What Might Have Been: Peter Cushing in the ‘70s (And Beyond)

One of the most iconic performers in the history of the horror film genre, Peter Cushing attained that iconic status thanks to a string of roles—mainly for legendary Hammer Films—during the 1950s and 1960s that saw him play the likes of Dr. Frankenstein, Dr. Van Helsing, Sherlock Holmes and others. A classically trained actor who played it much straighter during his earlier years in the 1930s and 1940s, Cushing will nevertheless always be remembered for the reputation he established as one of the true gentlemen of horror.

Nevertheless, after nearly 20 years as the face of British terror, Cushing’s career took a step back in the 1970s. There are a few reasons for this. One would be the death of his beloved wife Helen in 1971—a loss that left him a shell of his former self for the remainder of his life. There was also the fall of Hammer from its position of prominence into oblivion. For much of the decade, the actor slummed it in roles that his fans and supporters believed to be clearly beneath him. Even the role of the villainous Grand Moff Tarkin in Star Wars, for which Cushing is perhaps best known by younger audiences, was mainly undertaken by Cushing because he felt it would appeal to children. Whatever the reasons for it, there is no doubt that Cushing’s 1970s output was decidedly more erratic and of lower quality than the work that had come before.

But it didn’t have to be that way. There are several tantalizing “What Ifs” surrounding Cushing’s career during this period that are enough to give any horror aficionado pause. The 1970s (and even 1980s) could have played out very differently for him than they did, if only a few different choices had been made.

In 1970, when American International Pictures was in pre-production on a quirky, ambitious vehicle for Vincent Price, Cushing was approached to play the chief protagonist alongside Price. Aside from Price, the film starred an assortment of British character actors, and Cushing would’ve been perfect heading up the bunch. It would’ve been a breakout role for American audiences who knew him mainly for the British imports from Hammer. However, Cushing’s wife Helen was very ill with the emphysema that would soon claim her life, and the actor turned down the part in order to stay by her side and care for her.

The film was The Abominable Dr. Phibes, and the role was that of Dr. Vesalius, the noble foil to Price’s titular villain. American Oscar-winner Joseph Cotten was eventually chosen for the part, and although he is very effective in the finished film, his American-ness does make him stand out like a sore thumb amongst the film’s cast (while Price was also American, of course, his bearing and demeanor always helped him get away with it somehow). The movie is easily one of the finest horror pictures of the entire decade, and arguably better than any Hammer film put out during the same period. There can be no doubt that Cushing’s presence alongside his fellow horror icon Price would’ve only made it that much better.

Cushing as the ship's captain in Dr. Phibes Rises Again.

Interestingly, Cushing—mere months after Helen’s passing—would appear in the 1972 sequel, Dr. Phibes Rises Again, but in a tiny role so unworthy of him one wonders why he was even cast. It would not be until two years later that Cushing and Price would finally have the opportunity to properly co-star with each other, in the Amicus production Madhouse. It would be one of the only times.

Two years after Madhouse, wunderkind filmmaker George Lucas was ramping his soon-to-be game-changing space opera Star Wars into production. Although the cast would be made up largely of young unknowns, Lucas wanted two British actors with established gravitas for two of the key roles—that of wizened Jedi Knight Obi-Wan Kenobi, and of the evil galactic tyrant Grand Moff Tarkin. Initially, the director approached Cushing for the role of Kenobi—but presumably the actor’s horror track record and aristocratic, aloof on-screen presence (a direct contrast to his warm, gentle personality in real life) led Lucas to switch gears and instead cast him as the icy Tarkin. Fellow acclaimed Englishman Alec Guiness was instead chosen to play the benevolent Kenobi.

Needless to say, had Cushing landed the part he was originally approached for, he would’ve had the opportunity to appear in both Star Wars sequels, The Empire Strikes Back and Return of the Jedi (as Guinness did in the role), not to mention have his character reprised by a younger actor in the later prequels (which Ewan McGregor did for Guinness). As it stands, Cushing’s appearance in perhaps the most successful movie franchise of all time is relegated to a one-time appearance that covers less than ten (albeit memorable) minutes of screen time.

Star Wars raised Cushing’s profile with American audiences higher than it had been in years, and hot on the heels of that mega-blockbuster, Cushing was approached by another young upstart filmmaker by the name of John Carpenter, hard at work on a project that was decidedly grittier and less grandiose, and yet just as ambitious in its own right: Halloween.

Carpenter was looking to redefine the parameters of horror, taking some cues from earlier films like Psycho, but moving them in a completely different direction. Nevertheless, it was a very small picture, and no one understood at the time that he was basically inventing the modern slasher subgenre. A rabid fan of 1950s and 1960s horror, Carpenter wanted Cushing, one of his idols, for a key role in the film—that of Dr. Sam Loomis, the beleaguered psychiatrist of psychopathic killer Michael Myers, who tracks the maniac down to the sleepy town of Haddonfield, Illinois.

