MonsterGirl’s 150 Days of Classic Horror #80 HOMICIDAL 1961 / THE NIGHT WALKER 1964 & THE TINGLER 1959

SPOILER ALERT!

HOMICIDAL 1961


William Castle, the self-styled King of the Gimmick, was Hollywood’s ultimate showman-a director who gleefully blurred the line between movie and carnival sideshow, and who never met a B-horror plot he couldn’t juice up with a little razzle-dazzle.

But beneath the ballyhoo, Castle was a savvy craftsman, and two of his most memorable films, Homicidal (1961) and The Night Walker (1964), show just how much fun he could have with a twisty plot, a talented cast, and a well-timed jolt of terror.

Let’s start with Homicidal, Castle’s cheeky answer to Hitchcock’s Psycho 1960. He didn’t just borrow the “shocking family secret” formula- he doubled down, adding his own signature: the famous “Fright Break.” Just before the film’s final reveal, Castle offered terrified audience members a chance to flee the theater and get their money back, part of his signature moves so audacious it’s still talked and laughed about today.

As the film reached its suspenseful climax, a 45-second timer appeared on the screen, and Castle’s voice offered terrified audience members a chance to leave the theater and get a full refund if they were too scared to watch the ending. However, there was a catch: anyone who took the offer had to follow yellow footsteps up the aisle, often under a yellow spotlight, to a designated “Coward’s Corner” in the lobby, where they were met by a nurse, given a mock blood pressure test, and required to sign a card admitting, “I am a bona fide coward,” all while the rest of the audience watched and a recording loudly mocked their retreat. This elaborate, theatrical stunt ensured that very few actually took the refund, but it became one of Castle’s most memorable and entertaining promotional gimmicks.

The film itself is a feverish potboiler set in a sleepy California burg, where a mysterious woman named Emily (Joan Marshall, credited as Jean Arless) commits a brutal murder and then insinuates herself into the lives of a wealthy family. Glenn Corbett and Patricia Breslin anchor the cast, but it’s Marshall’s dual gender-subverting performance, switching between the icy Emily and the tormented Warren, that gives the film its edge.

Burnett Guffey’s cinematography (From Here to Eternity 1953, Bonnie and Clyde 1967) bathes the action in shadowy black-and-white, amplifying the Gothic atmosphere. Hugo Friedhofer’s score ratchets up the tension. The plot zigs and zags through family secrets, inheritance schemes, and gender-bending disguises, culminating in a wild reveal that’s as much camp as it is shock.

The film’s best scenes- Emily’s chilling murder of the justice of the peace, the flower shop rampage, and the climactic unmasking- are pure Castle: lurid, suspenseful, and just a little bit tongue-in-cheek.

The film opens in a quiet California town, the kind of place where nothing ever happens-until a mysterious, strikingly cold blonde named Emily checks into a hotel and immediately sets the front desk clerk on edge. She’s got a voice like ice water and a suitcase full of secrets. Without much small talk, Emily offers the hotel bellboy, Jim, a whopping $2,000 to marry her tonight, no questions asked.

Jim, thinking he’s just won the weirdest lottery in town, agrees. The two head to the justice of the peace’s house, where the marriage ceremony is barely underway before Emily suddenly pulls a knife and murders the officiant in cold blood, then bolts into the night, leaving Jim in a state of shock and the audience wondering what on earth they’ve just witnessed.

Emily flees to the home of Helga, a mute, wheelchair-bound woman she cares for, and the house is instantly steeped in Gothic dread. The place is all heavy, with the sense that everyone has something to hide. Emily’s connection to the family is murky; she’s the nurse for Helga, but she also seems to have a strange hold over the household.

Helga (Eugenie Leontovich) is the elderly, mute, wheelchair-bound housekeeper and former childhood guardian (or nanny) of Warren and Miriam, who grew up in the mansion together. Helga is Danish and was brought into the family to care for Warren as a child, and she remained in the household as a caretaker figure as the children grew up. She is deeply entwined in the family’s history and secrets, having been the only one (besides the county clerk) who knew Warren’s true gender at birth.

—A twisted segment of dread and dark comedy – Helga’s, silent terror, voiceless but determined, turns her wheelchair-bound plight into a desperate, relentless, metallic clatter- and a percussive performance, banging the doorknob with frantic rhythm. Each metallic thud is her Morse code for “danger!” – a wordless SOS that echoes like a ghost tapping out warnings on the pipes. The doorknob becomes her voice, clattering and clanging with all the urgency her lips can’t muster, while Emily, with an evil twinkle in her eye, watches in chilling restraint – the suspense is almost slapstick, as Helga’s banging cuts through the scene.

Miriam Webster (Patricia Breslin) is sweet and trusting, and her half-brother, Warren, is due back from a trip. There’s also Ollie, played by Wolfe Barzell, the family’s loyal gardener, who’s suspicious of Emily from the start.

Meanwhile, the police are on the hunt for the justice of the peace’s killer, and their investigation quickly leads them to the Webster household. Emily’s behavior grows more erratic and menacing; she terrorizes Helga, stalks Miriam, and generally acts like she’s auditioning for the role of cool psycho-blonde. The tension ratchets up as Emily’s motives remain mysterious, and the audience is left guessing: Is she after the family money? Is she hiding from someone? Or is she just plain unhinged?

Warren finally returns home, and his presence only deepens the mystery. He’s gentle, soft-spoken, and seems genuinely fond of Miriam and Helga, but his relationship with Emily is tense and fraught with secrets.

Miriam, increasingly unnerved by Emily’s behavior, confides in her boyfriend, the local pharmacist, Karl, played by Glenn Corbet and together they start piecing together the clues. The film’s infamous “Fright Break” looms- the moment when Castle, ever the showman, gives the audience under a minute to flee the theater if they’re too scared to see how it all ends.

As the story barrels toward its climax, the truth comes crashing in: the big reveal in Homicidal is that Emily and Warren are, in fact, the same person. Warren, born a female yet raised as a boy Warren was assigned female at birth, but due to the violent misogyny of his father-who insisted that only a male heir could inherit the family fortune-Warren’s mother, with the help of Helga (the housekeeper) and the county clerk, bribed the clerk to record the birth as male and raised the child as a boy. This deception was meant to protect them from the father’s wrath and to ensure the inheritance stayed within the family.

Warren/Emily has been living a double life, switching between identities to keep the Webster fortune out of Miriam’s hands. Warren grew up presenting as male, but as an adult, created the identity of Emily, allowing “her” to live as a woman away from those who knew the truth. When Warren’s father died, the will stipulated that only a male child could inherit; if Warren were discovered to be female, the inheritance would go to Miriam.

To protect this secret and secure the inheritance, Warren/Emily resorts to murder and intimidation, targeting anyone who might expose the truth, including the justice of the peace (who knew of the deception), Helga, and ultimately Miriam.

The revelation is a wild, gender-bending twist that would make even Hitchcock raise an eyebrow. In a final confrontation, Miriam faces off against “Emily,” and the truth is laid bare in a sensational scene.

In the end, the police arrive just in time to save Miriam, and Warren/Emily’s reign of terror is over. The Webster house, once a nest of secrets, is finally at peace, though the audience is probably still catching its breath from Castle’s rollercoaster of shocks, shadows, and sly winks at the camera.

That’s Homicidal: a film that starts with a bang, keeps you guessing, and delivers a finale as audacious as any in Castle’s bag of tricks.

THE NIGHT WALKER 1964

Fast-forward a few years to The Night Walker, and you’ll find Castle in a slightly different mood- still playful, but more restrained, and with a cast that’s pure Hollywood royalty. In her final big-screen role, Barbara Stanwyck stars as Irene Trent, a woman haunted by dreams, with Lloyd Bochner credited as “The Dream,” her mysterious nocturnal lover. In the opening sequence of The Night Walker, darkness unfurls like velvet across the screen, and the world slips into the hush of fancy. Paul Frees’s voice, smooth and omniscient, beckons us into the secret world behind our eyelids, where logic dissolves and shadows reign.

The camera glides, dreamlike, through a gallery of strange, surreal images- a painted realm where reality and fantasy bleed together. Amid the swirling mists of sleep, we glimpse the unsettling centerpiece: a painting, its surface rippling with the suggestion of hidden depths, as if the canvas itself is a portal to the subconscious. Eyes-cold, white, unblinking-seem to float just beneath the painted surface, watching, waiting. The music by Vic Mizzy shivers through the air, at once shrill and hypnotic, as if echoing the restless pulse of a nightmare. In this liminal space, faces emerge and dissolve, creatures of the mind’s own making, and sometimes we are the watcher, sometimes the watched. The painting is both a boundary and an invitation: step closer and you might tumble headlong into the world it conceals, a dizzying world where death and desire entwine, and every brushstroke conceals menace.

As the sequence unfolds, the painting’s gaze follows, chilling and inescapable- a harbinger of the fevered visions and haunted nights that lie ahead. Here, in the painted darkness, the line between dream and waking life is as thin as a veil, and the nightmare is only just beginning, including the image of an eyeball in a closed fist, a surreal motif that lingers in the mind.

Note: The painting featured in the opening sequence of The Night Walker– the one depicting a devilish imp sitting on a woman lying in bed- is The Nightmare (1781) by Henry Fuseli. This iconic work shows a woman draped over her bed in deep sleep, while a demonic incubus crouches on her chest and a ghostly horse (the “night-mare”) peers through the curtains. Fuseli’s painting is famous for its haunting, erotic, and psychologically charged imagery, symbolizing the experience of nightmares and the folklore of demons or witches tormenting the sleeper. Art historians and critics most often describe it as an incubus, a mythological demon said to torment or prey upon victims while they slumber, especially women, by sitting on their chests and inducing nightmares. Some also refer to it as an “imp,” a squat, brown, goblin-like figure with pointed ears, crouched awkwardly as if caught in the act, its wide eyes staring directly out at us.

Okay, back to Castle’s funhouse ride…

Irene Trent lives in the shadowy oppressive confines of a mansion not haunted by ghosts, but dominated by her blind, obsessively controlling husband, Howard (Hayden Rorke), whose jealousy is as suffocating as the synchronized cuckoo clocks that fill their home and the constant whir of tape recorders, as Howard is convinced Irene is having an affair, though she never leaves the house and has no visitors.

Howard’s paranoia is relentless; he records every conversation, suspecting Irene of infidelity, and his only trusted visitor is his attorney, Barry Morland (Robert Taylor). Trapped and longing for escape, Irene finds solace only in her dreams, where a mysterious, tender lover visits her nightly, offering the affection and freedom she is denied in waking life. A fantasy that becomes both comfort and torment.

Irene finds herself narrating her nightly rendezvous with a handsome, blue-eyed dreamboat- meanwhile, her husband, Howard, is lurking in the shadows, eavesdropping like a jealous bat with a tape recorder. Every sultry detail she utters just pours gasoline on Howard’s obsession, turning Irene’s days into a marathon of paranoia and her nights into a soap opera Howard can’t stop listening to. Poor Irene is married to a man who’s got one ear pressed to the door and the other on his own cuckoo clocks.

“Yes!  Yes, I do have a lover.  He comes to me every night.  He holds me in his arms.  He’s young, handsome and tender.  He’s everything I’ve ever wanted, everything you’re not…my lover’s only a dream but he’s still more of a man than you!”

Tensions in the Trent household spiral until, after a fierce argument, Irene flees, and Howard is killed in a violent explosion in his upstairs laboratory. The blast is so complete that nothing of Howard is left but suspicion and dread, leaving the remains of the charred lab locked away. Irene will become haunted by Howard’s ghost, and the faint sounds of his cane tapping on the floor all set the hypnotic rhythm of Mizzy’s score.

Though Irene is now a wealthy widow, her peace is short-lived. She moves back into the modest apartment behind her beauty shop, finding a confidante in Joyce, her newly hired beautician.

Joyce is played by Judi Meredith, who was a familiar face in 1960s genre cinema and television, often bringing a bright presence to suspense and horror projects – notable horror and sci-fi films she appeared in include: Queen of Blood (1966), where she played Laura James in Curtis Harrington’s cult classic about a deadly alien vampire queen brought back to Earth. She also starred in Dark Intruder (1965), a supernatural mystery in which she played Evelyn Lang, caught up in a string of occult murders in Victorian San Francisco. Starring Leslie Nielsen, the film was a failed pilot for a proposed television series.

