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.

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MonsterGirl’s 150 Days of Classic Horror #24 Beast in the Cellar 1970 & The Shuttered Room 1967

SPOILER ALERT!

BEAST IN THE CELLAR 1970

The Beast in the Cellar (1971) is a British horror film directed by James Kelly, starring two inimitable British actors, Beryl Reid as Ellie Ballantyne and Flora Robson as Joyce Ballantyne. The film follows two proper elderly sisters living near a rural army base in Lancashire, where soldiers are being mysteriously murdered.

In the delightfully dreary The Beast in the Cellar (1971), two spinster sisters, Ellie (Beryl Reid) and Joyce (Flora Robson), are living their best lives in a rural English cottage, complete with a secret ingredient that’s not exactly listed in the local cookbook: their deranged brother Steven (Dafydd Havard), who’s been locked in the cellar for decades.

The story revolves around the Ballantyne sisters’ dark secret: their brother Steven, whom they’ve kept locked in their cellar for nearly 30 years in order to keep him from joining the war effort. After their father returned from World War I traumatized and violent, the sisters decided to protect Steven from being drafted into World War II by drugging and imprisoning him in the cellar until he evolved into a feral animal.

As the murders continue, the sisters realize that Steven has escaped through a tunnel he dug and is responsible for the killings plaguing the village. His years of confinement and abuse have left him with a hatred for uniformed soldiers.

Through the plodding and cloyingly oppressive atmosphere, the film builds tension as the sisters struggle to conceal their secrets and deal with the consequences of what they have done.

While The Beast in the Cellar attempts to blend psychological horror with social commentary on the effects of war, it received mixed reviews. Critics noted its slow pace and lack of traditional horror elements but praised the performances of Reid and Robson, who never disappoint. The film has since gained a cult following for its unique premise and exploration of family secrets and the long-term consequences of misguided protection.

THE SHUTTERED ROOM 1967

The Shuttered Room (1967), directed by David Greene, marked Greene’s feature-film debut after directing episodes of The Twilight Zone and Playhouse 90. Greene would go on to direct notable films such as the very taught psycho-sexual thriller I Start Counting (1969), starring Jenny Agutter, and Godspell (1973). His television work includes acclaimed projects like Roots (1977), for which he won an Emmy.

This is another British psychological horror film steeped in Gothic atmosphere and folk horror elements. Based on the 1959 short story by August Derleth, written as a “posthumous collaboration” with H.P. Lovecraft, the film loosely draws inspiration from Lovecraftian themes while carving out its own identity. The screenplay was penned by D.B. Ledrov and Nathaniel Tanchuck. Carol Lynley delivers a nuanced performance as the haunted Susannah Kelton, balancing vulnerability with quiet resilience as she confronts both external threats and internal demons.

The film also stars Gig Young as the pragmatic Mike Kelton and Oliver Reed as the menacing Ethan. Reed’s portrayal echoes his earlier work in Joseph Losey’s These Are the Damned (1963).

The insular island community evokes themes of the folk horror elements of superstition and isolation common in folk horror, predating films like The Wicker Man (1973).

The Shuttered Room also stars the wonderful Flora Robson (she would later return to the genre in Beast in the Cellar in 1970), who delivers a memorable performance as the mysterious Aunt Agatha. Robson shines as Aunt Agatha, embodying the archetype of the wise but cryptic elder who knows more than she reveals.

The film includes moody cinematography by Ken Hodges and music by Basil Kirchin, which further enhance the film’s unsettling tone.

The story follows Susannah Kelton (Carol Lynley), a young woman raised in foster care who inherits her childhood home—a decrepit mill on a remote New England island—after her parents’ death.

Accompanied by her husband, Mike (Gig Young), Susannah reluctantly returns to confront her past. The island’s insular and hostile locals, led by her lecherous cousin Ethan (Oliver Reed), warn of a family curse tied to the mill, where an unseen terror lurks in the attic’s shuttered room.