The movie Cushing made
instead of Halloween

It was quite a meaty role, but Cushing nevertheless turned Carpenter down. Perhaps the then-somewhat-sordid subject matter was the reason for this, although that argument loses some steam when one realizes that Cushing instead chose to star in a clunker called Son of Hitler. Incidentally, a disappointed Carpenter next asked Cushing’s Hammer cohort Christopher Lee, who also turned down the part—a decision he would later cite as the biggest mistake of his career. The part instead went to another British character actor—and former Bond villain—Donald Pleasance.

In the wake of Hammer’s demise, Halloween could have been Cushing’s grand return to horror relevance. The film became one of the most groundbreaking horror pictures not only of its time, but of all time, and Cushing as Dr. Loomis would’ve been the most eloquent evolution of his old Van Helsing character, a scientist tracking a ruthless murderer, taken to a whole new, thoroughly modern level for a new generation of horror fans. It also would’ve all but guaranteed repeat appearances for Cushing as Dr. Loomis in the three Halloween sequels in which Pleasance instead appeared over the course of the 1980s. That would’ve meant we’d have Peter Cushing front and center in a top horror film series during an era when all his fellow former horror icons had faded from prominence in the face of Freddy, Jason, Pinhead and their ilk. Now that would’ve been something.

As it stands, we’re left only to speculate on the further greatness Peter Cushing may have sustained in the 1970s and 1980s, and an alternate reality in which Cushing starred alongside Vincent Price in Dr. Phibes, played Obi-Wan Kenobi in the Star Wars movies, and was Michael Myers' mortal enemy. Clearly, it just wasn’t meant to be, and the actor’s deep depression during those years is reflected in both his lackluster roles and comparatively half-hearted performances. Peter Cushing gave us all he had during his entire career—it’s just sad that in those later years he had so little left to give. We’ll have to be happy with the Peter Cushing of the 1950s and 1960s, at the height of his powers, creating a breathtaking and unforgettable body of work. For most of us, that’s more than enough.

This post is part of Pierre Fournier's Peter Cushing Centennial Blogathon, celebrating the 100th anniversary of the birth of one of horror's greatest treasures. Please check out Pierre's excellent blog Frankensteinia to find all the other posts in the blogathon!

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Hump-Day Harangue: Why Hammer Beats Universal (Almost) Every Time

As a fan of classic horror—by which I mean anything before Romero’s zombies threatened the countryside and Rosemary had her baby—I’ve often gotten caught up in that eternal debate: Which studio was superior, Universal or Hammer? And by writing this, by no means do I want to denigrate one or the other, or imply that one is subpar. Rather, both the Universal Studios output of the 1930s/40s and the Hammer output of the 1950s/60s/70s represent high watermarks in the history of horror. It’s just that, given the choice, I usually go with Hammer.

That’s right, I’m choosing the Brits over my own countrymen. Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy Universal’s iconic cycle of horror flicks, which first introduced moviegoing audiences to the likes of Dracula, Frankenstein, the Mummy, the Invisible Man, the Wolf Man and more. I just believe that by reinvigorating the gothic genre in the era of radioactive monsters and exploitation, Hammer did Universal one better and set the benchmark even higher.

Let’s get one thing out of the way, first and foremost—in my estimation, both James Whale’s Frankenstein and The Bride of Frankenstein are superior to any film ever put out by the Hammer studio. That said, outside of those two films, I generally find the Hammer body of work to be more enjoyable than the Universal body of work. There are a number of reasons for this.

Maybe chief among them would be that Hammer represented my original introduction to the horror genre. I like to think I’m not so prone to such a subjective view, but I must at least entertain the possibility that I’m biased. As a very small child, I first discovered what horror was all about thanks to those weekend afternoon showings of Hammer gems on syndicated TV in New York. Channels 5, 9 and 11 were my tutors in pop culture, and among the gifts they gave me was Hammer. In fact, Hammer’s Lust for a Vampire may have been the first horror movie I ever saw.

But beyond this mere nostalgia, there’s more. As time went by and I came to discover Universal not long after, I also developed a strong love for their brand of horror as well. But it never supplanted Hammer in my heart.

Not to sound like a Philistine, but a large part of this had to do with Hammer’s vibrant Technicolor. One of the main elements that the studio itself took pride in was that it was reinventing these classic horror tropes in a color medium, replacing Universal’s crisp black and white with the garish, comic book-like hues never before seen in gothic cinematic horror. And while generally I deplore the attitude that black and white is somehow inferior, in this case—especially as a child—I was more drawn in by those bold, almost shocking colors.