Irene is swept away by her fantasy lover, and the boundaries between dream and reality begin to blur as Irene’s nocturnal visions intensify. In one, she is set to wed her dream lover in a chapel filled with creepy waxen witnesses, only for the ceremony to be interrupted when Howard intrudes, scarred and vengeful, forcing her to remarry him, a nightmarish echo of her waking fears.

Haunted by these dreams, Irene visits the real chapel with Barry, where she finds a wedding ring from her vision, deepening her confusion. Barry, at first skeptical, suggests that a private detective named George Fuller (Lloyd Bochner), hired by Howard to spy on Irene, might be behind these manipulations. Meanwhile, Irene’s sense of safety unravels.

Joyce relays an anonymous message to Irene – from George: “Pleasant dreams.” Soon after, Joyce is murdered in the beauty shop by a figure resembling Howard, who is actually Barry in a move to get anyone out of the way who could implicate him in the scheme to drive Irene insane.

Joyce is not simply a victim in The Night Walker; she is actually complicit in the plot against Irene. She was working with Barry and George to gaslight her. Joyce was involved in drugging her at bedtime so that Barry and his accomplice (George the “dream lover”) could manipulate her nocturnal adventures and drive her toward madness.

After Joyce’s murder, Barry claims to Irene that he has been attacked as well, insisting that Howard might still be alive.

Desperate for answers, Irene and Barry (still playing along) return to the Trent estate. Barry enters the house alone while Irene tries to call the police, only to find the phone line cut. Gunshots echo through the house, and Irene rushes inside and into the ruined laboratory, where the truth is revealed: Barry has been impersonating Howard using a lifelike mask. He finally confesses to causing the explosion, orchestrating Howard’s death, after tricking him into signing a will that made him the primary beneficiary. Barry’s plan was to drive Irene mad with staged “dreams” and keep her from discovering the truth.

George Fuller, who has been blackmailing Barry for half of Howard’s estate, is actually Joyce’s husband. He intervenes, shooting Barry in revenge for killing Joyce and turning his rage on Irene to eliminate her as a witness. In the chaos, Barry rallies to defend her, and both men plunge to their deaths through the gaping hole in the floor. Left alone, staring down at the bodies of her tormentors, Irene’s laughter rings out-hysterical, unmoored-caught somewhere between relief and madness, as the nightmare finally comes to an end.

In a delicious bit of casting, Robert Taylor, Stanwyck’s real-life ex-husband, was cast to play Barry Morland, the lawyer who becomes deeply involved in Irene Trent’s increasingly nightmarish life. As the story unfolds, Barry is revealed to be a central figure in the film’s web of deception and suspense, ultimately unmasked as the mastermind behind much of the psychological torment Irene experiences.

The screenplay, by Psycho scribe Robert Bloch, weaves this web of nightmares, suspicion, and gaslighting, as Irene is pursued by visions of her burned, vengeful husband, Howard Trent. The makeup for Howard Trent’s eyes in The Night Walker is strikingly eerie and memorable, contributing significantly to the film’s unsettling atmosphere. To portray Howard’s blindness and evoke a sense of otherworldly menace, the makeup artists gave actor Hayden Rorke unnaturally pale, almost luminescent white eyeballs. This effect was likely achieved with special opaque contact lenses that completely obscured the natural iris and pupil, giving his gaze a blank, lifeless quality. The result is a chilling visual: Howard’s eyes appear cold, vacant, and corpse-like, amplifying both his physical vulnerability and his spectral presence after death.

Castle dials back the gimmicks here, letting the story’s surreal, dreamlike logic do the heavy lifting. Vic Mizzy’s hypnotic score and the film’s moody, noir-inspired cinematography create a genuinely eerie atmosphere.

Vic Mizzy’s score for The Night Walker unfurls like a fever dream, its textures both unsettling and slyly spellbinding. Mizzy’s orchestration is at once minimalist and richly suggestive. The music opens with a dark, repetitive guitar motif- a spectral thread that winds through the film, conjuring the sense of being caught between waking and nightmare. Beneath this, vibraphone and hammered dulcimer shimmer and clatter, their metallic voices evoking the eerie chime of distant clocks or the delicate footfalls of something unseen in the night. Harp arpeggios ripple like the surface of disturbed water, while occasional organ chords swell with a Gothic grandeur, echoing through the empty corridors of Irene’s haunted mind.

The guitar’s insistent pulse is joined by subtle, ghostly woodwinds and the occasional brush of strings, each instrument entering like a shadow at the edge of a dream. The cues shift from tense, repetitive figures- heightening suspense and paranoia- to passages of almost romantic melancholy, as if mourning the love lost to Irene’s troubled sleep. In moments of terror, the score sharpens: hammered dulcimer and vibraphone strike out in anxious patterns, and the organ’s voice becomes a shudder, a warning, a breath held in the darkness. Throughout, Mizzy’s music is both modern and timeless, perfectly matching Castle’s surreal visuals.

William Castle never quite tips his hand, making the final reveal all the more satisfying. His legacy is that of a showman who understood both the power of a good scare and the joy of letting the audience in on the joke. Whether electrifying theater seats or inviting you to bolt for the lobby, he made horror fun—and in Homicidal and The Night Walker, he gave us B-movie thrills with a wink, a scream, and even a tingle!

THE TINGLER 1959

Speaking of tingles!…

William Castle’s The Tingler (1959): A Spine-Tingling Carnival of Camp and Chaos!

Vincent Price, with a voice like velvet dipped in arsenic, leans into the camera and purrs, “Ladies and gentlemen, please do not panic… but scream! Scream for your lives!” And just like that, The Tingler – a film that’s equal parts science lecture, LSD trip, and haunted house ride- lunges at you with all the subtlety of a rubber centipede on a sugar rush. Yet another delirious gem directed by the P.T. Barnum of horror, William Castle, this 1959 schlock masterpiece isn’t just a movie; it’s a prank, a dare, and a carnival barker’s phantasmagoria rolled into 82 minutes of glorious nonsense. Buckle up-or, better yet, grab a seat wired with Castle’s infamous “Percepto!” buzzers-because we’re diving into the wriggling, wacky world of The Tingler.

In William Castle’s The Tingler, horror and hucksterism entwine in a deliriously inventive B-movie that turns the act of watching a film into a participatory thrill ride. Vincent Price, in one of his most iconic driven scientist roles, plays Dr. Warren Chapin, a pathologist with a taste for the macabre and a curiosity that borders on the unhinged stumbles upon a discovery of a parastic creature that he annoints as the Tingler, which latches onto human spines and grows where and when we’re scared.

Vincent Price, in a lab coat and raised eyebrow, is the film’s anchor-part Sherlock Holmes, part carnival ringmaster. He delivers lines like “The tingler exists in every human being, we now know. Look at that tingler, Dave. It’s an ugly and dangerous thing—ugly because it’s the creation of man’s fear; dangerous because… because a frightened man is dangerous” with the gravitas of a Shakespearean actor… if Shakespeare wrote scripts about spine parasites.

Patricia Cutts, as Chapin’s adulterous wife, Isabel, steals scenes with a cocktail-dry wit, sneering at her husband’s experiments while necking with her lover in broad daylight. Price deadpans, catching them in sordid mid-clinch. Judith Evelyn, meanwhile, turns Martha’s mute terror into a silent scream of pure Gothic dread, her eyes widening as her husband Ollie torments her with phantom fiends, fright masks, and blood-filled tubs. And Philip Coolidge as the conniving Ollie? He’s the nervous nudnik personified, twitching like a sap destined to be remembered as the man whose tense presence became inseparable from the terror that haunted a Tingler victim’s final moments. Actually, Coolidge had a substantial career in supporting roles across a variety of popular classic television series and dramatic anthologies, including The Twilight Zone, Alfred Hitchcock Presents, The Alfred Hitchcock Hour, Have Gun – Will Travel, and many more!

Vincent Price’s Chapin discovers that the tingling sensation people feel in moments of sheer terror is caused by this real, centipede-like parasite- the titular Tingler- that lives on the human spine, feeding and growing stronger with fear. The only defense? Scream, and the Tingler shrinks away. It’s a premise so gloriously absurd that only Castle could sell it, and sell it he does, with Price’s velvet menace leading the charge.

Let’s not kid ourselves: The Tingler itself looks like a lobster insect hybrid someone fished out of a radioactive sewer. It’s a glorified puppet yanked around on visible strings, but damn if Castle doesn’t make it work. The creature’s debut- a shadowy, pulsating silhouette pulled from Martha’s spine- is a shadow puppet’s dream!

I’ve got to keep putting forth the descriptions – the sheer enjoyment is too irresistible not to. The Tingler looks like a rubbery, crustacean-like, many-legged marvel- a midnight centipede with the soul of a prankster and the body of a Halloween prop gone rogue. It slithers and wriggles like a lobster on a caffeine bender, its glossy black carapace glinting in the shadows as it scuttles for a new spine to squeeze. With pincers poised and a tail that curls like a question mark, the Tingler doesn’t bite or sting; instead, it hugs your backbone with a wrestler’s grip, tightening with every tremor of fear until your nerves jangle and your lungs beg for a scream.

It’s a creature born not of nature but of nightmares and matinee mayhem- a bug that feeds on terror, growing stronger with every gasp and silent shriek. When unleashed, it doesn’t just crawl; it orchestrates chaos, sending popcorn flying and audiences leaping from their seats. The Tingler is part boogeyman, part practical joke, and all pure Castle: a wriggling, giggling, spine-tingling ambassador for the simple, delicious thrill of being scared out of your seats!

The film wastes no time plunging us into its world of shadowy labs and simmering paranoia. Chapin, ever the scientist, begins by experimenting on himself, injecting LSD to experience fear “like a common person.” In one of cinema’s first acid trips, he writhes in agony as the walls close in and his own fear threatens to unleash the creature within.

The Tingler is shot in black and white, except for the infamous “bloody bathtub” sequence, which is the only part shot in color and spliced into the otherwise monochrome film. When Vincent Price’s Dr. Chapin injects himself with LSD, what we get is a visually inventive, stylized black-and-white sequence: Price’s performance becomes wild and exaggerated, but there’s no color or psychedelic Technicolor effects- just classic noir shadows and some creative camera work to convey his terror and hallucinations.

The cinematography by Wilfred M. Cline is pure noir, all deep shadows and nervous close-ups, but Castle has a trick up his sleeve: in the infamous “bloody bathtub” scene, the black-and-white film erupts into shocking color as blood pours from the taps and a crimson hand rises from a bathtub overflowing with bright red liquid. The effect is achieved by painting the entire set and actress Judith Evelyn in grayscale, then splicing in a color sequence for the blood-a surreal, eye-popping moment that jolts the senses and foreshadows the film’s willingness to break its own rules for a scare.

That scene always got under my skin too-there’s just something about that blood-covered arm and hand reaching out of the literal blood bath that feels like a waking nightmare you can’t quite shake. It’s as if the movie suddenly rips off its black-and-white mask and yells, “Surprise!” with a bucket of Technicolor red. I mean, who knew a bathtub could become the world’s creepiest place to take a relaxing soak? Every time that hand emerges, dripping and desperate, it’s like Castle himself is reaching through the screen to give your nerves a cheeky little jolt.

Judith Evelyn’s Martha Higgins, a deaf-mute with a paralyzing fear of blood, becomes the film’s tragic centerpiece. Her husband, Ollie, played with twitchy guilt by Philip Coolidge, is a silent movie theater owner with a secret: he’s plotting to scare Martha literally to death, knowing she cannot scream and thus cannot defend herself against the Tingler’s fatal grip. The scenes where Ollie torments Martha are some of Castle’s most effective phantom figures, ghoulish masks, and the unforgettable vision of blood flooding the bathroom all conspire to drive her into a silent, fatal panic. Evelyn’s wide-eyed terror, her inability to scream, and the surreal horror of her hallucinations create a sequence that’s both nightmarish and oddly poignant.

Price’s Chapin, meanwhile, is both hero and relentless researcher, slicing into Martha’s spine to extract the now-enormous Tingler- the rubbery, many-legged monstrosity. The special effects are pure Castle: practical, visible, and all the more charming for their earnestness. When the Tingler escapes, chaos erupts. Chapin’s own scheming wife Isabel (Patricia Cutts) tries to use the creature for her own ends, slipping it onto her drugged husband in a scene that’s equal parts suspense and slapstick, only for Chapin’s sister-in-law Lucy (Pamela Lincoln) to save the day with a well-timed scream.