As Susannah grapples with repressed childhood memories of trauma, she becomes the target of both Ethan’s (Reed) violent advances and the mill’s dark secret. The film builds toward a shocking revelation: the “monster” in the attic is Susannah’s deranged sister, Sarah, who has hidden away since birth due to her deformities and homicidal tendencies, which leads to a climactic confrontation.

David Greene’s direction imbues The Shuttered Room with a brooding atmosphere that blends Gothic horror with modern psychological tension. Though set in New England, the film was shot entirely in Norfolk, England, lending an eerie, decayed charm to its rural setting. Greene employs innovative techniques for his time, including point-of-view shots from the “monster,” which later became a hallmark of slasher films.

Ken Hodges’s cinematography captures the desolation of the island and the oppressive gloom of the mill with stark contrasts between light and shadow. The titular shuttered room becomes a visual metaphor for repression—both familial and psychological—while recurring imagery like decaying wood and shattered glass underscores themes of fragility and entrapment.

Basil Kirchin’s score alternates between jaunty jazz motifs and ominous basslines, creating an unsettling juxtaposition that mirrors Susannah’s uneasy return to her roots. This departure from traditional gothic orchestration gives the film a modern edge while maintaining its sense of dread.

The Shuttered Room 1967 explores repression and trauma and how buried secrets—both familial and personal—can fester into destructive forces. Susannah’s repressed memories parallel Sarah’s literal imprisonment.

The Shuttered Room occupies an intriguing position within British horror cinema of the 1960s. While often overshadowed by Hammer Films’ Gothic output during this period, it stands out for its fusion of Gothic tropes with modern psychological horror. Its depiction of rural hostility and repressed trauma aligns it with early folk horror works that would later define the subgenre.

With its decaying millhouse hiding both family secrets and unspeakable horrors, The Shuttered Room weaves a tale where Gothic dread meets up with folk horror unease—making the film a chilling exploration of things lurking behind locked doors.

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MonsterGirl’s 150 Days of Classic Horror #23 The Bird with the Crystal Plumage 1970 & Deep Red 1975

SPOILER ALERT!

THE BIRD WITH THE CRYSTAL PLUMAGE 1970

Bird with the Crystal Plumage 1970 is Dario Argento’s (who also wrote the script) directorial debut. The film is a landmark piece of horror art that revolutionized the Giallo genre and set the stage for Argento’s illustrious career in horror and thriller cinema. The film follows Sam Dalmas (Tony Musante), an American writer living in Rome who witnesses a brutal attack on Monica Ranieri (Eva Renzi) in an art gallery. Trapped between glass doors during the assault, Sam becomes obsessed with solving the case, uncovering clues tied to a macabre painting and a rare bird’s call. His investigation, aided by his girlfriend Julia (Suzy Kendall) and Inspector Morosini (Enrico Maria Salerno), leads to a shocking twist as Bird with the Crystal Plumage delves into themes of trauma, obsession, and the fallibility of perception. Monica, driven by trauma from a past attack, is the true killer, with her husband Alberto (Umberto Raho) as her accomplice.

Heavily influenced by the Maestro of Giallo – Mario Bava, Argento’s film is notable for its opening sequence, which, with its focus on surveillance and photography, sets the tone for the film’s exploration of voyeurism. This theme is further developed through Sam’s obsessive investigation and the killer’s stalking of victims. The film culminates in a climactic confrontation at the gallery, blending psychological intrigue with Argento’s signature suspense-saturated atmosphere.

Vittorio Storaro’s Techniscope cinematography features stark geometric framing, saturated primary colors, and chiaroscuro lighting. The use of amber silhouettes and vivid contrasts heightens the tension and creates a visually striking spectacle. The film established many tropes that would become staples of Giallo, including the amateur sleuth protagonist, the black-gloved killer (seen in Bava’s films), and the blending of mystery and horror.

