THE GHOUL 1933
If you’ve never seen The Ghoul from 1933, it’s a fascinating artifact and kind of a hidden gem from the early days of British horror. It sits somewhere between the shadowy intersection of Universal’s Gothic tradition and the emerging sensibility of British cinema.
Directed by T. Hayes Hunter and produced by Michael Balcon for Gaumont-British, The Ghoul draws heavily on the visual and thematic language of Universal’s The Mummy and Frankenstein, not least because it stars Boris Karloff, right after making his mark in Hollywood with those legendary American horror classics-so you can really feel that same eerie magic he brought to Frankenstein and The Mummy still hanging in the air.
While it borrows liberally from its Hollywood predecessors, the film carves out its own identity through a blend of expressionist atmosphere, British eccentricity, and a uniquely morbid sense of humor and weird charm. And honestly, watching Karloff lumber around as a vengeful, jewel-obsessed Egyptologist is a big part of the appeal.
The story follows Professor Henry Morlant (Karloff), a wealthy Egyptologist who is terminally ill, now facing the end of his life, and is obsessed with the promise of immortality. Morlant is convinced that if he’s buried with a mystical Egyptian jewel called the “Eternal Light,” and offers it to Anubis, the god of the dead, he’ll be granted the existence of a flame that never dies.
On his deathbed, Morlant gives strict instructions to his servant Laing (Ernest Thesiger) to ensure the jewel is placed in his hand before burial. However, greed and intrigue quickly unravel these plans: Laing, as well as Morlant’s lawyer Broughton (Cedric Hardwicke), his nephew Ralph (Anthony Bushell), and a host of other opportunists all scheme to claim the jewel for themselves.
After Morlant’s death, the jewel is stolen from his tomb, and true to his curse-laden warning, he rises from the grave as a vengeful, hulking ghoul, stalking the shadowy halls of his mansion to reclaim his prize and punish the living.
Karloff’s performance, though more limited in dialogue and screen time than his American roles, is nonetheless a grotesque and menacing presence- his makeup and physicality echoing both the Frankenstein monster and Imhotep, yet with a peculiarly British twist of pathos and dark humor. The supporting cast is a veritable who’s who of British stage and screen: Ernest Thesiger is a standout as the scheming, nervy Laing; Cedric Hardwicke brings seriousness and ambiguity to Broughton; and a young Ralph Richardson makes his screen debut as the hapless Ralph Morlant.
Visually, The Ghoul is a triumph in suffocating atmosphere, always tinged with an undercurrent of dread. Cinematographer Günther Krampf- legendary for his work on expressionist masterpieces like Nosferatu 1922 and The Hands of Orlac 1924 – gives the film a moody, shadow-laden look. Alfred Junge’s set design is just as striking: the Morlant mansion is transformed into a mausoleum of secrets and superstition, its winding corridors, Egyptian relics, and flickering candlelight — all these elements contribute to the sustained sense of menace and unreality. The result is a film where every detail, from the lighting to the décor, conspires to keep you delightfully unsettled.
The funeral procession and tomb sequences are particularly evocative, marrying British Gothic with the exotic trappings of Egyptomania that gripped the West in the wake of the Tutankhamun discovery.
Despite its visual strengths and Karloff’s star power, The Ghoul was met with mixed critical reception upon release. Contemporary reviewers noted its derivative qualities and uneven pacing, with some lamenting that Karloff was underused, relegated to mostly mute, lumbering scenes rather than the nuanced menace of his earlier roles.
Nevertheless, the film’s reputation has grown over time, especially after it was rediscovered in the late 1960s following decades as a “lost” film. Today, it is appreciated for its eerie set pieces, its blend of horror and black comedy, and its place as the first British film to receive an ‘H’ certificate for “Horrific” content.
The Ghoul occupies a unique place in horror history. It stands as both an homage to and a reinvention of the Universal horror template, filtered through the lens of British wit, class anxiety, and a fascination with the supernatural. Its influence can be seen in later British horror, especially in the atmospheric, character-driven films of Hammer Studios. While it may not possess the relentless thrills of its American counterparts, its slow-burning dread, expressionist visuals, and Karloff’s spectral presence ensure its legacy as a minor classic- a half-remembered nightmare, equal parts macabre and mischievous.
THE OLD DARK HOUSE 1932
I’d like to do a more extensive overview of The Old Dark House because it’s a film that rewards close attention and deserves a deeper appreciation. James Whale’s direction and the film’s remarkable cast create a unique blend of horror, black comedy, and social satire that helps it to stand out amidst other early genre films. Its eccentric characters, razor-sharp wit, and atmospheric visuals not only established the template for the “old dark house” subgenre but also offer surprisingly modern commentary on class, gender, and identity. Each viewing reveals new layers- whether it’s the sly humor, the satirical edge, or the interplay between menace and absurdity. Exploring the film in depth at The Last Drive In would give me a chance to highlight its lasting influence, inventive spirit, and the reasons it remains such a fascinating and entertaining classic.
