DEAD OF NIGHT 1945
Dead of Night (1945) is A masterclass in haunting anthology storytelling. The 1945 British film stands as a landmark in horror cinema, weaving together five distinctively eerie and macabre tales within a framing narrative that loops back on itself like a nightmare refusing to end.
Produced by Ealing Studios—a studio better known for its whimsical comedies—the film marked a bold departure into the supernatural realm, blending psychological tension, literary inspiration, and the beauty of technical innovation.
Directed collaboratively by one of my favorite underrated directors Basil Dearden (Victim 1961, All Night Long 1962 and perhaps one of the best heist movies The League of Gentleman 1960) Alberto Cavalcanti, Charles Crichton, and another terrific British director Robert Hamer (Kind Hearts and Coronets 1949 where Alec Guiness’s shine’s in eight separate irreverant roles and It Always Rains on Sunday 1947 collaborating once again with Hamer, Googie Withers in an outstanding performance.) With a screenplay by John Baines, Angus MacPhail, and T.E.B. Clarke, Dead of Night remains a landmark in anthology horror, influencing everything from The Twilight Zone to the portmanteaus of extravagance of Hammer to the little horror studio that could, Amicus’s (1972’s Asylum, Tales From the Crypt) modern psychological horror thrillers.
Douglas Slocombe worked at Ealing Studios and created classics like Kind Hearts and Coronets (1949), The Lavender Hill Mob (1952), and The Man in the White Suit (1951). His cinematography subtly amplifies the film’s unease by playing with contrasts of light and shadow, reality and illusion. Its seamless blend of gothic atmosphere and psychological complexity resonated deeply with audiences trying to navigate the uncertainties of the post-war era.
A Dream That Won’t End & The Tales of Unease in Five Acts:
The film opens with architect Walter Craig (Mervyn Johns) arriving at a country house in Kent, invited by owner Eliot Foley (Roland Culver) to consult on renovations. Craig is immediately unsettled: he recognizes the guests from a recurring dream that always ends in disaster. As Dr. van Straaten (Frederick Valk), a skeptical psychiatrist, dismisses Craig’s fears, the other guests share their own supernatural experiences, each story building toward the film’s chilling conclusion. Dearden does an incredible job of weaving the vignettes together, creating a sense of inevitability as Craig’s dread intensifies.
1. “The Hearse Driver” (Directed by Basil Dearden) Based on E.F. Benson’s short story “The Bus-Conductor,” this segment follows racing driver Hugh Grainger (Anthony Baird), who survives a crash only to encounter a hearse driver ominously declaring, “Room for one more, sir.” Later, the same phrase is uttered by a bus conductor (Miles Malleson), prompting Grainger to avoid hopping on board—Grainger narrowly avoids death after being haunted by the sinister premonition – a decision that saves his life when the bus crashes. Dearden’s taut direction and Douglas Slocombe’s shadowy cinematography turn this into a lesson in less is more: much of the time, abject fear thrives in simplicity.
2. “The Christmas Party” (Directed by Alberto Cavalcanti) Sally O’Hara (Sally Ann Howes) attends a holiday party and, during hide-and-seek, encounters the ghost of Francis Kent, a boy murdered by his sister in a case inspired by the real-life 1860 Constance Kent scandal. Cavalcanti infuses the segment with a gothic atmosphere, using mirrors and empty nurseries to evoke childhood innocence corrupted by violence. When Sally encounters the ghost of the murdered Victorian boy, it evokes the plight of wartime evacuees—children sent away from their families to unfamiliar and sometimes hostile environments. For audiences who had lived through these tragic upheavals, these stories must have struck a poignant chord.
3. “The Haunted Mirror” (Directed by Robert Hamer) Joan Cortland (Googie Withers) gifts her husband Peter (Ralph Michael) an antique mirror that reflects not their bedroom but a 19th-century chamber where its former owner, a jealous husband, whose frustrations led him to murder his wife. Joan’s fiancé, Peter, becomes possessed by the spirit of the Victorian patriarch. As Peter’s psyche merges with the mirror’s history, Hamer crafts a haunting exploration of possession and marital distrust. The segment, based on John Baines’s original story, benefits from Slocombe’s camerawork, which contrasts the warmth of the couple’s home with the mirror’s cold, distorted reality.
