MonsterGirl’s 150 Days of Classic Horror #35 Corridors of Blood 1958 & The Haunted Strangler 1958

CORRIDORS OF BLOOD 1958

Corridors of Blood (1958) is a compelling exploration of medical ethics and human frailty set against the backdrop of early Victorian London that transcends the horror genre with its meticulous recreation of that era. Directed by Robert Day and produced by John Croydon and Charles F. Vetter, this British-American period drama offers a nuanced portrayal of the struggles faced by pioneering physicians in the 1840s, a time of significant medical advancements and ethical challenges.

At the heart of the film is Boris Karloff, who compellingly portrays Dr. Thomas Bolton, a compassionate physician driven to develop anesthesia for pain-free surgery. Karloff, known for his iconic roles in horror films, brings depth and humanity to Bolton, portraying both his noble intentions and his tragic descent into addiction with remarkable subtlety. Karloff’s ability to convey Bolton’s internal struggle is particularly evident in scenes depicting drug-induced states, showcasing Karloff’s masterful range beyond his typical genre roles.

The narrative unfolds as Dr. Bolton’s obsessive experimentation with various gases leads him to test potentially dangerous substances on himself, resulting in a debilitating addiction. This personal decline coincides with his professional downfall, culminating in a failed public demonstration of his anesthetic where a patient awakens mid-surgery. This pivotal and tense scene underscores the high stakes of medical innovation.

As Bolton’s reputation crumbles, he becomes entangled with a nefarious group of body snatchers led by the menacing Resurrection Joe, portrayed with chilling effectiveness and extraordinary menace by a young Christopher Lee.

This subplot not only adds a layer of the dark underbelly of medical progress in the 19th century, where the demand to acquire cadavers for study often led to criminal activities, like murder, to procure medical subjects.

The supporting cast includes Betta St. John as Bolton’s supportive niece, Susan, Finlay Currie as the skeptical Superintendent Matheson, and Francis Matthews as Bolton’s son, Jonathan.

The film bears an authentic view of Victorian London and the medical community’s struggle with innovation and ethics. One of the film’s strengths lies in its historical accuracy and attention to detail. The depiction of early surgical practices and the quest for effective anesthesia reflect the real challenges faced by medical pioneers of the time. This commitment to authenticity elevates Corridors of Blood beyond mere sensationalism, offering viewers a thoughtful examination of a critical period in medical history.

The climactic confrontation between Bolton and the body snatchers serves as both a thrilling denouement and a poignant reflection on Karloff’s moral decay. Bolton’s ultimate demise is handled with a sense of tragedy that befits his character’s journey from a respected physician to a compromised addict.

Despite its compelling narrative and strong performances, Corridors of Blood faced an unusual release trajectory. Completed in 1958, it wasn’t released in the United States until 1962, when it was paired with Werewolf in a Girls’ Dormitory as a double feature. This double billing definitely undersold the film’s serious themes and historical significance by taking a substantive historical horror film and bookending it with a schlocky B-movie.

Over time, however, Corridors of Blood has gained an appreciation for its nuanced approach to complex issues. The film’s inclusion in the Criterion Collection speaks to its enduring quality and importance in cinema history. It thoughtfully examines the moral compromises made in the name of scientific advancement, the personal toll of addiction, and the often blurred lines between progress and ethical transgression.

THE HAUNTED STRANGLER 1958

The Haunted Strangler (1958) is another extraordinary horror film that showcases a strong performance by a sympathetic Boris Karloff. It was again directed by Robert Day and produced by John Croydon and Richard Gordon, whose Amalgamated Productions was responsible for producing several notable British horror and science fiction films, including one of my all-time favorite sci-fi movies – Fiend Without a Face (1958). (Can brains have heartbeats?)

The screenplay, adapted by Jan Read and John Croydon from Read’s original story Stranglehold, cleverly intertwines historical elements with psychological horror.

It stands as a compelling exploration of psychological horror and societal injustice, of wrongful conviction and the nature of evil set against the backdrop of Victorian London. This British horror gem, led by the incomparable Boris Karloff, masterfully explores themes of obsession, dual identity, repression, and the fragile boundary between sanity and madness. Karloff’s performance is compelling not just for its intensity but for the layered intangible, hauntingly elusive suggestion with which he conveys a man torn between two selves. His physicality shifts seamlessly, from the controlled, respectable physician to moments of haunting vulnerability and explosive violence, as he embodies the psychological suffering of a tormented soul. The precision in Karloff’s restraint, where even the slightest flicker of expression hints at the darkness lurking beneath, and his character’s unraveling mind. This nuanced portrayal transforms what could have been a straightforward villain into a tragic figure.

At the heart of the film is Karloff’s portrayal of James Rankin, a social reformer and novelist who becomes consumed by his investigation into a 20-year-old series of murders. He becomes personally invested in investigating the case of Edward Styles, the man executed for the Haymarket Strangler murders, because he believes Styles was wrongfully convicted due to inadequate legal representation.

Karloff brings depth and complexity to Rankin, portraying both his noble intentions and his descent into a fractured psyche with remarkable subtlety. His ability to physically transform himself into the grotesque visage of the Strangler without relying on special effects makeup is a testament to his acting prowess.

Dr. Tennant (Michael Longhi) is a pivotal figure of suspicion and the real killer, a doctor who conducted autopsies on the victims, including Edward Styles, a man with a withered left arm, who was convicted and hanged as the notorious Haymarket Strangler. Tennant was a regular at the sleazy Judas Hole music hall, where he made unwanted advances toward one of the victims, Martha Stuart.

The narrative unfolds as Rankin delves deeper into the case of the Haymarket Strangler, convinced that an innocent man was hanged for the crimes. His obsessive pursuit leads him to exhume the body of the executed man, where he discovers a surgeon’s knife that triggers a shocking transformation. Rankin suspects Tennant to be the real killer, piecing together evidence after Tennant’s suffering a nervous breakdown and disappearance from the hospital, his abandoned belongings, including a journal detailing the murders, and a missing knife from his medical bag become crucial clues.

The scalpel holds significance in The Haunted Strangler despite the Haymarket Strangler’s suggested method of murder, as it is the key to James Rankin’s transformation into the Strangler’s persona. When Rankin grasps the scalpel found in Edward Styles’ coffin, he undergoes a physical and psychological change, revealing his hidden identity as the real killer and the character’s splintered identity. The scalpel is the missing piece of evidence Tennant hid in Styles’s coffin, likely in a moment of guilt. The Strangler begins to surface as Karloff balances moments of eerie calm with intense bursts of violent mania, embodying both the respectable doctor and the merciless killer within a single tormented soul.