But it’s the film’s climax that cements its legend. The Tingler breaks out of its film reel case, slips through the floorboards, and finds its way into Ollie’s silent movie theater, where a crowd is watching Tol’able David. Suddenly, the screen goes black, and Price’s voice booms out: “Ladies and gentlemen, the Tingler is loose in this theater! Scream! Scream for your lives!”

Ah, Percepto!-the pièce de résistance. In the original theatrical run, Castle’s “Percepto!” gimmick, Castle rigged the theater, electrified select seats with vibrating motors (repurposed airplane de-icers) to literally zap and shock the audience into shrieking, while Ushers planted in the crowd would scream, faint, and get hauled out on stretchers by fake nurses. “Some people may not feel the Tingler,” Castle warned in the prologue, a cheeky cover for theaters that cheaped out on wiring.

The movie theater itself becomes part of the film, blurring the line between fiction and reality in a way that’s both hilarious and genuinely unsettling. As the Tingler crawls across the projection beam, shadowy and menacing, the screams from the onscreen audience mingle with those in the real auditorium- a meta-horror moment decades ahead of its time.

Critics sneered, but audiences ate it up. As film historian Tom Weaver notes, Castle’s genius was making viewers participate in the joke: “He didn’t just want to scare you; he wanted you to laugh at how scared you were.”

The finale is a masterstroke of camp and creepiness. Chapin returns the Tingler to Martha’s corpse, hoping to neutralize it for good, but Ollie is left alone with his guilt. The door slams, the windows lock, and Martha’s corpse rises from the bed, eyes wide and accusing, as Ollie is paralyzed by terror, unable to scream. The screen fades out, and Price’s voice returns with a final ironically cheeky warning: “If any of you are not convinced that you have a tingler of your own, the next time you are frightened in the dark… don’t scream.”

Film historians and fans alike have celebrated The Tingler for its audacity and inventiveness. Castle’s use of color, his practical effects, and his legendary showmanship-fake ambulances, planted fainters, and all-turned a modest B-movie into a cult classic.

Schlock as High Art. The Tingler bombed with critics (“A horror comic come to life,” spat The New York Times) but became a cult classic, revered for its audacity. John Waters, who’d later pen Female Trouble, called it a blueprint for “tacky transcendence.” Even the Tingler itself got a 2023 sequel novel (The Tingler Unleashed), proving that bad ideas never die-they just get wackier.

The Tingler remains a love letter to the communal joy of horror, a film that invites you to laugh, shudder, and, above all, scream for your life.

#80 Down, 70 to go! Your EverLovin’ Joey, formally & affectionately known as MonsterGirl!

Chapter 5 – Queers and Dykes in the Dark: Classic, Noir & Horror Cinema’s Coded Gay Characters:

There is only one possible end. We are monsters. I don’t like monsters.

Diabolique, directed by Henri-Georges Clouzot, based his film on Pierre Boileau and Thomas Narcejac’s novel “Celle qui n’était plus” (She Who Was No More, which Hitchcock attempted to buy the rights to. The original novel is overt in referring to the two women carrying on a lesbian relationship. Clouzot made this more implied in the film. Boileau and Narcejac then wrote D’Entre les Morts” (From Among the Dead) specifically for Alfred Hitchcock, who subsequently adapted to the screen as Vertigo in 1958.

Henri-Georges Clouzot’s 1955 French psycho-sexual thriller Diabolique set off a tone of thrillers to come, with its atmospheric looking-glass quality and suggestion of both lesbianism and the supernatural. Véra Clouzot stars as Christina Delassalle, the wife of a cruel headmaster, Michell Delassalle ( Paul Meurisse), at a private boarding school.

His wife, Christina, and mistress, Nicole Horner (Simone Signoret), conspire to kill him and give themselves a perfect alibi. Christina is a fragile sort, with a weak heart, and beaten down by her husband’s physical and mental abuse (he calls her his little ruin). Nicole is self-reliant and aggressive. The two women form a bond with an unspoken tinge of their lesbian alliance. Along the way, Nicole must push Christina to go through with their plans to murder Michel and be rid of Michell, the swine, forever. After his death, there are sightings of him on the grounds of the school. This injects an element of the uncanny into the plot unless there is something more insidious at the core. Throughout the picture, there is a strong sense of Sapphic tension and allusions to the two women’s sexual relationship. In the novel She Who Was No More, the two women were clearly lesbian lovers.

M. Drain Professeur “I may be reactionary, but this is absolutely astounding – the legal wife consoling the mistress! No, no, and no!”

 

Christina Delassalle “There is only one possible end. We are monsters. I don’t like monsters.”

Nicole Horner “If it’s only him, I feel better. I’ll save the grain of sand falling from the hands of providence for my morality lessons.”

Alfred Hitchcock was so impressed with Henri-Georges Clouzot’s French thriller Diabolique (1955) it inspired him to create a dark and psycho-sexual black & white film that would also shock his audience and be a success at the box office.

With his horror film — quasi-noir-tinged Psycho (1960), he engendered a whole new brand of Schadenfreude with his outre creepy film adapted from the story by Robert Bloch about Norman Bates, who personifies the Oedipal relationship between himself and his castrating mother.

The mysterious Mrs. Bates is never seen on screen, except for her voice that croaks out stern remarks from behind her bedroom door. In order to manifest his vengeful mother’s overarching power, he brings her to life by dressing in her clothes and killing anyone Norman has sexual desires for. Norman Bates became the poster boy for the cross-dressing psychopathic killer with latent homosexual tendencies brought about by his over-possessive mother. Though these disparaging visions of gay characters existed on screen, Norman Bates WAS a cinematic prototype and composite of serial killer Ed Gein, who did in fact go on a killing spree in Wisconsin in the 1950s and 60s. Gein wore women’s clothing, and he also wore their skin, sharing Norman’s fascination with taxidermy. He also carried on conversations with his dead mother, which he dug up and kept on the old creepy family farm. In later years, the graphically perverse Deranged (1974), starring Robert Blossom, was released as a direct biographical film about Gein’s life. Later on, it became the interlace of the story, which would be the gory incidentals in 1991, in Jonathan Demme’s Silence of the Lambs, where Buffalo Bill would also become iconic and a composite of Ed Gein.

William Castle’s Homicidal 1961 was directed by the king of ballyhoo, who answered Alfred Hitchcock’s horror noir with his own cringe-worthy psycho-sexual film featuring the cross-dressing Jean Arliss as Emily/Warren — another psychopathic gender-bending murderer. The brutal stabbing murder of a justice-of-the-peace sparks an investigation of dark family secrets in a sleepy small town in Southern California. Also stars Glenn Corbett and Patricia Breslin.

A peculiar young man, Warren (Jean Arliss), plots to murder his half-sister, Miriam Webster (Patricia Breslin) in order to collect the family fortune. Miriam is supposed to share her inheritance with her half-brother Warren, who lives with his nanny and now guardian Helga (Eugenie Leontovich), an old woman confined to a wheelchair. Helga has recently been struck down by a stroke and is barely able to move or speak; she can only tap out something like Morse code with her trusty doorknob. Warren is a strange and menacing figure who projects an undercurrent of hostility toward his childhood guardian. Warren and Helga live in the old family mansion where he and Miriam grew up. Helga is taken care of by a pretty blonde nurse, Emily, who seems to have formed a close relationship with Warren.

Miriam Webster: “I remember when we were kids, you took this doll away from me, and I never saw it again.”
Warren: “You want it? Take it.”

Making its departure from gruesome queer killers, Hollywood contributed to the screen another type of threatening’ gay subtext with James Dean, who exuded tragic emotional disturbances, and the tough sensitivity of Marlon Brando, who dressed in worn-out leather to cover up the pathos oozing from his deep eyes and rugged voice. Dyer refers to these actors as the sensitive ‘spectacularized young man.’

In director Nicholas Ray’s Rebel Without a Cause (1955), a most talked about film with homosexual undertones, particularly from Sal Mineo’s (openly queer) portrayal of Plato. James Dean is on fire with teenage angst as Jim Stark, whose father is an emasculated, weak male figure. There is a lot more light that passes through Plato’s homosexuality, as he exudes more than the hero worship of Jim. There’s a tell-tale scene when Plato is combing his hair in the mirror of his locker, decorated with a photo of Gary Cooper. Jim is walking down the hallway, and as Plato catches sight of him, his gaze is eroticized.

The character of Plato is played as an unstable youth, and Jim comes from a family with a domineering mother who emasculates his apron-wearing gutless father… In 1955, the question of homosexuality still had to be handled on screen as a question of deviance; Plato, therefore, must pay for his transgressions with his life.

There is also a moral warning for parents. Represent good role models of a heterosexual ideal, or your kids might turn out either troubled or queer. It is a cautionary tale about paying attention to heteronormative expectations. In the end, the story is sewn up with Jim grabbing his father as he tells him it’ll be alright.

Ray’s film, with its heavily rendered homosexual subtext, avails itself of dialogue that is easily interpreted as sexually ambiguous. “Are you ready to come out yet?”

In Howard Hawk’s Gentleman Prefer Blondes, 1953 Jane Russell does one of her lively musical numbers which suggests a very tongue-in-cheek hint at ‘gay panic’ when her character Dorothy Shaw is surrounded by a chorus of muscle-bound weightlifters in homoerotic swim trunks that pay Dorothy no mind.“Doesn’t anyone want to play?”

In a more deeply disturbing narrative, director Jack Garfein’s The Strange One (1957) is set in a military boarding school. Jocko De Paris (Ben Gazzara) is a manipulative upperclassman who rules sadistically over the other cadets. The root cause of Jocko’s ambiguous violent schemes is suggested to be his latent homosexuality.

the film wallows in a steamy mixture of homoerotic imagery and verbal innuendo. The mise-en-scene is filled with phallic signifiers, such as towers, trumpets, cigars, flashlights, nightsticks, bottles brooms swords and scores of erect young men marching sweatingly through the night… The specter of homosexuality also envelops the characters of Cadet Perrin, and effete poet who idolworhips Jocko and Cadet Simmons, a Peter Lorre look-alike who refuses to date girls or shower with the other cadets. Ultimately all this queerness is dislplace onto Jocko’s violent sadism, a linkage not uncommon in the ear’s medical discourse about homosexuality… Jocko calls Cadet Perrin a ‘three-dollar bill” and repeatedly towel whips his ass its hard not to read the scene as a metaphoric sodomy wherein (Code-sanctioned) homosocial violence displaces (Code -forbidden ) homosexual contact. The story itself is an extended gloss on secrecy in the barracks centering on a bizzare narrative event that also speaks of homosexuality in barely coded ways.(Jeffrey Sconce)

Tennessee William’s Suddenly, Last Summer (1959) conflated homosexuality with the devouring mother archetype, promiscuity, cruising, pedophilia, and cannibalism. It’s a melodrama that could very easily share the shock scenes and denouement with some of the most gruesome horror films.

Not to forget Vincente Minnelli’s Tea and Sympathy (1956), where John Kerr, sewing with the ladies and removed from all sports, is barely veiled as a homosexual, though the picture throws Deborah Kerr at him in one night’s sexual encounter to awaken his maleness. The film is so uncomfortable with itself because it dares not admit Tom’s homosexuality.

Even as the Production Code authorities attempted to expurgate “homosexuality” per se from the film version of Tea and Sympathy 1956“”focusing instead on the euphemism of its young protagonist’s effeminacy this move fooled few spectators and simultaneously reinforced a stereotypical and reassuring blurring of effeminacy and male homosexuality. (Foster Hirsch-The Dark Side of the Screen)

Where homosexuals are either portrayed as deviants or boys who have had their masculinity neutered for them, lesbians have a symbology all their own. In director Gerd Oswald’s psychotronic cult film Screaming Mimi (1958) starring Anita Ekberg, Gypsy Rose Lee plays exotic night club owner Joann ‘Gypsy’ Masters, a veiled lesbian who runs the burlesque show and looks after her girls.

Exotic dancer Anita Ekberg surrounds herself with her Great Dane… Screaming Mimi.