James Whale’s The Old Dark House (1932) unfolds like a storm-battered night of Gothic excess, where horror and morbidly humorous social commentary mingle beneath a crumbling roof amidst decaying aristocracy and existential dread.
The film opens with three travelers-Philip and Margaret Waverton (Raymond Massey and Gloria Stuart) and their acerbic friend Roger Penderel (Melvyn Douglas)-stranded by Welsh torrential rain and forced to seek refuge in the eerie Femm mansion.
Inside, they are greeted by a parade of unforgettable characters: a gallery of grotesques; Horace Femm (Ernest Thesiger), a twitchy aesthete clutching a gin bottle. His sister Rebecca (Eva Moore), a religious fanatic who fondles Margaret’s dress while muttering about rot and whose fixation on sin is as chilling as the storm outside; and Morgan (Boris Karloff), the imposing, scarred mute butler whose unpredictable violence simmers just below the surface, his drunken rages threaten to upend the night.
As the night wears on and more wayfarers arrive-boisterous industrialist Sir William Porterhouse (Charles Laughton) and his chorus-girl companion Gladys (Lilian Bond)-the house’s secrets begin to unravel, leading to the escape of Saul Femm (Brember Wills), a pyromaniac locked away in the attic whose presence with his manic cackling and biblical ravings ignites the film’s chaotic climax.
Whale, fresh off Frankenstein (1931), infuses the film with his signature blend of macabre wit and visual flair. His direction transforms Priestley’s novel Benighted, a critique of post-war British class decay, into a sly, subversive comedy of manners. The Femms, with their moth-eaten gentility and repressed vices, embody a dying aristocracy, while the travelers- a mix of disillusioned veterans and social climbers- reflect the era’s shifting hierarchies. Whale’s dark humor pulses through scenes like Horace’s deadpan offer of “Have a potato” as chaos erupts, or Rebecca’s gnarled fingers tracing Margaret’s décolletage as she hisses, “Finer stuff still, but it’ll rot too!”
This tonal balancing act, where terror and absurdity coexist, would later define classics like The Bride of Frankenstein (1935).
The cast delivers performances steeped in theatricality and nuance. Karloff, though top-billed, subverts his “monster” persona as Morgan, a hulking caretaker whose loyalty to the Femms masks a volatile fragility. Thesiger’s Horace-all nervous giggles and darting eyes-steals scenes with his campy decadence, while Moore’s Rebecca channels Puritanical fury into a grotesque parody of maternal authority. Laughton and Bond, as the outsiders, inject pathos: Porterhouse’s bluster hides grief over his late wife, while Gladys’s gold-digging pragmatism (“He doesn’t expect anything… you know”) masks a yearning for stability.
Even the mansion itself becomes a character, thanks to Charles D. Hall’s labyrinthine set design- a Gothic funhouse of winding staircases, leering gargoyles, and shadow-drenched halls where firelight flickers like a dying pulse.
Cinematographer Arthur Edeson (later of Casablanca) bathes the film in expressionist chiaroscuro, with shadows pooling in the hollows of Karloff’s scarred face and candlelight casting grotesque distortions on the walls. One standout sequence- Rebecca berating Margaret in a warped mirror, her face contorted beside the motto “God is Not Mocked”-epitomizes the film’s visual inventiveness.
The production’s $250,000 budget funded these lavish details, though contemporary critics dismissed the film as a “theatrical curio”. Modern reassessments, however, hail it as a blueprint for haunted-house tropes- the stormy night, the locked room, the dysfunctional family- that would inspire everything from The Cat and the Canary 1939, The Uninvited 1944, and The Spiral Staircase 1946.
Beneath its genre trappings, The Old Dark House simmers with post-War disillusionment. Penderel, a veteran adrift in peacetime, embodies the Lost Generation’s angst, while Saul’s pyromania mirrors Europe’s smoldering instability. Whale, himself a WWI veteran, layers these themes with a queer subtext: Horace’s flamboyant cowardice and Porterhouse’s ambiguous relationship with Gladys hint at identities stifled by societal norms.
Even Karloff’s Morgan, working-class brute trapped serving a decadent family, hints at class resentment, a theme Priestley would later amplify in An Inspector Calls.
The film’s 1932 release, sandwiched between pre-Code permissiveness and looming Hays Code censorship, allowed Whale to push boundaries, whether in Rebecca’s lurid diatribes or Gladys and Horace’s coded sexuality.
Though it flopped initially, its restoration in 2017 revealed Edeson’s visuals in stark clarity, from the mud-slicked landslide to Saul’s final, flaming descent. Karloff, ever the professional, reportedly relished playing against type, calling Morgan “a departure from the poetic horror of Frankenstein.”
Today, The Old Dark House stands as a masterclass in tonal audacity- a film where laughter and dread coil together like smoke from a dying fire.