While the killer is known as the “Strangler,” the scalpel was actually used to stab the victims to death after partially strangling them. This detail adds complexity to the killer’s modus operandi, with the scalpel symbolizing Dr. Tennant’s medical background and the duality of his nature – a healer turned killer. It represents the thin line between Rankin’s reformer persona and his murderous alter ego.

Karloff’s portrayal of Rankin’s struggle with his alter ego is both chilling and poignant. It echoes themes from Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde while offering a fresh take on the concept of dual personalities.

The film’s supporting cast provides a rich vision of Victorian society, including Jean Kent as the bawdy music hall singer Cora Seth and Anthony Dawson as the skeptical Superintendent Burk. Elizabeth Allan’s performance as Barbara Rankin adds superb depth to the story, offering a glimpse into the personal cost of Rankin’s obsession.

Day’s direction and Lionel Banes’ cinematography create a palpable atmosphere of dread and claustrophobia. The use of chiaroscuro lighting in scenes set in the seedy Judas Hole music hall and the foreboding Newgate Prison effectively heightens the sense of moral ambiguity and impending doom.

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MonsterGirl’s 150 Days of Classic Horror #34 Children Shouldn’t Play With Dead Things 1972

CHILDREN SHOULDN’T PLAY WITH DEAD THINGS 1972

Children Shouldn’t Play with Dead Things (1972) stands as a seminal work in the evolution of 70s horror cinema, a quirky, influential, and enduringly entertaining blending macabre humor with low-budget ingenuity to create a cult classic that saw its influence spread to future indie filmmakers.

Directed by Bob Clark (credited as Benjamin Clark), who would later show off his diverse talents with holiday favorites like the beloved A Christmas Story 1983 and the end of the spectrum of holiday movies with his darkly sinister Black Christmas 1974, this early foray into horror showcases Clark’s versatility and willingness to push boundaries.

Shot on a shoestring budget of $50,000 over just 14 days, the film follows a troupe of hammy actors led by the insufferable Alan (played by Alan Ormsby, who also co-wrote the script and designed the eerie corpse makeup) as they venture to a cursed island cemetery for a mock séance. The cast, which was primarily composed of Clark’s college friends, lends an authentic if amateurish, charm to the proceedings, with many actors using their real first names in a quirky nod to budget constraints. All this seems to contribute to that bit of personal flair the film possesses. The actors include: Valerie Mamches as Val, Jeff Gillen as Jeff, Anya Ormsby as Anya ( I met Anya at Chiller Theater a while back. She was lovely), Paul Cronin as Paul, Jane Daly as Terry, Roy Engleman as Roy, Robert Philip as Emerson, Bruce Solomon as Winns and best of all… Seth Sklarey as Orville Dunworth – Alan’s favorite dead guy!

Cinematographer Jack McGowan transforms Florida’s swampy landscapes into a gothic playground of shadows and mist, creating an atmosphere of creeping dread that adds to not detracts due to the film’s limited resources. This visual style is complemented by Carl Zittrer’s score, which oscillates between carnival-esque whimsy and spine-tingling unease, perfectly capturing the film’s tonal balancing act between horror and dark comedy.

I can’t overstate this enough: Children Shouldn’t Play With Dead Things serves as a bridge between the voodoo zombies of early cinema and George A. Romero’s flesh-eating ghouls that stalked the streets of Pittsburgh in his Dead saga; in Clark’s film introducing the concept of occult-summoned undead. This innovative approach to zombie lore and Ormsby’s gruesome yet inventive makeup effects laid the groundwork for future indie horror productions, proving that creativity and passion could often overcome a lack of funding. These movies always tend to be the most compelling!

Moreover, Children Shouldn’t Play with Dead Things helped establish the horror-comedy subgenre that would later flourish with films like Sam Raimi’s The Evil Dead 1983. Its blend of slapstick humor, occult themes, and genuine scares created a template for future filmmakers to explore the intersection of laughter and fear.

As the zombies set sail for Miami in the film’s audacious finale, viewers are left with a sense of the absurd that perfectly captures the movie’s charm.

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MonsterGirl’s 150 Days of Classic Horror #33 Cat People 1942 & Curse of the Cat People 1944

CAT PEOPLE 1942

Cat People (1942) is a groundbreaking supernatural horror film that redefined the genre with its psychological depth and atmospheric storytelling thanks to the masterful storytelling by Val Lewton. Directed by Jacques Tourneur and produced by Lewton for RKO Pictures.

Val Lewton, a producer-auteur known for his meticulous oversight of every aspect of his projects, collaborated closely with Tourneur to create this new kind of horror film—one that relied on suggestion and atmosphere rather than overt scares. Lewton and Tourneur pioneered a revolutionary approach to horror filmmaking, employing suggestive imagery, chiaroscuro lighting, and masterful use of sound and silence to create an atmosphere of dread and terror through implication rather than explicit violence or supernatural manifestations, establishing a new paradigm that would influence generations of filmmakers.

Jacques Tourneur played a crucial role in shaping the visual style of his films, including his masterpiece, Out of the Past. He employs a masterful use of shadows: Tourneur went beyond standard film noir techniques, using shadows not just decoratively but as fundamental storytelling elements. He created beautiful compositions where shadows defined and redefined mood. Tourneur frequently employed “corridor” style shots, often shooting directly down paths or hallways to create long perspectives. He alternated these with lateral tracks featuring masked foregrounds, creating a rich visual mix. He also focused on “unofficial” architecture, like projecting awnings, to create unique compositions and emphasized complex textures in backgrounds, using elaborate wallpapers, moldings, and grillwork. Tourneur skillfully manipulated lighting to enhance the mood, using soft shadows for intimacy in romantic scenes and darker, more oppressive shadows for tense moments, particularly in the pool scene where an unseen predator stalks Alice, Cat People’s ‘good girl’ noir-like heroine. Tourneur’s visual style often left threats ambiguous, allowing viewers to draw their own conclusions.