In contrast to coded characters, in Basil Dearden’s Victim (1961), the outed queer character Melville Farr is played by Dirk Bogard. one of the gay men being targeted by a blackmail plot during the 1960s London, coinciding with the death of a young man, whom Bogard had a fling with. The subject of homosexuality was out in the open in Dearden’s bold 1961 film, which deals with homosexuality as the central plot. Yet it drops the characters into a seedy pit of unsavory intrigue surrounding gay men and their criminal affiliations. Victim is one of the first films dealing with homosexuality directly as the central storyline, confronting some of the issues in a serious manner without demonizing its leading character, Melville Farr, yet trying to examine how being in the closet causes so much psychological turmoil and heartache.

Lesbians are often portrayed as harsh and tyrannical or on the femme side; they’re trashy and beaten down. For example, in director Gordon Douglas’ Tony Rome (1967), After 1961, times were changing, and the Code was forced to ease up on policing the content of pictures coming out of Hollywood. One of the first signs of the lesbian innuendo, with more of a kick to it, was in director Gordon Douglas’ Tony Rome 1967. The equation of lesbian love with tyranny is also the strongest impression we get from that scene between Irene and Georgia (uncredited Deanna Lund) in the caravan.

Georgia, the stripper, might be seen as a lady who gets what she wants with no interference, but she also lives in a caravan with Irene (character actor Elizabeth Fraser). In the film, she plays a dowdy, heavy-set, unspoken lesbian lover (who is credited on IMDb as Irma.) The film doesn’t call their relationship out by name, but the dialogue contains sharp innuendo dished out by the smooth-talking Sinatra, who talks to Georgia about an old boyfriend of hers. Tony’s been trying to track him down. Redheaded Georgia (Deanna Lund), a stripper who’s shacked up with her ‘roommate,’ as abusive and whiny as the men who used to beat her.

Tony told Georgia about her ex-boyfriend: “Maybe he was trying to get into the wrong ballpark.”

After Irene, who seems overly possessive, jealous, unstable, and isn’t the most fashionable 60s lesbian, begins smacking Georgia around until they both fall on the small caravan bed as Irene whimpers that she’s sorry for hitting her.

Tony smirks- “You want the lights on or off?… They’re better off.”

Tony Rome is scattered with a few distasteful scenes, characteristic of late 6os cinema; queers were not portrayed in a very good light. While the film has a groovy 60s vibe, some smart-alecky dialogue, and the presence of Sinatra who plays it cool, the decades’ propensity for painting gays with a dirty brush is ever present in Gordon Douglas’ crime drama.

Lloyd Bochner plays an effete drug dealer named Vic. A brief teaser role that seems to have flown under the gay radar. Bochner portrays Vic with a pretentiously fake obstinance, wears an ascot, and listens to classical music in his kitschy pad. Tony shows up looking for a user who will be trying to score from Vic. After he roughs Vic up a bit, Rome prepares himself a hamburger on the stove and asks Vic in a mocking tone, “How do you like your meat?”

The tyrannical relationships between lesbians in the world of the classic film noir where there was more of a power differential, between employer/employee, etc (Rebecca, In a Lonely Place, Walk on the Wild Side for instance) carry over into films where the lesbian characters are not only visible but they are supposed to be each others’ social equal.

The emphasis on lesbians as working women can exhibit keen elements of cruelty and violence of either the servants or mistresses, as with Mrs. Danvers and the second Mrs. de Winter (Rebecca) and Martha to Laurel (In a Lonely Place). But also the dominance that madams show to the ‘girls’ in their stable. This manifestation of iron-handed emotions leaves us suspicious of what the attraction is to women or the object of their affection.

As the Hays Code began to crumble and it was gasping its last bitter breath, the lesbian character was made visible on screen. This is the case of Dirk Bogard in Dearden’s Victim or with George (Beryl Reid) and Childie (Susannah York) in Robert Aldrich’s painfully revealing exploration of an aging dyke in THE KILLING OF SISTER GEORGE (1968), where lesbianism is out in the open for the audience but not for the character of Sister George who is a beloved soap opera star for BBC. She tries to make her private life separate from her career as a well-loved nurse on the popular television show. But June Buckridge, who plays the character of George, is compelled to sabotage both her private and public life with her shameless reputation for drinking too much and goosing nuns in taxi cabs. She is a belligerent, self-hating lesbian who is trapped within her private closet, trying to hold onto her girlfriend, who is a wandering woman/child.

The sixties ushered in several interesting films that still cast a veil of secrecy over queer cinema before films became franker with gay subjects as the lead story. One of the most flirtatious and entertaining with more than a queer inkling or attentive innuendo is THE LEAGUE OF GENTLEMEN (1960), a homosocial/partly-homosexual buddy film about men coming together to rob a bank. As the Criterion Collection calls it, “precisely calibrated caper… influences countless Hollywood heist films.”

One of the unprecedented aspects of Dearden’s film for 1960 is not only is the narrative steeped in queer innuendo, but homosexuality also is not tangential to the plot; a few of the main characters are ‘queer,’ and they are not stereotypical.

Director Basil Dearden’s impressively quirky British heist movie stars the accomplished Jack Hawkins as Hyde and equally brilliant Nigel Patrick as Major Race. Hyde is a resentful Colonel who was forced into retirement as he was ‘redundant.’ He recruits an eccentric group of disgraced petty criminals, ex-British army officers, to help him pull off a meticulous bank heist that includes infiltrating a military compound. Hyde has the goods on all of their shady pasts and influences them to accept his offer. Race becomes his most trusted ally and implied lover, who used to run the black market in Hamburg. The film also stars some British greats, Richard Attenborough, Kieron Moore, and Bryan Forbes, who went on to direct, and Roger Livesey. Hyde assigns each one a task that matches their expertise.

Women are rarely seen except for the opening of the picture and are not part of the narrative, merely to illustrate that they are not quite essential or actually a drag on the men’s lives. There are no romantic relationships on the periphery, just Attenborough lusting after a pretty young skirt. For the most part, women are not shown in a good light. They are either whores, shrews catering to their doddering old father-in-law, cling insecure older women being used by Forbes; the rest are bitches. Women are the counterbalance of the film’s antiheroes, who form a homosocial circle. However, I wonder if there isn’t a form of homosocial order within a female assembly, like prisons and convents, that have their own shape of erotic engagement. I might call this experience ‘sapphic-social.’

Gentlemen have a definite undercurrent of sexual attraction between Hyde (Hawkins) and Race (Patrick). Often, the two exchange glances and trade coquetry, while there is a seductive ambiance to many of their interactions, especially when Hyde tells Race to spend the night. He also requests that Race drop the old “˜darling’ bit, and then Race calls him Old Dear instead. Their entire relationship is flirtatious,” and when Race dons an apron and does the dishes with Hawkins, it’s divine.

Race looking at a portrait, “Is that your wife? Is she dead?”

Hyde “Oh no, the bitch is still going very strong.”

“One gets into terrible habits at the YMCA,” and “You’d be surprised where I’ve parked my Caravan.” Race tells Hawkins. Race tells him, “You’re spoiling me.” Hyde tells him, “All my men loved me.”

Kieran Moore is being blackmailed, but it is only implied that he is homosexual. ” Well, there are thrills and “˜thrills’ ” he tells his patron whom he is massaging. There is a reference to him by one of the others that he’s an “odd man out.” And Lexy (Richard Attenborough) acts green around the gills because he has to room with him.

For a gripping, black comedic crime thriller, the more than implied queerness makes The League of Gentlemen, a variation on Boys in the Band, a sort of Boys in the Bank Robbery will do nicely!

Then, in 1962, Peter Ustinov directed BILLY BUDD, which was based on the novel by Herman Melville. Billy Budd stars Robert Ryan as John Claggart Master of Arms, Peter Ustinov as Capt. Vere and co-stars Melvyn Douglas, Paul Rogers, David McCallum, Ronald Lewis, Niall MacGinnis, and Terence Stamp as Billy Budd. Billy Budd is an innocent, naive seaman in the British Navy in 1797. When the ship’s sadistic master-at-arms is murdered, Billy is accused and tried. Claggart ( Robert Ryan) has a ‘queer’ fixation on Billy. Laura Mulvey terms this fixation as a case of ‘scopophilia,’ which describes the psychological tendency towards deriving aesthetic pleasure from looking at something or someone in terms of masculinity/femininity and subjectivity and objectivity.

In her book Epistemology of the Closet (1990/2008), Eve Sedgwick, expanding on earlier interpretations of the same themes, posits that the interrelationships between Billy, Claggart and Captain Vere are representations of male homosexual desire and the mechanisms of prohibition against this desire. She points out that Claggart’s “natural depravity,” which is defined tautologically as “depravity according to nature,” and the accumulation of equivocal terms (“phenomenal”, “mystery”, etc.) used in the explanation of the fault in his character, are an indication of his status as the central homosexual figure in the text. She also interprets the mutiny scare aboard the Bellipotent, the political circumstances that are at the center of the events of the story, as a portrayal of homophobia.

The centrality of Billy Budd’s extraordinary good looks in the novella, where he is described by Captain Vere as “the young fellow who seems so popular with the men””Billy, the Handsome Sailor”, have led to interpretations of a homoerotic sensibility in the novel.

King Rat (1965) written by James Clavell (To, Sir With Love 1967, The Great Escape 1963) directed by Bryan Forbes (Seance on a Wet Afternoon 1964, The Whisperers 1967), and astounding Miltonian cinematography by Burnett Guffey (All the King’s Men 1947, From Here to Eternity 1953, Birdman of Alcatraz 1962, Bonnie and Clyde 1967), framing the prisoners steeped in hell. The scene at the end with the collective wide shot of the hollowed-out men not quite connected to the world anymore or their coming release reminds me of the potent image from Paths of Glory (1957). King Rat is a meditation on humanity when British and American prisoners of war are captured and thrown into a Japanese camp in Changi.

In some of the more subtle homosexual subtexts, King Rat shows Dr. Kennedy (James Donald) using an acid tongue with his male nurse, Stevens (Michael Lees). Kennedy’s hostility is the one trace of homophobia in the picture. “˜Stop trying to pretend you’re Florence Nightingale” and “You shave your legs, and you’re a liar. Forbes himself never showed any homophobia in his work, even considering Cicely Courtneidge as a sympathetic lesbian in The L Shaped Room (1962) and Stevens in The League of Gentlemen (1960).

Director Bryan Forbe’s films came to grips with taboo subjects in his realist style of 1960s cinema, in much the same way Robert Aldrich populated his films with misfits and outsiders — The L Shaped Room examines converging stories and social minefields, including unwed motherhood, lesbianism, and race. Forbe’s work delved into humanity in a microcosmic tableau.

But if one were to look at the film objectively, there would be nothing on its face that couldn’t be read one way or the other. George Segal is Corporal King (‘Rat’) who runs a lucrative black market, always scheming and plotting within his close circle of men, the Guards, and the Malay locals to obtain contraband. His position as a black marketeer helps him transcend his rank within that prison camp.

But freedom meant that he would be stripped of his privilege. King lives a better life than anyone else in the POW camp, but he does bring a bit of release and small obtainables, which, to the desperate, become luxuries for the other men. There is a sharp contrast between his freshly laundered shirts, combed hair, and clean face while other men starve and wear soiled, tattered rags. Pete Marlowe begins to respect King, who he comes to see not only as a clever mercenary but also as someone who brings a bit of dignity to the other men.

James Fox gives an astounding performance as Pete, a gentle, fair-minded, upper-class Brit who is also trying to make the best of his captivity. The men in the camp have very little rations, and the extreme heat is enough to dry a man to dust. There’s also diphtheria, malaria, insanity, and undignified death. They are reduced to animals struggling to survive, so beaten down they’ve lost their soul in their eyes. But in the midst of this hell, the nameless King never shows more than sweaty armpits in his freshly cleaned uniform, while the others are half-naked and emaciated. King has fresh eggs, cigarettes, and deals going on with Japanese soldiers to make a lot of money, which makes him feel like a big man. Back in civilization, he was a nobody, but here he flourishes because he is in charge. In this isolated camp, his cunning has made him the most influential and, at times, predatory of men.

Men can sink to the depths of hell when they are treated like animals. The film is an example of a homo-social dynamic of camaraderie against a common obstacle. Homosocial behavior is often seen in films where men are thrown together and must bond, in particular prison movies and war films, where men are dependent on each other and forced to survive.

It is given in both male and women’s prison movies that there might be a sexual relationship out of necessity. With men, it would be because there aren’t any women, and they need someone to depend on and form a close bond with. But once they are free, they go back to their heterosexuality.

