Dead and Buried (1981), directed by Gary Sherman (British horror film Death Line 1972, gritty crime thriller Vice Squad 1982), is one of those underrated horror gems that’s equal parts creepy and captivating. Released in the early ’80s, the film blends small-town mystery with gruesome horror, creating a very unsettling experience as you get deeper into the story. With a screenplay by Dan O’Bannon (who directed cult classic horror-comedy The Return of the Living Dead 1985) and Ronald Shusett—the same team behind Alien 1979 —you can expect something dark, twisted, and unforgettable.
The story takes place in the foggy coastal town of Potter’s Bluff, where Sheriff Dan Gillis (James Farentino) investigates a string of bizarre and brutal murders. Tourists and visitors are savagely killed by the townsfolk, only for their corpses to mysteriously reanimate.
The sinister twist: the victims don’t stay dead. Instead, they somehow start walking around as if nothing happened. As Gillis digs deeper into the mystery, he discovers horrifying truths that the town’s mortician, Dobbs (Jack Albertson), isn’t just preparing bodies for burial—this creepy old embalmer has developed a technique for working his magic on the dead and bringing them back to life as part of his macabre “art” like the Greek myth of Pygmalion, recounted in Ovid’s Metamorphoses.
Dobbs sees himself as an artist using corpses as his canvas, blurring the line between creation and destruction in fascinating and horrifying ways. And the role works so well because Jack Albertson comes off like a harmless old-timer—until you realize he’s turning the town into his own creepy art project. The film also plays with ideas of control over life, death, mastery of existence, finality, and human order.
Things get even more disturbing when Gillis realizes his own wife Janet (Melody Anderson) is one of Dobbs’s creations—and so is he. The shocking final twist leaves you questioning everything you thought you knew about life and death.
Jack Albertson stands out as Dobbs, bringing an unsettling charm to his role as the eccentric mortician obsessed with his mastery of the dead. Albertson steals the show, delivering a performance that leaves you never quite sure whether to admire him or fear him.
James Farentino plays Sheriff Gillis with determination, vulnerability, and disbelief as he unravels the town’s horrifying dark secrets, and Melody Anderson keeps you guessing as the increasingly bizarre wife Janet. Horror fans will also appreciate seeing Robert Englund in an early role before he became iconic as Freddy Krueger.
Gary Sherman’s direction is slick – creating an all-consuming atmosphere of dread. Steve Poster’s cinematography perfectly captures Potter’s Bluff as a mist-enshrouded, desolate place while emphasizing its sinister undercurrents. Close-ups and shadowy lighting enhance the sense of unease, making even mundane moments feel ominous.
Even during quiet moments, there’s an unshakable feeling that something isn’t right. And when it comes to gore, Dead and Buried doesn’t hold back. The film opens with a photographer being lured into a trap by locals who beat him and set him on fire—a brutal introduction to Potter’s Bluff. Later, he is killed in his hospital bed when a nurse plunges a needle into his eye—a moment both shocking and unforgettable. I have a thing about eyes! There’s also a sequence with acid melting someone’s face, a woman’s head crushed off-screen, and the discovery of decomposing hands—all contribute to the film’s reputation for graphic horror. They are all gruesome moments that are shocking yet serve the story rather than feel gratuitous. The more people suffer their fates, the more beautiful the art, I suppose.
Though overlooked upon its initial release, Dead and Buriedhas since gained recognition as a cult classic for its unique blend of slow-burn narrative paired with shocking set pieces, grueling suspense, and graphic horror. This is a perfect exercise in classic horror if you’re into atmospheric films that mess with your head and don’t shy away from unsettling visuals.
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Children Shouldn’t Play with Dead Things (1972) stands as a seminal work in the evolution of 70s horror cinema, a quirky, influential, and enduringly entertaining blending macabre humor with low-budget ingenuity to create a cult classic that saw its influence spread to future indie filmmakers.
Directed by Bob Clark (credited as Benjamin Clark), who would later show off his diverse talents with holiday favorites like the beloved A Christmas Story1983and the end of the spectrum of holiday movies with his darkly sinister Black Christmas 1974, this early foray into horror showcases Clark’s versatility and willingness to push boundaries.