Cat People tells the story of Irena Dubrovna (played by the intoxicatingly beautiful Simone Simon), a Serbian émigré in Manhattan who believes she is cursed to transform into a murderous panther if she experiences romantic or sexual passion. Her fears lead to a tense love triangle with her husband, Oliver Reed (Kent Smith), and his co-worker, Alice Moore (Jane Randolph), as well as sessions with the skeptical psychiatrist Dr. Louis Judd (Tom Conway). Lewton aimed to create a film that consisted of psychological depth, an intelligent horror film that explored themes of sexual repression, jealousy, and the clash between science and superstition. Lewton ultimately decided to set the story in contemporary New York, involving a love triangle between a man, a foreign woman with abnormal fears, and a female office worker desperately in love with Oliver.

Val Lewton wrote “The Bagheeta,” a short story that appeared in the July 1930 issue of Weird Tales Magazine. This story was one of Lewton’s early works in the horror genre, published before he began his career at RKO Pictures. “The Bagheeta,” which featured a legendary panther-woman hybrid in the Caucasus Mountains, served as inspiration for Cat People (1942).

The script was written by DeWitt Bodeen, who drew inspiration from myths about cats and curses, as well as Algernon Blackwood’s short story “Ancient Sorceries.” Lewton initially considered basing the film on Blackwood’s 1906 short story which featured a French town inhabited by devil-worshipping cat people. Bodeen researched cat-related literature, including works by Ambrose Bierce and Margaret Irwin. Lewton contributed heavily to the screenplay, ensuring its thematic complexity and subtlety.

Studio directive: RKO executive Charles Koerner gave Lewton the title Cat People and instructed him to develop a film from it. Koerner felt that werewolves, vampires, and man-made monsters were overexploited, suggesting that “nobody has done much with cats.”

Cinematographer Nicholas Musuraca, who contributed his keen photographic eye to some of the most extraordinary film noirs, brought the film’s shadowy visuals to life, employing chiaroscuro lighting and inventive framing to evoke fear through implication rather than explicit imagery. This approach gave rise to iconic moments like “The Lewton Bus,” an early example of a jump scare that has since become legendary in horror cinema.

The mythology behind Cat People blends Balkan folklore with Freudian psychology, portraying Irena’s transformation as both a literal curse and a metaphor for repressed desires. The film also subtly critiques xenophobia through its depiction of Irena as an “exotic” outsider whose cultural beliefs are dismissed or misunderstood by those (Anglo/Christian) around her.

Despite being made on a modest budget of $135,000, Cat People became one of RKO’s most successful films of the 1940s. Its minimalist yet sophisticated approach influenced countless subsequent horror films and elevated the genre’s artistic potential. Though initially conceived as a B-movie, it has since been recognized as a landmark in cinematic history, earning preservation in the National Film Registry in 1993.

CURSE OF THE CAT PEOPLE 1944

The Curse of the Cat People (1944) is another of Val Lewton’s psychologically geared supernatural thriller directed by Gunther von Fritsch and Robert Wise. The film follows in the shadow of Cat People with Amy Reed, the six-year-old daughter of Oliver Reed, and his new wife Alice, who lives in Tarrytown, New York. Amy is an imaginative and lonely child, often escaping into fantasies to cope with her isolation. Her life changes when she meets the ghost of her father’s deceased first wife, Irena, who becomes a maternal figure to her. Meanwhile, Amy befriends an eccentric elderly woman, Julia Farren (Julia Dean), and her troubled daughter, Barbara (Elizabeth Russell), leading to a complex exploration of reality, fantasy, and the power of love and acceptance.

Begin ‘The Bagheeta’: Val Lewton’s fantasy/ reality world of Curse of The Cat People: fearing the female/feline monster and the engendering child. Part I

Val Lewton’s Curse of The Cat People (1944) “God should use a Rose Amber Spot!” Seeing the darkness thru the ‘Fearing Child’ and ‘The Monstrous Feminine’ Part II

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MonsterGirl’s 150 Days of Horror #31 Carnival of Souls 1962

CARNIVAL OF SOULS 1962

Carnival of Souls (1962): Criterion 60s Eerie Cinema: That Haunting Feeling

Carnival of Souls (1962) is a uniquely different experience in psychological horror that has earned its place as a cult film – known for its eerie atmosphere and innovative filmmaking techniques. Directed by Herk Harvey, the film was his only feature-length production, as he primarily worked on industrial and educational films for the Centron Corporation in Lawrence, Kansas. The film’s genesis occurred when Harvey, driving back from California, was inspired by the sight of the abandoned Saltair Pavilion near Salt Lake City. This location became the centerpiece for the film’s haunting climax.

Working with a minuscule budget of $33,000, Harvey employed guerrilla filmmaking techniques and assembled a small crew of just five people, including himself.

The story follows Mary Henry (Candace Hilligoss), a young church organist who survives a car accident and becomes haunted by strange visions and a mysterious figure known as “the Man” (portrayed by Harvey himself in an uncredited role). The film focuses on Mary’s journey through a dreamlike purgatory as she is trapped between two worlds, with one of them – the nightmarish one – catching up with her.

Hilligoss, who had trained with Lee Strasberg, was discovered by Harvey in New York and cast as the lead for approximately $2,000. The film’s production was a testament to resourcefulness. Shot on location in Lawrence, Kansas, and Salt Lake City, the crew often had to work around limitations. For instance, the pivotal bridge scene at the beginning of the film was shot in Lecompton, Kansas, with the filmmakers agreeing to repair the bridge’s damaged rails for just $12.

Carnival of Souls is notable for its atmospheric organ score by Gene Moore, which contributes significantly to the film’s unsettling mood. The movie’s visual style was influenced by European art-house directors like Ingmar Bergman and Jean Cocteau, with Harvey aiming to create “the look of a Bergman and the feel of a Cocteau.” The movie explores themes of existentialism and the boundary between life and death, creating a sense of unease with its surrealistic nature and exploration of purgatorial despair, which set it apart from typical horror films of its time in the early 1960s.

What makes Carnival of Souls continue to stand out is its innovative filmmaking; despite its anemic budget, Harvey created a film with a unique visual style and an organically eerie and growing sense of dread using existing locations. Also, the atmospheric sound design aided by the haunting organ score by Gene Moore is a significant element in creating its unsettling atmosphere, and the minimalist use of sound, focusing primarily on the organ, adds to the film’s hypnotic power.