What makes King Rat such a strong film coded with homosexual subtext is the bond that Pete and King form at the very beginning. Forbe’s film never comes out and tells us that the two men have fallen in love. On the surface, it is about a strong friendship that grows between the two. But it is obvious, if you look at it through a queer lens, that there is a romantic dynamic between them. Pete is more overtly queer, while King never lets his guard down to anyone; Pete is the only one he takes into his intimate space.

From the beginning, there’s a subtle flirtation. King doesn’t treat anyone else like he treats Pete. At the first meeting, he makes him a fried egg. Pete comments, when does one have to kiss his ass? The men in the hut turn and look at the two of them curiously. King tells Pete, “Never before meals.”

As Pete grows closer to King, it is more apparent that he is effeminate and is immediately drawn to King. Pete moves very fluidly; while everyone wears shorts or long pants, he wears a traditional skirt and walks like a sylph. Very quickly, he falls under King’s spell. The two men gradually fall in love, and as the film progresses, we can see a strong friendship, but those of us who are either in the know or know what they’re looking at will see the homosexual love story.

Hollywood proposes films that appear heterosexual but have suggestive coding. There are many scenes of tenderness, caring, and affection that speak of homo-erotic desire that hasn’t been consummated but lingers around the two men. Pete has a strong longing for King, but once the prisoners are freed, King pushes Pete away not only because he will lose any identification of great importance but also because he will go back to obscurity. Now, he must bury his homosexual feelings and go back to his straight life.

In one scene, when Pete is suffering from gangrene and might lose his arm, King takes his head and strokes his face passionately, caressing his neck and cheeks. King, who always looks out for himself, pays a lot of money to get the medicine to heal Pete. He sits by his bedside and holds his hand; without his usual dress army shirt, King is bare-chested for the first time. It’s a very homoerotic moment when King sits by Pete’s bed, his sweat glistening by the bedside light.

At one point King talks about how he never got the dolls (women) back home, all the fat men with money got the girls. The mentioning of his heterosexuality is a way to appease the censors and draw away the implication that he might be gay. This qualifies his heterosexuality to prepare for the following moment, where he is stroking Pete’s face, taking it in his hands, and bringing his own face close to his in a moment that might erupt in a kiss. Now that King has just talked about looking at dolls, this can be read as a hetero friendship and not a homoerotic one.

Ultimately when the war is declared over, King must deny and dismiss Pete completely in order to shed his homosexuality. But Pete is devastated “”King becomes cold and cruel. Pete implores him “You called me Sir last nightThe war is over, but you and me, we’re just the same.”

But King has already decided to walk away from their “˜homoerotic friendship’ Peter pleads with him, “People don’t change. I’m not ashamed that you and I are friends. We survived it. Don’t you remember what we had, don’t you remember that? Don’t ask me to forget all that. Otherwise, what’s it all been made of? I’m not different.”

At the very end, Pete actually says King’s (which has merely been his nickname ) last name, which we hear for the first time during the film; it symbolizes the intrusion of the real world on their insulated existence. When King is leaving with the Americans, Pete runs frantically toward him, trying to say goodbye. King looks at him from the truck, and for the last time, he reveals to Pete one lingering stare- a despairing, longing look at Pete to let him know it was real.

Continue reading “Chapter 5 – Queers and Dykes in the Dark: Classic, Noir & Horror Cinema’s Coded Gay Characters:”

Chapter 2 – Queers and Dykes in the Dark: Classic, Noir & Horror Cinema’s Coded Gay Characters:

THE LAND OF MORAL AMBIGUITY: HOLLYWOOD & THE HAYS CODE

"Pictures shall not infer that low forms of sex Relationships are the accepted or common thing…"

Prior to the Production Code, LGBT characters were somewhat prevalent, if heavily stereotyped and exploited, in a number of major films. The 1920s especially were a time of shifting societal norms and expanding artistic experimentation. As women rode the first wave of feminism and prohibition was increasingly challenged, filmmakers began to expand their boundaries and feature more controversial plotlines. – Sophie Cleghorn

Pre-Code was a brief period in the American film industry between the dawn of talking pictures in 1929 and the formal enforcement in 1934 of the Motion Picture Production Code (MPPC) familiarly known as the Hays Code. Pre-Code was a glorious time in the history of cinema. It was during the Depression Era before the cultural politics of Clergy and reformer organizations came in and initiated the need for moral governance over the film industry. Their interference evolved into the Hays Code created to oversee silent and talking pictures.

In the late 1920s before the Hays Code, films began to speak becoming audible and more realistic as Hollywood recognized that many Americans knew all about sex. In the early era of talkies during the gutsy cinema of the Depression era, there was nothing stopping the studios from producing daring films. Hollywood movies weren’t afraid to show gay characters or reference their experiences. Ironically, queers were pretty visible onscreen at this time in American cinema. These characters left an impression on trade papers like Variety which called this phenomenon – “queer flashes.”

Also in the early twenties, there were notorious scandals on and off-screen. Hollywood’s moral ambiguity was literally in the clutches of the Hays Code which the MPPDA used to wage a moral battle against Hollywood that they perceived would eventually lead to cultural ruination. The priggish William Hays was a deacon in the Presbyterian church, a former chair of the Republican party, and postmaster general before he was picked to lead the war on decadence in the movie industry. William Hays was appointed chairman of the Motion Pictures Producers and Distributors Association (MPPDA) from the year it was established in 1922 to 1945, but the Hays Code was not overturned until 1968. Hays and his code regulated film content for nearly forty years. The little worm.

W.C.Fields and Franklin Pangborn- Never Give a Sucker an Even Break (1941)

The Hays Code became a series of self-imposed, perceived-to-be-moral guidelines that told filmmakers and the major studios what was permissible to do in their movies. The Code was established in 1930, and the MPPC set forth censorship guidelines that weren’t yet strictly enforced. And states had their own censorship boards and so their individual standards varied. Hays tried to contain his guidelines without the intrusion of government censorship, so he created his own Production Code that was for all intents and purposes optional for studios.

They felt that the liberal themes of films in the 1920s were contributing to the supposed debauchery infiltrating society. They championed government censorship as the solution to return society to its traditional moral standards (Mondello).

In June 1927, Hays publicized a list of cautionary rules. A construct of ‘Don'ts and Be Carefuls'. The document and empowering legislation spelled out guidelines for propriety on screen in classic Hollywood that became known as the Production Code. It was co-authored in 1929 by Martin J. Quigley, a prominent Catholic layman, editor of the journal Motion Picture Herald, and Reverend Daniel A. Lord, a Jesuit Priest. Their collaboration reflected a ‘Victorianism’ that would tint the freedom of Hollywood’s creative license. “The Production Code was a template for a theological takeover of American cinema.” “No picture should lower the moral standards of those who see it.”

“Just Ten of the Thous Shalt Nots”

Homosexuality

While the Code did not explicitly state that depictions of homosexuality were against the Code, the Code barred the depiction of any kind of sexual perversion or deviance, which homosexuality fell under at the time. -Wikipedia

The convict

"The courts of the land should not be presented as unjust"¦"

Prostitution and fallen women

"Brothels and houses of ill-fame are not proper locations for drama. They suggest to the average person at once sex sin, or they excite an unwholesome and morbid curiosity in the minds of youth"¦"

Bad girls

"Pictures shall not infer that low forms of sex relationship are the accepted or common thing"¦"

Musicals

"Dancing costumes cut to permit indecent actions or movements are wrong"¦ Dances suggesting or representing sexual actions or indecent passion are forbidden"¦"

Adultery and the sanctity of marriage

"Adultery as a subject should be avoided"¦ It is never a fit subject for comedy. Thru comedy of this sort, ridicule is thrown on the essential relationships of home and family and marriage, and illicit relationships are made to seem permissible, and either delightful or daring."

NOT TO MENTION: GOD COMPLEXES-

Boris Karloff is Dr. Henry Frankenstein’s creation. Make-up by Jack Pierce.

By the time the sequel Bride of Frankenstein was released in 1935, enforcement of the code was in full effect and Dr. Henry Frankenstein’s overt God complex was forbidden. In the first picture, however, when the creature was born, his mad scientist creator was free to proclaim “Now I know what it feels like to be a God.”

‘Don’ts’ included “profanity,” “sex hygiene,” “miscegenation,” and "ridicule of the clergy." There was a much longer list of "˜Be carefuls' which indicated it was offensive to “show sympathy for criminals,” “arson,” “surgical operations,” "excessive or lustful kissing” and of course “HOMOSEXUALITY.”

Hays appointed Colonel Jason S. Joy to be in charge of the supervisory agency, the Studio Relations Committee. Once the first talky The Jazz Singer (1927) starring Al Jolson was released a newly fired-up rebel cry was heard from the hoity-toity do-gooders who raised objections against Hollywood’s immorality. What was once suggestive in silent pictures was now committed to sound, with all its risque humor and wicked context.

In 1934 censorship was tightening its stranglehold. Under pressure from the Catholic Church and other religious groups, the Motion Picture Production Code made it so that any marginal gay characters became masked in innuendo, relying on queer symbolism instead. Several grassroots organizations were founded in order to pressure the film industry, the most influential of all was the Catholic Legion of Decency.

So, between the Code and state censorship boards, one might expect that films produced after 1930 would be exemplars of wholesomeness and purity. In practice, the men who enforced the Code on behalf of the MPPDA (Jason Joy and James Wingate) were wholly ineffectual, primarily due to the very small staffs they were allotted to keep up with the work of reviewing scripts, treatments and finished films while battling studios that weren't especially thrilled by the bottleneck caused by the whole operation. The combination of bureaucratic sclerosis and the economic, political and cultural crisis brought about by the Great Depression ushered in a vibrant era of filmmaking and the introduction of many stars whose personas would forever be rooted in their pre-Code films.- Mike Mashon

The Code set in place in 1930 was a turning point in the history of self-regulation. With the strict enforcement of the Production Code, they attempted to influence the discourse in American film without coming out and definitively stating which contexts were strictly forbidden. Instead, they issued phrases like "should be avoided" and "should not suggest." Though a variety of controversial topics weren’t vigorously banned by the Production Code, gay characters WERE strictly prohibited. 

The Man Who Knew Too Much (1934) directed by Alfred Hitchcock- Peter Lorre

When the Hays Code was adopted in 1930, they articulated that, “though regarding motion pictures primarily as entertainment without any explicit purpose of teaching or propaganda, they know that the motion picture within its own field of entertainment may be directly responsible for spiritual or moral progress, for higher types of social life, and for much correct thinking.”

When the MPPDA formally ratified The Code, they demanded that it be followed to the letter but it “lacked an effective enforcement mechanism” – and the studio heads openly defied its frame of mind and its puritanical spirit.

The movie studios had other pressing issues of concern. It was the Great Depression, and studios were barely making it, on the brink of ruin due to low ticket sales. They were quite ready to fight with states over censorship because sex and violence sell. They wanted to draw in audiences that would be titillated by gangsters, vamps, and racy subject matter. Popular musicals could entertain with disparaging racial clichés and glamorous, intoxicating imagery, with hints of queerness. You could also watch languid prostitutes on screen — everyone seems to long for Shanghai Lil, in the film that has it all, Footlight Parade (1933)

Filmmakers tried to switch around controversial subject matter that would not only push the boundaries but would promote ticket sales, with films that would attract a more sophisticated audience. Breen perceived these films to be less ‘dangerous’ a word he often used. They focused on the ‘gangster’ film with its violent content, and when they put their foot on that genre’s neck, Hollywood rolled out the ‘fallen woman‘ films. They tried very hard to get around the scrutiny and so they delved into making horror pictures, and racy comedies. These fare better as they fell under the heading of being ‘unrealistic’ which rendered them as innocuous material to the censors.

During the Great Depression, movies were an escape for audiences in dire need of distraction. The morally-charged stranglehold that was beginning to challenge filmmakers forced them to experiment with movies that were audacious and candid in different ways. Pre-Code actually challenged audiences to watch real-life issues on screen. Pre-Code cinema offered some titillating truths coming out of the dream factory. Depression-era cinema exhibited gay characters, but generally in small parts and often used for comic purposes that managed to cue audiences in, with roles that were codified and readable as queer. ‘Queerness’ was railed against because it subverted traditional masculinity which was under attack by the new socioeconomic crisis in the country. Yet somehow, Hollywood found it to be a viable trigger for ideological gossip.