4. “The Golfer’s Story” (Directed by Charles Crichton) A rare comedic interlude, this segment—adapted from H.G. Wells’ “The Story of the Inexperienced Ghost”—follows two golf-obsessed friends (Basil Radford and Naunton Wayne, reprising their The Lady Vanishes personas) who wager over a woman’s affection. When the loser drowns himself, his ghost returns to demand that the winner vanish instead. Though tonally lighter, Crichton’s direction underscores the absurdity of male rivalry, even in death. Class-based anxieties also surface in “The Golfer’s Story,” where Basil Radford and Naunton Wayne reprise their upper-class personas from earlier films but are caught in an absurd rivalry over love and death
5. “The Ventriloquist’s Dummy” (Directed by Alberto Cavalcanti) is the film’s most iconic segment because it masterfully combines psychological horror, surrealism, and deeply unsettling themes in a way that has rarely been matched. It stars Michael Redgrave with such neurotic verve as Maxwell Frere, a tormented ventriloquist driven to madness by his dummy, Hugo, who appears to have a life of his own. Hugo isn’t just a menacingly creepy doll; he embodies Frere’s fractured psyche, blurring the line between control and autonomy. The dummy’s primacy symbolizes fears of losing your identity—whether over one’s mind or one’s place in society—and echoes Freud’s concept of the uncanny, where familiar objects become disturbingly alien. As Hugo “defects” to rival performer Sylvester Kee (Hartley Power), Frere’s identity unravels in a crescendo of psychological torment and chaos. Director Cavalcanti’s Expressionist lighting and Redgrave’s unhinged performance—his descent into madness with every gesture and expression radiating fear, switching between Frere’s desperation and Hugo’s sneering malice—elevate this tale into a Freudian nightmare.
Redgrave’s portrayal of an artist consumed by his creation makes this particular segment a haunting exploration of identity and madness. The segment’s influence echoes in films like Richard Attenborough’s taut psychological thriller Magic (1978), starring Anthony Hopkins and Ann-Margret, and the iconic The Twilight Zone’s “The Dummy” (1962), starring Cliff Robertson.
Dead of Night 1945 thrives on the collaboration of Ealing’s talent. Cinematographer Douglas Slocombe, later famed for his work on Indiana Jones, uses high-contrast lighting and claustrophobic framing to heighten the film’s sense of dread. The ensemble cast—particularly Redgrave’s frenzied unhinged ventriloquist and Johns’ increasingly unmoored architect—deliver performances that ground the supernatural in a pervasive sense of human fragility.
The themes of fear and mortality in Dead of Night resonated deeply with audiences in post-war Britain, reflecting the psychological and societal anxieties of the time. Upon its release in September 1945, Dead of Night unsettled audiences emerging from the trauma of World War II, offering not escapism but a reflection of existential dread. Released just months after World War II ended, the film captured a nation grappling with the trauma of conflict, the uncertainty of the future, and the lingering specter of death.
The film’s bleak ending, where Craig is trapped in an endless loop of his dream, felt both nihilistic and urgent to audiences. Initially cut down in the U.S. (with the golfing and mirror segments removed), the restored version revealed a film ahead of its time, blending genres and experimenting with narrative structure. Its cyclical ending—where Craig’s nightmare begins anew—shows how potent fear is and how horror films that are ‘art’ can haunt us over and over again.
FLESH AND FANTASY 1943
Flesh and Fantasy (1943): A Dreamlike Exploration of Fate and Free Will
Flesh and Fantasy, directed by Julien Duvivier, is a hauntingly elegant anthology film that is a dreamlike exploration of fate that blends supernatural intrigue with philosophical musings on destiny, free will, and the mysteries of human nature.
Released in 1943 by Universal Pictures, the film predates the better-known Dead of Night (1945) but shares a similar structure, weaving together three hauntingly atmospheric tales possessing elegance and emotional depth; it’s an early example of the portmanteau format of storytelling with strong artistic vision.
With its literary roots, striking visuals, and stellar cast, including Edward G. Robinson, Charles Boyer, Barbara Stanwyck, and Betty Field, Flesh and Fantasy is a forgotten gem in the history of supernatural cinema.
The film showcases three loosely connected tales tied together by a framing device featuring humorist Robert Benchley, whose lighthearted presence provides a contrast to the darker themes explored in each story. Each one dives into the push and pull between the choices we make and the strange, unseen forces that seem to guide our lives, blending romance, suspense, and just the right amount of eerie twists.