Despite its initial limited release and distribution challenges, Carnival of Souls has since gained recognition for its influential cinematography and foreboding atmosphere. It has inspired filmmakers such as George A. Romero and David Lynch. Its proto-Lynchian qualities in dialogue and conflict have contributed to its lasting impact and continue to be celebrated at film festivals and Halloween screenings.

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MonsterGirl’s 150 Days of Classic Horror #30 The Crazies 1973

THE CRAZIES 1973

George A. Romero’s The Crazies (1973) is a thought-provoking horror film that blends societal critique with visceral storytelling, showcasing Romero’s penchant for using genre cinema to explore political and cultural anxieties. Romero, known as the “Godfather of Horror,” had already revolutionized the genre – the art of horror filmmaking – with his breakthrough Night of the Living Dead (1968), which established his ability to use horror as a vehicle for social commentary. He introduced a modern brand of deconstructed horror no one had seen before, incorporating a raw intensity through allegory that resonated with audiences. It certainly shook me to my core. I saw it during its theatrical release and could barely watch the screen without squinting through my hand or looking away completely. Zombies eating raw or BBQed intestines still make me want to wretch!

Romero’s background significantly influenced the creation of The Crazies in several ways: the director’s early exposure to film through frequent subway trips to Manhattan to rent and view film reels likely contributed to his innovative approach to filmmaking. His early passion for cinema, particularly his interest in the visually experimental film The Tales of Hoffmann, inspired him to explore the power of visual media and experiment with the medium.

His experience shooting short films and TV commercials after graduating from college in 1960 honed his skills in visual storytelling. Leveraging his background in experimental filmmaking, commercial work, and socially conscious horror influenced Romero to create the visceral and impactful imagery in The Crazies, pushing the boundaries that powerfully critique authority and explore the fragility of social order through the horror genre.

The Crazies, though less commercially successful at its release, has since gained recognition as one of his most ambitious works, reflecting the turbulent social climate of 1970s America. The film is described as his most politically paranoid work, reflecting a deep distrust of government institutions and their potential for harmful overreach.

Romero imbued The Crazies with sharp political commentary as it follows the chaos that ensues when a military biological weapon, code-named “Trixie,” contaminates the water supply of a small Pennsylvania town, driving the residents into homicidal madness or killing the townspeople outright. As martial law is imposed, soldiers and scientists struggle to contain the outbreak, but their efforts only worsen the crisis and the violence and paranoia that breaks loose. Romero examines the interplay between individual humanity and systemic failures. This idea blurs the line between the infected and uninfected, suggesting societal breakdown reveals pre-existing moral decay rather than creating it. One of the film’s central themes is the inherent violence within human nature. Romero portrays the infected townspeople not as monstrous creatures but as ordinary individuals whose latent psychosis is unleashed—a chilling reminder that madness and brutality are intrinsic aspects of humanity.

The story focuses on a group of survivors—including Vietnam veterans David and Clank—who attempt to escape both the infected townspeople and the oppressive military presence. The cast includes Lane Carroll, Will McMillan, Harold Wayne Jones, and cult favorite Lynn Lowry (Cronenberg’s Shivers 1975), whose performances capture the desperation and paranoia of individuals caught in a collapsing society.

Another major theme of The Crazies is the critique of authority and institutional incompetence. The military’s response to the crisis is marked by paranoia, bureaucratic dysfunction, and dehumanization. This anti-establishment stance echoes real-world anxieties of the era, particularly those stemming from events like the Vietnam War, civil unrest, and incidents such as the military using violence against civilians, as in the Kent State shootings.

Romero uses this portrayal to highlight how systems of power and institutions like the military brutal containment prioritize control over compassion or justice, reflecting broader disillusionment with government and military failures during the Vietnam War era. These themes resonate with 1970s audiences grappling with mistrust of authority following events like Kent State and Watergate, but also beyond their historical context, offering a timeless reflection on how fear and authoritarianism can amplify crises rather than resolve them. Soldiers are depicted not as saviors but as oppressive agents whose faceless uniforms and aggressive tactics alienate them from the very civilians they aim to protect.

He also delves into the problems inherent in power structures, presenting the government’s handling of the outbreak as equally monstrous as the infection itself. The “Trixie task force” embodies a cold utilitarianism, treating human lives as expendable in pursuit of abstract national security goals.

By incorporating imagery reminiscent of these historical moments—such as military violence against civilians—the film taps into the collective fear of a society unraveling under its own weight. Thematically, The Crazies explores issues of dehumanization, loss of autonomy, and dissolution. The infected townspeople symbolize not only physical contagion but also psychological and societal collapse.

Despite its modest production scale, The Crazies is ambitious in scope and execution. Romero’s use of multiple characters and locations creates a sense of widespread chaos that mirrors societal fragmentation. The film’s sardonic humor further underscores its critique of human folly in the face of disaster, making it both unsettling and darkly satirical.

Finally, The Crazies explores the fragility of social order. The chaos in Evans City symbolizes how quickly societal norms can collapse under pressure. Romero contrasts moments of fleeting humanity—such as soldiers showing empathy—with scenes of looting, violence, and destruction, emphasizing how crises erode moral boundaries. Through its low-budget aesthetic and grim narrative, The Crazies presents a harrowing critique of human nature and institutional power. In retrospect, The Crazies stands as an underrated gem within Romero’s oeuvre—a film that not only entertains but also challenges viewers to confront uncomfortable truths about power, responsibility, and humanity’s capacity for self-destruction.

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MonsterGirl’s 150 Days of Classic Horror #29 The Canterville Ghost 1947

THE CANTERVILLE GHOST 1947

The Embracing Fortitude of An Obliging AfterLife: The Kindly Ghost

The Canterville Ghost (1944) is a delightful comedy directed by Jules Dassin, with some initial work by Norman Z. McLeod. The film is a charming adaptation that takes liberties with Oscar Wilde’s original story, creating a unique blend of comedy, fantasy, and wartime drama.

Dassin left an indelible mark on cinema with his innovative techniques, particularly in the film noir genre. His notable films include Brute Force (1947), The Naked City (1948), Thieves’ Highway 1949, and Night and the City (1950), which are still highly regarded for their gritty realism and dynamic storytelling. After being blacklisted in Hollywood, Dassin moved to Europe where he created some of his most celebrated works, including the influential dialogue-free heist film Riffifi (1955) and the internationally successful Never on Sunday (1960). Dassin’s ability to adapt and thrive in different cinematic environments, from Hollywood to European art house, solidified his legacy as a versatile and influential director.