The Bird with the Crystal Plumage was a commercial and critical success upon release, credited with popularizing the Giallo genre internationally. As far as his legacy, Argento was hailed as “the Italian Hitchcock” and revolutionized horror and thriller cinema through his work, which is characterized by stylized violence, voyeuristic camerawork, and bold color palettes. His work merges operatic set pieces and forges a psychological fault line, where every moment trembles with the promise of seismic collapse.

It launched Argento’s career and influenced filmmakers beyond the Italian horror scene, including Brian De Palma, whose films like Dressed to Kill 1980 and Blow Out 1981 show clear Giallo influences.

Bird with the Crystal Plumage’s success led to Argento’s Animal Trilogy, followed by The Cat o’ Nine Tails (1971) and Four Flies on Grey Velvet (1972). It established Argento’s trademark style of lurid violence, Freudian psychology, and collaborations with renowned artists like composer renowned Italian composer Ennio Morricone.

Morricone is celebrated for his iconic film scores, including those for Sergio Leone’s Westerns. For this film, he infused the score with the Lullaby theme. A hauntingly soft “la-la” vocal melody, performed by Edda Dell’Orso, creates an unsettling sense of innocence and fragility. This theme is used during moments of flirtation or domestic calm, such as scenes between Sam (Tony Musante) and Julia (Suzy Kendall). The lullaby’s ethereal quality contrasts sharply with the film’s violent undertones. Morricone also used atonal improvisation in scenes involving the killer. Morricone employed avant-garde techniques, including dissonant piano notes, free jazz drumming, eerie whispers, and fragmented rhythms, in tracks like “Phrases Without Structure” and used unpredictable sounds—such as muted trumpets, chimes, and distorted guitar swells—to evoke unease and tension.

These semi-improvised pieces mirror the chaotic psychology of the killer and heighten suspense during stalking sequences. The Bird with the Crystal Plumage was pivotal in shaping the soundscape of Giallo cinema. His innovative use of unconventional instrumentation—like vibraphones, harpsichords, and vocal sighs—created an auditory experience that was both unsettling and seductive. The two words that sum up Argento’s films.

DEEP RED (PROFONDO ROSSO) 1975

Dario Argento’s Deep Red (Profondo Rosso) is a masterclass in Giallo filmmaking, which blends the hallmark of the genre with its psychological tension, graphic violence, and stunning visual artistry with the use of vibrant colors and avant-garde camera angles.

The story follows Marcus Daly (David Hemmings), an English jazz pianist living in Rome, who becomes embroiled in a murder investigation after witnessing the brutal killing of psychic medium Helga Ulmann (Macha Méril). Helga had publicly revealed the presence of a murderer during a séance shortly before her death. Obsessed with uncovering the killer’s identity, Marcus teams up with journalist Gianna Brezzi (Daria Nicolodi), and their investigation leads them into a labyrinth of secrets, childhood trauma, and repressed memories. The film is structured around Marcus’s unraveling of the mystery, with each clue bringing him closer to the truth while placing him in increasing danger.

Argento masterfully uses misdirection and visual cues to toy with our perception. A key moment early in the film—when Marcus glimpses something significant in Helga’s apartment but cannot recall what it is—sets up the film’s central theme: once again, much like Bird with the Crystal Plumage – the fallibility of memory.

This idea is reinforced throughout the narrative as Marcus pieces together fragments of evidence, culminating in a shocking twist that reveals the killer to be Carlo’s (Gabriele Lavia) mother, Marta (Clara Calamai), who has been driven to murder by her psychological trauma.

Visually, Deep Red is one of Argento’s most striking films. Collaborating with cinematographer Luigi Kuveiller (Investigation of a Citizen Above Suspicion), Argento creates a world drenched in vivid colors—most notably red—to heighten tension and evoke unease.

The use of color is not merely aesthetic but thematic; red symbolizes both violence and hidden truths that bleed to the surface as Marcus delves deeper into the mystery.

Argento also employs fluid and dynamic camerawork to immerse viewers in the narrative. Long tracking shots follow characters through eerie locations, such as abandoned mansions and shadowy corridors, while extreme close-ups linger on seemingly innocuous objects that later become significant clues.