What makes Flesh and Fantasy so compelling is how each tale explores the delicate balance between the choices we make and the unseen forces that shape—or disrupt—our lives.
The surreal first segment, written by Ellis St. Joseph, has the spirit of a fairytale. Set during Mardi Gras in New Orleans, it follows Henrietta (Betty Field), a plain, self-conscious, and embittered woman who secretly yearns for affable law student Michael (Robert Cummings).
Her life changes when she visits a strange mask shop where the mysterious shopkeeper (Edgar Barrier) gives her a beautiful white mask. However, she must only wear it that evening. And is warned that it must be returned by midnight. The masks in this sequence create an atmosphere of dreamlike transformation.
With her newfound confidence disguised by the mask, Henrietta attends a party where Michael falls for her beauty and charm – unaware of her true identity. As midnight approaches, Henrietta removes the mask only to discover that her newfound allure is no longer an illusion—It turns out it was her bitterness all along that had cast a shadow over her real beauty.
The second story, adapted from Oscar Wilde’s Lord Arthur Savile’s Crime, features Edward G. Robinson as Marshall Tyler, a skeptical lawyer whose world is turned upside down when a palmist (Thomas Mitchell) predicts he’s destined to commit a murder.
Consumed by paranoia, leading him into increasingly dark territory, Tyler becomes obsessed with fulfilling his supposed destiny in order to rid himself of its looming shadow.
In a darkly ironic twist, his attempts to outsmart fate only drag him deeper into chaos until, in a fit of rage, he strangles the very palmist who made the prediction—fulfilling the prophecy he was so desperate to escape.
This segment is widely regarded as the strongest in the film due to Robinson’s intense performance and Stanley Cortez’s noir-inspired cinematography, which uses shadows and reflections to mirror Tyler’s fractured psyche.
The third tale features Charles Boyer as Paul Gaspar, a high-wire artist plagued by recurring dreams of falling to his death while a mysterious woman (Barbara Stanwyck) looks on in horror. When Paul crosses paths with Joan Stanley (Stanwyck)—the exact woman he’s been seeing in his dreams—he gets entangled in the wreckage of her troubled life, all while his own fears start to unravel his career.
The sequence builds to a gripping climax as Paul decides to confront his fate head-on during a daring tightrope act while Joan comes face to face with her own reckoning with the law. Written by László Vadnay, this segment stands out for its surreal dream sequences, brought to life through double exposures and moody, atmospheric lighting, making it both visually arresting and rich with thematic resonance.
Julien Duvivier brought his European sensibilities to Hollywood with Flesh and Fantasy, crafting a film that feels both sophisticated and otherworldly. Duvivier had previously directed Tales of Manhattan (1942), another anthology film that explored human frailty through interconnected stories. For Flesh and Fantasy, he collaborated with screenwriters Ernest Pascal and Samuel Hoffenstein to adapt stories by St. Joseph, Wilde, and Vadnay into a cohesive narrative.
Cinematographers Stanley Cortez (The Magnificent Ambersons 1942) and Paul Ivano infused the film with an Expressionistic style that heightens its dreamlike quality.
The use of shadows, reflections, and surreal imagery creates a hazy atmosphere where reality and fantasy seamlessly blur, drawing you into a mysterious and mesmerizing world. Alexandre Tansman’s moody score shifts between romantic melodies and ominous undertones.
Flesh and Fantasy was originally planned as a four-part anthology, but things shifted before its release. One of the stories, about an escaped convict who finds redemption through a blind girl, was cut after test screenings—even though audiences liked it. That segment didn’t disappear entirely, though; it was later expanded into its own feature film called Destiny (1944), directed by Reginald Le Borg.
Flesh and Fantasy is unique in that it avoids punishing its main characters for their inherent flaws; instead, there is the potential for them to learn something about themselves and maybe even find redemption though those moments of clarity; those shades of opportunity come at great cost.
The film truly deserves recognition as one of the earliest anthology films executed with beautifully artistic flair. Its blend of eerie supernatural intrigue, psychological complexity, and gorgeous visuals delivers Flesh and Fantasy to a secure place in cinematic history as a fascinating exploration of human nature—and a haunting reminder that our fates may not be entirely our own.