Needless to say, one of the main uses Hammer made of that full color palette was to show blood. And by “blood” I mean some of the first major instances of simulated bloodshed ever seen in horror movies, especially of this kind. Whereas the Universal canon was more staid in its presentation, leaving more to the viewer’s imagination (often due to constraints from the Hayes Committee), Hammer let it all hang out, splashing the camera with more bright red plasma than had ever been seen. This meant that instead of a fangless Dracula (all due to respect to Bela Lugosi), we got a fanged and fierce Christopher Lee, gore dripping from his lips, his eyes ringed in scarlet. For an eight-year-old, literally the stuff of nightmares.

Hammer made a splash (pardon the pun) through their then-liberal usage of blood, but they also became known for something else: beautiful women. Although it may sound silly to harp on it, Hammer’s unprecedented emphasis on sexuality was a big deal, and also helped usher horror into a new era just as much as the blood did. The buxom and often exotic women who populated Hammer’s films brought blatant sex appeal like never before, in stark contrast to the often prim and buttoned-up sexuality occasionally glimpsed in Universal. This is not to say that Universal horror was not dealing with sexual themes, just that they did it in a much more (necessarily) subtle and subtextual way, whereas Hammer—in typical studio fashion—loved bashing you over the head with it.

Another aspect of Hammer that they often don’t get enough credit for is the return of gothic horror to its proper Victorian roots. Whereas Universal’s films often took place in some vague, unknown time period that seemed like a confusing cross between modern times and the 19^th century, Hammer was careful to set its stories firmly in the Victorian era (or earlier in some cases). 

This worked especially for many of the tales, like Dracula and Frankenstein, which were set in earlier time periods and were for the first time being presented that way—but Hammer went much further than that. Perhaps out of a sense of national pride in their own fabled history, they enjoyed making nearly all their films period films, delighting in breathtaking costume and set design that really gave you a sense of being in an earlier time. It would be a new standard that would be copied by all gothic horror going forward, right up until today.

In short, I think what makes Hammer my preferred source for classic horror is that their output generally works better as horror films, if that makes sense. While the Universal classics were usually more polished, especially those of the 1930s, and were superior as films, Hammer’s work was just downright scarier, with more of a flair for the horrific. While Universal had fine filmmakers like Tod Browning and Whale, exceptional cinematography from the likes of Karl Freund, brilliant set design from the likes of Russell Gausman, and of course the writing of the great Curt Siodmak, Hammer answered back with workhorse director and writer Terence Fisher and Jimmy Sangster, meticulous costume designer Molly Arbuthnot and the blaring musical scores of James Bernard. 

While Hammer generally worked with a smaller budget, they made you feel as if their productions were more lush. Universal may have been more mainstream and high-profile, especially in the U.S., but Hammer made up for their technical shortcomings with more of a genuine relish for horror. They threw themselves into taking the groundwork laid by Universal and ratcheting it up about five or six notches. And they were damn good at it.

So while I thoroughly enjoy my Karloff, Lugosi and Chaney just as much as the next horror nut, my soul belongs, in the end, to Cushing and Lee. Pressed to make a choice between Universal and Hammer, I’ll go with Hammer. But it’s kind of like asking me to choose between Sinatra and the Beatles, or Marvel and DC—I may go with the Chairman and the Board and the House of Ideas, but that shouldn’t take anything away from my profound love for the Fab Four and the Distinguished Competition as well. There’s room for all in my horror-lovin’ heart.

And if you, like me, enjoy a good Hammer flick—or two!—I urge you to join me tomorrow night in Bridgeport for BEDLAM AT THE BIJOU: Hammer Horror, a unique double feature in which I’ll be screening both Hammer’s version of The Mummy and the vastly underrated Curse of the Werewolf! Plus, we’ve got Hammer DVD and book giveaways, and a special appearance by the LoTTD’s own John Cozzoli of Zombos Closet of Terror! Hope to see you there, Vault dwellers…

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TRAILER TRASH! Godzilla Edition, Vol. 2

For more GODZILLA goodness--come down to the Bijou Theatre in Bridgeport, CT next Thursday, September 27 for my special "Nuclear Nightmares" double feature of the original 1954 Gojira and the giant ant epic Them! It's all part of Bedlam at the Bijou...

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The Many Faces of Hammer Horror

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Nosferatu at 90: Who Was Max Schreck?

His very name is the German word for "terror". Perhaps this was one of the reasons why many believed it to be a pseudonym--surely no actor known for playing such a terrifying role could really have a name like that. Or perhaps it was not a pseudonym after all--perhaps, as some fancied for years, the man himself was no mere actor at all, but actually was what he portrayed onscreen--a bloodsucking member of the undead.

The legend of his mysterious nature was so persistent that it even formed the basis of the 2000 mock biopic Shadow of the Vampire, in which director E. Elias Merhige postulates that the man who played Count Orlock, a.k.a. Nosferatu--truly was a vampire himself. A testament, if nothing else, to his iconic, thoroughly convincing performance as the silver screen's first such creature.