Using art as a clue — like many Giallo films, Deep Red uses art as an integral part of its mystery. A macabre painting is vital to identifying the killer, reinforcing Argento’s fascination with how art reflects hidden truths.

The killer’s perspective is frequently shown through voyeuristic point-of-view shots, creating a sense of dread as the audience becomes complicit in their acts. Also, one of Argento’s most iconic techniques is his use of reflective surfaces—mirrors, glass shards, and water—which distort reality and hint at hidden layers within the story. For instance, Marcus’s inability to recognize what he saw in Helga’s apartment mirrors his struggle to confront repressed truths about the murders.

At its core, Deep Red explores how memory and perception shape our understanding of reality. Marcus’s inability to recall what he saw at Helga’s murder scene reflects both his personal struggle and humanity’s broader difficulty in confronting uncomfortable truths.

Deep Red is an immersion in childhood trauma — The film delves into how past events shape present behavior. The killer’s motive is rooted in a traumatic incident from Carlo’s childhood—a moment when he witnessed his mother murdering his father. This theme is visualized through recurring images of children’s drawings and dolls, which take on sinister connotations.

The score for Deep Red, composed by progressive rock band Goblin (one of my favorite scores was their work, which infused Suspiria 1977 with a dramatically intense soundscape ), marked their first collaboration with Argento and became one of the most iconic elements of the film. The music blends haunting melodies with pulsating rhythms and eerie synthesizers, creating an atmosphere that oscillates between hypnotic beauty and jarring terror. Tracks like “Profondo Rosso” build suspense with their relentless basslines and dissonant keyboards, perfectly complementing Argento’s visual style.

The score actively drives the narrative forward—for example, Goblin’s music crescendos during moments of revelation or violence. Combining avant-garde rock and classical influences gives Deep Red yet another unique soundscape that has been widely imitated but rarely matched.

Daria Nicolodi, who plays Gianna Brezzi, introduces a strong female character who challenges traditional gender roles. Gianna is independent and assertive and often outshines Marcus in her investigative skills—though their playful banter occasionally highlights Marcus’s discomfort with her modernity.

#23 down, 127 to go! Your EverLovin’ Joey, formally & affectionately known as MonsterGirl!

MonsterGirl’s 150 Days of Classic Horror #22 The Brotherhood of Satan 1971

THE BROTHERHOOD OF SATAN 1971

The Brotherhood of Satan (1971) is perhaps one of the most striking installments of the ’70s occult films, not just of that decade but of any film within its iteration of cinematic narratives that delve into the dark allure of devil worship, which often intersect with the timeless quest for eternal youth, creating a fascinating dichotomy between the pursuit of immortality and the surrender to malevolent forces.

It is a supernatural horror film directed by Bernard McEveety, who is known for his work on various television series. Strother Martin, as Dr. Duncan, gives a tour de force as a terrifying High Priest who wages war on old age by using the dark arts to take possession of children’s bodies and use them as the vessels of his coven’s souls. It’s a depraved notion and not without impact on the screen. McEveety does it with a very unpretentious stroke of low-budget/high art that comes across as though, on the surface, surreal; it disturbs at our visceral core. That’s why I love ’70s horror!

L.Q. Jones stars as Sheriff Pete, Charles Bateman plays Ben Holden, Ahna Capri is Nicky, and Charles Robinson plays the ill-fated Father Jack.

The Brotherhood of Satan envelops us in a quietly malignant atmosphere where rural serenity morphs into claustrophobic menace and panic. Set in the American Southwest, the story follows Ben Holden, a widower traveling with his young daughter K.T. and girlfriend Nicky.

They stumble upon a small California community inexplicably plagued by mysterious deaths and gripped by terror and the disappearances of children. Not only are the children missing, but no one, including the newly arrived Ben Holden, his daughter, or his girlfriend, can leave the boundaries of the town, not unlike others who attempted before and wound up as bloody, mangled victims.

Unbeknownst to them, a coven of elderly Satanists, led by Duncan, is orchestrating these events in a bid for immortality by transferring their souls into the bodies of the kidnapped children.