My review of Thieves’ Highway 1949 is below:

31 Flavors of Noir on the Fringe to Lure you in! Part 2

The Canterville Ghost stars Charles Laughton, who brings both humor and pathos to the role with theatrical flair as Sir Simon de Canterville, Robert Young as Cuffy Williams, and lovable Margaret O’Brien as Lady Jessica de Canterville. Laughton masterfully blends multiple acting styles, combining burlesque, melodrama, pathetic farce, the comedy of manners, and outright tragedy. Despite his large stature, Laughton displays surprising agility and grace in his portrayal of the ghost. He moves fluidly through the manor, running down corridors and leaping over benches with unexpected lightness.

The story begins in 17th-century England, where Sir Simon de Canterville commits a cowardly act by fleeing a duel. As punishment, his father has him bricked up in a room of the family castle, condemning him to haunt the halls until a Canterville descendant performs an act of courage in his name.

Fast forward to 1943, the Canterville castle becomes a temporary barracks for American soldiers during World War II. The ghost of Sir Simon still haunts the castle, attempting to scare its new inhabitants. However, the American soldiers are more amused than frightened by his antics.

Young Cuffy Williams (Robert Young) discovers he is a descendant of Canterville. He struggles with the family’s reputation for cowardice, especially when faced with dangerous wartime situations. Six-year-old Jessica, brought to life with the charm of a fine lady by Margaret O’Brien, befriends the soldiers and tries to help Sir Simon break his curse.

The film’s strength lies in its blend of humor, heart, and effective supernatural elements. Laughton’s performance as the cowardly ghost is particularly endearing, with his elaborate costumes and comical attempts at scaring the soldiers. O’Brien’s natural and sincere portrayal of Lady Jessica adds a touching element to their relationship, as Sir Simon and young Lady Jessica de Canterville form an unlikely friendship. Her relationship with Sir evolves from initial skepticism to profound empathy, ultimately transforming both characters.

At first, Lady Jessica is reluctant to engage with the ghost haunting the family castle. She views him as a nuisance and even scolds him for his antics, including his attempts to refurbish the infamous bloodstain. However, her encounter with Sir Simon reveals his tragic backstory—his cowardly act in a duel, his subsequent punishment, and his inability to find peace after centuries of haunting. As she learns more about Sir Simon’s plight, her pity deepens into genuine compassion. She recognizes his yearning for eternal rest and agrees to help him fulfill the prophecy that will free him from his curse.

Some of the wonderful moments include Laughton’s first appearance as Sir Simon in a feathered hat and the soldiers’ humorous reactions to him as a hapless, buffoonish ghost, and Sir Simon’s tour of the family portrait gallery with Cuffy Williams, recounting the cowardly acts of his descendants and the clever use of special effects to show Laughton as a transparent ghost.

The climactic sequence involves an unexploded mine. Sir Simon is seen straddling a gigantic unexploded mine as it’s dragged across the countryside by an American jeep. It’s a tense action sequence in which Cuffy must overcome his fears to perform an act of bravery, potentially freeing Sir Simon from his centuries-old curse.

Through Simon’s and Lady Jessica’s bond, both characters learn valuable lessons about love, forgiveness, and sacrifice. Her willingness to help Sir Simon bridges the gap between the living and the dead, reconciling ancient sins with hope for a brighter future as Simon disappears into a peaceful eternity.

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MonsterGirl’s 150 Days of Classic Horror #28 The Changeling 1980 & Ghost Story 1981

THE CHANGELING 1980

“[A] visually classy chiller… aided by stunning film locations in Seattle and
Vancouver, this one’s more attractive than most.” — Edwin Miller, Seventeen,
April 1980, page 75.

“The most noteworthy traditional ghost movie of the last fifteen years or so … a chilling and undeservedly obscure film … a first-rate Gothic gooseflesher, with excellent performances…” — Bruce Lanier Wright, Night Walkers: Gothic Horror Movies, The Modern Era, Taylor Publishing Company, 1995, page 158.

“[A] classy picture made by people with some sense of suspense, and performed by people with a cast headed by two of the best – George C. Scott and Melvyn Douglas…. This is not a movie with ghosts jumping at you to elicit fraudulent screams. This is creepy, stealthy suspense.” – Gene Shalit, The Ladies Home Journal, July 1980, pages 24, 28.

According to Roger Ebert’s review of The Changeling, “This…is a scary movie with taste.”

https://thelastdrivein.com/2016/01/31/the-changeling-1980-how-did-you-die-joseph-did-you-die-in-this-house-why-do-you-remain/

The Changeling is a stylish and exquisitely envisioned 1980 Canadian supernatural horror film directed by Peter Medak. It stars George C. Scott, Trish Van Devere, and Melvyn Douglas. I saw this atmospheric and, at times, jarring ghost story during its theatrical release. Like the pounding John Russell hears at night, my heart almost jumped out of my chest, and still does, actually, during the scene with the menacing wheelchair hunting Trish Van Devere throughout the winding hallway, chases her down the stairs and, ultimately, crashes into her.

The Changeling is perhaps one of the most effectively creepy ghost stories. This is partly due to John Coquillon’s edgy and intensely focused cinematography and production designer Trevor Williams, who helps create the oppressive and isolating environment.

The movie also showcases a sentimental piano score, including the music box melody written by Howard Blake, which adds to the moody atmosphere.

Director Medak and cinematographer Coquillon employ a masterful technique of fluid, low-angle tracking shots that serpentine through the mansion’s expansive rooms and corridors. This approach creates an ethereal perspective, as if the audience embodies the restless spirit itself, observing the world from its incorporeal vantage point. Such camera work not only heightens the sense of supernatural presence but also accentuates John Russell’s isolation within the sprawling, haunted domain.

In a particularly striking composition, the film utilizes a high-angle shot that cascades down the grand staircase, diminishing George C. Scott’s normally commanding presence. This visual strategy inverts the actor’s typical on-screen authority, rendering him small and exposed against the mansion’s imposing architecture. The result is a palpable sense of vulnerability, underscoring the powerlessness of even the most formidable individual when confronted with otherworldly forces.

