MonsterGirl’s 150 Days of Classic Horror #113 Psycho 1960 & The Birds 1963

PSYCHO 1960

Alfred Hitchcock’s Psycho (1960) is the psycho-sexual thriller that yanked back the shower curtain on our deepest fears and cinema’s darkest secrets and showed us what real terror looks like. It’s the film that peered through the peephole and exposed the dark heart of the genre.

A film that didn’t just change horror, but rewired the DNA of cinema itself. Adapted from Robert Bloch’s 1959 novel, which itself drew chilling inspiration from the real-life crimes of Ed Gein, a Wisconsin serial killer whose crimes were truly disturbing. Psycho takes the seed of true crime and grows it into a nightmarish meditation on identity, repression, the monstrous potential, and the unsettling truth that real darkness can hide just beneath the surface of everyday life, tucked away within the people we’d usually never think twice about.

Part of Psycho’s enduring power lies in what it withholds—the violence is never explicit, but rather implied, allowing our minds to fill in the blanks with something far more unsettling. It’s a testament to Hitchcock’s mastery that, despite the lack of graphic imagery, the film remains so psychologically intense that many still find it too frightening to watch.

Janet Leigh’s Marion Crane, the Hitchcock blonde who didn’t make it out of the film, is our way into the story. On the run after a really bad decision, she starts out as our anchor, our heroine—until Hitchcock does something unheard of. He pulls the rug out from under us, shatters and subverts all narrative expectations with the infamous shower scene, a sequence so meticulously constructed (78 camera setups, 52 cuts in 45 seconds) that it became an instant cinematic legend that even now we can’t stop talking about it.

Psycho kicks off with Marion Crane making a desperate grab for a new life, stealing $40,000 and hitting the road. A rain-soaked detour leads her to the lonely Bates Motel, where she meets the awkward but oddly charming Norman Bates, who loves glasses of milk and stuffing things that were once breathing.

Norman Bates is a lonely caretaker running a rundown motel, totally warped and pretty much broken by his domineering mother. Hitchcock takes those two intersecting characters and, with Anthony Perkins in the role as Norman, gives us something unforgettable. Through his mesmerizing performance, Perkins brings Norman to life as both deeply sympathetic and seriously one of the film’s and historically, cinema’s most enduring and unsettling figures. A young man whose mind is so fractured that you’re never sure if he’s the victim, the villain, or somehow both at once. Norman Bates is not just a monster; he has become one of the first truly unflinching American psychos and anti-heroes, and you can’t help but be drawn in by how human he really is on the surface.

After a tense dinner and a fateful shower, Marion vanishes, leaving her sister, boyfriend, and a persistent private detective to unravel what happened. As they dig deeper, the secrets of the Bates house come spilling out, revealing a shocking truth about Norman and his “mother” that redefines the meaning of horror.

Janet Leigh brings real vulnerability to Marion, while Vera Miles is all grit and determination as her sister Lila—she’s not letting anything go unsolved. Then there’s John Gavin as Sam Loomis, who’s basically the poster boy for stubborn, all-American macho (and honestly, sometimes he’s about as flexible as a brick wall). Martin Balsam’s detective Arbogast rounds things out with his dogged persistence. Together, this cast grounds the film’s surreal terror in raw, relatable humanity. When Marion vanishes without a trace, Lila, Sam, and Arbogast follow her trail to the Bates Motel. There, a watchful house on the hill hints at secrets far darker than they ever imagined. They uncover the chilling truth behind Marion’s disappearance and the twisted mystery of her tragic fate.

Cinematographer John L. Russell’s stark black-and-white visuals are more than an aesthetic choice—they’re a psychological landscape, channeling German Expressionism and film noir to mirror the splintered landscape of Norman’s identity and the film’s themes of duality and concealment. Shadows slice across faces, mirrors double and distort, and the Bates house looms like a Gothic specter over the isolated Motel, every frame charged with dread and ambiguity.

Bernard Herrmann’s score is the film’s nervous system: those shrieking, stabbing strings in the shower scene are as iconic as the images themselves, turning the amplifier up on the violence and anxiety to an almost unbearable pitch. The music’s relentless tension is inseparable from the film’s atmosphere, setting a new standard for how sound and image can conspire to unsettle our nerves.

Psycho didn’t just push the boundaries of violence—a violence rendered through Hitchcock’s art of suggestion and sexuality on screen—it obliterated them, introducing the world to the slasher film and forever altering the way filmmakers approached suspense, character, and narrative structure. It was the birth of the modern American horror genre.

Hitchcock’s masterpiece is more than the sum of its shocks; it’s a study in the darkness that can fester beneath the most ordinary facades, a film that forces us to confront the monsters within and leaves us, decades later, wary of shower curtains and gives every lonely roadside motel a sinister edge and certainly a fear of All-American males with boyish good looks who might just have their mummified mother’s body eternally presiding over the shadows, in the fruit cellar.

Alfred Hitchcock’s Psycho (1960) We All Go a Little Mad Sometimes

THE BIRDS 1963

Alfred Hitchcock’s The Birds (1963) is a film where the ordinary turns apocalyptic, and at its center is Tippi Hedren’s Melanie Daniels—a woman whose arrival in the sleepy coastal town of Bodega Bay seems to unleash not just a flock of birds, but the full, terrifying force of female primacy. Melanie is no shrinking violet; she’s glamorous, independent, and unapologetically assertive, a socialite who crosses boundaries and upends the careful order of the Brenner family. Her presence is magnetic and disruptive, and as she steps into this insular community, the natural world itself seems to recoil and revolt.

The film opens with playful flirtation in a San Francisco pet shop, but as Melanie follows Mitch Brenner (Rod Taylor) to Bodega Bay, the tone shifts. What begins as a mischievous romantic pursuit quickly spirals into chaos when the birds—first a lone gull, then an unstoppable swarm—begin to attack. The violence escalates: children are beset at a birthday party, the town is terrorized, and the Brenner home becomes a fortress under siege. Hitchcock’s mastery is evident in every frame—the famous schoolyard scene, crows gathering with mathematical menace behind Melanie; the relentless assault in the attic, where she is reduced from poised outsider to battered survivor.

But beneath the surface, The Birds is a study in gendered power and social anxiety. Melanie’s arrival disrupts the fragile balance of the Brenner household: Lydia Brenner (Jessica Tandy), the possessive mother, sees her as a threat to her bond with Mitch; Annie Hayworth (Suzanne Pleshette), the schoolteacher and Mitch’s former lover, is collateral damage in the struggle for his attention. (It’s very hard for me to see Annie (or Bob Newhart’s Emily Hartley) lying face down with her beautiful eyes pecked out!) As critics and scholars have noted, the birds themselves become avatars of repressed female energy, latent sexuality, and the chaos that erupts when the established order is challenged.

Melanie’s very presence—her boldness, her beauty, her refusal to be cowed—seems to summon the avian apocalypse, as if the town (and nature itself) cannot contain the force she represents. The film never offers a tidy explanation for the attacks, leaving us to grapple with the possibility that the horror is a response to the threat of female autonomy and desire.

The birds, as related to the Harpies of Greek myth, can be seen as expressions pointing to a psychoanalytic and mythological interpretation of Hitchcock’s The Birds. According to Horowitz, the birds in the film can be seen as symbolic manifestations of the Harpies from Greek mythology: female, bird-like creatures associated with sudden violence, punishment, and the embodiment of destructive feminine energy.

The relentless bird attacks are not just random acts of nature, but are deeply connected to the psychological dynamics in the film, specifically, the jealousy and repressed rage of Lydia Brenner, Mitch’s mother. Lydia is threatened by Melanie Daniels’ arrival and her potential to disrupt the family structure. The Harpies, as mythic figures, were known for “snatching” away and exacting retribution, often representing uncontrollable forces of female anger and vengeance. In the context of the film, the birds become an outward expression of Lydia’s internal turmoil and possessiveness, as well as broader anxieties about female power and autonomy. Horowitz situates the bird attacks as both a mythic and psychological phenomenon, linked to the Harpies’ role as agents of chaos and punishment, and to Lydia’s own emotional state, making the violence in The Birds a metaphor for the eruption of suppressed feminine power and resentment within the narrative.

Hitchcock’s technical innovation is everywhere: the seamless blend of live and mechanical birds, the absence of a traditional musical score replaced by electronic soundscapes and silence, the use of long takes and tracking shots to build suspense. The result is a film that feels both immediate and surreal, a waking nightmare where the familiar becomes uncanny and the safe becomes dangerous and lethal.

The Birds stands as a landmark in cinematic history, not just for its groundbreaking special effects and nerve-shredding suspense, but for its willingness to probe the psychological and social undercurrents of fear.

It helped birth the “nature attacks” subgenre, influencing everything from Jaws to Arachnophobia, but its true legacy lies in its ambiguity and its refusal to offer easy answers. The terror, like Melanie herself, is both alluring and unknowable—a force that cannot be domesticated or explained away.

In the end, as the battered survivors drive out of Bodega Bay, flanked by thousands of silent, watchful birds, we are left with a vision of power—feminine, natural, and utterly ungovernable—waiting just beyond the edge of our ordered lives. The Birds is not just a tale of nature gone mad; it is a meditation on the dangers and desires that simmer beneath the surface, and a reminder that what we fear most may be the very thing we cannot control.

Nature’s Fury Blogathon: Alfred Hitchcock’s The Birds (1963) Melanie Daniels as Metaphor: Wanton With Wings-“What are you? I think you’re the cause of all this, I think you’re evil!”

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MonsterGirl’s 150 Days of Classic Horror #111 The Other 1972

SPOILER ALERT!

THE OTHER 1972

When I first saw The Other during its theatrical release in 1972, it left an imprint I’ve never quite shaken. The film washed over me with a beauty so haunting it hurt—a quiet devastation that crept in on the golden light of a sunny yet somber afternoon and lingered long after the credits faded. The film still has that effect on me. There was something almost unbearable in its tenderness, the way innocence unraveled into horror, each frame both a lullaby and a warning. I remember sitting in the dark, feeling as if the screen itself was breathing with sorrow and secrets, the story’s pain blooming inside me until it became somehow my own.

Even now, the memory of that first viewing feels like a bruise you press just to remind yourself it’s real: disturbing, yes, but also mesmerizing, impossible to look away from. It’s a film that compels me to return, to dig deeper, to give it the space it deserves at The Last Drive In—a place where I can finally unravel its strange, poetic ache and share the way it changed the shape of my heart and the essence of horror cinema. I’ll be delving deeper into the hauntingly idyllic yet menacing landscape of The Other in an upcoming piece, stay tuned for a closer look into the secrets of the Perry family farm, where twin boys embody two halves of a haunted whole, two currents swirling in the same dark stream, two reflections in a warped mirror.

In the haunted hush of The Other (1972), Robert Mulligan conjures a psychological horror that unfolds like a lucid dream beneath the golden haze of a Connecticut summer. The film’s surface is all sunlit nostalgia: tire swings, dusty barns, and the slow rhythms of rural life in 1935. But beneath this pastoral veneer, darkness coils and waits, ready to seep through the cracks of innocence. Here, evil is not a thing that comes from outside, but a shadow that grows within—a little boy, a secret twin, a buried grief, and a game that turns deadly.