The film blends elements of small-town paranoia, occult horror, and psychological tension. It features inventive death scenes and a surreal atmosphere, particularly in scenes involving the children and their toys. The narrative builds to a climactic ritual where the line between reality and supernatural horror blurs.

L.Q. Jones, who also produced the film alongside Alvy Moore, initially titled it “Come In, Children” ( This is the title of my extended feature coming soon. If I truly had a gun to my head, The Brotherhood of Satan would wind up on my top twenty of all-time classic horror films), preferring this over the eventual title. Jones described the film as different from typical monster pictures, stating, “We’ve got a little blood in it—to appease the popcorn rattlers—but there are no silver bullets or crosses or stakes. The ending is deliberately up in the air. We don’t explain it; we just lay it out.”

The film’s power lies in its methodical unraveling, the onslaught of eerie silences, intrusive rituals, and the chillingly composed senior citizens whose gentle exteriors disguise their unfathomable evil. McEveety masterfully exploits the emptiness of the landscape and the suffocating confines of the town, generating palpable dread from the smallest details: sidelong glances, cryptic meetings, the relentless sound of a music box. As the protagonists are drawn deeper into the web of occult conspiracy, all innocence is subsumed, reason crumbles, and the film’s story unspools not merely as a battle against supernatural horror but as a profound meditation on paranoia, helplessness, and the relentless intrusion of darkness into ordinary life. The Brotherhood of Satan is a grimly poetic, psychologically unsettling, and unshakable in its haunting vision.

While not a blockbuster hit, The Brotherhood of Satan has gained a cult following for its unique approach to Satanic themes and its atmospheric small-town setting. It stands as a notable entry in the 1970s occult horror genre, offering a more cerebral and ambiguous take on devil worship than many of its contemporaries.

And coming very soon, prepare for me to fully descend into the choking silence and ritualistic shadow of The Brotherhood of Satan, where isolation is more than a mood, it’s a suffocating presence, and every invocation carries the weight of a malevolent power driven by a lust for immortality. The unnerving calm of small-town normalcy buckles under the pressure of the occult, as innocence dissolves, and ordinary lives become pawns on a ceremonial altar of fear.

#22 down, 128 to go! Your EverLovin’ Joey, formally & affectionately known as MonsterGirl!

MonsterGirl’s 150 Days of Classic Horror #21 Burnt Offerings 1976

BURNT OFFERINGS 1976

Dan Curtis’s Burnt Offerings (1976) is a sophisticated psychological horror film that subverts traditional haunted house tropes. It stars Karen Black, Oliver Reed, Bette Davis, Lee H. Montgomery, Eileen Heckart, and Burgess Meredith as Roz and Arnold Allardyce, the odd brother and sister who own the mansion.

Burnt Offerings is a morbidly fascinating tale of a family’s summer vacation gone horribly wrong. Karen Black and Oliver Reed star as Marian and Ben Rolf, a couple who rent a massive Victorian mansion for a suspiciously low price. Marian and Ben, along with their son David (Lee H. Montgomery) and Aunt Elizabeth (Bette Davis)—rent the sprawling house for the summer until things take a dark turn. Though the house is too good to be true, there is one catch: The Rolfs must care for Roz and Arnold’s unseen elderly mother, who resides in the attic.

The family soon discovers that their dream home has quirks, like Mrs. Allardyce, the mysterious old lady who never leaves her room, a garden that resurrects itself, and a house with an appetite for human souls.

The real scene-stealer, and the one that made me jump out of my seat in the theater, is the sinister chauffeur, played by Anthony James, who appears in Ben’s nightmares. James, known for his creepy on-screen presence, really gives you a shock to the system in the coffin scene with Bette Davis.

As the house’s sinister influence grows, the Rolfs find themselves in a race against time to escape before they become the latest addition to the property’s unique renovation plan. Burnt Offerings is the perfect example of 70s horror as many of the horror films from that era relied on psychological terror and a pervasive sense of dread rather than graphic violence or supernatural spectacle, though a soul-sucking evil house does have its moments.