The film follows the lonely John Russell (Scott), a grief-stricken composer who moves to Seattle after losing his wife and daughter in a tragic accident. His pain acts as a conduit for the supernatural events that follow. Somehow, the personal events of John’s life and the specter of the little boy who is drawn to him are inextricably connected. His fate acts as a whisper of revelation that beckons John from the depths of his grief-induced isolation, offering a renewed sense of purpose that illuminates his path forward.

After John Russell breaks open an old storeroom, he uncovers a secret stairway that leads to a creepy space that begins to reveal the horrible history of the house and its ghostly inhabitant, the dark secret of a little boy’s cruel death, and the terrible truth about prominent senator Carmichael’s (Melvyn Douglas) origins. John rents a sprawling, imposing mansion that hasn’t been occupied in over a decade from Claire Norman (Van Devere Scott’s real wife), an agent of a local historical society. Soon after moving in, he experiences unexplained phenomena: Loud banging every morning, water taps turning on by themselves, a red stained glass window shattering, and the apparition of a drowned boy in a bathtub. John discovers a hidden attic room containing a child’s belongings and a music box that plays a tune he has just composed; it is not a coincidence.

These events lead him to investigate the house’s history, uncovering a dark secret involving Senator Joseph Carmichael. In one of the powerful scenes of the film, a medium conducts a séance, trying to discover the identity of the ghost, revealing the tortured spirit of a murdered boy named Joseph—the little boy who drowned in the tub.

One of the most chilling scenes involves Joseph’s cobweb-covered wheelchair appearing at the top of the stairs, creaking back and forth on its own, and chasing Van Devere down the great steps of the house. John witnesses the apparition of the drowned boy Joseph in the bathtub. The desperate pounding on the tub’s sides unleashes a thunderous, haunting cadence that echoes through the silence; the aural torment is akin to the pounding in Robert Wise’s The Haunting 1963. There is also disembodied crying, much like Shirley Jackson’s ghost story. John also hears the ghost’s voice on a recording, revealing how the boy died.

There’s also a frightening moment when his dead daughter’s little red rubber ball slowly bounces down the grand stairway. The unsettled John flees, frantically casting the spectral ball off the bridge into the abyss of the churning sea below. But when he returns home, the veil between worlds proves permeable; the sea-wet ball materializes once more, slowly bouncing down the staircase with an otherworldly persistence. This stunning, haunting image elegantly sums up the tenuous threshold separating the physical realm from the world of the dead and the liminal space where the laws of nature bend to accommodate the unfinished business of restless spirits. Something so simple can be so terrifying. The ball was seen in the beginning in John’s apartment in New York while he was packing up his family’s things and getting ready for his move to Seattle.

The Changeling received positive critical reviews and was an early Canadian-produced film to achieve major international success. It won eight inaugural Genie Awards, including Best Motion Picture, and was nominated for two Saturn Awards. The film is considered a cult classic and one of the most influential Canadian films ever.

The movie’s strength lies in its effective blend of traditional haunted house elements with a conspiracy thriller, creating a unique and compelling narrative. Its subtle approach to horror, relying more on atmosphere and psychological tension than graphic violence, has contributed to its enduring appeal among us horror fans.

GHOST STORY 1981

Ghost Story (1981), directed by John Irvin and based on Peter Straub’s novel, is a chilling supernatural thriller that intertwines past and present, guilt and revenge. The film boasts an impressive cast of Hollywood veterans in their twilight years, including Fred Astaire, Melvyn Douglas, Douglas Fairbanks Jr., and John Houseman, alongside younger talents like Craig Wasson and Alice Krige as the mysterious beauty who comes into their lives and creates a current of supernatural dread.

Set in a snow-covered New England town, the story follows four elderly men who form the Chowder Society, gathering regularly to share ghost stories. Their comfortable routine is shattered when one member’s son dies mysteriously, triggering a series of supernatural events that force them to confront a dark secret from their youth. Through haunting flashbacks, we learn of their encounter with the enigmatic Eva Galli, whose death they’ve concealed for decades.

As the vengeful spirit returns to exact her revenge, the film builds tension through Jack Cardiff’s atmospheric cinematography, which masterfully captures both the eerie present and the golden-hued past. Jack Cardiff’s most influential cinematography works include A Matter of Life and Death (1946), Black Narcissus (1947), and The Red Shoes (1948). These three films, directed by Powell and Pressburger, established Cardiff as a legendary cinematographer. His work on Black Narcissus earned him an Academy Award for Best Color Cinematography.

From shocking deaths to spectral appearances on snowy bridges, Ghost Story is one hell of a horror film that culminates in a climactic confrontation at Eva’s decaying house and her excruciating death.

The narrative structure of Ghost Story plays a crucial role in creating its eerie and suspenseful atmosphere. The film employs a non-linear storytelling approach, interweaving past and present events to gradually reveal the dark secret that haunts the protagonists. The dual timeline structure, the present focusing on the members of the Chowder Society and flashbacks to their youth, reveals their dark secret connected to the enigmatic Eva Galli.

The film’s strength lies in exploring how past sins haunt the present, both literally and figuratively, creating a ghost story that is as much about psychological torment as it is about supernatural scares.

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MonsterGirl’s 150 Days of Classic Horror #27 The Car (1977)

THE CAR 1977

There’s a streak of guilty pleasure for me with The Car, a 1977 American horror film directed by Elliot Silverstein and written by Michael Butler, Dennis Shryack, and Lane Slate. This supernatural thriller blends elements of horror and action, and I think it is one of the more creative and unique entries in the genre that embraces the killer-vehicle.

Set in a small desert town in Utah, a mysterious black car begins terrorizing the residents. The vehicle, seemingly possessed and driverless, goes on a murderous rampage, killing cyclists, pedestrians, and cops. The story follows Chief Deputy Wade Parent (James Brolin) as he attempts to stop the demonic automobile and protect his community. Kathleen Lloyd plays Lauren Humphries, Wade’s girlfriend and a local teacher, character actor John Marley plays Sheriff Everett Peck, Ronny Cox plays Deputy Luke Johnson, and R. G. Armstrong plays the irascible Amos Clemens.

The car itself is a central character designed by George Barris, who is known for creating iconic vehicles like the Batmobile. The film features innovative sound design, with Dennis C. Salcedo providing the car’s menacing sound effects. The Car 1977 also incorporates religious themes, as the black metal fiend cannot enter consecrated ground like the local cemetery.