Schreck sans vamp makeup...

But nevertheless, to the disappointment of goths everywhere, Max Schreck was a mere mortal after all.

He was born Friedrich Gustav Max Schreck on September 6, 1879 in the Friedenau section of Berlin, Germany--although the details of his early life are admittedly sparse, we know this much is true. And he was most certainly an actor--one, in fact, who was quite passionate about his calling, heading directly to the State Theatre of Berlin for instruction as soon as his regular schooling was complete.

It was in 1902 that a 22-year-old Schreck finished his training and emerged on to the German dramatic scene during a time when motion pictures were still in their earliest infancy and the stage was still really the only place for a young performer to make his name. Seeking to learn his craft, he toured his native country for a few years with various troupes until finally settling in with the highly prestigious company of Max Reinhardt--then one of the world's leading stage impresarios and a producer responsible for launching the careers of many of a future film star.

Schreck would turn out to be one of these, as the actor approached the prime of his career just at the moment that Germany was exploding onto the cinematic scene as one of the leaders in the burgeoning technological art form. Expressionism was taking root in a big way, and in the wake of the first World War, Germany was reestablishing itself as a hotbed for the new medium.

It was while appearing in the Drums in the Night, the debut production of soon-to-be acclaimed German playwright Bertolt Brecht, that Schreck was approached to be in his first motion picture--Der Richter von Zalamea. The gaunt, almost otherwordly actor was a natural for the movies, especially during the silent era, when the face was everything. This was doubly true of the Expressionist era, during which stage histrionics of the sort used by Schreck and others were all the more grandiose when projected on to a giant screen.

The role that immortalized him...

That first role would lead to the part that would eventually make him famous--or infamous--throughout the world. F.W. Murnau, one of the leaders of the German Expressionist film movement, was busy adapting--unofficially--Bram Stoker's novel Dracula into the world's first feature-length vampire film, and Schreck seemed the perfect fit for the lead role of the monster. Specifically in Murnau's vision of the story, the Count--here called Orlock to avoid a lawsuit from Stoker's widow that would come anyway--was to be vastly different from the furry aristocrat the Irish author had envisioned.

Rather, in line with Expressionistic aesthetics, Murnau wanted a hideous, demonic-looking vampire--one who closely resembled the rodents he carted across Europe with him. We'll never know if Schreck was insulted the director wanted him for the part, but we do know that he took it, and it would go on to become the single thing he would become known for, to the exclusion of all else.

So thorough was his immersion in the part that, combined with the relatively nothing that was known about him by the world at large, it came to be assumed by some that he might actually be the thing they saw on screen. Even for those too well-grounded to believe in such stuff, there was no denying the man's thick aura of mystery. Here was this strange German actor, who seemed to just appear out of the blue to play this nightmarish villain on screen, and then promptly return to obscurity afterward.

Add to that the notoriously tortuous path the film took to the general public--getting banned by a German court due to copyright infringement, and having nearly all copies destroyed to the point that it would take decades for the silent gem to finally emerge as a rare cult classic--and it's easy to understand why Schreck became such a fascinating character to movie buffs.

A totally un-Nosferatu-like role in 1927's Dona Juana...

But despite the fact that the world at large would only know him decades later as the first filmic vampire, Max Schreck did not actually vanish into a puff of smoke following the release of Nosferatu in 1922. Rather, he continued to have a busy career in the German cinema. He did some slapstick comedy work for Brecht in the playwright's own one-reeler short, Mysteries of a Barbershop. He rejoined Murnau for the 1924 comedy The Grand Duke's Finances, and appeared in many other films such as The Street and Dona Juana. His career even survived the advent of talkies, as Schreck continued to appear in movies well into the 1930s, and well into his 50s.

After making a return to the stage at the age of 56 to play the Grand Inquisitor in the play Don Carlos, Schreck was taken to the hospital on February 19, 1936. He died early the next morning of a heart attack--a most un-vampiric way to go if ever there was one. He was buried March 14, 1936 in an unmarked grave at the Wilmersdorfer Waldfriedhof cemetery in Berlin, and as far as we know, has remained there ever since.

The actor late in life...

There's no denying Schreck was a strange fellow, and even his own contemporaries described him as such. A born loner with a reportedly unique sense of humor, he didn't do much to endear anyone to him, except perhaps his wife, fellow German silent film performer Fanny Normann (the couple had no children). He was said to enjoy walking through dark forests alone, and lived metaphorically in a "remote, strange world", according to his 2008 biography, Max Schreck: Ghost Theatre.