Thomas Tryon’s work as a writer is marked by a haunting lyricism and a meticulous, almost sculptural attention to detail. After leaving behind a successful acting career (Tryon starred in The Cardinal 1963, directed by Otto Preminger, where he played the lead role of Stephen Fermoyle, a young Catholic priest.. On a lighter note, Tryon brought new meaning to “out-of-this-world romance” in the 1950s sci-fi gem I Married a Monster from Outer Space 1958—proving that sometimes, the real mystery is what your husband’s hiding in the spaceship out in the woods!) Thomas Tryon turned to fiction with a focus on psychological horror and the Gothic, crafting stories that linger at the edge of the everyday and the uncanny.

His prose is richly descriptive, conjuring vivid landscapes, whether the sun-drenched Connecticut countryside of The Other or the secretive, ritual-laden villages of Harvest Home, and suffusing them with a sense of unease and hidden menace. The latter, The Dark Secret of Harvest Home, a two-part miniseries aired on NBC on January 23 and 24, 1978, adapts Thomas Tryon’s chilling novel for television, with Bette Davis delivering one of her most commanding late-career performances as the enigmatic Widow Fortune—the iron-willed herbalist and matriarch whose presence anchors the secretive, ritual-bound village of Cornwall Coombe. Harvest Home delves into the dark undercurrents of small-town life, blending neo-pagan folklore with psychological suspense in a way that would influence later writers and filmmakers. His collection Crowned Heads turns a similarly unflinching eye to the glamour and secrets of Hollywood, revealing the masks and duplicity beneath the surface.

Tryon’s novels often explore themes of identity, duality, loss, and the corruption of innocence. In The Other, the fragile boundary between reality and imagination becomes a source of dread, as the young Nile’s internal struggle manifests in the world around him.

Stylistically, Tryon’s writing is atmospheric, precise, and deeply psychological. He builds tension slowly, favoring suggestion and implication over shock, and his stories are often suffused with a sense of nostalgia tinged with a creeping darkness. Critics have noted his ability to juggle large casts of characters with internal consistency and to imbue even minor figures with memorable detail. His work is also confessional, sometimes drawing on his own experiences and inner conflicts, and can be read as part of the American Gothic tradition, where the fear of losing one’s sense of self is ever-present.

In the landscape of 1970s horror, Tryon stands out for his elegant restraint and psychological depth. His novels are not just stories of terror, but meditations on the secrets we keep, the selves we hide, and the darkness that can bloom in the most familiar, ordinary places.

The Other orbits Niles and Holland Perry, identical twins whose bond is so close it seems supernatural. Their world is shaped by loss: a father dead in a cellar accident, a mother (Diana Muldaur) bedridden by grief, and a grandmother, Ada (Uta Hagen), whose Russian mysticism and gentle wisdom offer Niles a fragile anchor. Ada teaches Niles an arcane ritual called “the game”—a kind of astral projection that lets him slip into the lives of others, even birds in flight, a gift that becomes a curse as the summer’s tragedies mount. The twins, played with eerie naturalism by Chris and Martin Udvarnoky, move through fields and orchards with cherubic faces yet a feral grace, their matching blonde hair and secret glances hinting at a world only they can see.

Accidents begin to haunt the Perry farm: a cousin impaled on a pitchfork, a neighbor dead of fright, a baby drowned in a wine barrel. Mulligan, best known for To Kill a Mockingbird 1963 and Summer of ’42 (1971), directs with a poet’s restraint, letting horror bloom in the margins. The camera lingers on wind-stirred curtains, sun-dappled grass, and the slow drift of dust motes in an empty barn; it also quietly tracks the secretive movements of a boy in the bloom of childhood as he slips, unseen, through the hidden corners of the Perry farm and the broader pastoral landscape that embraces the nearby farms and their neighbors.

Robert Mulligan’s direction in The Other elevates the film into a psychological masterpiece by masterfully blending the innocence of nostalgia with a mounting sense of dread. Much like he did in To Kill a Mockingbird, Mulligan brings a gentle, observational style to The Other, using the rhythms of everyday life and a child’s perspective to let innocence and menace quietly intertwine.

Rather than leaning into overt horror tropes, Mulligan crafts a world that, on its surface, evokes the gentle rhythms of a Depression-era coming-of-age tale—sunlit fields, boys at play, and the warmth of family routines. But this idyllic veneer is a deliberate misdirection: Mulligan uses it to lull us into a false sense of security, only to reveal the darkness festering beneath gradually.

His approach is subtle and deeply psychological. Mulligan’s camera lingers on the ordinary—games in the barn, quiet moments with the grandmother, the stillness of the farmhouse, inviting us to inhabit the emotional world of young Niles. Mulligan’s restraint is key: he resists sensationalism, instead letting tension build through suggestion, silence, and the uneasy interplay between characters. The result is a pervasive sense of unease, as we become attuned to the small cracks in the film’s nostalgic façade

Mulligan’s greatest achievement is how he externalizes the film’s central psychological conflict. He draws natural, unaffected performances from the Udvarnoky twins, making the “good twin/bad twin” dynamic feel heartbreakingly real. Scenes unfold with a quiet intimacy that makes the eventual revelations all the more devastating. The director’s use of ‘on-screen’ sound—simple, natural noises like wind, footsteps, and distant voices—heightens the isolation and internal turmoil of the characters, especially as the story’s supernatural undertones begin to surface.

Ultimately, with his careful, understated guidance, Mulligan’s direction of The Other offers us not just a chilling film but a haunting exploration of hidden truths, a study in contrasts: sunlight and shadow, innocence and guilt, reality and delusion. By refusing to romanticize his characters or the era, he creates a claustrophobic atmosphere where the true horror is psychological, rooted in grief, repression, and the blurred boundaries between self and other.

Cinematographer Robert Surtees bathes the film in a luminous melancholy, every frame a study in contrasts—light and shadow, innocence and guilt, the living and the dead. Surtees was known for his innovative use of lighting and camera techniques, adapting his style to suit each film’s needs, whether lush Technicolor epics, gritty black-and-white dramas, or modern widescreen productions. His work is marked by a painterly attention to color, light, and composition—he could evoke sweeping grandeur in films like Ben-Hur and King Solomon’s Mines, or intimate psychological tension in The Graduate and The Last Picture Show. Surtees won three Academy Awards (Oscars) for Best Cinematography during his career. He received Oscars for his work on King Solomon’s Mines (1950), The Bad and the Beautiful (1952), and Ben-Hur (1959).

He was a master of both spectacle and subtlety, able to create immersive, atmospheric visuals that served the story above all else. Surtees’s style is often described as chameleon-like: he brought a distinct visual identity to each project, whether through lavish location photography, expressive use of negative space, or nuanced lighting that heightened mood and character.

Robert Surtees’ cinematography in The Other does more than capture the surface beauty of rural Connecticut—it’s deeply psychological and emotionally charged, shaping how we experience the story’s innocence and dread. His lens bathes the landscape in a nostalgic, sunlit glow, evoking the wistfulness of childhood memories and the illusion of safety. But beneath this golden veneer, Surtees subtly unsettles us: the camera lingers just a little too long on empty fields or quiet spaces, making the familiar feel uncanny and hinting at the darkness threading through everyone’s lives.

Jerry Goldsmith stands alone as my favorite composer—his music doesn’t just stir emotion; it resonates with me on a deeper, more elusive frequency, moving me beyond sentiment into something profound and ineffable. His melodies linger in my psyche, awakening feelings that words can’t quite reach.

For The Other, Goldsmith’s score is a minor-key lullaby, its gentle unease winding through the film like a half-remembered nursery rhyme. Each note seems to hang in the air like mist over a golden summer field—beautiful, yes, but edged with sorrow, as if the music itself is mourning something it cannot name. In The Other, Goldsmith doesn’t just underscore the narrative; he breathes life into its shadows, weaving a spell of longing and liminal otherworldliness. His music is the film’s secret language—evocative, haunting, and utterly inescapable.

The acting is quietly devastating. Uta Hagen, in one of her rare film roles, brings warmth and gravity as Ada, her love for Niles tinged with anguish and forboding as she begins to glimpse the truth. The twins are remarkable: Chris Udvarnoky’s Niles is all wide-eyed vulnerability, while Martin’s Holland flickers at the edge of the frame, a phantom of mischief and malice. The supporting cast includes Victor French, John Ritter, Jenny Sullivan, and Lou Frizzell, not to mention Diana Muldaur, who brings a quiet, aching vulnerability to the role of Alexandra, the twins’ incapacitated mother, grounding the story in a lived-in reality, their performances understated but deeply felt.

Key scenes unfold with a kind of dream logic: the twins’ secret rituals in the barn, the grandmother’s desperate attempt to save Niles from himself, the final conflagration that leaves the family farm blackened and cursed. The film’s great twist—that Holland has been dead since spring, and Niles, unable to bear the loss, has kept his brother alive through “the game”—arrives not as a cheap shock, but as a slow, dawning horror. The revelation is less about the supernatural than about the wounds of grief and the perilous power of imagination.

The Other intentionally leaves the question of the supernatural ambiguous. The narrative blurs the line between psychological disturbance and genuine supernatural influence, never fully revealing whether Niles is simply taking on Holland’s malevolent nature as a coping mechanism for grief and trauma or if he is actually channeling his dead twin’s spirit through “the game” taught by Ada.

Throughout the film, Niles commits a series of increasingly disturbing acts, attributing them to Holland, much like a dissociative split or a child’s desperate attempt to avoid facing his own actions. The story is told entirely from Niles’s perspective, which is itself unreliable, further complicating the truth of what’s happening. The presence of “the game”—a form of astral projection or psychic play—adds a layer of supernatural possibility, but the film never confirms whether this is real or simply the product of Niles’s imagination and psychological unraveling.

There are specific moments, such as Ada’s confrontation with Niles at Holland’s grave and the surreal, dreamlike tone of the final scenes, that reinforce this ambiguity. We are is left to wonder: Is Niles possessed, delusional, or both? Is Holland’s influence a literal haunting, or the manifestation of Niles’s fractured psyche?

In the end, the film’s refusal to provide a clear answer is part of what makes it so haunting and enduring. The horror lingers precisely because it is unresolved, leaving us to grapple with the possibility that the true evil may lie within, or just beyond the veil of reality.

Mulligan’s film stands apart from the more sensational horror of its era. It eschews gore and jump scares for something quieter and more insidious: the terror of what we carry inside, the violence that can bloom in the most beautiful places. In the landscape of 1970s horror, it is an underappreciated outlier—a film that draws its power from suggestion, atmosphere, and the ache of loss. Its images linger: a ring wrapped in a handkerchief, a boy’s face reflected in a well, a barn consumed by fire. By the end, the sunlit fields are stripped of innocence, the pastoral dream transformed into a nightmarish reverie.

The Other is a film of haunted silences and poisoned summers, a story where evil wears the face of a child and the greatest horrors are the ones we cannot see. It is a minor-key masterpiece, as beautiful as it is disturbing—a ghost story whispered in broad daylight, and a reminder that sometimes the scariest monsters are those we invent to survive.