The film is often compared to Steven Spielberg’s Jaws (1975), with some fans dubbing it “Jaws on Wheels.” Its premise of an unstoppable, supernatural force terrorizing a small town draws parallels to other horror classics of the era. Despite its sometimes ludicrous premise, The Car is so much fun to just hop inside the backseat to take the ride for its suspenseful elements, the excellent vehicle design, and the very ominous presence of its titular non-passenger driving antagonist. The film also possesses some genuinely jarring moments, not only for their intensity but also for their unexpectedness.

A few of the victims include hitchhiker John Rubenstein, who gets taken out early on as he plays his French Horn through the sleepy town. He is remembered for his Tony Award-winning performance as James Leeds in Children of a Lesser God on Broadway in 1980 and for creating the title role in the original Broadway production of Pippin in 1972, for which he received a Theatre World Award. Another nail-biting scene is the pair of victims, the two cyclists who get pushed off a very high bridge when the car rams into them, forcing them over the guardrails and onto the rocks below.

One of the most notable scenes is when Lauren Humphries (Kathleen Lloyd) taunts the car’s unseen driver, calling it a “big ugly car” and daring the driver to get out. As Lauren shows her gutsy nerve, the car’s supernatural nature reacts angrily to her insults by driving in circles and revving its engine.

During the scene where the car hesitates to enter a cemetery, it is suggestive of the dichotomy of Christian good vs. evil, Heaven & Hell, illustrating that it is repelled by consecrated ground. This moment is pretty slick because it adds a layer of mysticism to the story, implying that the car is not just a vehicle but a malevolent entity with certain limitations.

The car threatens a local school parade, endangering the lives of the children. This scene is particularly unsettling due to the vulnerability of the victims and the car’s relentless pursuit, creating a sense of urgency and fear amongst the trapped townspeople. The great final confrontation, where Chief Wade Parent and the townsfolk take a stand against the car, is worth the wait. It’s one of my favorite moments. In this funhouse ride – the pyrotechnic spectacle as our demonic four-wheeled horn-honking menace, terrorizing the town like a mechanical bull in a china shop, finally meets its match in a carefully orchestrated trap. As the car plunges off the cliff, it transforms from a road-raging, black, snarling metal beast into a magnificent fireball, as if the gates of automotive hell had suddenly opened up. The explosion is a moment of vehicular Valhalla. Rising from the inferno like a demonic soufflé, a face materializes in the smoke and flames. It’s as if the car’s evil spirit makes one last appearance, leaving with its nefarious sentiment- I’ll see you in your traffic nightmares!

This ghostly visage looks like a cross between a Halloween mask, a particularly furious cloud formation, and a fiery farewell from an evil killer car. It’s a reminder always to check your rearview mirror!

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MonsterGirl’s 150 Days of Classic Horror #26 The Beast With Five Fingers 1946

THE BEAST WITH FIVE FINGERS 1946

The Beast with Five Fingers is a 1946 American mystery-horror film directed by Robert Florey (Murders in the Rue Morgue 1932), who was very fluent in television of the 1950s and ’60s, including Boris Karloff’s Thriller and Alfred Hitchcock Presents. It is based on the 1919 short story of the same name by W. F. Harvey, which plays into the disembodied hand trope. The screenplay was written by Curt Siodmak, known for his work on other horror classics like The Wolf Man (1941) and I Walked with a Zombie (1943).

The film stars Robert Alda, Andrea King, Victor Francen, and Peter Lorre. It tells the story of a retired concert pianist, Francis Ingram (Francen), who lives in a large manor house in turn-of-the-century Italy. After Ingram’s mysterious death, strange events begin to occur, centered around his seemingly animated, disembodied left hand.

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The plot revolves around the reading of Ingram’s will, which leaves everything to his nurse, Julie Holden (King), much to the dismay of his relatives. As tensions rise, a series of murders occur, apparently committed by Ingram’s severed hand. The film builds suspense through a combination of psychological horror and supernatural elements.

Peter Lorre, as usual, delivers a standout performance as Hilary Cummins, Ingram’s secretary and astrologist, who becomes increasingly unhinged as the story progresses. The film’s score was composed by Max Steiner, adding to its eerie atmosphere. Steiner, “the father of film music,” composed scores for some of the most iconic and epic Hollywood films of the 20th century. Here’s a summary of his most notable works: King Kong 1933, Gone With the Wind 1939, Casablanca, and Now, Voyager 1942. Over his career, Steiner composed more than 300 film scores and was nominated for 24 Academy Awards, winning three.

The Beast with Five Fingers was Warner Bros.’s only foray into the horror genre in the 1940s and marked Peter Lorre’s last film with the studio. The movie is notable for its innovative special effects, which bring the disembodied hand to life through various techniques. Warner Bros. pianist Victor Aller performs the piano pieces featured in the film, whose hand is shown playing throughout the movie.

Despite initial reluctance from the cast due to concerns about the film’s title sounding like a “campy B-Movie,” the actors were eventually won over by the fascinating script. The production was not without its lighter moments, as Peter Lorre was known for playing practical jokes on set, once causing filming to be canceled for a day due to his antics. Sara Karloff shared with me that Lorre enjoyed a good practical joke with his other colleagues, her father Boris, and other co-star Vincent Price on the set of The Raven 1963.

Over time, The Beast with Five Fingers has grown in popularity and is now considered a classic of its genre. It even inspired Charles Addams’s creation of the character Thing in The Addams Family. While it may not be as frightening by today’s standards, the film remains a chilling and memorable entry in the horror genre of the 1940s.

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MonsterGirl’s 150 Days of Classic Horror #25 The Bad Seed 1956

The Bad Seed (1956) is one of the most disturbing psychological thrillers that transcend conventional narratives of psychopathic homicidal antagonists, deriving its profound disturbance from the jarring realization that innocence can be masking a malevolence embodied in a child—a cunning, blonde, pigtailed, enfant terrible who is growing up in the middle-class home of an all-American family. The film stars Nancy Kelly as Christine Penmark and Patty McCormack as her precocious, deadly daughter, Rhoda.

Directed by Mervyn LeRoy, the film is based on the 1954 play by Maxwell Anderson, which was adapted from William March’s 1954 novel. The film explores themes of inherited evil, family dynamics, and the facade of 1950s suburban perfection. It delves into the nature vs. nurture debate throughout the story, centered around a seemingly perfect child with a sinister soul.