He was also an actor of great skill and versatility, who never quite got his due, especially outside of his home country. Not even Nosferatu made him a star, as that film was all but lost to the moviegoing public for many years after its release. Today, his name is literally synonymous with cinematic horror, and deservedly so. He gave us one of the first great movie monsters--and perhaps still the most frightening.

He may have been just a man after all--but thanks to Nosferatu, his legacy is now as undying as the rumors once held him to be.

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Hammer Is Back--With The Woman in Black

Some years back in 2007, I got wind that the once-mighty Hammer Film Productions was returning to action after decades of dormancy. However, I was somewhat let down when I looked into the matter and found that their first release would be a thoroughly modern affair called Beyond the Rave, and that the newly revived studio was looking to break away from its classic period roots and focus on contemporary horror. Which is sort of like if the Hal Roach Studio was revived to make American Pie sequels.

And so, after a couple of such modern thrillers, and even involvement in the well-made yet wrong-headed American remake of Let the Right One In, imagine my thrill to find that Hammer was at last truly returning--that is, going back to what it does best: Producing atmospheric British period horror. In the grand tradition of the studio that gave us Horror of Dracula, The Gorgon, Paranoiac, The Hound of the Baskervilles and countless others comes James Watkins' The Woman in Black, starring Daniel "Don't Call Me Harry" Radcliffe.

Folks, *this* is the true return of Hammer. This is what we've been waiting for. And just like that, we have a film that will very likely be in the running for the best horror film of 2012. Who would've imagined that a well-made, carefully shot gothic haunted house film with minimal gore and largely psychological scares could ever get made in this day and age of torture porn, quick cuts, gratuitous grue and lame post-post-modern slasher nonsense? Having just seen it, I'd put The Woman in Black right up there with such classics of the subgenre as The Haunting and The Uninvited.

Last Tuesday evening, joined by the lovely Captain Cruella, I decided it was time to go and see this film that I heard so much about. I also made the possibly imprudent decision of taking along my little Vaultlings Zombelina and Skeleton Jack. Sure, they had school the next day, and spent most of the night scared witless in bed. But that's what comes with the territory when you're the spawn of the Vault Keeper, people. At their age, I was shivering in bed after seeing Hammer's Lust for a Vampire on WWOR Channel 9, so I suppose the whole affair lends a certain comforting air of continuity. Anyway, they got over it the next day, and we all had a hell of a time howling, shaking and yelping in our theater seats at every chilling moment.

Yes, there are jump scares, which I'm really not much of a fan of. It seems that is an inescapable de rigeur element of the modern-day fright flick, sadly. Nevertheless, jump scares aside, this is one bone-rattling, good-old-fashioned blood-curdling ghost chiller, and just what the horror genre needed right now. British-born Watkins, whose previous effort was the vastly different torture thriller Eden Lake, sure knows how to build terror and craft an atmosphere of growing dread. If you love a good ghost story and you're a little jaded at the inability of most horror pictures' to genuinely get under your skin, then this one is for you.

Based on a 1970s novel by Susan Hill which had previously been successfully turned into both a TV movie and a touring stage production, The Woman in Black tells the tale of a mysterious abandoned mansion on a tiny island off the coast of Britain, apparently haunted by a malicious female spirit which targets innocent children. Radcliffe does a solid job portraying the poor solicitor who is assigned the unenviable task of closing up the estate, all while slowly discovering the house's evil history and the nature of the supernatural presence within.

X-Men: First Class and Kick-Ass screenwriter Jane Goldman takes a break from superheroes to give us a script that effectively holds the viewer's attention while not resorting to short-attention-span theater and silly gimmicks. It's a slow burn, but so worth the ride. There are not a lot of fireworks until we head toward the final act, but I was so engrossed watching everything carefully unfold that I didn't mind one bit. Imagine, shots that last more than five seconds! This is a welcome return to measured horror film-making.

Radcliffe does well in his first big-boy role, but the one who really steals the show here is the always-excellent Ciaran Hinds as the skeptical local who befriends Radcliffe but refuses to believe there is anything going bump in the night in that old dark house--despite the fact that the titular specter is possibly responsible for his own young son's demise. As all great actors do, Hinds makes the most of a simply written character to give us a textured, understated, anchor of a performance.

But just like most of the Hammer gems, the film's greatest power is derived from the way the actors are filmed and the surroundings in which they're placed. Gorgeously shot by the edgy Tim Maurice-Jones, the film makes the most of its setting, so that the Welsh landscape and most importantly the house become characters in themselves. And although the excessive use of digital filters can be a bit off-putting at first, in the end I felt it helped add to the otherworldliness--lending a cold, washed-out aura to the characters and their world. Not to mention that the actual Woman in Black herself is one truly frightening creation, and the crew at London effects house Union VFX deserves kudos for her creation and the many other scares they helped generate.