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MonsterGirl’s 150 Days of Classic Horror #94 THE LODGER: A STORY OF THE LONDON FOG 1927/ THE LODGER 1944 & HANGOVER SQUARE 1945

Echoes in the Fog: The Lodger Legend and Its Shadows from Hitchcock to Hangover Square

THE LODGER: A STORY OF THE LONDON FOG 1927

Alfred Hitchcock’s The Lodger: A Story of the London Fog (1927) stands as a watershed moment in both his career and the evolution of the suspense thriller. Though it was his third feature, Hitchcock himself would later call it his “first true film,” and it’s easy to see why: here, the director’s signature obsessions—wrongly accused men, dangerous allure, and the shadow of violence—emerge fully formed, set against a fog-choked London that feels both timeless and distinctly modern.

Drawing from Marie Belloc Lowndes’s 1913 novel and its stage adaptation, the film takes its inspiration from the Jack the Ripper murders, but is less interested in true crime in reality it is more about the feverish paranoia that settles over a city when evil seems to be lurking just out of sight, prowling the streets.

The story itself is deceptively simple: a serial killer known as “The Avenger” is targeting blonde women, sending London into a state of panic. Right in the middle of all this, the mysterious lodger—played by Ivor Novello—shows up and rents a room from the Buntings just as the murders edge closer to home.

Novello is both magnetic and ambiguous; his haunted eyes and secretive ways make him suspicious and yet strangely fascinating, especially to the Buntings’ daughter Daisy (June Tripp).

As Daisy’s policeman boyfriend Joe (Malcolm Keen) gets more jealous and the Buntings’ suspicions grow, the film really tightens the noose of doubt around their lodger, leading to a dramatic sequence of accusation, pursuit, and mob justice before the truth finally comes to light.

Hitchcock’s direction, deeply influenced by the German Expressionist cinema he encountered in Berlin, is on full display. Working with cinematographer Gaetano di Ventimiglia, he floods the film with mist, shadow, and oblique camera angles, creating a visual world where fear and uncertainty seep into every frame.

The film’s look is both expressionist and modern: glass floors allow us to see the lodger’s anxious pacing from below, staircases become vertiginous chasms, and the fog itself seems to swallow up the city. The rhythm of the editing—dynamic, almost musical—heightens the sense of unease, while the absence of spoken dialogue only sharpens Hitchcock’s focus on pure visual storytelling.

The cast brings a strange, almost theatrical intensity to the film. Marie Ault and Arthur Chesney are quietly compelling as the Buntings, their growing fear for Daisy palpable in every gesture. June Tripp’s Daisy is luminous and vulnerable, while Malcolm Keen’s Joe simmers with suspicion. But it’s Novello who dominates, his performance walking a tightrope between innocence and menace. Hitchcock’s own cameo—his first—comes early, a sly touch that would become a trademark. Historically, The Lodger arrived at a moment when British cinema was searching for its own voice, and Hitchcock’s film was immediately recognized as a leap forward. Critics hailed its technical innovation and atmospheric power, and it quickly established Hitchcock as a director of rare vision.

The film’s themes—media-fueled hysteria, the dangers of mob justice, the ambiguity of guilt—feel as relevant today as they did nearly a century ago. What lingers most, though, is the film’s atmosphere: a city shrouded in fog, where every footstep echoes with dread, and where the line between hunter and hunted is never quite clear. The Lodger is not just a story of murder, but of suspicion, desire, and the perilous search for truth in the haunting, murky shadows.

THE LODGER 1944

John Brahm’s 1944 adaptation of The Lodger stands out as one of the most atmospheric and psychologically charged takes on the Jack the Ripper legend, setting the tone for the era’s horror cinema. Drawing once again from Lowndes’s 1913 novel, the film drops us right into a foggy, gaslit London where fear and suspicion seem to hang heavy in the air.

At the center are the Bontings, a respectable couple who are struggling to make ends meet. So they decide to rent a room to the enigmatic Mr. Slade—played by Laird Cregar—a brooding man whose unsettling habits and haunted look, which bears the mark of something dark and dangerous, quickly disturb the household.

Slade, played with mesmerizing intensity by Laird Cregar, is a figure both pitiable and terrifying, his every movement weighted with obsession and barely contained madness.

As the city reels from a series of brutal murders targeting actresses, Slade becomes fixated on the Bontings’ niece Kitty Langley (Merle Oberon), a luminous music-hall performer.

Laird Cregar was a remarkably gifted American actor whose brief career left a lasting impression on classic Hollywood cinema. Known for his commanding presence and expressive performances, Cregar excelled in roles that demanded both menace and vulnerability, bringing a unique depth to villains and tortured souls alike. He rose to prominence with standout performances in films such as I Wake Up Screaming (1941), This Gun for Hire (1942), and,  notably, this role as the haunted Mr. Slade in The Lodger, followed by his performance as the tragic composer George Harvey Bone in Hangover Square (1945).

Cregar’s acting was marked by a rare ability to convey complex inner turmoil—his characters often seemed caught between longing and darkness, their emotional conflict visible in every gesture and expression.

Offscreen, Laird Cregar’s life was just as complicated. He was ambitious but also very aware of how his imposing size shaped the roles he was offered, struggling with Hollywood’s expectations of their leading men. This drove him to try a risky crash diet in hopes of landing more romantic parts. Sadly, this decision contributed to his early death at only 31. Privately, his sexuality was something only close friends and colleagues knew about, and his relationships—including a notable romance with actor David Bacon—were often the subject of both gossip and tragedy.

Despite his short life, Laird Cregar’s career was filled with highlights: he was celebrated for his villainous roles, brought unexpected sympathy to his darkest characters, and was praised by contemporaries for his stage work as well as his films. His performances in The Lodger and Hangover Square remain iconic, showcasing a talent that could evoke both fear and pity, and leaving a legacy as one of Hollywood’s most memorable and enigmatic actors.

As Mr. Slade, Cregar’s performance dominates the film, imbuing Slade with a tragic depth. His physical presence—imposing yet oddly vulnerable—makes him an unforgettable figure, whose yes are constantly shifting, moving between longing and menace, as if he’s always caught between wanting and warning at the same time.

The supporting cast brings their own vivid energy: Merle Oberon’s Kitty is both glamorous and sympathetic, while George Sanders, as the suave Inspector Warwick, brings a dry wit and dogged determination to the hunt for the killer. Wonderful character actors, Cedric Hardwicke and Sara Allgood, as the Bontings, ground the film with their blend of domestic warmth and deepening apprehension, their household slowly unraveling under the weight of suspicion.

What really stands out to me about The Lodger is how visually it leans into a moody, noir-inflected style. Lucien Ballard’s cinematography bathes everything in deep shadows and swirling fog, clearly inspired by German Expressionism. The result is a world that feels at once claustrophobic and strangely dreamlike.

Every frame seems alive with narrow alleyways, rain-slicked streets, and dark, shadowy interiors, conjuring a London that feels like it’s on the verge of hysteria.

The camera lingers on faces, hands, and fleeting, telling glances that say more than words, adding to the tension and uncertainty that drive the story forward.

And Hugo Friedhofer’s score? It quietly threads the film with a subtle but undeniable force that adds to the sense of doom, giving The Lodger its lingering, haunted melancholy that hangs over every scene.

Brahm tightly holds the reins—there’s this careful balance between those quiet, psychologically uneasy moments and sudden bursts of violence and panic. Compared to Hitchcock’s silent version, which focused more on suspicion and the threat of mob justice, this film seems to delve deeper into the psychology of its characters, especially Salde, whose twisted motivations are revealed in chilling detail. The story deviates from the novel and its earlier adaptations, but it manages to add a sense of unpredictability and dread. The Lodger isn’t so much a whodunit as it is about consuming shadows of fear and obsession.

The Lodger was released at a time when Hollywood was dealing with all the anxieties that come with war and the lingering shadows of the past. Brahm, a German émigré, brought a distinctly European sensibility to the film, blending that polished Hollywood studio gloss with the moody, intense vibe of 1930s Expressionism. The end result is a film that somehow feels both timeless and completely of its moment—a suspenseful, unsettling meditation on evil, desire, and the darkness that can hide behind even the most respectable facades.

In the end, The Lodger is less a straightforward thriller than a feverish portrait of a city—and a mind—unraveling. With its unforgettable performances, haunting visuals, and lingering sense of unease, it remains a high point of 1940s horror.

There is a memorable line in the 1944 film The Lodger that touches on the paradox of love and hate. Laird Cregar’s character, Mr. Slade, utters:

“To hate a thing and love it too, and to love it so much that you hate it.”

This line is delivered during one of Slade’s intense, confessional moments, revealing the tortured duality at the heart of his character. Slade is speaking to Kitty, who has become both his obsession and his undoing. The quote sums up the film’s central tension—Slade’s simultaneous attraction to and resentment of women, especially those who remind him of his tragic past. It’s a moment that not only deepens our understanding of Slade’s psychological torment but also highlights the film’s exploration of the thin, often blurred line between love and hate.

This duality drives the suspense and emotional complexity of The Lodger, leaving us unsettled by the realization that the two emotions can coexist so fiercely within a single soul and Cregar is masterful at bringing to life the aching duality of a soul at war with itself, embodying both longing and menace with a grace that makes his torment feel hauntingly real. His performance shimmers with the tension of a man forever caught between shadow and light, desire and dread, each emotion reflected in his face like a secret he can never quite escape.

HANGOVER SQUARE 1945

Cregar reignites his role as a tormented soul. Once again, John Brahm returns with Hangover Square (1945), a feverish, noir-soaked descent into madness, obsession, and the perilous intersection of art and violence. Set in Edwardian London, the film follows George Harvey Bone, a gifted composer played with haunting vulnerability and intensity by Laird Cregar. Bone’s life is a study in contrasts: outwardly gentle and unassuming, inwardly tormented by blackouts triggered by discordant sounds—episodes that leave him with no memory and, as we soon learns, a trail of violence in his wake.

The film opens with a jolt: Bone, in a fugue state, murders a shop owner and sets the scene ablaze, then stumbles home, bloodied and bewildered, unable to recall his actions. This pattern of lost time and chilling gloom becomes the film’s pulse as Bone seeks help from Dr. Allan Middleton (George Sanders), a renowned police surgeon and psychological consultant at Scotland Yard.

After committing the murder during one of his amnesiac episodes, George seeks help for his troubling blackouts. He confides in Barbara Chapman, played by Faye Marlowe, who is the supportive and caring daughter of Sir Henry Chapman, a well-known conductor and George Harvey Bone’s mentor, who takes him to see Dr. Middleton.

At the heart of Bone’s unraveling is his infatuation with Netta Longdon, a cunning and ambitious music hall singer brought to life by Linda Darnell. Netta’s beauty and charm mask a ruthless opportunism; she manipulates Bone’s affections, using his talent to advance her own career while stringing him along with false promises.

Cregar’s Bone is desperate, yearning, and increasingly unstable, while Darnell’s Netta is dazzling and cold, her self-interest sharpening every exchange. Faye Marlowe’s Barbara Chapman, the compassionate daughter of Bone’s mentor, offers a gentler counterpoint, her concern for Bone underscoring the tragedy of a man pulled between light and darkness.