These films illustrated narratives that were thought-provoking, worldly, and subversive. Movies dealt frankly or were suggestive of sexual innuendo, sexual relationships between races, mild profanity, drug use, promiscuity, prostitution, infidelity, abortion, intense violence, and of course, homosexuality.

William Wellman’s Safe in Hell (1931) stars Dorothy Mackaill as a call girl in hiding. Prostitution is a no no!

Filmmakers took risks delivering a portrait of America with a punishing realism, and creative freedom to portray taboo themes like crime (gangs and guns, violence), and social dilemmas (drug abuse, poverty, and political unrest). And sexual relationships (adultery, promiscuity, deviance = homosexuality). In the 1930s filmmakers also sought to stir up controversy by screening queer characters, in order to shock audiences and drive up their ticket sales. As a result, movies became more lewd, ruthless, and vicious between 1930 and 1934. And Hollywood was its MOST queer from 1932-1934.

Yet during the silent era to the mid-thirties, gay characters were illustrated as stereotypes showcasing the popular tropes established by conventional hetero-normative gender bias. These archetypes were styled to be gender non-conformists. Queer men were fussy, effeminate, and flamboyant. With high-pitched voices, the air under their feet, and waving hands. Essentially, ‘fairies’ were deployed as comic relief on the periphery of the drama. Real-life queers of the Depression era and later periods were exposed to cinematic images, the vast majority being caricatured in which gays and lesbians were often presented as targets of ridicule and contempt for their divine decadence. ‘Entertainers play with gender ambiguity in Broadway thru a Keyhole (1933).‘ (Lugowski)

Lesbians were at the other end of the spectrum. They were ‘masculine,’ demonstrating deep voices, cross-dressing in male attire, and were installed in male-dominated professions. They were often invalidated by the straight male characters and were either played for the uncomfortable humor or shown as baffling to men. The PCA in its Hollywood’s Movie Commandments specified that there could be no comic characters “introduced into a screenplay pantomiming a pervert.” (Lugowski)

Gender Reversals, Queerness, and a Nation in Crisis.–

In Michael Curtiz’s The Strange Love of Molly Louvain (1932) Suddenly, queer imagery in film, typically in the form of comical representations of gay men, lesbians, and ambiguous sexuality, did not seem so funny any-more, least of all to those charged with applying Hollywood’s Production Code to film content. By “queer” imagery, I am focusing particularly on situations, lines of dialogue, and characters that represent behavior coded, according to widely accepted stereotypes, as cross-gendered in nature. As played by such prominent and well-established supporting comedy character actors as Franklin Pangborn, Edward Everett Horton, Grady Sutton, Erik Rhodes, Eric Blore, and Ernest Truex, queer men tended to appear as one of two types.

The queer in his more subdued form appears as the dithering, asexual “sissy,” sometimes befuddled, incompetent,and, if married, very henpecked (Horton), and sometimes fussy and officious (Pangborn). Pangborn, however, was one of the actors who (along with the unsung likes of Tyrell Davis and Tyler Brooke) also played or suggested the other type, the more outrageous “pansy,” an extremely effeminate boulevardier-type sporting lip-stick, rouge, a trim mustache and hairstyle, and an equally trim suit, incomplete without a boutonniere. Although a number of actors played or were even typecast in such roles, one generally doesn’t find a circle of prominent supporting actresses whose personas seemed designed to connote lesbianism (the closest, perhaps, is Cecil Cunningham) lesbian representation occurs frequently as well, and in perhaps a greater range of gradations. At her most overt, the lesbian was clad in a mannishly tailored suit (often a tuxedo), her hair slicked back or cut in a short bob. She sometimes sported a monocle and cigarette holder (or cigar!) and invariably possessed a deep alto voice and a haughty, aggressive attitude toward men, work, or any business at hand. Objections arose because she seemed to usurp male privilege; perhaps the pansy seemed to give it up. -David M.Lugowski: Queering the (New) Deal-Lesbian and Gay Representation and the Depression-Era Cultural Politics of Hollywood’s Production Code

Filmmakers were encouraged not to promote lifestyles of a ‘morally questionable’ nature, so queers remained as humorous detours away from the central story. It was a subtle defiance that filmmakers were determined to feature queer characters in their films in spite of the ban. Because of the threat of boycotts, this created some maneuvering around the scrutiny. Queer identities were not portrayed with depth or realism, this marginalized group was relegated to one-dimensional stereotypes. They were never shown to be in romantic relationships and filmmakers relied on visual cues to signal the character’s identity.

Censors at the PCA, for example, were very worried about the three female characters in William Dieterle’s Dr. Monica (1934) starring Kay Francis. The film is the story of three women, an alcoholic, a nymphomaniac, and a lesbian. In October 1935, Joseph Breen wrote a letter to RKO’s head B.B. Kahane concerned about Follow the Fleet (1936) starring Fred Astaire who gives a dance lesson to all male sailors. “We are assuming of course that you will exercise your usual good taste in this scene of the sailors learning to dance. There will be no attempt to inject any ‘pansy’ humor into the scene.”

Due to a new, stricter Motion Picture Production Code, gays were being swept under the rug in movies. In the late 1930s and 1940s the only way to circumvent the Code was by painting homosexuals as cold-hearted villains (The Celluloid Closet). Now it appeared that gays were committing terrible crimes because of their sexual orientation, implying that homosexuality leads to insanity. In a society where being homosexual was synonymous with being sinful, it is no surprise that Hollywood made the leap to correlating a homosexual orientation with malicious crimes and wicked urges (Weir).

Alfred Hitchcock is a visual magician who rolls out the answers gradually while deconstructing what is explicit in the narrative. He is one of the most measured auteurs, whose eye for detail links each scene together like a skillful puzzle. He has been studied, tributed, and –in my opinion–unsuccessfully imitated. Rigid to conform, he danced around the Hays Code like a cunning acrobat indulging his vision while deflecting the lax regulations. There are arguments that Hitchcock insinuated homophobic messages in some of his films. The queer characters were all deviants and psychopathic predators, who were the ones responsible for some of the most heinous murders on screen. For example, in his film Rope (1948) the two Nietzschian murderers are intellectual companions who get off on trying to perpetrate the perfect murder. They exhibit a romantic friendship with no sexual contact on the screen. Yet there are cues that they are sexually aroused by each other’s mutual pleasure at killing a young boy. The Hays Code inhibited the depiction of a queer couple so Hitchcock had to subtly suggest their sexual relationship by dropping metaphors and visual clues. Though, it might be interpreted through a homophobic lens, and their homosexuality might be at the core of their cruel and immoral nature.

According to David Greven, Hitchcock’s homophelia ‘was through a larger conflict that Hitchcock’s cinema that filmmakers conducted their investigation of American masculinity, one that focused on fissures and failures. Homosexuality emerged as representative of these and also as potential new direction for American masculinity to take, not without serious risk but also treated with surprising, fascinated interest… Hitchcock’s radical de-centering of heterosexual male dominance, devising contemporary narratives of heterosexual male ambivalence that allowed for, at times depended on, an investment in same-sex desire as well as an awareness of its dangerous, pernicious seductions. Homophobia in both Hitchcock and the New Hollywood’s informed by an attendant fascination with the homoerotic that emerges from scenes of gender crisis and disorganization that are rife in both the Cold War and New Hollywood eras. 

Any illicit sexual behavior on screen considered perverse would be demonized and exploited as immoral. Queers were shown as villainous, dangerous deviants who were fated for ruination and/or death.

There were several broad categories the Code was not vague about. Any movies depicting criminality had to essentially illustrate that there would be consequences. The message was clear, any flagrant criminal behavior is abhorrent and audiences should NOT feel sympathy, primarily through the implicit edict of “compensating moral values.”

Authority figures had to be treated with respect, and the clergy could not be portrayed as comic characters or villains. Under some circumstances, politicians, police officers, and judges could be villains, as long as it was clear that those individuals portrayed as villains were the exceptions to the rule.

Clearly, there were some productive strategies for circumventing the Motion Picture Production Code. They enabled characters that performed behind the veil, under the radar of social acceptability, while dancing a step closer to the fringe. It allowed for ‘queering the screen’. I find it feasible to consider how Alexander Doty points out that ‘queering’ something implies that you are taking a thing that is straight and doing something to it. Rather it should be considered that it’s less about co-opting or subverting films – making things queer, and more about how something might be understood as queer.

It might be easy to read Zasu Pitt’s and Thelma Todd’s relationship, the brilliantly paired comedy twosome, as lovers. While they perform humorous heterosexual man-hunting, they sure seem to be most interested in each other and sure look adorable in their pajamas! I wonder, as Big Daddy says if there’s ‘something missing here’. Below, they are in the film short directed by Hal Roach – On The Loose 1931, with bobbed hair, leaning into each other in bed together, looking awfully intimate.

To be ‘queer’ is also to deconstruct existing norms and ‘destabilize’ them, making it harder to define, so that it is a clear picture of non-normative straight masculinity/femininity.

What was perceptible to those ‘in the life’ were expressions, and gestures, of the term often used by the Hays Code, ‘deviancy.’ One of the things that the Code banned in Clause 6 Section 2 on "Sex" was that "sex perversion or any inference to it is forbidden."

Not that films during the reign of the Code were ripe with queer love stories, of course. There were none to be found beyond the foreign offerings of Oswald’s Different From the Others and Mädchen in Uniform. The most prevalent allusion to being gay was the flamboyant man who was the ambiguous bachelor or fussy asexual husband. If there was anything close to a butch woman, she could be an earthy farmer’s wife, a Marjorie Main or Patsy Kelly type (Both lesbians in real life). A tough-as-nails prison matron, a tyrannical madame, or a risque nightclub owner. Perhaps she’s an embittered heavy drinker or just one of the guys who is a faithful friend to the female lead. Maybe she never gets the guy or hasn’t met the right man. Perhaps she was married to a no-good bum and is off men for good!.. And just sometimes, sometimes it’s because… well some of us would know why!

Thelma Todd joined up with Patsy Kelly in comedy series. Here’s a lobby card for their Babes in the Goods. The two became very good friends during their collaboration.

Patsy Kelly had started in Vaudeville and appeared in Wonder Bar 1931 centered around a Parisian club. Kelly played Elektra Pivonaka and sang two lively songs.

She is known for her ballsy, straight-forward, no-nonsense persona, be it her tough-as-nails nurse Mac in Sam Fuller’s The Naked Kiss (1964) or as Laura-Louise, attending to Rosemary (Mia Farrow) in Roman Polanski’s Rosemary’s Baby (1968). Kelly played very non-feminine roles, injecting a bit of her ‘in the life’ energy into the characters in every one of her roles. More often than not she had an unglamorous reputation as a funny spunky, brassy, wise-cracking gal who played a lot of maids. She was outspoken about being an uncloseted lesbian, which hurt her movie career in the 1940s. But she had been a very successful actress on Broadway, returning to the stage in 1971 winning a Tony Award for No, No Nanette and Irene.

In director/screenwriter Sam Fuller’s sensationalist The Naked Kiss (1964), Patsy Kelly plays Mac the nurse, a hard-edged pussy cat. A no-nonsense nurse who lives for helping children with disabilities, but there is no visible sign that she has the slightest interest in men, aside from a smart-alecky comment about Grant bringing her back a man from Europe. Kelly might have wanted her role as an independent woman with a more offbeat way of stating that she is a tough dyke and expected Fuller to write her into the script that way. Knowing Kelly that’s a good assumption. The film is audacious in its scope for dealing with more than one theme, as taboo as prostitution, abortion, and pedophilia.

The Catholic Legion of Decency used their influence to label gays as ‘sexual deviants’, not be depicted on screen. ‘Deviancy’ was used to refer to any behavior deviating from what was perceived to be normal in terms of romance, sex, and gender. Hays even ordered all ‘Nance’ characters to be removed from screenplays.

The Federation of Women’s Clubs and the Hays Code tried to make symbolic gestures to maintain decency in films. The Legion of Decency was getting pressure from the Catholic Church. So in 1934 came up with A-acceptable B-Morally Objectionable and C-Condemned. Hollywood promised to observe the rules. The various subject matter was restricted to screen-open mouth kissing, lustful embraces, sex perversion, seduction, rape, abortion, prostitution, white slavery, nudity, obscenity, and profanity.