And although we're talking slow build here, it all pays off in a haunted extravaganza at the very end, which finds our protagonist trapped alone in the house, face-to-face with the evil that lurks there. This is a kind of horror that we rarely see in the cinema anymore, and to be honest, even some of the great Hammer efforts of days gone by lacked the budget to pull this kind of stuff off as well. The hair danced on the back of my neck, a knot took shape in my stomach, and I'm not ashamed to say at one point I clutched my ten-year-old daughter and uttered a mild blasphemy that caused her to spiral into a serious fit of the giggles. In short, the movie did its job.

For fans of classic horror who also enjoy the contemporary stuff and sit and wait for those really special ones to come along, this is one of those. The Woman in Black is a genuinely creepy, well-written, evocatively shot horror film. It kept my kids up through the night, and don't be surprised if it does the same to you. I'm proud to say that about five years after the actual studio revived itself--at long last, Hammer Films is truly back.

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Nosferatu at 90: Still the Greatest Vampire Film Ever Made

Greetings, and welcome to the first edition of a brand new year-long series here in The Vault of Horror. For me, dear readers, the year 2012 means only one thing--and that's the 90th anniversary of one of horror cinema's true unassailable classics, F.W. Murnau's Nosferatu. It's hard to fathom that this film is almost a century old, and even more impressive is its continued ability to shock and terrify no matter how much time passes. Just as I did in years past with A Nightmare on Elm Street, Psycho and An American Werewolf in London, I'll be posting throughout the next 12 months on this, the first and greatest of all Dracula adaptations.

How is it that this film still can effect us so profoundly, when so much of horror's power is drawn from the unexpected? One would think that age would be the death knell of a great horror movie, and yet films like Nosferatu prove this to be dead wrong. Whether you're discovering it for the first time all these decades later, or watching it for the 90th time, Nosferatu has the power to utterly creep you out. Personally, I credit it to the merits of German Expressionism.

And Murnau was undoubtedly one of the pioneers of this form of cinema, cutting edge for its time and a far cry from the American, Hollywood style that would soon dominate filmmaking in the years to come. Make no mistake, the silent era of film belonged to the Europeans, and the Germans, in particular, in addition to the Russians and the French, certainly left their mark. Like the best of his peers, Murnau achieved that defining goal of Expressionism in all its forms, namely to evoke pure emotion through the visual medium. Expressionistic works are in a sense dreams brought to life, and in the case of Nosferatu, that dream is most decidedly a nightmare.

The film oozes atmosphere from beginning to end, and is jam-packed with iconic imagery that has stood the test of time for a reason. Interestingly enough, it also set a standard for vampire films, and Dracula adaptations in particular, that was not really followed (at least not for many years). Nosferatu stands out on its own as a unique and truly cinematic retelling of the Dracula story, with liberal license taken, of course. It is vastly different from the Hamilton Deane and John Balderston play that would first be staged two years after its release--the version which inspired Universal's famous talkie version with Bela Lugosi at the start of the next decade.

Nosferatu chooses a different path, eschewing the nascent sex appeal of the vampire to take a more traditional, folkloric approach. The vampire here is still in his repulsive, pre-modern form--there is nothing at all sexy or alluring about Count Orlok (Unless you're into that sort of thing. Who am I to judge?) If anything, the vampire here is a metaphor for plague, and even possesses certain undeniable anti-Semitic overtones (but that's a post for another day).

Still, the story is undeniably Bram Stoker's. So much so that Stoker's widow and her crack legal team nearly had the film eradicated from the face of the earth (another post for a later day). Thankfully for film lovers everywhere, Ms. Stoker was not successful in her efforts, and the movie remains extant to this day for new generations of horror fans to discover and relish. There are many horror classics that stand the test of time, but few are as truly timeless as this one, defying changing filmmaking styles and changing filmgoing tastes to remain a favorite of genre fans. It is just as fresh now as it was when it emerged from a Germany still reeling from the First World War.

In addition to its Expressionistic roots, or perhaps in connection to them, I have always found that the film retains so much power largely because it is so visual in nature. Of course, this was very much necessary due to the limitations (or some might say advantages) of silent cinema, in that the visual was the easiest and most effective way to get your message across. Later versions of Dracula--and indeed horror films in general of the next couple of decades--would rely less on imagery and more on dialogue and cerebral scares. This is not to say that Nosferatu is not a psychologically frightening film, but I would submit that more of the terror it inspires is derived from the direct impact of what we see on screen. It is not so much suspenseful as it is downright terrifying to look at.

As has been the case throughout most of film history, America has been resistant to foreign films, and so this film did not even have a chance to be released here when it first was made in 1922. In fact, it wasn't until the 1960s, many years after a single surviving print had made its way to these shores in defiance of a court order, that it began to attain the cult following in the U.S. that it now enjoys. I have had the privilege of witnessing Nosferatu on the big screen with live musical accompaniment not once, but twice. And although I had my gripes with both viewings (an ironic, snarky crowd the first time out; and wholly inappropriate music the second time), I still consider myself fortunate to have had the experience.