Visually, Hangover Square is a vivid illustration of a noir/thriller atmosphere. Cinematographer Joseph LaShelle (Fallen Angel 1945, Road House 1948, Where the Sidewalk Ends 1950, Marty 1955, The Apartment 1960, How the West Was Won 1962) bathes the film in inky shadows and soft, gaslit haze, creating a world that feels both lush and claustrophobic. Brahm’s direction is dynamic and inventive—overhead shots, Dutch angles, and low perspectives lend a sense of instability and tension, mirroring Bone’s fractured psyche. The film’s most striking set pieces—particularly the Guy Fawkes bonfire scene, with masked revelers encircling a towering blaze—are both grandly theatrical and chillingly intimate, the camera swooping and gliding as Bone’s fate closes in around him.

Bernard Herrmann’s score is also integral to the film’s impact, his original piano concerto serving as both a narrative centerpiece and a psychological battleground. The music swells and recedes with Bone’s moods, the climactic concert sequence a brilliant flourish of sound and image: as flames consume the concert hall, Bone plays on, lost in his own creation, the boundaries between art, madness, and destruction dissolving in the inferno.

Hangover Square is rooted in the mood of its time. It starts with Patrick Hamilton’s 1941 novel, but is transformed into a kind of Gothic melodrama that’s full of the era’s anxieties. The Edwardian setting comes alive with all the rich period details—those sumptuous costumes, busy pubs, and clouds of smoke swirling through every scene. But what really sets the film apart is its noir edge, that constant sense of dread and inevitability running underneath it all that defines its style. Cregar’s performance, tragically his last truly, becomes the beating heart of the film. He embodies the duality of a man gifted and doomed. His torment is visible in every gesture, every look, and every move he makes.

In the end, Hangover Square is a story of a soul at war with itself, of love curdled into obsession, and of genius consumed by its own fire.

#94 Down, 56 to go! Your EverLovin Joey formally & affectionately known as MosnterGirl!

 

MonsterGirl’s 150 Days of Classic Horror #81 HUSH… HUSH, SWEET CHARLOTTE 1964 & WHAT EVER HAPPENED TO BABY JANE? 1962

SPOILER ALERT!

(1964): A Study in Gothic Horror and the Birth of “Hag Cinema”

Robert Aldrich’s What Ever Happened to Baby Jane? (1962) and Hush…Hush, Sweet Charlotte (1964) stand as twin pillars of mid-century Gothic horror, films that redefined the possibilities of psychological suspense while resuscitating the careers of Hollywood’s fading icons.

These films, often credited with launching what has now entered the lexicon as the “Hag Cinema,” a subgenre defined by legendary actresses, who were gracing the screen in the seasoned elegance of their later years, taking on roles that are as grotesque, often macabre as they are compelling. And as much about the erosion and slow fading of old Hollywood glamour as they are about the horrors lurking in decaying mansions and the unsettling truths that emerge as the façade of the luster quietly dims. The sheen of stardom is softly eclipsed by misogyny.

Aldrich, a director known for his unflinching exploration of power dynamics and moral ambiguity, leveraged the fraught histories of his leading ladies to craft narratives steeped in psychological torment, societal decay, and the haunting weight of the past.

These films also laid bare Hollywood’s vicious cycle of discarding and marginalizing its once-revered stars, reducing them to monstrous caricatures under the demoralizing “Hag Cinema” label- a cruel irony for women who had once been heralded as paragons of talent and glamour. Davis, Crawford, and de Havilland, whose careers were built on Oscar-winning artistry and box-office dominance, found themselves exiled by an industry that deemed them obsolete past 40. Imagine that—forty, and suddenly you’re tossed on the Hollywood scrap heap, as if a star’s brilliance evaporates, as if time alone can erase allure.

It’s a telling reflection of our culture that once women reach forty, their capacity for sex appeal is so often dismissed, as if that allure and desirability are the exclusive property of youth. This notion not only disregards the depth and complexity that come with age, but also perpetuates the myth that a woman’s value is tethered solely to her appearance—an idea both reductive and profoundly unfair. I’ll be delving into these very questions in my forthcoming special, Deconstructing the Myth of Hag Cinema, where I’ll examine the cultural narratives, industry biases, and enduring complexities that have shaped this provocative subgenre, not to mention not to mention the glaring hypocrisy that allows male stars to age into gravitas and continued desirability, Meanwhile, aging male stars had continued to secure roles that keep them firmly in the narrative driver’s seat, their box office appeal undiminished—and all without ever being saddled with a reductive label. If fairness prevailed, perhaps we’d be talking about “Sagging Ball Cinema,” but curiously, no such moniker exists for their encore act on screen. I’ll have a section referring to these ‘masculine’ Hollywood heroes using this delicious reversal – a bit of poetic justice to coin a new term.

The term “hag,” wielded as a dismissive shorthand for their late-career roles, underscored the systemic misogyny of a studio machine that prized youth over legacy, reducing complex women to campy spectacles.

Yet Aldrich’s films, for all their Gothic excess, refused to let these actresses fade quietly. Instead, they weaponized that marginalization, transforming it into a searing indictment of Hollywood’s cruelty. In Baby Jane? and Charlotte, the horror isn’t just in the decaying mansions or psychological torment- it’s in the spectacle of greatness scorned, of icons forced to gnaw at the scraps of their own pasts. These films, in their audacious bleakness, became a perverse tribute to resilience, proving that even in exile, these women could still command the screen, their talent burning through the demeaning labels like acid.

Both What Ever Happened to Baby Jane? and Hush…Hush, Sweet Charlotte owes much of their psychological complexity and Gothic atmosphere to the powerful collaboration between screenwriter Lukas Heller and novelist Henry Farrell. For Baby Jane?, Robert Aldrich commissioned Heller to adapt Farrell’s 1960 novel, trusting Heller’s sharp sense for character and suspense to translate the book’s twisted sibling rivalry and decaying Hollywood glamour to the screen.

Heller’s screenplay was praised for its ability to balance horror, dark humor, and pathos, giving Bette Davis and Joan Crawford material rich enough to fuel their legendary performances and seemed to stoke their off-screen rivalry.

When Aldrich set out to capture lightning in a bottle with Baby Jane? with Hush…Hush, Sweet Charlotte, he once again turned to Heller and Farrell. This time, the screenplay was adapted from Farrell’s own unpublished short story “What Ever Happened to Cousin Charlotte?”

Heller initially wrote the adaptation, but Farrell himself later contributed to the script, ensuring that the Southern Gothic elements and labyrinthine betrayals remained true to his vision. The result was a screenplay that blended psychological horror with melodrama, allowing Davis, Crawford, Olivia de Havilland, Mary Astor and the rest of the cast to inhabit characters haunted by secrets.

Lukas Heller, a German-born screenwriter whose credits include other Adlrich films like The Dirty Dozen 1967 and Flight of the Phoenix 1965, was known for his ability to craft tense, character-driven narratives.

His partnership with Aldrich produced some of the most memorable psychological thrillers of the 1960s. Henry Farrell, meanwhile, specialized in stories of twisted domesticity and repressed violence, his work forming the backbone of both films’ enduring appeal. Together, Heller and Farrell’s scripts provided Aldrich with a foundation for his explorations of aging, madness, and the grotesque, and their work remains central to the films’ lasting critical and cultural impact.

What Ever Happened to Baby Jane? (1962)

The film opens with the glittering artifice of 1917 vaudeville, where “Baby” Jane Hudson, a child star performed by Julie Allred, basks in adoration, her doll-like persona masking a toxic narcissism. By the 1930s, Jane’s career has crumbled, eclipsed by her sister Blanche (Joan Crawford), who transitions from onstage understudy to a luminous film star. A car accident leaves Blanche paralyzed, and the sisters retreat into a dilapidated Hollywood mansion, their lives frozen in mutual resentment. Jane (Bette Davis), now a bloated, alcoholic relic, clings to delusions of revival, while Blanche, confined to a wheelchair, schemes to sell the house and commit Jane to an institution.

Aldrich’s direction thrives on claustrophobia. Ernest Haller’s black-and-white cinematography traps the sisters in a labyrinth of shadows, their mansion’s crumbling interiors reflecting their fractured psyches. Key scenes- Jane serving Blanche a dead pet bird under a silver cloche, or her grotesque attempt to revive her Baby Jane persona in a Malibu beachside performance- are studies in escalating madness. Davis’s Jane, caked in garish makeup, oscillates between infantile whimsy and venomous rage, while Crawford’s Blanche, all restrained calculation, becomes a prisoner of her own body. The film’s infamous twist- Blanche confessing she caused her own accident to frame Jane- culminates in a bleak reconciliation on the beach, where Jane’s final dance under police arrest underscores the tragedy of lives devoured by fame’s aftermath.

Critics initially dismissed Baby Jane? as lurid melodrama, but its $9 million box office (against an $800,000 budget) signaled a cultural shift. The New York Times called it “a horror film with a sense of humor,” while Pauline Kael noted Davis’s performance as “a masterpiece of camp malevolence.” The film’s legacy lies in its unflinching portrait of aging, its critique of Hollywood’s disposability of women, and its revival of Davis and Crawford as icons of resilience. Aldrich’s decision to cast the famously feuding actresses, their off-screen tensions bleeding into scenes of mutual loathing, added a meta-layer of cruelty, turning the film into a spectacle of performing the slow extinguishing of light.

Hush…Hush, Sweet Charlotte (1964)

Conceived as a reunion for Davis and Crawford, Hush…Hush, Sweet Charlotte instead became a vehicle for Davis and Olivia de Havilland after Crawford’s departure (officially due to illness, though rumors of on-set clashes with Davis persist). The film opens in 1927 Louisiana, where Charlotte Hollis (Davis), a naive Southern belle, witnesses the brutal murder of her married lover, John Mayhew (Bruce Dern), by an unseen assailant. Decades later, Charlotte, now a reclusive eccentric, battles the state’s attempt to seize her ancestral home for a highway. Her cousin Miriam (de Havilland) and Dr. Drew Bayliss (Joseph Cotten) arrive, ostensibly to aid her, but their plot to gaslight Charlotte into surrendering her inheritance unveils a web of betrayal.

Aldrich’s Southern Gothic is suffused with decay. Joseph Biroc’s Oscar-nominated cinematography drapes the Hollis mansion in mossy shadows, while Frank De Vol’s haunting score, centered on the titular ballad, echoes Charlotte’s fractured mind. The film’s most chilling sequences- a disembodied hand and head appearing in Charlotte’s bedroom, or Miriam’s murder of the loyal housekeeper Velma (Agnes Moorehead)-blend psychological horror with Grand Guignol excess. The climax, where Charlotte pushes a stone urn onto Miriam and Drew, is a cathartic release of decades of manipulation, though her final moments, cradling a confession from Mayhew’s widow, leave her salvation ambiguous.

Cecil Kellaway and Mary Astor, both seasoned and beloved Hollywood veterans, play pivotal supporting roles in Hush…Hush, Sweet Charlotte, bringing gravitas and subtlety to the film’s Southern Gothic tapestry. Kellaway appears as Harry Willis, the genial yet sharp-witted Lloyds of London insurance investigator from England who arrives in Louisiana still fascinated by the decades-old murder of John Mayhew. With his characteristic warmth and “old guy charm,” Kellaway’s Willis is a gentle outsider, quietly piecing together the truth as the drama within the Hollis mansion spirals toward madness and violence. He is not directly involved in the machinations against Charlotte, but instead serves as a moral anchor and a catalyst for the film’s resolution. Willis’s investigation and his interactions with other characters, especially his poignant scene with Mary Astor’s Jewel Mayhew, help tie up the narrative’s loose ends and ultimately deliver Charlotte a measure of closure.