But all this unsolicited attention caused the studios to be watchful of their off-screen personnel, and they also had to be certain that the Los Angeles Police Department received payoffs to keep their mouths shut. Though the lurid and shocking subject matter was no longer tolerated on screen, the studios tried to continue to release their films without the intrusion of the Hays Office, even though from a commercial standpoint, sex sells.

Warner Bros.’ lack of cooperation with the Code until the bitter end and how Paramount, which was cooperative under B. P. Schulberg, decided to be “as daring as possible” under Emmanuel Cohen in 1932 and 1933. At MGM, Irving Thalberg’s resistance only really ended with his heart attack and journey abroad to recover in 1933. As James Wingate, Breen’s SRC predecessor, put things that same year: (Lugowski)

In 1934 Jack Warner ignored Breen’s letter and phone calls about a scene in Wonder Bar (1934) that explicitly demonstrates homoerotic desire. In it, one man cuts in to dance with another man, interrupting a woman who is dancing with her male partner. “May I cut in?”  she responds, “Why certainly,” as the man’s suitor grabs her chaperone to dance instead. The film stars Al Jolson who exclaims, “Boys will be boys!” Breen would later write, “It is quite evident that the gentleman [Warner] is giving me the runaround. He evidently thinks that this is the smart thing to do.” Wonder Bar may have added a flash of queer diversion as part of the entertainment, but it is an incredibly offensive and racist film using a cast who are in Black face.

During the ongoing Depression era, sissy and lesbian characters of the period continued to be screened as effeminate and mannish with one change. They became progressively sexualized between 1933-34. As the Depression moved forward, the Code needed to establish a “suitable” masculinity in film that would satisfy the morality police. They wanted this accepted masculinity to mirror the public art imagery that was now being federally funded by the New Deal in the mid-and late 1930s.

Before 1934 the studios were able to ignore the Code’s denouncement and endeavor to censor the movie industry but Hollywood filmmakers could no longer disregard the regulations issued by the Hays Code. The Legion of Decency forced the MPPDA to assert itself with the Production Code and formed a new agency, the Production Code Administration (PCA). The Hays Code was formed in 1930 but it only began to have a profound impact on Hollywood when the Production Code Administration (PCA) began strictly enforcing it in 1934. The crusade to save America’s purity and squash the filth mongers began a cultural war.

It was a system of moral oversight, conservatives lobbied to enforce, using the PCA to compel the industry to drastically adhere to it. PCA is strongest in explaining how the Code tried to at once repress and enable discourse to appeal to the broadest possible spectrum of viewers and to offend the fewest. (Lugowski)

And in 1937, the Production Code Administration (PCA), handed down Hollywood’s Movie Commandments that decried “No hint of sex perversion may be introduced into a screen story. The characterization of a man as effeminate, or a woman as grossly masculine would be absolutely forbidden for screen portrayal.”

The Code was detailed in two parts that reflected the foundation of Catholic principles. The moral vision and "particular applications a precise listing of forbidden material.”

The code was divided into two parts. The first was a set of “general principles” which prohibited a picture from “lowering the moral standards of those who see it”, so as not to wrongly influence a specific audience of views including, women, children, lower-class, and those of "susceptible" minds, called for depictions of the “correct standards of life”, and lastly forbade a picture to show any sort of ridicule towards a law or “creating sympathy for its violation.

The second part of the Code was a set of “particular applications”, which was an exacting list of items that could not be depicted. Some restrictions, such as the ban on homosexuality or on the use of specific curse words, were never directly mentioned, but were assumed to be understood without clear demarcation. Homosexuals were de facto included under the proscription of sex perversion.” — Wikipedia

The second part of the Code was a ban on homosexuality. Though it was not specifically spelled out, queers were the subject under review of ‘sex perversion.’ Though the Hays office would not stand for "more than a dash of lavender" as long as the representation (especially a non-desirable depiction of homosexuality) was fleeting and incidental. Thus, “Pansy comedy" was tolerable in Pre-Code Hollywood. "Despite the watchful eyes of the Hays Office, the trade paper Variety remarked that Hollywood continued what was called "queer flashes" and “mauve characters" who sashayed through Cavalcade 1933, Our Betters 1932, and Sailor's Luck 1932.

The industry moguls and business offices finally had to follow the rules, clean up the ‘sinful’ screen and adopt a symbol of moral righteousness, that came along with a seal. The Code would be certified by a Code Seal printed on the lobby cards of each Hollywood film. And the seal would be an emblem that would appear on the motion pictures themselves. Any film without a Code Seal would be fined $25,000.

After some revisions, they agreed to the stipulations of the Code. … negotiated cuts from films and there were definite"”albeit loose"”constraints, a significant … against homosexuals, all in clear violation of the Hollywood Production Code.

Any sexual act considered perverted, including any suggestion of same sex relationships, sex, or romance, was ruled out.

Thus, during the Golden Age of Hollywood, the PCA scrutinized and censored, everything coming out of Hollywood and put its seal on each movie released. The Hollywood executives preferred to call it “self-regulation” and feared that censorship by the PCA would be even worse if they tampered with the creative ‘source’ of their product. Because of the studios’ defiance, Roman Catholics formed the National Legion of Decency, which became an influential group that would put Hollywood’s transgressions through the ordeal, of boycotts, picketing theaters, urging Catholics not to patronize these immoral movies or fall “under the pain of sin”, being met by hoards of angry protestors at the gates of the studio. Now religious groups and other moral traditionalists began a warlike campaign for the government to regulate what was shown on the screen.

Mae West: She Done Him Wrong 1933

Also, government officials were bent on making gay people invisible from cinematic narratives and the United States Supreme Court handed down the ruling that filmmakers were not protected by the First Amendment in the matter of free speech. They considered Hollywood to be a powerful mechanism that to exploit ‘sinful’ behavior on the screen and influence American audiences. This laid the groundwork for local governments that could weigh in and ban films from their theaters if they considered them immoral. Hollywood could not afford to lose money at the box office from governmental authorities, by negative publicity, or from the threatening boycotts by rabid church groups.

Motion pictures could be regulated and run out of town by cities, states, and by ominous extension, the federal government.

“After all, censorship had been a fact of creative and commercial life for motion picture producers from the very birth of the medium, when even the modest osculations of the middle-aged lovebirds in Thomas Edison's The Kiss (1896) scandalized cadres of (literally) Victorian ministers, matrons, and other variants of a sour-faced species known as the “bluenose.” By common consent, the artistically vital and culturally disruptive spectacle of the motion picture – an entertainment accessible to all levels of society and degrees of moral temperament, including unassimilated immigrants,impressionable juveniles, and other menacing types – required editorial supervision from more mature, pious, and usually Protestant sensibilities” -from Archives Unbound

Hollywood was in the grip of the Code that saw the ‘dream factory’ movie machine as a Hollywood Babylon. While the powers that be were busy policing the murmuration of taboos, Pre-Code was a brief moment in history, a fruitful period between 1929 to 1934. Hays then appointed someone who could intercede between studio moguls and anti-Hollywood groups, Joseph I. Breen. “The vulgar, the cheap, and the tawdry is out!”

The PCA had been known as the Hays Office but to those in Hollywood, once the oversight became an operation with teeth, it became known as the Breen Office. Breen came in to take over the weak Studio Relations Committee (SRC). The Code consisted of thirty-six rules that informed Hollywood filmmakers to limit the representation of or normalization of subject matter considered by religious groups to be “unsavory or morally corrupt.” The SRC and the PCA were the inner mechanisms within the film industry, shaping the content of the film and heading off any ethical problems the film might encounter before it reached the local censors.

Dorothy Mackaill’s Safe in Hell (1931)

Many scenarios disappeared from the movies by mid-1934: for example, audiences would no longer see women’s navels, couples laying in bed together, murderers going unpunished, an illustration of a bedroom that isn’t merely recognized as a bed chamber. The normalization of drug use, the glamourization of criminal behavior, or not following the law, and of course any overtly revealed gay or lesbian character. After 1934, women would not be sporting short haircuts and tailored suits, confidently smoking cigars. Men toned down the gushy gestures that would be interpreted as flamboyant. Gay men and women were transformed into dowdy spinsters and high-strung bachelors.

What we started to see was an ambiguity, a narrative uncertainty that took the burden of responsibility off of the filmmakers and dropped the perception of the content into the laps of the audience. Since the Code asserted that no picture should lower the moral standards of those who saw it, it was a law that bound Hollywood’s accountability for their plots. Ruth Vasey calls the antithesis of this “the principle of deniability” which refers to the ambiguity of the textual vaguery that shifted the message to the individual spectator. Lugowski cites Lea Jacobs, “Under the Code ‘offensive ideas could survive at the price of an instability of meaning… There was constant negotiation about how explicit films could be and by what means (through the image, sound, language) offensive ideas could find representation.” The studios would have to come up with a structure of ‘representational conventions’, that could be understood by a more sophisticated audience yet would fly over the heads of more inexperienced spectatorship. Though producers felt the sharp sting of the Code as a mechanism of restraint, in terms of ‘queerness’ on screen, film studios could use the leverage of deniability to argue about the interpretation of certain scenes.

Once the limits of explicit “sophistication” had been established, the production industry had to find ways of appealing to both “innocent” and “sophisticated” sensibilities in the same object without transgressing the boundaries of public acceptability. This involved devising systems and codes of representation in which “innocence” was inscribed into the text while “sophisticated” viewers were able to “read into” movies whatever meanings they were pleased to find, so long as producers could use the Production Code to deny that they had put them there. Much of the work of self-regulation lay in the maintenance of this system of conventions, and as such, it operated, however perversely, as an enabling mechanism at the same time that it was a repressive one.-(Documents from the Motion Picture Producers and Distributors of America, Inc., 1922 – 1939)

… by assuming that the social crisis over cinematic representation in the early 1930s was caused by the content of motion pictures. The institution of censorship in Hollywood was not primarily about controlling the content of movies at the level of forbidden words or actions or inhibiting the freedom of expression of individual producers. Rather, it was about the cultural function of entertainment and the possession of cultural power. (Tino Balio: Grand Design Hollywood as a Modern Business Enterprise 1930-1939)

Geoff Shurlock was appointed as acting director of the Production Code in the 1940s and as permanent director in 1954. Over the years, Shurlock would straddle the conflict, appeasing both movie producers, and morality mongers trying to persuade the Association Board that introducing more liberal thinking could protect the PCA from fading away. There were attempts to ease up on the Code, in 1954 he introduced an amendment that would eliminate various taboos, for instance, miscegenation, liquor, and some profane words, but producers felt that there weren’t enough considerations to the amendment and the Catholic Legion of Decency felt that even that much went too far. Shurlock had a tough time making everyone happy.

The 1950s witnessed a weakening of the Production Code to restrict specific representations such as adultery, prostitution, and miscegenation. By the beginning of the 1960s, the only specific restriction left was homosexuality = “sex perversion.”

In the 1960s, filmmakers pressured the Production Code Administration. In the fall of 1961, two films went into production that would deal with homosexual subject matter. William Wyler, who had initially directed Miriam Hopkins and Merle Oberon in These Three (1936), revealed that he was working on a more faithful treatment of Lillian Hellman’s play The Children’s Hour; that dealt overtly with the love that dare not speak it’s named. Around the same time director Otto Preminger began to adapt Allen Drury’s political novel Advise and Consent 1962, which delves into the lives of Senatorial candidates that uncovers controversial secrets, including Don Murray’s homosexual encounter.

Throughout Preminger’s career, he challenged the restrictions of the Code and eventually influenced their decision to allow homosexuality to be shown on screen. Also fighting to change the stifling rules was Arthur Krim, president of United Artists, who threatened to ignore the Code and release the film without the mandatory “seal of approval” forcing them to amend it’s ideological strangle hold.

On October 3, 1961, the Production Code Administration backed off: “In keeping with the culture, the mores and values of our time, homosexuality and other sexual aberrations may now be treated with care, discretion, and restraint.”

In order to maintain control of the Administration’s power at least in terms of how homosexuals were portrayed on film, they insisted that the subject be infused with medical overtones, to show it as an ‘illness’. Sympathy or illness in psychological terms, were two key factors. The Code’s changed the use of the word “sex perversion” and replaced it with “homosexuality.”