At the time, Nosferatu was largely overshadowed by the Universal Dracula, and later the Hammer Dracula of the 1950s-70s, and yet its interesting to note that nowadays, most horror fans would place Max Schreck right alongside Bela Lugosi and Christopher Lee as one of the screen's iconic Counts. In fact, many vampire aficionados--including this one--will still argue that Nosferatu, the original vampire film, remains the very best to this day. A puzzling notion maybe, in that nobody has been able to top it in 90 years; and yet instead of bemoaning the state of vampire cinema for the past century, I will choose instead to celebrate the fact of Nosferatu's existence. And if it so pleases you, I invite you to join me in doing so for the remainder of 2012.

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Retro Review: The Evil of Frankenstein (1964)

I pride myself on being a great fan, admirer and aficionado of Hammer horror--in a lot of ways superior to Universal, if I may be so bold (although that's a debate for a future post). Ever since I was a child, I've been entranced by the technicolor blood, buxom wenches, uproarious scores and quaint period designs of the Hammer classics. And yet, one which I had never before seen was Freddy Francis' The Evil of Frankenstein, a 1964 chestnut which was the third of six films made in Hammer's Frankenstein series.

It's included on Universal's Hammer box set, which I've had for a number of years now and also includes such gems as The Curse of the Werewolf and Kiss of the Vampire. Yet, this particular one I had never seen before, although I had always wanted to. And over the Thanksgiving weekend, I finally took the opportunity. Although not the best of the Hammer series, and certainly not the best Frankenstein-inspired motion picture, I'm glad I took the time.

One of the reasons I had always been drawn to seeing this film is that it was a bit of a departure from the rest of the studio's Frankenstein franchise. Starting with The Curse of Frankenstein in 1957, Hammer had made it a point to reinvent the classic monster series, without relying on the elements that had made the Universal entries of the 1930s and 1940s so iconic. However, although part of the reason for this was undoubtedly creative innovation, another part was also legal necessity, as Hammer could not infringe upon Universal's intellectual property.

That changed with The Evil of Frankenstein, however. Whereas the previous two films, Curse of and Revenge of, had been distributed in the United States by Warner Bros. and Columbia Pictures, respectively, the third entry was actually picked up for distribution by Universal Studios itself, which meant that for the first time, Hammer had carte blanche to rely upon the devices used previously in Universal's own Frankenstein series. And so, the classic Jack Pierce monster design could be used, and the recognizable laboratory sets could be duplicated.

While an interesting notion, the result is a mixed bag. It's fascinating to see Hammer take a crack at the Universal approach, but in the end, what made Hammer's efforts so memorable is that the studio always strove to make its own mark rather than ape someone else's work. As it is, old reliable Hammer makeup man Roy Ashton is just not in his element trying to tread in the footsteps of Jack Pierce. What we get here is a second-rate copy of the traditional Boris Karloff square-headed, platform-shoe wearing Creature, here played by legendary New Zealand wrestler Kiwi Kingston, whose zombie-like performance can only conjure up a fraction of the pathos even Glenn Strange put forth in the Universal days, let alone Karloff. Similarly, Hammer art director Don Mingaye's sets are lush and intriguing as always, but are only doing what Charles D. Hall's revolutionary work did for Universal some thirty years prior.

The plot follows the trail of Dr. Frankenstein and his assistant Hans, as they attempt to put their financial situation back on track so the doctor can return to his life's work of reanimating the dead. When he returns to his ancestral home in the village of Karlstaad, he inexplicably discovers his original creation buried in ice underneath his property. Equally inexplicable is the fact that the Creature now looks nothing like the Christopher Lee version from the original, and instead suddenly resembles the Creature of the Universal Frankenstein series. The origin of the Creature is also retold in flashback, once again retconned to more resemble the Colin Clive/Boris Karloff origin sequence of the 1931 film. It's worth noting, however, that this is the only Hammer Frankenstein film other than the original to feature the actual Frankenstein monster--but it's also obvious that this was only done to take advantage of the license granted the studio by Universal.

Still, as with any Hammer production, there is a lot to recommend the film. Peter Cushing is excellent as always as the good Dr. Frankenstein, and I'll submit that his interpretation is probably the most textured, complex and compelling of anyone who has ever tackled the role. The great Peter Woodthorpe, known to many as the voice of Gollum in both the landmark BBC Lord of the Rings radio adaptation as well as the Ralph Bakshi animated version, is a delight as the alcoholic, unscrupulous carnival hypnotist Prof. Zoltan, the film's lead heavy. Studio head Anthony Hinds, writing as he typically did under the pen name John Elder, turns in a taut script that is up to snuff with his work on such favorites as The Brides of Dracula, Night Creatures and The Reptile.