Mary Astor, in her final film role, appears as Jewel Mayhew, the widow of Charlotte’s murdered lover, John. Though her screen time is limited, Astor’s presence is haunting and essential. She plays Jewel as a woman worn down by years of sorrow and secrets, her performance understated yet deeply affecting. In a key scene, Jewel entrusts Willis with an envelope containing her posthumous confession—a revelation that she, not Charlotte, killed her husband John. This act, delivered with Astor’s quiet dignity, is crucial to the film’s denouement. It not only exonerates Charlotte but also brings the story full circle, allowing us to see the emotional toll of the crime on all involved. Astor’s scenes, particularly her exchanges with Kellaway and de Havilland, are marked by a restrained melancholy that contrasts with the film’s more operatic moments, and critics have noted how she “makes every moment count,” lending Jewel a tragic grace that lingers long after her departure from the story.

Together, Kellaway and Astor embody the film’s themes of compassion, justice, regret, and the corrosive power of secrets. Their performances, though supporting, are essential to the film’s emotional and narrative resolution, and both actors are remembered for bringing a touch of classic Hollywood humanity to Aldrich’s brooding Southern nightmare.

Critics praised the film’s operatic grandeur, with Variety calling it “a superior shocker,” though some found its 133-minute runtime excessive. Davis’s performance, oscillating between vulnerability and ferocity, earned her a Golden Globe nomination, while Moorehead’s turn as the sardonic Velma became a camp touchstone. The film’s seven Oscar nominations, including Best Supporting Actress for Moorehead, underscored its technical mastery, though it won none. Where Baby Jane? thrived on intimate malice, Charlotte expanded into epic tragedy, its themes of patriarchal control (embodied by Charlotte’s incestuously possessive father – Victor Buono) and female solidarity subverted by greed.

Legacy and Cultural Impact:

Both films emerged from Aldrich’s fascination with societal marginalization. Baby Jane? and Charlotte interrogate the cultural erasure of aging women, their mansions metaphors for bodies and minds left to rot. Aldrich’s collaboration with screenwriter Lukas Heller sharpened these themes, blending noir cynicism with Gothic excess. The films also revived the careers of their stars: Davis, Crawford, and de Havilland, once box-office queens, embraced roles that weaponized their fading glamour, cementing their status as icons of resilience.

Cinematographically, the films diverged. Baby Jane’s stark, claustrophobic interiors mirrored its psychological confinement, while Charlotte’s lush Southern decay evoked a dying aristocracy. Both, however, used light and shadow to externalize inner turmoil- Jane’s garish makeup under harsh key lights, Charlotte’s ghostly pallor in moonlit halls.

Critics like David Thomson have since reappraised these films as feminist texts, their horrors rooted in systemic misogyny. The “Hag Cinema” label, once derisive, now signifies a subgenre reclaiming the power of women discarded by Hollywood. Aldrich’s willingness to center complex, unlikable female protagonists-and to amplify their rage-remains revolutionary.

In the decades since, both films have influenced works from Whatever Happened to Aunt Alice? (1969) to Ryan Murphy’s Feud (2017), which, accurate or not, dramatized or sensationalized the Davis-Crawford rivalry. Their endurance lies in their audacity: to stare unflinchingly at the wreckage of fame, to find horror not in monsters but in the human capacity for cruelty, and to showcase aging women, once Hollywood’s forgotten, reign supreme in all their grotesque grandeur or radiant as ever, empowered by agency and courage.

Revisiting Robert Aldrich’s Grande Dame Hag Cinema: Part I What Ever Happened to Baby Jane? 1962 ‘Get back in that chair Blanche!’

Revisiting Robert Aldrich’s Hag Cinema: Part II ” I wouldn’t piss on Joan Crawford if she were on fire!”

Grande Dames/ Guignol Cinema: Robert Aldrich’s Hag Cinema “But you *are* Blanche, you *are in that chair” Part I

Grande Dame/Guignol Cinema: Robert Aldrich’s Hag Cinema Part 2 Hush…Hush, Sweet Charlotte 1964 “He’ll Love You Til He Dies”

Grande Dame/Guignol Cinema: Aldrich’s Hag Cinema: Hush…Hush, Sweet Charlotte 1964 Part 3 “Murder starts in the heart and it’s first weapon is a vicious tongue”

Grande Dame/Guignol Cinema: Robert Aldrich’s Hag Cinema Part 4: Hush…Hush, Sweet Charlotte 1964 “You’re my favorite living mystery” “Have you ever solved me?”

#81 Down, 69 to go! Your EverLovin’ Joey, formally & affectionately known as MonsterGirl!

MonsterGirl’s 150 Days of Classic Horror #76 The House that Screamed 1969

THE HOUSE THAT SCREAMED 1969

Maternal Obsession in the Gothic House of Secrets: Broken Minds and Forbidden Longing in The House That Screamed:

Sunday Nite Surreal: Serrador’s The House That Screamed: Elegant Taboos in the Gothic Horror Film-The Fragmentation of Motherhood, castration and the enigma of body horror

I experienced The House That Screamed during its theatrical release in 1969, witnessing its spell-hypnotic and visceral on the big screen as a young cinephile, was a revelation that shattered my expectations of classical horror. It stunned and shocked me, searing itself into my memory with its Gothic intensity, its lush, painterly palette, and its heady atmosphere of decadent menace. Among my top ten favorite horror films, it stands apart for its transgressive, disturbing themes and the way it transforms the old dark house trope into something both sumptuous and sinister-a fever dream of beautiful, ethereal imperiled girls, whispered secrets, Lilli Palmer’s transgressive and unflinching performance and a monstrous denouement so frightening and audacious that it left me breathless, forever changed by the film’s haunting power.

I find myself compelled to revisit and rigorously reexamine my earlier post. I am eager to deconstruct and explore the film again, but this time with a more discerning, critical perspective. I will take it apart piece by piece, delving into the film with fresh eyes and a deeper, more critical approach.

Lilli Palmer was a celebrated German actress whose distinguished career spanned British, Hollywood, and European cinema, with most notable roles in Cloak and Dagger (1946), Body and Soul (1947), The Four Poster (1952), The Counterfeit Traitor (1962), and this Spanish horror classic The House That Screamed (1969), earning her major awards including the Volpi Cup and multiple Deutscher Filmpreis honors.

Cristina Galbó-who would go on to star in Let Sleeping Corpses Lie 1975– plays the vulnerable Teresa; Mary Maude, memorable from Crucible of Terror, as the icy and sadistic Irene; Maribel Martín, later seen in The Blood Spattered Bride 1974, as the innocent Isabelle; and Pauline Challoner, who also appeared in The Railway Children, as the ill-fated Catalin.

Narciso Ibáñez Serrador’s The House That Screamed (1969) is a Gothic, atmospheric shocker that lingers in the mind like a feverish nightmare, its corridors echoing with the sounds of whispered secrets and stifled screams. Set within the forbidding walls of a 19th-century French boarding school for troubled girls, the film unfolds as a fever dream of repression, cruelty, and twisted longing, where the boundaries between discipline and sadism, protection and possession, are blurred beyond recognition.

Serrador’s direction is meticulous and painterly, transforming the school into a labyrinth of dread. The camera glides through shadowed hallways and decaying parlors, lingering on faces half-lit by candlelight or distorted by rain-streaked windows. The palette is heavy with browns and ochres, evoking a world both claustrophobic and decaying, while the score by Waldo de los Rios weaves romantic motifs into nerve-jangling cues, heightening the sense of unease as innocence is slowly suffocated by the institution’s oppressive regime.

The film’s pacing is deliberate, building suspense through long, quiet stretches punctuated by sudden violence or emotional cruelty, drawing you inexorably toward its harrowing climax.

The House That Screamed uses its characters’ relationships to mirror and critique the rigid, repressive societal norms of both its late 19th-century setting and the Franco-era Spain in which it was made. The boarding school, ostensibly a place for “rehabilitating” troubled or unwanted girls, functions as a microcosm of repression, authoritarian control, where discipline is enforced through surveillance, brutal punishment, and the denial of agency.

Madame Fourneau, the headmistress, embodies the era’s moralistic authority, viewing the girls as inherently corrupt and irredeemable. The regime is maintained through whippings, solitary confinement, and emotional manipulation.

At the heart of the story is Madame Fourneau (Lilli Palmer), the stern and emotionally manipulative headmistress who rules the school with an iron will and a chilling sense of propriety. Her relationship with her teenage son Luis (John Moulder-Brown) is laced with possessiveness and unsettling, incestuous undertones; no girl, she insists, is good enough for him-except, perhaps, someone just like herself. She is a monstrous feminine, a mother monster.

Luis is the object of his mother, Madame Fourneau’s, obsessive, suffocating love- a love so possessive and controlling that it warps his sense of self and relationships with others. Fourneau dotes on Luis, isolates him from the girls (insisting none are worthy – reinforcing the idea that female sexuality is dangerous and must be strictly controlled), and projects her own anxieties and desires onto him, even crossing into disturbingly intimate territory with her physical affection. A love twisted into something stifling and destructive- a maternal devotion that becomes a prison, ultimately fueling the fractured psychology and violence at the heart of the film.

Power within the school is delegated to Irene (Mary Maude), a privileged student who acts as Fourneau’s enforcer, meting out punishments and controlling access to privileges, including sexual encounters with outsiders. This dynamic reflects a society where hierarchy and obedience are prized, and where those in power exploit and perpetuate the system for their own benefit. The girls’ rare acts of rebellion or intimacy are not liberating, but desperate bids for relief from oppression, highlighting how female desire and autonomy are tightly policed and pathologized.

Into this charged atmosphere arrives Teresa (Cristina Galbó), a new student whose outsider status makes her a target for bullying and humiliation, particularly from Irene, Fourneau’s sadistic protégé. The school’s rituals of punishment-beatings, flagellation, and psychological torment-are rendered with a disturbing intimacy, the camera lingering on the aftermath as much as the act itself. The girls’ camaraderie is laced with rivalry and fear, and the threat of disappearance hangs over every whispered conversation.

As students begin to vanish, tension mounts. Teresa, desperate to escape, is brutally murdered just as she seems poised for freedom- a shocking narrative swerve that leaves the audience unmoored. Irene, now suspicious and emboldened, confronts Fourneau and attempts her own escape, only to meet a grisly fate in the attic, her hands severed in a grotesque echo of the school’s obsession with discipline and control. The film’s final revelation is as macabre as it is tragic: Luis, warped by his mother’s emotional domination and isolation, has been murdering the girls to assemble his own “ideal woman” from their dismembered bodies- a monstrous attempt to recreate the only love he has ever known. The climax, in which Señora Fourneau discovers her son’s creation and is locked away to “teach” it to love him, is a tableau of Oedipal horror, her screams echoing through the house as the cycle of control and longing comes full circle.

