulse to collect and the rivalries such a hobby breeds, as previously highlighted by Bloch in THE SKULL (1965). There's much to adore here, too: the antiquarian convention, Peter Cushing acting drunk, the manuscripts for "House of the Worm" and "Arthur Gordon Pym 2," and the notion of Poe's reanimated corpse entombed in an almost "Amontillado"-esque fashion and forced to write for all eternity. As delectable as all of these elements are, none hold a Gothic candle flame to Jack Palance's performance, which ranks among the best I've ever seen from the incomparable actor. He plays collector Ronald Wyatt as a nervous, sweating, constantly squirming fiend with a pained grin perpetually etched onto his skull. He does more with his performance to diagnose collecting as a sort of mania than Bloch's script does, and imbues the segment with a frenetic energy not felt elsewhere in the film, which serves to ramp the film up nicely to a skin-blistering conclusion.

Would you rank these tales similarly?

GR: “Enoch” just may be the messiest vignette from the Amicus fold, at least the one that comes immediately to my mind, but it keeps from delving into H.G. Lewis-level intestinal juggling by merely suggesting the horrible thing that has just taken place with a little flash of garish stage blood. The entire story is actually rather restrained when you think about it; we are dealing with a demonic feline whose main diet consists of human craniums. It’s hard to imagine a contemporary film taking this very silly idea quite as seriously as Bloch, Francis, and company manage to. This could be said of the other tales as well, particularly “Mr. Steinway.” It’s this strong conviction to the material and to the idea of making the events genuinely frightening and unsettling that makes TORTURE GARDEN such a treat. Meredith may be a bright-eyed pygmy in the wraparound segment, but the stories within the film have none of his self-winking style and are all the more strong for it. Mind you, Meredith is a pure delight as Diabolo, but I think the creative team chose wisely to eschew any in-jokes and tongue-in-cheek mannerisms when spinning these wondrous threads for us.

I like too how “Enoch” utilizes the old “black sheep nephew” trope. It reminded me of “The Cemetery” segment from NIGHT GALLERY (1969), though Michael Bryant is decidedly icier than Malcom McDowell’s fruity deviant. His terror is keenly realized when facing down the glowing eyes of Balthazar, who must win an award for cuddliest-looking monster to ever crawl out of a coffin. I don’t know why, but for some reason I thought that I “remembered” that Balthazar was given a menacing voice that he used to communicate telepathically with Bryant.

As we saw that was definitely not the case, and despite what I said about TORTURE GARDEN thankfully not doing anything self-deprecating, I mean, how freaking adorable would it be to see that fluffy little guy sitting in an armchair and mentally intoning “I am Balthazar, devourer of worlds and destroyer of socks.”? I did find myself laughing out loud when Bryant turns from having just skewered the hobo to see Balthazar toss the gold coins at his feet as a reward for his services. Say what you will about witch’s familiars, but they do have an intrinsic knowledge of the token system.

Away from the rural squalor of dark witchcraft we’re whisked away to the glitzy world of film and fame with the next tale, “Terror Over Hollywood.” You’re correct in saying that this one suffers from not being quite thought out enough (why do the robotized actor and producer order food knowing full well they can’t eat it when they could have just not gotten anything without arousing Clara’s suspicion?), but the main purpose here seems to be satirizing the superficiality of the Hollywood scene (I love the completely unnecessary but entirely welcome addition of the entertainers encased inside a Christmas snow globe at the glamorous restaurant and the overall jazzy, noirish Tinsel Town feel that is all Bloch).

To be honest I don’t think that theme was explored quite as much as it could have been to really sell the idea that the people who become these soulless automatons were already that way to begin with; now they just have the benefit of an eternal, mechanized body. Perhaps if our wicked little starlet was given an intimate peek into the surgical process and, in spite of turning away at its gruesomeness, welcomed it with open arms, the horror of her insatiable hunger would ring all the clearer. That is essentially what occurs at the tale’s climax, but this jars with Diabolo’s exhibition in which the characters are exposed to futures that are meant to be terrible to them. Clara’s wish is horrifically realized in her tale, like that of the other characters, but she is still allowed an existence in which she lives out her greatest dream.

Also: “Mike Charles!”