The picture probably could have benefited from the directorial leadership of Hammer standby Terence Fisher, who was set to helm the film before being injured in a car accident. In his place, the project as handed over to his cameraman Freddy Francis. Francis had previously directed minor Hammer faves Paranoiac and Nightmare, and was far from a tested commodity when he took on The Evil of Frankenstein. He would go on to direct other minor Hammer pictures, with his most notable work being Dracula Has Risen from the Grave, and his best known film would have to be Amicus Pictures' 1973 adaptation of Tales from the Crypt.

As a die-hard Hammer fan, I will always welcome the chance to curl up on a dark night with one of their evocative, atmospheric and intense films, no matter if its one of their very best or a lesser-known effort. There's no doubt the original Curse of Frankenstein is the high watermark of Hammer horror, and The Evil of Frankenstein is but a shadow of that film. An enjoyable shadow, but a shadow nonetheless. Hammer still put out a horror flick well worth seeing, but the bottom line is that the studio made its name by charting its own course in horror, not following someone else's lead. The Evil of Frankenstein is an interesting experiment, if an ill-advised one.

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A Trip Back in Time for NOSFERATU at Lyric Hall

There are a few horror films which have particularly shaped me into the fan that I am today. And on the short list of these would certainly be F.W. Murnau's Nosferatu, which has long been one of my favorites, and also among my picks for the most frightening motion pictures ever made. And this weekend, the Captain and myself were blessed with the opportunity to witness it as it was meant to be seen--on a big screen in a theater, with a live musical accompaniment.

I first discovered Nosferatu as a college student back in the early 1990s, having come across an old VHS copy at a street fair in Brooklyn. I'd heard a lot about it, but it wasn't until I saw it that I truly became mesmerized by this German Expressionistic masterpiece. I instantly became a champion for the film, publicly exhibiting it on my college campus during my time in the English Club (hey, it was based on Bram Stoker's novel, right?) and showing it to everyone I could. I even had a rare opportunity to head to Greenwich Village with some of my college pals to actually see the movie in a proper theater, with a live piano accompaniment. It seemed like a once-in-a-lifetime chance, but little did I know I'd have the chance to revisit it.

Fast-forward some 15 or so years later, and there we were, converging on New Haven's historic Lyric Hall for a unique exhibition of Nosferatu, this time with a live jazz ensemble accompaniment, no less. And it truly was a thrill to witness one of the most powerful horror films ever made, in such a way.

The venue alone made it worth the trip. Lyric Hall was an old vaudeville house going back a hundred years, and exactly the kind of intimate theatrical setting in which the movie might have originally been seen in 1922. Decorated with ornate chandeliers, elaborate moldings and gorgeous paintings, it was the ideal place to immerse oneself in such an experience. Sure, they were using a projection of the 2007 Kino DVD special edition release, but so what? That's the version with the remastered picture and restored tint, which only made it all the better.

The Lyric Hall Theater Orchestra, a small ensemble made up of guitar, tuba, accordion, saxophone, drums and assorted bizarre electronic noisemakers, put together an eccentric and engaging score for the film, which was especially effective during its more original portions. The droning, accordion-led music helped paint a nightmarish picture of dread that made me see the picture in a way I never had before.

That said, if I had to gripe about anything, it would be the noticeably inappropriate musical choices that peppered the score at periodic intervals. For instance, what would possess them to employ the theme to the movie Ben during the rats scene on the ship? Or "Happy Trails" as we watch Hutter gallop toward Count Orlock's castle? Or the Motown hit "Please Mr. Postman" at the moment he sends off his letter to his wife? While amusing, such post-modern, ironic touches only served to undermine the power of the film, and turn it into something to snicker at, rather than be terrified by. Much of the music actually worked against the film, which a good score should never do. Unless it was their intention to turn it into a comedy, which was not clear from the advertising at all.

Nevertheless, the music was, by and large, quite ingenious and suitably foreboding, in an unorthodox fashion. I can honestly say, that even after all these years, I've managed to see Nosferatu in a new light, taking away from it something I never did before. So you can imagine my delight when it was announced that in the fall, Lyric Hall will be presenting John Barrymore's 1920 Dr. Jekyll & Mr. Hyde. If only they can restrain themselves from the snarky musical interjections, that should be a lot of fun--and you can bet that the Captain and I will be on-hand with proverbial bells on.

Nosferatu has meant a lot to me through the years. I've shared it with close friends, with my children, and now, with my dear Captain Cruella. And I'm honored to have seen it not once, but twice on a big screen with live music. 2012 will mark the 90th anniversary of the film, and I'm already gearing up for a year-long celebration here in The Vault of Horror. So as I see it, this weekend's screening was the perfect warmup...

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