CARNIVAL OF SINNERS 1943
Carnival of Sinners (originally titled La Main du Diable, or The Devil’s Hand) is a 1943 surreal French fantasy-horror film directed by Maurice Tourneur (Jacques Tourneur’s father), one of the silent era’s most celebrated auteurs. This darkly elegant film is based on Gérard de Nerval’s novel. It is a haunting exploration of morality, temptation, and redemption, seen through the lens of a cursed talisman—a macabre severed left hand—that grants the one who possesses it fame and fortune but at the cost of their eternal soul.
The film opens in an isolated mountain inn, cut off from the world by an avalanche. Roland Brissot (Pierre Fresnay), a famous painter missing his left hand, arrives carrying a mysterious casket. When his casket is stolen during a blackout, clearly uneasy, he reluctantly agrees to tell the other guests his story. We’re pulled into a flashback that reveals Brissot’s Faustian bargain and his frantic attempt to escape its terrifying consequences.
Brissot begins as a struggling artist in Paris who persuades Irène (Josseline Gaël), a glove shop worker, to pose for him. Frustrated by his lack of talent and success, he encounters Mélisse (Noël Roquevert), a chef who offers him a magical talisman that will grant him everything he desires—for the price of one sou (penny).
The talisman turns out to be a severed left hand that obeys commands and imbues Brissot with extraordinary artistic skill. Despite warnings from Ange (Pierre Larquey), an angelic figure, Brissot buys the hand and quickly rises to fame and riches. He marries Irène and signs his paintings under the pseudonym “Maximus Leo.” Soon after, however, he realizes that his success comes at a steep price: he must sell his hand at a loss before he dies or faces eternal damnation.
As Brissot struggles to rid himself of the cursed talisman, he encounters its previous owners—a musketeer, a thief, a juggler, an illusionist, and others—each recounting their tragic fates in stylized vignettes reminiscent of theatrical tableaux. The little man (Palau), representing the Devil, relentlessly pursues Brissot as he tries to escape his fate. Ultimately, Maximus Leo himself appears—a saintly monk whose hand was stolen centuries ago—and declares that all bargains are invalid since the Devil cannot sell what does not rightfully belong to him. Brissot must return the hand to Leo’s tomb to break the curse.
In the film’s big finale, Brissot faces off with the Devil in a tense showdown at the ruins of an old abbey. The fight ends with Brissot’s death, but nearby, the casket is discovered empty at Leo’s tomb—a powerful symbol of Brissot’s ultimate redemption.
Maurice Tourneur’s direction imbues Carnival of Sinners with a dreamlike, almost otherworldly moodiness, seamlessly blending elements of both fantasy and horror.
Known for his visual artistry in silent classics like The Wages of Sin (1915) and While Paris Sleeps (1923), Tourneur uses striking monochromatic imagery and noir-inspired shadows to create an atmosphere steeped in dread and paradox.
The vignettes featuring the talisman’s previous owners are especially memorable. They’re stylized tableaux with surreal visualizations that feel like a mix of Gothic theater and Expressionist cinema.
Cinematographer Armand Thirard—later celebrated for his work on Henri-Georges Clouzot’s Diabolique (1955) and The Wages of Fear (1953)—enhances Tourneur’s vision with dramatic lighting and carefully composed frames that emphasize the film’s themes of temptation and moral decay. The dance between light and shadow beautifully captures Brissot’s inner conflict, reflecting the weight of the choices he’s struggling to come to terms with.
Pierre Fresnay delivers a compelling performance as Roland Brissot, capturing both his initial arrogance and eventual desperation as he realizes the cost of his ambition.
Palau steals scenes as the Devil’s representative—a charming yet sinister figure whose mild-mannered demeanor disguises his ruthless pursuit of souls.
At its core, Carnival of Sinners is a morality play about human weakness and redemption. The film explores timeless themes such as greed, vanity, and the price of ambition through Brissot’s journey from naivety to self-awareness.
The cursed hand serves as both a literal object of temptation and a metaphor for humanity’s struggle with free will versus predestination. With its haunting imagery, nuanced performances, and thought-provoking themes,
Carnival of Sinners stands as one of Maurice Tourneur’s finest works—a reminder that even in darkness, there is room for redemption.
The story also reflects broader cultural anxieties tied to its production during World War II under Nazi-occupied France. Some critics have interpreted the film as an allegory for collaboration with evil forces—whether political or personal—and the moral compromises individuals make under pressure.