The soundscape and music of The House That Screamed are woven into the film’s very architecture, seeping through its corridors like a chill draft, amplifying the sense of dread and repression that permeates every frame. Waldo de los Ríos’s score is a haunting tapestry, beginning with the eerie, slightly out-of-tune piano notes that echo the broken innocence of the girls within the school’s walls.

These delicate, romantic motifs drift through the film like faded memories, at first lulling the viewer with their melancholy beauty, only to curdle into something more sinister as the narrative darkens.

As the story unfolds, the music shifts in texture and tempo, mirroring the mounting tension and psychological unraveling. De los Ríos employs pianos, harps, and wind instruments to conjure an atmosphere thick with suspense and mystery, often layering sounds so that a gentle melody in the background is countered by something unsettling in the foreground.

In key moments, such as the murder in the greenhouse, the score becomes almost experimental: the piano slows as if time itself is faltering, drawing out the victim’s final moments with agonizing intimacy.

Beyond the music, the film’s sound design is almost Lynchian in its use of horrific effects and silences, expertly crafting a perverse atmosphere with minimal explicit violence or sexuality.

Subtle as a confession in the dark, the soundscape is laced with the soft, urgent breaths and glossolalia of a woman’s moans, blurring the boundaries between pleasure and pain, innocence and corruption, as if the very walls themselves are whispering secrets too dangerous to speak aloud.

The creak of floorboards, the echo of footsteps, and the stifled cries of the girls become part of the film’s language, making the house itself seem to breathe, whisper, and threaten. At times, the score recedes, leaving only the raw, ambient sounds of the school’s routines, heightening the claustrophobia and making each intrusion of music feel like an emotional rupture.

In this way, sound and music are not mere accompaniment but active agents in the narrative, revealing what words and images leave unsaid. They evoke longing, terror, and the oppressive weight of secrets, guiding us through the film’s chambered darkness and ultimately leaving the story echoing in the mind long after the final scream has faded.

Lilli Palmer delivers a performance of icy restraint and subtle vulnerability, embodying a woman whose need for control masks a deep, unspoken terror of loss. Mary Maude’s Irene is magnetic and menacing, a study in cruelty born of complicity and ambition. John Moulder-Brown brings a haunted awkwardness to Luis, with his voyeuristic behavior and his pitiable and chilling presence. Serrador’s style is one of suggestion and implication, favoring slow-building dread over explicit gore. Violence is often glimpsed obliquely through rain-smeared windows, in freeze frames, or via superimposed images, leaving the imagination to fill in the horror. The film’s eroticism is equally restrained, its undercurrents of desire and repression rendered all the more disturbing for their subtlety.

The film critiques the cruelty and hypocrisy of societal norms that claim to “reform” but instead perpetuate cycles of abuse, fear, and violence. The school’s oppressive routines and the twisted bonds between characters serve as a dark allegory for the dangers of unchecked authority and the suffocating effects of claustrophobic maternal love and repression, making The House That Screamed as much a political metaphor as a Gothic horror story.

The House That Screamed stands as a precursor to later classics like Suspiria 1977, its blend of Gothic melodrama, psychological horror, and social critique elevating it far above the typical “girls’ school” thriller. It is a film about the monstrousness bred by isolation, the violence lurking beneath the surface of order, and the terrible price of love withheld and twisted by control. In Serrador’s hands, the house does not simply scream- it mourns, it punishes, and, ultimately, it devours.

76 down, 74 to go! Your EverLovin’ Joey, formally & affectionately known as MonsterGirl!

Paths to Liberation: Personal Transformation Through Connection in Now, Voyager 1942 and Baghdad Cafe 1987

A common thread between Now, Voyager 1942 and Baghdad Cafe 1987 is the theme of personal transformation and self-discovery through unexpected relationships and environments. In Now, Voyager, Charlotte Vale undergoes a profound journey of liberation from her oppressive mother, gaining self-esteem and independence through love and her own inner strength. Similarly, in Baghdad Cafe, Jasmin’s arrival at the quirky desert Baghdad Cafe and Motel leads to her own transformation as she builds a surprising friendship with Brenda and its quirky inhabitants and finds a sense of belonging in an unfamiliar place. Both narratives highlight how stepping outside one’s comfort zone, be it on the ocean or in the desert, and forming connections can lead to empowerment and fulfillment.

Both Now, Voyager and Bagdad Cafe use clothing as a visual language for personal transformation: Charlotte Vale’s journey from drab, constricting dresses to elegant, self-assured ensembles mirrors her emergence from repression to confidence, just as Jasmin’s shift from tight, hausfrau attire to flowing, colorful garments signals her gradual liberation and blossoming in the desert. In both films, the evolution of each woman’s wardrobe becomes a powerful outward sign of inner change- a metamorphosis from invisibility and constraint to self-expression and possibility.

Where Now, Voyager begins like a deeply penetrating melodrama about maternal abuse and struggling identity, Baghdad Cafe unfolds like a hazy dream. Both women, Charlotte and Jasmin, take a journey toward awakening.

Now, Voyager 1942

“Don’t let’s ask for the moon! We have the stars!”

The iconic American melodrama that inspired the 1942 cult classic film starring Bette Davis. “Charlotte Vale is a timeless and very sophisticated Cinderella.”—Patricia Gaffney, New York Times bestselling author.

“I can think of no better account of the woman’s picture’s central role in American culture. At least we have the stars.” (Patricia White- Criterion essay We Have the Stars)

Here is a passage from David Greven’s Representations of Femininity in American Genre Cinema: The Woman’s Film, Film Noir, and Modern Horror (Palgrave, 2011) that specifically discusses Now, Voyager and Bette Davis’s performance:

“Bette Davis plays Charlotte Vale, and one suspects that what drew Davis to the role was the opportunities it gave her to perform a feat at which she excelled: onscreen transformation from one physical and emotional state into another. While several Davis films showcase her singular talent for such onscreen transformations, they are far from a unique event in the genre of the woman’s film, a prominent Hollywood genre for three decades, from the 1930s to the 1960s. Women frequently transform, either at key points in or over the course of cinematic narrative, sometimes on a physical level, sometimes in more abstract ways, as if in homage to Shakespeare’s Cleopatra and her ‘infinite variety… In her classical Hollywood heyday, Bette Davis made an onscreen transformation her signature feat. In film after film, Davis transforms, usually on a physical level but often emotionally as well. Typically, this transformation is grueling on several levels, ranging from the woman’s social situation to her bodily nature to her psychic state. As I will be treating it as a central issue here, transformation in the woman’s film genre, as Bette Davis’s roles evince, is a traumatic experience.”

Bette Davis and Paul Henreid in “Now, Voyager” 1942 Warner Bros.** B.D.M.

No matter how many times I watch Now, Voyager, I find myself weeping all over again-whether it’s Bette Davis’ profoundly moving performance or Max Steiner’s lush, aching score, the film doesn’t just tug at my heartstrings, it plays them like a symphony of bittersweet heartbreak; it’s more than a tearjerker-it’s a true weepjerker, and I surrender to its beauty every single time.

Now, Voyager, as in so much of her work, Davis’s theatricality becomes a conduit for something deeply authentic, reflecting an existential honesty. She lays bare the raw feelings at the heart of her characters, offering us glimpses of their essential truths. Acclaimed American playwright, actor, screenwriter, and drag performer Charles Busch describes Davis, and writer Ed Sikov sums it up:

“What I find interesting about her is that while she’s the most stylized of all those Hollywood actresses, the most mannered, she’s also to me the most psychologically acute. You see it in Now, Voyager in the scene on the boat when she starts to cry, and she’s playing it in a very romantic style. Henreid says, ‘My darling- you are crying,’ and she says, ‘these are only tears of gratitude – an old maid’s gratitude for the crumbs offered.’ It’s very movie-ish, but the way she turns her head inward, away from the camera, is very real.”

“In that instance, Busch so perceptively describes and appreciates Davis’s use of her melodramatic mannerisms and breathy, teary vocal delivery as well as her seemingly spontaneous nuzzling into Henreid’s chest to express the undeniable legitimacy of self-pity. It’s not a pretty emotion, but Davis somehow makes it so. Through Davis’s elevating, sublimating stylization, this woman’s secret shame becomes beautiful.”– Ed Sikov – Dark Victory: The Life of Bette Davis

Few films from Hollywood’s Golden Age have endured in the cultural imagination quite like Now, Voyager (1942), a sweeping romantic drama that transcends its era through its nuanced exploration and psychological portrait of transformation, female autonomy, and the complex bonds of love and family. Tracing the journey of Charlotte Vale, a woman suffocated by her domineering mother and her own internalized sense of worthlessness and self-loathing, as she emerges into independence, self-acceptance, and a bittersweet love.

Kino. Reise aus der Vergangenheit aka. Now, Voyager, USA, 1942 Regie: Irving Rapper Darsteller: Bette Davis, Paul Henreid. (Photo by FilmPublicityArchive/United Archives via Getty Images).

Continue reading “Paths to Liberation: Personal Transformation Through Connection in Now, Voyager 1942 and Baghdad Cafe 1987”

MonsterGirl’s 150 Days of Classic Horror #54 Eyes Without A Face 1960

EYES WITHOUT A FACE 1960

Georges Franju’s Eyes Without a Face (Les Yeux sans visage, 1960) stands as a singular landmark in the evolution of Euro horror cinema, not only as one of the first scientific ambitions with the medical body horror film, but also as a work whose poetic, unsettling beauty continues to reverberate through the genre. At its core, the film is a chilling fable about a brilliant but deranged surgeon, Dr. Génessier, who, driven by guilt and obsession, kidnaps young women to harvest their faces in a desperate attempt to restore his daughter Christiane’s disfigured beauty. The film’s narrative, adapted from Jean Redon’s novel, is deceptively simple, but Franju’s approach imbues it with an almost dreamlike lyricism, elevating the material far beyond its pulp origins.

Franju’s direction is marked by a meticulous balance of clinical detachment and operatic emotion, a style that both subverts and transcends the conventions of the mad scientist trope.

The infamous shuddery face-removal sequence—shot with documentary-like precision—remains one of the most graphic and realistic depictions of surgery in early cinema, so much so that it reportedly caused fainting spells among original audiences and led to bans in several countries. Yet, the film’s horror is never gratuitous; instead, it is woven into a manifestation of guilt, grief, and the obsessive pursuit of beauty.

The film’s legacy is immense. It has directly influenced a lineage of European and global horror, from Jesús Franco’s Gritos en la noche and its sequels, to Italian films like Atom Age Vampire 1960, and British variations such as Corruption 1968 starring Peter Cushing.

Pedro Almodóvar has cited Eyes Without a Face as a major inspiration for his own medical horror, the disturbing and transgressive The Skin I Live In 2011, while echoes of Franju’s masked, tragic protagonist can be seen in the likes of John Carpenter’s Michael Myers, , and even in the psychological horror of David Lynch. The film’s exploration of identity and the horror of the mask—both literal and metaphorical—helped establish a trope that would become central to slasher and body horror cinema. Critics and film historians have noted that both directors create horror by juxtaposing the familiar with the strange, using an unsettling, poetic atmosphere, ambiguity, and surrealism to evoke unease rather than relying on explicit violence or gore. The film invokes the inexpressible anxieties pushing to be revealed, manifesting in strange, ambiguous, symbolic, and uncanny ways. Both directors tap into horror by blending fractured identity, physical and psychological transformation, and the ordinary with the deeply unsettling potential hidden within the familiar. Franju’s calm, almost dreamlike approach to the surgical horror of a father disfiguring and imprisoning his daughter is echoed through Lynch’s knack for turning everyday life into the surreal unraveling of self and reality in films like Blue Velvet 1986 and Lost Highway 1997.