Dan Curtis, adept at atmospheric Gothic horror, which includes character-driven supernatural narratives and thoughtful genre adaptations, masterfully builds tension through subtle atmospheric changes and the gradual transformation of the characters, particularly Marian’s growing obsession with the house. The film’s intelligent script, co-written by Curtis and William F. Nolan, delves into the psychological impact of the house on its inhabitants, blurring the lines between reality and supernatural influence.

Burnt Offerings stands out for its nuanced approach to horror, eschewing cheap scares in favor of a pervasive sense of dread. The film’s exploration of how evil can manifest through seemingly benign objects and the corruption of familial bonds is what truly adds a layer of shivers because family dynamics are complex enough when adding a layer of a malevolent force that seeks to destroy them.

Anthony James, with his uniquely imposing face and his topography of scars, delivers a chilling performance as the sinister chauffeur. This recurring apparition that haunts and tortures Ben’s nightmares serves as a harbinger of the house’s malevolent nature. The specter of James’s character becomes a symbol of the inevitable doom that awaits the family as the film explores themes of familial disintegration and the insidious nature of evil, a haunting meditation on the seductive and destructive power of both.

#21 down, 129 to go! Your EverLovin’ Joey formally & affectionately known as MonsterGirl!

MonsterGirl’s 150 Days of Classic Horror #20 Blacula 1972 & Scream Blacula Scream 1973

BLACULA 1972

Directed by William Crain, whose work on Blacula stands out because he was one of the first Black filmmakers from a major film school to make a mark in Hollywood, and his decision to reimagine the Dracula legend wasn’t just clever—it was transformative for the genre. By telling this classic horror story through the lens of an African prince wronged by Western power, Crain didn’t just inject new life into the material; he boldly challenged the Eurocentric traditions of horror films and brought themes of racial representation and historical injustice to the screen in ways that were fresh, confrontational, and culturally important. It’s a film that’s both enjoyably campy and socially resonant, underlining why Crain’s contribution still matters as a milestone for Black representation in genre filmmaking

Released by American International Pictures (AIP) in 1972, Blacula follows the tragic tale of Mamuwalde (the towering 6’5” figure of thespian William Marshall, a stage actor with a distinguished career in theater, performing in numerous classical stage works, including several Shakespearean plays. Marshall made his Broadway debut in 1944 in Carmen Jones), an African Prince who visits Count Dracula’s ( Charles Macaulay) castle with his beautiful wife Luva (played by Vonetta McGee) to plead for an end to the slave trade in the 18th century afflicting his people, the Abani.

However, the evening’s uneasy meeting quickly turns sour as Dracula scoffs at Mamuwalde’s proposal, baring his metaphorical teeth with a disdainful and haughty attitude toward him and making lewd insinuations about Luva. This confrontation escalates into a physical clash, culminating in Dracula’s transforming Mamuwalde into a vampire and cursing him with the moniker soulfully reimagined from Dracula to Blacula and mocking the prince, christening him, and cursing him with his name.

He condemns him to an eternal existence of bloodlust. Within the framework that is part of the blaxploitation genre, Blacula, on another level, explores themes of racial oppression, identity, and the lasting impact of historical injustices. (I will be talking about this film more extensively in the future.) Dracula imprisons Mamuwalde inside a coffin and leaves Luva to die after she witnesses Dracula feeding on her beloved husband and then entombing her.

Fast forward to 1972, two hundred years later, with a deliciously campy appeal, Blacula introduces us to Bobby McCoy (Ted Harris) and Billy Schaffer (Ricky Metzler), a flamboyant duo of gay interior decorators who embark on a treasure hunt in Transylvania. Their fabulous antiquing outing? To snag the most fabulous gothic relics from the former Castle Dracula at a steal. As they swoon over the macabre decor, the estate’s salesman regales them with spine-tingling tales of the real Count Dracula, but they dismiss his warnings with a flick of their wrists. Back in L.A., amidst their haul of treasures, including Mamuwalde’s coffin, Bobby’s curiosity gets the better of him, and he decides to pry it open, unleashing the undead Blacula. He springs to life, famished for blood, and in a wickedly, kitschy, and humorous scene makes them his first victims, turning Bobby and Billy into his first modern bloodthirsty acolytes.