Director LeRoy was known for his versatility, directing classics like Little Caesar (1931) and The Wizard of Oz (1939). The Bad Seed 1956 marked a departure into psychological horror for him. Nancy Kelly, who reprised her role from the Broadway production, was a former child actor herself, bringing depth to her portrayal of a mother grappling with a horrifying realization that her little girl is a murderer, having killed a young boy in a shocking way in order to get his penmanship medal she wanted to claim for herself.

Patty McCormack, only 11 at the time, delivered a chilling performance as Rhoda that would define her career. I had the pleasure of meeting Patty McCormack recently, and I can tell you that she is the complete opposite of the chilling Rhoda. She possesses some of the brightest, sparkling blue eyes and has the most wonderful laugh and sense of humor, still able to make fun of one of the most compelling psychopaths in the history of cinema.

McCormack, along with Eileen Heckart, reprised their roles from the Broadway production, bringing a seasoned depth to their performances.

The film’s cinematography was handled by Harold Rosson, an industry veteran known for his work on the iconic fantasy The Wizard of Oz and the musical Singin’ in the Rain (1952). Rosson’s use of shadow and light in The Bad Seed heightened the psychological tension, particularly in scenes featuring Rhoda’s seemingly innocent facade.

The critical reception of The Bad Seed was generally positive, with praise for its performances and psychological depth. The film received four Academy Award nominations, including Best Actress for Kelly and Best Supporting Actress for both McCormack and Eileen Heckart.

Eileen Heckart delivers a powerful and heartbreaking performance as Mrs. Hortense Daigle. Her portrayal of a grieving mother struggling to cope with the loss of her son Claude is one of the most memorable aspects of the film.

In a particularly emotional scene, Mrs. Daigle arrives at the Penmark house intoxicated, seeking answers about her son’s death. Her drunken state is both a coping mechanism and a source of raw, unfiltered emotion. Heckart’s performance captures the complex mix of grief, desperation, and anger that she experiences.

Heckart is masterful at showing a heightened state of vulnerability as Mrs. Daigle openly admits to being drunk, saying, “I’m drunk. It’s a pleasure to stay drunk when your little boy’s been killed.” The desperation as she seeks to find some closure drives her desire to hold Rhoda and talk to her, hoping to uncover any small detail about Claude’s final moments. Mrs. Daigle shares touching recollections of Claude, revealing the depth of her loss, all the while balancing her underlying suspicion that Rhoda knows more than she’s telling despite her inebriated state. Mrs. Daigle hints at her suspicions, noting, “Children can be nasty.” Heckart’s portrayal is praised for its authenticity and emotional impact. Her ability to convey the character’s pain and desperation while maintaining a sense of dignity in her grief adds depth to the film’s exploration of tragedy and evil. This scene serves as a stark contrast to Rhoda’s lack of empathy and remorse, heightening the psychological horror of the story. Heckart’s performance in this role was so compelling that it earned her the Academy Award nomination for Best Supporting Actress.

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The most chilling manifestation of psychopathology is that which emerges from within an ostensibly innocent child. This notion taps into our deepest fears about the nature of evil, challenging our assumptions about childhood purity and the origins of mental disturbance, creating a uniquely unsettling psychological horror as it subverts our expectations and confronts us with the possibility that darkness can lurk behind even the most angelic facade.

Rhoda’s facade of perfection and outward appearance as a polite, well-groomed, and respectful child makes her evil nature even more chilling, as it suggests that darkness can lurk behind even the most picture-perfect exterior. Combining these elements makes Rhoda a uniquely terrifying and compelling character in horror cinema, challenging societal notions of childhood innocence and the origins of evil.

Psychologically, The Bad Seed tapped into 1950s anxieties about the nature of evil and the debate between nature versus nurture. The film explores the controversial idea of inherited criminal or evil tendencies as Rhoda’s sociopathic behavior is suggested to be genetic, despite her loving upbringing.

A concept that resonated in an era grappling with rising juvenile delinquency. It also subverted the idealized image of 1950s suburban life, suggesting darkness could lurk behind even the most ideal American family.

The film’s ending was altered from the original play to comply with the Motion Picture Production Code, which required that evil be punished. While some criticized this change, it added an extra layer of irony to the film’s exploration of morality and fate. The Bad Seed has since become a cult classic, influencing numerous “evil child” narratives in cinema and establishing many tropes of the subgenre.

Some of the film’s most defining moments include Claude Daigle’s drowning. This off-screen event sets the plot in motion and introduces the audience to Rhoda’s true nature. Other significant moments are – Christine’s realization of Rhoda’s guilt: The moment when Christine catches Rhoda trying to burn her tap shoes in the incinerator is a pivotal turning point. Leroy’s confrontation with Rhoda: The caretaker, Leroy, played by Henry Jones, taunts Rhoda about her involvement in Claude’s death, leading to dire consequences. Mrs. Daigle’s drunken confrontation: Eileen Heckart delivers that scene I mentioned with her powerful performance as the grieving, intoxicated mother of Claude, adding emotional weight to the consequences of Rhoda’s actions and Christine’s attempted murder-suicide. This shocking scene demonstrates the depths of Christine’s despair and her misguided attempt to protect society from Rhoda.

The supporting cast adds richness to the film’s exploration of 1950s society: It includes Evelyn Varden as Monica Breedlove, the Penmarks’ neighbor, who represents the nosy but well-meaning suburban housewife archetype. Henry Jones, as the creepy, belligerent Leroy, the caretaker, serves as a foil to Rhoda’s carefully maintained facade, seeing through her act in a way the adults cannot. William Hopper, as Colonel Kenneth Penmark, Rhoda’s father, embodies the often absent 1950s patriarch, unaware of the drama unfolding in his household.

Rhoda’s character is compelling and terrifying for several reasons: The subversion of innocence: As a young child (around 8-10 years old), Rhoda presents a stark contrast between her seemingly perfect exterior and her sinister nature. This juxtaposition of childlike innocence with murderous intent is deeply unsettling. Rhoda is portrayed as a driven perfectionist and manipulator, willing to commit brutal, unthinkable murders to get her way. This level of calculation in a child is both fascinating and disturbing.

The Bad Seed is believed to be one of the first horror films featuring a child as the villain, making Rhoda’s character groundbreaking for its time and a pioneering role brought to life by Patty McCormack. McCormack’s ability to convey Rhoda’s duality was so convincing that she earned an Academy Award nomination at eleven years old.