Visually, Eyes Without a Face is a marvel. Eugen Schüfftan’s (best known for inventing the Schüfftan process, a groundbreaking special effects technique first popularized in Fritz Lang’s Metropolis 1927, The Hustler 1961, Something Wild 1961) crisp, high-contrast black-and-white cinematography lends the film a haunting, almost unreal quality, drawing on the aesthetics of German Expressionism, film noir, and the surrealism of Jean Cocteau.

The imagery is indelible: Christiane, played with ethereal fragility by Edith Scob, glides through her father’s palatial home like a living ghost or fairy princess held captive in a sterile prison, her blank, porcelain mask both concealing and amplifying her suffering. Scob’s performance is a wonderment in physical acting; with her face hidden for much of the film, she communicates Christiane’s anguish and longing through posture and movement, her presence both vulnerable and otherworldly.

Scob would go on to become a muse for Franju, appearing in several of his later films, and her iconic masked visage would be revisited decades later in Leos Carax’s Holy Motors.

The supporting cast is equally strong: Pierre Brasseur brings a chilling gravitas to Dr. Génessier, embodying both paternal tenderness and clinical coldness, while Alida Valli, as the devoted and complicit Louise, exudes an unsettling calm as she lures victims to their fate. Both actors were established stars in European cinema—Brasseur, known for Children of Paradise 1946, and Valli for The Third Man 1950—and later as the severe and unsettling Miss Tanner in Argento’s Suspiria 1977, and their acting prowess anchors the film’s more fantastical elements.

Maurice Jarre’s score is another key element in the film’s enduring power. Rather than opting for traditional horror cues, Jarre composed a score that is by turns ironic, whimsical, and haunting. The main theme—a carnivalesque waltz—accompanies Louise’s predatory excursions, its jaunty melody creating a dissonant counterpoint to the unfolding horror. For Christiane, Jarre employs a gentle, melancholic motif, underscoring her tragic innocence and the film’s undercurrent of lost beauty. Jarre, who would later win Oscars for his work on Lawrence of Arabia 1962 and Doctor Zhivago 1965, considered his work for Franju among his most innovative, and critics have praised the score’s subtlety and its ability to heighten the film’s surreal, icy atmosphere.

Upon its initial release, Eyes Without a Face was met with controversy and discomfort, its graphic scenes and ambiguous morality unsettling both censors and critics. Over time, however, the film has undergone a critical reevaluation, now widely regarded as a masterpiece of horror and a poetic meditation on the limits of science, the nature of identity, and the price of obsession.

The Criterion Collection’s restoration and release of the unexpurgated cut has cemented its status as an essential work, and contemporary critics frequently cite its “ghastly elegance” and “tastefully done and exquisitely horrific” artistry.

Film historians have noted that Franju’s film occupies a unique space: it is at once a product of postwar anxieties about science and the body, and a timeless fable about the dangers of unchecked ambition. Franju himself called it “an anguish film,” aiming for a horror more internal, more penetrating than the genre’s usual shocks. In this, he succeeded: Eyes Without a Face remains a film that lingers in the mind, its images and ideas as unsettling and beautiful as ever, a testament to the enduring power of cinema to disturb, provoke, and at the same time, as brilliant horror can do… enchant.

#54 down, 96 to go! Your EverLovin’ Joey formally & affectionately known as MonsterGirl!

MonsterGirl’s 150 Days of Classic Horror #47 The Nanny 1965 & Dead Ringer 1964

The Nanny 1965

SPOILER ALERT!

Seth Holt’s The Nanny (1965) is a masterful psychological thriller that relies on Bette Davis’s melancholic yet sinister performance. It’s an exceptional character study and a poignant exploration using social commentary carried within the currents of a haunting narrative and deeply nuanced portrayal of disturbed people, all within the framework of Hammer Film Productions’ distinct aesthetic.

The film, based on the novel by Evelyn Piper (a pseudonym for Merriam Modell), was written and produced by Jimmy Sangster, a frequent collaborator with Hammer Films, and features an unforgettable performance by Bette Davis in the titular role. With its chilling atmosphere, layered characters, and exploration of themes such as trauma, paranoia, and the darker aspects of human behavior, including class divides and psychological instability, The Nanny remains a significant entry in the evolution of psychological thrillers during the transformative years of the Sixties.

Seth Holt had a background as an editor at Ealing Studios. Critics have noted its European sensibility and prescient influence on the British New Wave. He’s known for his work on films such as Taste of Fear (1961), released in the U.S. as Scream of Fear starring Susan Strasberg and Ann Todd, where he brought his keen eye for suspense to The Nanny.

His direction is marked by a restrained and subtle approach to intelligent horror, allowing the tension to build gradually through character interactions rather than relying on overt scares. Holt’s ability to weave elements of British New Wave cinema—such as the effects of poverty and class divides—into the horror genre is evident in this film. Nanny’s backstory reveals her descent into mental illness, shaped by societal pressures and personal tragedy.

The Nanny (1965) follows the story of Joey Fane, a troubled 10-year-old boy who returns home after two years in a psychiatric facility following the accidental drowning of his younger sister, Susy. Joey harbors deep mistrust and fear of his family’s nanny (Bette Davis), whom everyone in the house calls ‘Nanny. Joey is the only one who believes she is responsible for Susy’s death and that he is in danger. His refusal to eat her food or stay alone with her creates friction in the household, especially with his emotionally fragile mother and rigid and affectively absent father. As suspicions mount, incidents like his mother’s poisoning and Joey’s claims of Nanny attempting to drown him point to something amiss. Also, Aunt Pen meets her end after confronting Nanny about her suspicious actions. Pen suffers a heart attack during the confrontation, and Nanny cruelly withholds her heart medication, resulting in Pen’s death. As the plot further unravels, the dark secrets surrounding Nanny’s past culminate in revelations about her mental instability and tragic history. The film ends with Joey reconciling with his mother after Nanny is taken away, now the one who is institutionalized.

Davis’s nuanced portrayal infuses the tale with a quiet brilliance that moves the narrative beyond a simple tale of a psychotic caregiver. She evokes us to eventually sympathize with her and glimpse her vulnerability, even as she struggles against the weight of her own dangerous actions because she is haunted by her past.

Bette Davis delivers a tour-de-force performance as Nanny, embodying both maternal devotion and chilling menace. Her portrayal captures the complexity of a woman whose mental deterioration leads her to commit terrible deeds. Davis was joined by William Dix as Joey Fane, the troubled 10-year-old boy who distrusts her; Wendy Craig as Virginia Fane, Joey’s fragile mother; Jill Bennett as Aunt Pen, whose suspicions about Nanny add to the tension; and James Villiers as Bill Fane, Joey’s cold father.

Pamela Franklin plays Bobbie Medman, a young neighbor who befriends Joey and becomes entangled in the drama. Franklin’s performance as Bobbie is often described as sharp, precocious, and engaging. She is a worldly and independent 14-year-old girl who snidely but protectively shadows Joey, the endangered soul at the center of the story. Franklin brings a natural confidence and wit to the role (and actually to every role she’s ever taken on), making Bobbie an amusing yet grounded character who serves as a foil to the oppressive atmosphere created by Bette Davis’s character. Critics have praised Franklin for injecting a sense of realism and vitality into the film, with one review noting her portrayal as “absolutely excellent” and lamenting that she didn’t become a bigger star. Bobbie’s old soul maturity and curiosity stand out as a refreshing counterpoint to the film’s darker themes of manipulation and psychological conflict.

The cinematography by Harry Waxman enhances the film’s claustrophobic atmosphere. Waxman’s use of shadowy interiors and tight framing mirrors the characters’ emotional confinement and heightens the suspense. The production design by Edward Carrick complements this visual style, creating domestic spaces that feel simultaneously familiar and unsettling. Hammer Film Productions, known for its Gothic horror films, ventured into psychological territory with The Nanny, showcasing its versatility in crafting unsettling narratives that rely on character-driven tension rather than supernatural elements.

One of The Nanny’s most memorable scenes occurs when Joey barricades himself in his bedroom to escape his crazy caregiver. The sequence is a masterclass in suspense: Nanny forces her way in, Joey attempts to flee but is knocked unconscious, and she carries him to the bathroom, intent on drowning him. As she begins to submerge him in water, she experiences a haunting flashback of discovering Susy’s body—triggering memories of her own daughter who died tragically years earlier—and pulls Joey out at the last moment. This scene holds the soul of both her instability and lingering humanity, making it one of the film’s most emotionally charged moments.

The 1960s saw the emergence of British psychological thrillers that share thematic and stylistic similarities with The Nanny (1965). These films often eschewed supernatural elements in favor of exploring the fractured psyches of their characters, creating suspenseful and unsettling cinema.

One of the most iconic British psychological thrillers of the decade is Michael Powell’s Peeping Tom (1960). Initially reviled for its disturbing content but later hailed as a masterpiece, the film follows Mark Lewis (Carl Boehm), a focus puller with a compulsion to film his victims as he murders them with his phallic tripod.

Another standout is Roman Polanski’s Repulsion (1965), which stars Catherine Deneuve as Carol, a young woman descending into madness while left alone in her London apartment. Polanski’s use of claustrophobic spaces and hallucinatory imagery captures Carol’s paranoia and deteriorating mental state, making it one of the most harrowing depictions of psychosis in cinema. Like The Nanny, Repulsion uses domestic settings to amplify tension and unease, turning familiar spaces into sites of terror. Freddie Francis’s Paranoiac (1963) is another notable entry in this subgenre. Produced by Hammer Films, it stars Oliver Reed as Simon Ashby, a hostile and psychotic young man whose inheritance is threatened when his long-presumed-dead brother mysteriously reappears.

Roy Boulting’s Twisted Nerve (1968) also stands out for its exploration of psychological dysfunction. This British psychological horror thriller follows Martin Durnley (Hywel Bennett), a very disturbed young man who manipulates those around him while harboring violent tendencies. His relationship with Susan Harper (Hayley Mills) becomes increasingly sinister as his true nature is revealed. These films collectively highlight the richness of British psychological thrillers in the 1960s with their unsettling tone and focus on familial dysfunction that echo the dynamics at play in The Nanny. They pushed boundaries by addressing taboo subjects such as mental illness, voyeurism, and familial dysfunction while featuring narratives that remain timeless in their ability to unnerve and captivate us. Like The Nanny, they demonstrate how psychological depth can elevate suspenseful storytelling into profound meditations on human fragility and darkness.

The Nanny’s legacy lies in its influence on the psychological thrillers that followed. It helped popularize narratives centered around seemingly benign caregivers who harbor dark secrets, a trope that has since become a staple in horror cinema.