He becomes enamored with Tina, a woman who resembles Luva, leading to a series of murders as he attempts to reconnect with her. Meanwhile, Dr. Gordon Thomas (Thalmus Rasulala), Tina’s sister’s (Denise Nicholas) boyfriend, is a pathologist who works for the Los Angeles Police Department. Gordon investigates the strange deaths and uncovers the truth about Blacula and the vampirism spreading in the city. The film culminates in tragedy as Blacula ultimately loses Tina and chooses to end his own life, succumbing to sunlight after a series of violent confrontations with the police and his kind.

Blacula features a special guest appearance by Elisha Cook Jr. as Sam, the morgue attendant, and Ketty Lester as a very unfortunate and frightening cabbie who plays one hell of a scary member of the undead!

Picture a vampiric version of hide-and-seek gone hilariously wrong, where Ketty Lester’s Juanita jumps out like an overeager bloodsucking jack-in-the-box, turning Sam’s quiet night shift into an unexpectedly terrifying welcome he never saw coming!

SCREAM BLACULA SCREAM 1973

Directed by Bob Kelljan (who also directed Count Yorga, Vampire 1970 and the sequel Return of Count Yorga 1971), this follow-up was produced by American International Pictures (AIP) and released in 1973. Scream, Blacula Scream once again features the resurrection of William Marshall as the elegant Prince of Darkness, Pam Grier as Lisa Fortier, Michael Conrad as Lieutenant Harley Dunlop, Janee Michelle as Gloria, and Barbara Rhoades as Elaine.

The sequel picks up with the death of the voodoo priestess Mama Loa, which ignites a power struggle within her cult. Her arrogant son, Willis Daniels (Richard Lawson), attempts to resurrect Blacula using voodoo to exact revenge on those who overlooked him for leadership in favor of his stepsister, Lisa Fortier, (who, unlike slasher films’ “white Final Girl,” is the empowered Black Enduring Woman, (source: Means Coleman) who goes head to head with the supernatural forces at work. However, upon resurrecting Mamuwalde, Willis becomes a vampire and is enslaved by the very creature he sought to control. As Blacula resumes his killing spree, he becomes infatuated with Lisa, believing she can help lift his curse through voodoo magic.

Lisa is the adopted apprentice of Mama Loa, the dying voodoo queen, whose death triggers the central conflict in the film. She is chosen by Mama Loa as her adopted daughter and the successor to lead the cult, which enrages Willis, Mama Loa’s biological son. Willis seeks revenge by purchasing the bones of Prince Mamuwalde (Marshall returning to his role as the enigmatic Blacula) from a former voodoo shaman and using voodoo rituals to resurrect the regal vampire. However, his plan backfires, and Willis loses control over Blacula, who shares his curse and turns him into a vampire. Lisa, deeply connected to the voodoo cult and its rituals, becomes involved in the supernatural conflict, using her growing voodoo powers to attempt to cure and protect not only the men in her life but also those affected by the vampirism spreading through their community.

She meets Blacula and, after witnessing his nature first-hand, agrees to help rid him of his vampire curse through a voodoo ritual. Lisa’s boyfriend, Justin Carter, an ex-police officer and collector of African antiquities, investigates the string of mysterious deaths linked to Blacula and works with the police to confront the vampire threat. The climax involves Lisa attempting a voodoo exorcism on Blacula while Justin tries to save Lisa from his grasp, while he and the police raid the vampire’s lair. When the ritual is interrupted, Blacula goes on a violent rampage, forcing Lisa to use a voodoo doll to defeat him ultimately. The climax leads to an ambiguous ending filled with horror and tragedy as their fates intertwine.