Man, can John Standing ever catch a break at Amicus? He just got done trying to wrestle himself free from his crippled mother’s grasp and the den of the deadly dolls in THE PSYCHOPATH (1966), and now he has to contend with a demanding agent (Ursula Howells, the wolf-wife from DR. TERROR’S HOUSE OF HORRORS [1964]), a needy girlfriend (Barbara Ewing), and a great grand piano that is possessed with the soul of his deceased mother (playing herself). One idea that struck me during “Mr. Steinway” was that, despite this being Ewing’s story, the real victim at the center here is Standing as concert pianist Leo Standing. He’s being in pulled in all directions by these powerful female figures in his life (four if you count his dead mother and the piano as two exclusive entities). The piano is even personified as a goddess, Euterpe to be exact, the heavenly mistress of music. And there he is yet again, left alone in a dark room to contemplate the horrible things that have just transpired and what his life has now become like he was at the conclusion of THE PSYCHOPATH. And I loved the climax of this tale as well. I chucked at the sight (and sound) of the piano trapping Ewing in the room as it played its mournful dirge, but I was actually quite impressed with how truly menacing Francis managed to make the scene with those leering shots of those bone-white keys. Like that vengeful instrument, Francis attacks the scene head-on and keeps pushing until a falling scream seems like the only natural reaction.

And who can’t relate to “The Man Who Collected Poe” on one level or another? The desire to catalog and categorize every facet of a treasured figure’s life is the passion of the rabid collector, to the point that one becomes like Cushing’s antiquarian, practically living a replica of his idol’s life, even having articles of his clothing displayed proudly in his old house. And of course Poe specifically has that mystique already surrounding him given the tortured quality of his life and the grim nature of his famous works, so he’s an ample choice for speculation (and speculative fiction). There are some slightly silly moments from this segment that are used in service of the story; I like especially how Cushing basically tells Palance “My grandfather was a body snatcher AND a warlock.” As if his staggering collection wasn’t impressive enough!

I actually didn’t quite warm to Palance’s performance as much as you did. It’s true that he’s got a nice, barely contained frenzy and slight insidiousness that’s always bubbling under the surface, but my main problem was that I could see him thinking the entire time, like a dancer focusing too hard on his next move. Some actors assume their roles so easily that every little inflection and gesture seems like a natural, liquid movement. Palance has done that elsewhere, but not here. I feel like he was too brusque for the English crowd. It sounded like he was trying to affect a British accent (I honestly couldn’t tell if he was supposed to unless there was a detail I missed), but he just ends up sounding whispery. But he really does perform admirably, even if I’m not completely sold on the end result. The finale with Palance confronting the shuttered Poe in the hatch of skeletal remains is gold though. Old Edgar has become his own Valdemar, eking out a pitiful excuse of an existence under the whim of an obsessed keeper. His evil cackle that rings out as the roaring flames of Hell rise up to consume Palance is the perfect note of sardonic doom to tie this bundle of chillers up.

I will say too that the ending of our wraparound proves amusing in its own right. We get to see the ever reliable Michael Ripper (last seen in these parts as the gruff but lovable barkeep from THE DEADLY BEES [1967]) use Atropos’ handy shears to run Diabolo through, to the horror of the other carnival-goers. Only after they’ve left do we find out this was a final push for the guests to turn to lives of do-gooding, as Ripper was merely a stooge acting out a part for Diabolo. When he said that he was going to go back outside to get ready for the next performance, my reaction was “Umm, how about get arrested?” Did our frightened guests on their new journey on the path of morality forget to report the brutal stabbing that just took place to the nearest bobby? So much for leading the upstanding life. But Meredith brings the diabolical cheer back up when he turns to the camera with black horns and stache to ask us if we would pass his little test. It’s a nice little “Hee hee!” moment that gets us right back on the track to giddy horror.

NT: In conclusion, I'll respectfully disagree with one of your above comments. Or, more like "respectfully complicate." You argue that the success of TORTURE GARDEN's individual segments rests upon the seriousness with which they treat their often ludicrous concepts. I think this is partially true. I agree that what the film doesn't do is present these segments and their silly sentient pianos and telepathic cats as objects of farce, ridiculing the very notion of cinematic horror. And that's certainly for the best: I'm sure we're all well aware of the spotty track record out-and-out horror-comedies have had over the decades. But what doesn't totally jibe with me is the idea that these segments, unlike Diabolo's wraparounds, aren't on some level winking or grinning in our direction. As evidenced by several moments we've pointed out (Euterpe's funeral dirge, Balthazar's coin tossing, Cushing's drunk confessions), there's a certain self-awareness running underneath each of the film's four segments, infecting them with a droll, self-deprecating humor that allows us to accept the cheeky absurdities while reveling in their earnest presentations. As it goes, we laugh at the film not as much as we laugh with it. And this style of lighthearted self-awareness will only be amplified in our next go-around, when things go (at least partially) meta in a house that bleeds...

Next week: THE HOUSE THAT DRIPPED BLOOD (1971)