Whoever Slew Auntie Roo (1971) is another excellent example of a film that fits into the trope of a seemingly nurturing caregiver hiding a nefarious secret. Directed by Curtis Harrington and starring Shelley Winters as the titular Auntie Roo, the film is another contribution that explores the story of a grieving widow who outwardly appears to be a kind and generous maternal figure but harbors disturbing mental instability. Her obsession with preserving the memory of her deceased daughter leads her to kidnap a young orphan girl, Katy, whom she believes resembles her lost child.

The film cleverly blends elements of psychological horror with fairy tale motifs, particularly drawing from Hansel and Gretel. Auntie Roo’s mansion is likened to a “Gingerbread House,” and her actions—such as attempting to fatten up the children—are misinterpreted by Christopher (Mark Lester), Katy’s (Chloe Franks) brother, as those of a witch intending to eat them. This layered narrative creates a morally complex portrayal of Roo, whose grief and loneliness make her both predator and victim. Like The Nanny, the audience is invited to pity her tragic circumstances while simultaneously recognizing the danger she poses.

Similar to The Nanny (1965), Whoever Slew Auntie Roo? uses the theme of a trusted maternal figure whose facade conceals darker intentions.

A more contemporary film that revisits this trope is The Hand That Rocks the Cradle (1992) Rebecca De Mornay delivers a chilling portrayal as Peyton Flanders (also known as Mrs. Mott) embodying a devious nanny whose calculated malevolence and icy demeanor make her a terrifying force as she seeks vengeance against the family she infiltrates and The Stepfather (1987) fits squarely within the category of films featuring a seemingly benign caregiver hiding a nefarious secret. Directed by Joseph Ruben, the film centers on Terry O’Quinn’s character, Jerry Blake, a stepfather who initially appears to be the ideal family man but is revealed to be an identity-assuming serial killer. His charm and ability to blend into suburban life mask his murderous tendencies, which emerge as his new stepdaughter (Stephanie Maine) begins to suspect him.

The Nanny, 1964, owes much to Holt’s exploration of domestic terror rooted in psychological complexity. It stands out among Hammer Films’ non-supernatural offerings as one of its most mature and thought-provoking works.

Dead Ringer 1964

Dead Ringer (1964): A Gothic Noir with Bette Davis at the Helm:

Produced by Warner Bros., Paul Henreid’s Dead Ringer (1964) is a fascinating blend of Gothic noir and psychological melodrama, a film that hinges on its audacious premise and the powerhouse dual performance of Bette Davis as estranged twin sisters Margaret DeLorca and Edith Phillips. A tale of stolen identity, revenge, and cruel fate.

Adapted from Rian James’s story La Otra 1946, which had previously been made into a Mexican psychological thriller starring Dolores del Río, Dead Ringer tells the gripping tale of estranged twin sisters whose lives diverge in ways that lead to jealousy, betrayal, and ultimately murder with its atmospheric cinematography by Ernest Haller, an evocative score by André Previn, and Davis’s commanding presence.

The story begins with Edith Phillips, a down-on-her-luck bar owner struggling to make ends meet, attending the funeral of her wealthy twin sister Margaret’s husband, Frank DeLorca. Years earlier, Margaret had betrayed Edith by stealing Frank away from her, setting the stage for their drastically different lives. Margaret lives in opulence as the widow of the wealthy industrialist, while Edith is embittered by years of financial hardship trying to maintain her failing cocktail lounge.

When the sisters reunite at the funeral, old wounds resurface. In a moment of desperation and rage, Edith murders Margaret and assumes her identity, hoping to finally escape her bleak existence. However, she quickly discovers that Margaret’s life is far from idyllic.

As Edith navigates Margaret’s world, she faces mounting challenges: contending with suspicious servants (Edith’s servant, Janet, is played by Monika Henreid, the daughter of the film’s director, Paul Henreid), Margaret’s scheming lover Tony Collins (played with suave menace by polished but smarmy Peter Lawford), and her own former boyfriend Jim Hobbson (Karl Malden), who happens to be a police detective. Edith’s deception begins to unravel as she becomes entangled in a web of blackmail and murder. The film culminates in a chilling twist when Edith is arrested for crimes committed under Margaret’s name—a cruel irony that seals her tragic fate as she accepts the inevitability brought about by her masquerade.

At the heart of Dead Ringer is Bette Davis’s extraordinary dual performance as both Edith and Margaret. This was not Davis’s first time playing twins; she had previously taken on dual roles in A Stolen Life (1946). However, her work in Dead Ringer is particularly compelling because of how distinctly she differentiates between the two sisters. Margaret is cold, calculating, and polished—a woman who wields power with ease—while Edith is vulnerable yet simmering with resentment. Davis masterfully conveys these differences through subtle changes in posture, voice, and expression. Her portrayal elevates what might have been a standard melodrama into an engrossing character study. Critics have often noted how Davis managed to bring both campy flair and emotional depth to her roles, creating characters who are larger-than-life yet deeply human.

Director Paul Henreid—best known for his acting role in Casablanca (1942)—was no stranger to working with Davis. The two had co-starred in Now, Voyager (1942), and their professional rapport carried over into this project. Henreid understood Davis’s strengths as an actress and tailored his direction to highlight them. The film also benefited from the expertise of cinematographer Ernest Haller, who had worked with Davis on several previous films, including A Stolen Life.

Haller’s moody lighting and use of shadows evoke the classic aesthetics of film noir while enhancing the Gothic atmosphere of Dead Ringer. The contrast between the opulent settings of Margaret’s life—filmed at iconic Los Angeles locations like Greystone Mansion—and the gritty world of Edith’s bar underscores the stark disparity between the sisters’ lives.

Adding another layer to the film is André Previn’s haunting score. Known for his versatility as a composer, Previn crafted music that heightens the tension and drama at every turn. His orchestral arrangements often incorporate harpsichord melodies that lend an eerie elegance to key scenes. Previn also uses music that the characters can almost hear and interact with—such as jazz performances in Edith’s bar—to ground certain moments in reality while maintaining an undercurrent of suspense. The score not only complements the film’s dramatic shifts but also reinforces its themes of deception and identity.

When Dead Ringer was released in 1964, it received mixed reviews from critics. While some praised Davis’s performance as the film’s saving grace, others found fault with its implausible plot twists. Joan Rivers famously quipped about the film’s reliance on wigs and stand-ins during scenes featuring both twins on split-screen at once but acknowledged that Davis’s magnetic presence made such technical shortcomings forgivable. Over time, however, Dead Ringer has been reevaluated as a cult classic. Modern audiences appreciate its campy charm and its exploration of themes like jealousy, moral corruption, and the consequences of living a lie.

Though it may not have achieved the same level of acclaim as Davis’s earlier work or her other 1960s hit, Robert Aldrich’s What Ever Happened to Baby Jane? 1962, Dead Ringer remains an important part of her legacy. It exemplifies how Hollywood was beginning to find new ways to utilize older actresses during an era when many stars struggled to find substantial roles as they aged. For Davis, who was always willing to take risks with unconventional characters, Dead Ringer was another opportunity to showcase her unparalleled talent.

In retrospect, Dead Ringer stands out not only for its audacious narrative but also for its ability to balance melodrama with genuine moments of suspense and emotional resonance. It is a testament to Bette Davis’s enduring star power that she could carry such a complex story almost single-handedly while making audiences believe in both Edith’s desperation and Margaret’s ruthlessness. With its rich visual style, haunting music, and unforgettable central performance, Dead Ringer continues to entertain me no matter how many times I rewatch it, and it also captivates viewers decades after its release. It embodies mid-20th-century Hollywood’s fascination with duality—both in character and narrative structure (think of Olivia de Havilland in Robert Siodmak’s The Dark Mirror 1946) —and remains an intriguing example of Gothic noir cinema. It is a darkly compelling tale of identity and revenge brought vividly to life by one of cinema’s greatest icons.

The New York Times review written by Eugene Archer described the film as “uncommonly silly” but “great fun,” highlighting Bette Davis’s ability to create two distinct characters in Margaret and Edith. He praised Davis’s performance as “sheer cinematic personality on the rampage,” noting her dramatic flair and ability to command attention despite the film’s flaws. Archer remarked that while the film itself might not be discreet or refined, Davis’s portrayal was certainly arresting and worth watching.

#47 down, 103 to go! Your EverLovin’ Joey, formally & affectionately known as Monstergirl!

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

SPOILER ALERT!

THE BIRD WITH THE CRYSTAL PLUMAGE 1970

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

DEEP RED (PROFONDO ROSSO) 1975

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Under the Radar: The Unseen Side of Film Noir Part 2: Criss Cross 1949

Fate, Desire, and Inescapable Will: The Noir Aesthetic of Robert Siodmak’s Criss Cross 1949

Robert Siodmak is the unheralded master of noir, and Criss Cross 1949 can be considered his crowning achievement.  Eddie Muller called the above shot where De Carlo looks directly into the camera ” noir’s defining moment.” They have the potential to be happy, and Lancaster is willing to forget the money if they can be together, but she just can’t let it go. Their fate is irrevocably sealed as they drift towards the nihilistic ending, and despite a handful of playful moments, Siodmak never lets up on the heavy, oppressive atmosphere.

“ Its pleasures are so subtle and so sublime you almost have to earn your way to this film, which deserves its place on any list of top 5 noirs of all time. The structure is complex and engrossing. Every facet of the filmmaking is superb. The cast is perfect, from stars to bit players – it has one of Miklós Rózsa’s most haunting scores, and the whole thing is realized by director Robert Siodmak in a way that makes the viewers feel they’re dreaming the story rather than having it told to them. “ – Eddie Muller

Criss Cross 1949 stands as a testament to Robert Siodmak’s mastery of the film noir aesthetic. One of the genre’s most influential stylists, honed from his German Expressionism roots, Siodmak fashions a visual language of composition and camera work that is, as Eddie Muller calls it, ‘ominous yet graceful.’

His expert manipulation of light and shadow, a hallmark of his expressionistic style, transforms ordinary settings into suspenseful landscapes. Consider Phantom Lady 1944, The Killers 1946, and Cry of the City 1948. Three of his most potent noirs, which are on my list of the best film noir, helped define the visual vocabulary of the American crime thriller.

Ella Raines in Robert Siodmak’s Phantom Lady 1944.

Victor Mature and Richard Conte in Siodmak’s Cry of the City 1948.

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According to French film critics Raymond Borde and Etienne Chaumeton, who wrote the influential book A Panorama of American Film Noir, Siodmak’s complex understanding of human nature “ demonstrates… that even within the framework of film noir, we’re in the presence of one of the finest psychologists of the screen.”

Robert Siodmak’s ability to infuse each scene and weave complex, non-linear stories with a sense of unease and moral ambiguity through purely visual poetry demonstrates to me why he should be considered one of the most influential directors of the noir era.

Siodmak’s films, like Criss Cross, reveal a keen awareness of what drives his characters. They often examine themes of obsession and betrayal within the gritty context of urban decay, and his brazenly bleak Criss Cross represents the height of a fertile and vibrant moment in film noir during the 1940s.

“ Criss Cross should have been the crowning achievement of producer Mark Hellinger, the flashy Broadway columnist who’d come to Hollywood in the late 1930s and taken the place by storm, producing some of the toughest and hard-boiled pictures of the early 40s – things like They Drive By Night, and High Sierra.”– Eddie Muller

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