Don Murray –gay bar scene in Advise and Consent 1962

Another interesting shift was that they owned up to the fact that “mores and values of our time” were changing whether they liked it or not, people were becoming more in touch with the freedom to express their sexuality, society was becoming more permissive, the love generation was upon them and sexual representation was a fearless exploration reflected by a new generation of filmgoers.

Otto Preminger was the only major producer able to successfully release films without the Production Code’s Seal of Approval. He defied the Code (Hadleigh) with movies like Advise and Consent (1961) The Man with Golden Arm (1955) Anatomy of a Murder (1959) Wendell Mayes said “Look at the record–you’ll discover that many of the changes in the Code were a result of Otto Preminger breaking the rules”

Though the Code had been revised in 1961 to open up the door for portrayals of gays on screen, the sissy effete and predatory dyke took on a more sinister role. Because they had been hidden in plain sight using symbology that hinted at either failed masculinity or women performing masculinity. When the MPPA rating system was established in 1968 gays on screen were starting to kick the doors open but what was awaiting them was an even crueler denouement than during the reign of the Code. Queers were now portrayed as suicidal, predatory, or homicidal maniacs. And much like the coded gay characters under the Production Code, things moved very slowly in terms of progress for positive representations of being ‘queer.’

Dirk Bogarde and Dennis Price in Basil Dearden’s brave film Victim (1961)

Between January and June 1962, five films were released that dealt with homosexuality, almost as many as in the previous three decades. One did not receive a seal of approval from the Production Code Administration but was released nonetheless. Even without the seal of approval, British director, Basil Dearden’s Victim (1961) was reviewed in all the publications being considered. The liberal Catholic magazine Commonweal even disagreed with the Production Code Administration’s claim that the film made pleas ‘for social acceptance of the homosexual.’ “63 Still, the consensus among reviewers was that of the Production Code Administration and society at large: films should not and, for the most part, did not condone homosexuality. (Noriega)

This ban applied to all characters attracted to the same gender or characters who differed in their gender presentation or identity. While nudity and violence were quickly reintegrated into film canon following the abandonment of the Production Code, LGBT characters remained taboo. For decades after LGBT characters were allowed to appear in films, their sexuality and gender was shrouded in thinly-veiled innuendos and visual cues. If a character was to be openly same-gender attracted or transgender, they would be gruesomely killed or presented as morally corrupted. (Cleghorn)

Like the Code’s authors, film critics tend to examine the film itself, and not the discursive acts that surround a film and play a sometimes central role shaping its meaning(s). Contemporary gay and lesbian film criticism of Production Code era films operates on the same principle, with the added limitations that historical evidence and homosexual “images” censored. Thus, in order to ensure “the survival of subcultural identity within an oppressive society,” gay and lesbian film critics have employed a wide range of interpretive strategies to recuperate a history of homosexual images from the censored screen. The emphasis, therefore, has been on “subtexting” censored films from a singular presentist perspective. (Sophie Cleghorn)

Sources:

*Mike Mashon & James Bell for Pre-Code Hollywood Before the Censors-BFI  Sight & Sound Magazine (April 2019)

*Archives Unbound (1http://gdc.gale.com/archivesunbound/)

*Sophie Cleghorn: The Hollywood Production Code of 1930 and LGBT Characters.

*Wikipedia-Pre-Code

*David Lugowski-Queering the (New) Deal)

*Chon Noriega

During the period of Pre-Code, queer humor appeared in films such as Just Imagine (1930) and The Warrior’s Husband (1933). The male characters were feminized because of their affinity for writing poetry. This asserted that they must be queer.

The Warrior’s Husband directed by Walter Lang, is a film primarily cast with women. Yet the air of queerness permeates throughout because the women, featuring a butch Queen, are Amazons. Gender is inverted and several other female rulers cross-dress and exude a lesbian vibe. It is inhabited by independent women and swishy men who camped it up as ‘queens’ amusing themselves by flirting with all the good-looking men.

The Warrior’s Husband image courtesy Peplums Blogspot.com

Like so much self deemed culturally aberrant, the homosexual appears with greater frequency and readier acceptance in Pre-Code Hollywood cinema "The thirties was surprisingly full of fruity character comedians and gravel-voice bulldyke character comediennes" film critic Andrew Sarris observed in his touchstone study The American Cinema "but it was always played so straight that when ((character actors) Franklin Pangborn or Cecil Cunningham went into their routines, it was possible to laugh without being too sophisticated." Maybe in the later thirties the homosexual was played straight but in the Pre-Code era, he and she was playing queer. No sophistication was needed to read the same sex orientations as gender disorientations.- Pre-Code Hollywood; Sex, Immorality and Insurrection in American Cinema 1930-1934 by Thomas Doherty.

Miriam Hopkins got the part of free-spirited Gilda in Ernst Lubitsch’s Design for Living 1933. This original Noël Coward play actually featured a Ménage à Trois between the three Bohemian lovebirds in Paris in the decadent thirties. The film also starred Gary Cooper as artist George Cooper and Fredric March as playwright Tom Chambers. The liberated Gilda becomes the girl both men fall in love with. The three make a pact to keep their mutual attractions platonic, but that doesn’t last too long, and they each begin a sexual relationship. When George comes back from a trip to Nice, he finds that Tom has taken up with Gilda. “I can’t believe I loved you both.”

Ben Hecht's screenplay didn’t have a trace of any of Coward’s romantic relationship between George and Tom. Ernst Lubitsch, known for his sophisticated style, directed memorable witty interactions between all four players. Edward Everett Horton as Max Plunkett plays Miriam's bland suitor. Horton is, as usual, a whimsical idiosyncratic delight to watch. And Franklin Pangborn Mr. Douglas, Theatrical Producer is a perfect theatrical queen who is thoroughly annoyed when Gilda approaches him in the restaurant about Tom’s (Fredric March) play “Good Night Bassington”, as she leaves him with this thought, “There, read it, I’m sure you’ll adore it, it’s a woman’s play…”

Al Jolson “Boys will be boys” Wonder Bar (1934)

Any portrayal of on-screen “sex perversion” or homosexuality, even those connected with various tropes of ‘deviant’ sexual behavior were restricted after the enforcement of the Production Code in 1934.

Lending the Code moral authority even within the limits of pure love, asserted the Code delicately certain facts have been universally regarded by lawmakers as outside the limits of safe presentation Father Lord and Mr. Quigley saw no need to defile the document by typesetting long lists of "pointed profanity" or "vulgar expressions" Likewise, the prohibition against homosexuality dared not speak the name, but it didn't need to spell it out. "Impure Love" the love which society has always regarded as wrong and which has been named by divine law"¦ must not be presented as attractive or beautiful."-Pre-Code Hollywood; Sex, Immorality and Insurrection in American Cinema 1930-1934 by Thomas Doherty.

Different From the Others (1919) Conrad Veidt and Fritz Schulz two musicians in love — during the period of Pre-Code.

But, outside of the United States, films were a little more adventurous. Austrian director Richard Oswald’s film bravely shows two men in love. The “third sex” was eventually mocked. One of the earliest films to feature two men in love was the 1919 silent film from Germany,  Different From the Others. Director Richard Oswald's story of two male musicians in love had a typical unhappy ending, but it depicted gay people in a positive light. The film condemned the German law known as Paragraph 175, which outlawed gay behavior. Different Than the Others was censored soon after it was released. Starring Conrad Veidt it is considered the first pro-gay film.

Joseph Breen viewed any meaningful treatment of queer cinema as perverted. Conrad Veidt also gave an emotionally evocative role in The Man Who Laughs 1928, playing a violinist who falls for his student and is then blackmailed for it. The rising Nazi party in Germany attempted to erase these films from the screen, and this made Oswald flee to America.

But, the Hays Code made certain that no films of this type would be seen in the United States. Even books and plays with gay, lesbian, or bisexual narratives were reworked and any content related to the subject was erased in order to meet the social code of the time.

Other non-American films included Dreyer’s Michael (1924) and Mädchen in Uniform (1931) directed by Leontine Sagan and again in (1958) with Lilli Palmer as Fräulein Elisabeth von Bernburg and Romy Schneider as Manuela von Meinhardis. And Viktor Und Viktoria (1933) directed by Reinhold Schünzel.

Mädchen in Uniform (1931) was directed by Leotine Sagan, and starred Dorothea Wieck and Hertha Thiele.

William Dieterle’s Pre-Code German film Sex in Chains (1928) stars the director as Franz Sommer a man sent to prison for manslaughter who, though longing for his wife, develops a close relationship with his cellmate. A fellow inmate informs Franz that he’s “lived to see someone unman himself, just so he could finally sleep.”

In 1927, during the Pre-Code period, director William Wellman’s Wings won an Academy Award for Best Picture, and it also depicted the first gay kiss between two men in American cinema.

Wings follows two Air Force pilots in World War I, Jack (Charles ‘Buddy’ Rogers and Dave (Richard Arlen) who at first rivals for the affections of the beautiful Mary (Clara Bow) before they discover the underlying love they begin to feel for each other. During a boxing match at training camp gets too rough and Jack knocks Dave bloody and silly. Dave gazes up at Jack with an epiphany and the two walk off arm and arm as close ‘buddies’. The relationship is referred to as friendship, but the film paints a picture of two men falling in love.

Dave is mortally wounded in combat at the end of the picture, Jack embraces his dying ‘friend’ with a tender yet impassioned kiss while Mary looks on, framed with her on the outside looking in. Wellman humanizes the men's close relationship in this scene when Jack leans into Dave to embrace him as he dies. He lets him know that nothing has meant more to him than their relationship. The moment feels sympathetic instead of exploitative, yet he mourns Dave’s death. And though it is tinged with homoerotic elements, the case can always be made that it is a story about war, which brought two men closer together.

The Knocking Knees dance. Horton’s homosexuality – comedic, subtle, and acceptable in The Gay Divorcee (1934)

In The Gay Divorcee (1934) crossing the threshold is the archetypal ‘Sissy’, Edward Everett Horton. Marginalized audiences were looking to the movies for any indication of the familiar, any little crumbs left as a trail to be picked up. For instance, there is a moment in Johnny Guitar, the fiercely burning with sensual brawn, Joan Crawford. Bigger than life up on that screen, androgynous in her black cowboy shirt, strides down the stairs, gun in her holster waiting to confront coded dyke, Mercedes McCambridge. Many women’s chests, mine included, heaved a little with delight. That flutter of excitement hit us again when Doris Day sings the sentimental “Secret Love” in Calamity Jane (1953).

In Myrt and Marge (1934) Ray Hedges plays the flaming stagehand Clarence Tiffingtuffer he’s told “Here put this in the trunk and don’t wear it” speaking about one of the show girls costumes. In his boldly effete manner “If we got the runs on the show, the way the girls got in their stockings, I could put the 2nd down payment on my Kimono.”

Clara Bow, Willard Robertson, and Estelle Taylor in Call Her Savage (1932)

From Call Her Savage 1932 purportedly the first on-screen gay bar.

In director William Wyler’s These Three (1936) the relationship between Miriam Hopkin’s Martha and Merle Oberon’s Karen was delicately subtle and though to mainstream audiences might be seemingly obvious to interpret as two women attracted to the male lead, Joel McCrea. It revised Hellman’s play that centered around Martha’s love that dare not speak its name, for Karen. Sam Goldwyn bought the rights to Lillian Hellman’s play The Children’s Hour, a story depicting the supposed ‘carryings-on’ of two female teachers at a private school for girls. Though, These Three on its face is the story of a love triangle between two women and a man, it could read as Martha being more uncomfortable with the presence of Dr. Cardin (McCrea) because he is intruding on her closed relationship with Karen. The later screenplay adapted into the film, The Children’s Hour (1961) directed by William Wyler, was boldly more explicit and revealed the true nature of Martha’s predicament and her struggle with her love for Karen.

These Three (1936) Merle Oberon and Miriam Hopkins.

The Children’s Hour (1961) Shirley MacLaine and Audrey Hepburn.

Coded characters in the film were on the screen relaying messages and signaling to those of us who understand and who are “in the life: that movies can reflect the existence of a queer reality. These representations were not necessarily positive, but films showed evidence that we exist. You would see it in a revealing gesture, or an air of difference about them, though it would be inconspicuous to audiences that were unaware of the cues.

Continue reading “Chapter 2 – Queers and Dykes in the Dark: Classic, Noir & Horror Cinema’s Coded Gay Characters:”