Shot on a shoestring budget of $50,000 over just 14 days, the film follows a troupe of hammy actors led by the insufferable Alan (played by Alan Ormsby, who also co-wrote the script and designed the eerie corpse makeup) as they venture to a cursed island cemetery for a mock séance. The cast, which was primarily composed of Clark’s college friends, lends an authentic if amateurish, charm to the proceedings, with many actors using their real first names in a quirky nod to budget constraints. All this seems to contribute to that bit of personal flair the film possesses. The actors include: Valerie Mamches as Val, Jeff Gillen as Jeff, Anya Ormsby as Anya ( I met Anya at Chiller Theater a while back. She was lovely), Paul Cronin as Paul, Jane Daly as Terry, Roy Engleman as Roy, Robert Philip as Emerson, Bruce Solomon as Winns and best of all… Seth Sklarey as Orville Dunworth – Alan’s favorite dead guy!
Cinematographer Jack McGowan transforms Florida’s swampy landscapes into a gothic playground of shadows and mist, creating an atmosphere of creeping dread that adds to not detracts due to the film’s limited resources. This visual style is complemented by Carl Zittrer’s score, which oscillates between carnival-esque whimsy and spine-tingling unease, perfectly capturing the film’s tonal balancing act between horror and dark comedy.
I can’t overstate this enough: Children Shouldn’t Play With Dead Things serves as a bridge between the voodoo zombies of early cinema and George A. Romero’s flesh-eating ghouls that stalked the streets of Pittsburgh in his Dead saga; in Clark’s film introducing the concept of occult-summoned undead. This innovative approach to zombie lore and Ormsby’s gruesome yet inventive makeup effects laid the groundwork for future indie horror productions, proving that creativity and passion could often overcome a lack of funding. These movies always tend to be the most compelling!
Moreover, Children Shouldn’t Play with Dead Things helped establish the horror-comedy subgenre that would later flourish with films like Sam Raimi’s The Evil Dead 1983. Its blend of slapstick humor, occult themes, and genuine scares created a template for future filmmakers to explore the intersection of laughter and fear.
As the zombies set sail for Miami in the film’s audacious finale, viewers are left with a sense of the absurd that perfectly captures the movie’s charm.
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“[A] visually classy chiller… aided by stunning film locations in Seattle and Vancouver, this one’s more attractive than most.”— Edwin Miller, Seventeen,
April 1980, page 75.
“The most noteworthy traditional ghost movie of the last fifteen years or so … a chilling and undeservedly obscure film … a first-rate Gothic gooseflesher, with excellent performances…”— Bruce Lanier Wright, Night Walkers: Gothic Horror Movies, The Modern Era, Taylor Publishing Company, 1995, page 158.
“[A] classy picture made by people with some sense of suspense, and performed by people with a cast headed by two of the best – George C. Scott and Melvyn Douglas…. This is not a movie with ghosts jumping at you to elicit fraudulent screams. This is creepy, stealthy suspense.” – Gene Shalit, The Ladies Home Journal, July 1980, pages 24, 28.
According to Roger Ebert’s review of The Changeling, “This…is a scary movie with taste.”
The Changeling is a stylish and exquisitely envisioned 1980 Canadian supernatural horror film directed by Peter Medak. It stars George C. Scott, Trish Van Devere, and Melvyn Douglas. I saw this atmospheric and, at times, jarring ghost story during its theatrical release. Like the pounding John Russell hears at night, my heart almost jumped out of my chest, and still does, actually, during the scene with the menacing wheelchair hunting Trish Van Devere throughout the winding hallway, chases her down the stairs and, ultimately, crashes into her.
The Changeling is perhaps one of the most effectively creepy ghost stories. This is partly due to John Coquillon’s edgy and intensely focused cinematography and production designer Trevor Williams, who helps create the oppressive and isolating environment.
The movie also showcases a sentimental piano score, including the music box melody written by Howard Blake, which adds to the moody atmosphere.
Director Medak and cinematographer Coquillon employ a masterful technique of fluid, low-angle tracking shots that serpentine through the mansion’s expansive rooms and corridors. This approach creates an ethereal perspective, as if the audience embodies the restless spirit itself, observing the world from its incorporeal vantage point. Such camera work not only heightens the sense of supernatural presence but also accentuates John Russell’s isolation within the sprawling, haunted domain.
In a particularly striking composition, the film utilizes a high-angle shot that cascades down the grand staircase, diminishing George C. Scott’s normally commanding presence. This visual strategy inverts the actor’s typical on-screen authority, rendering him small and exposed against the mansion’s imposing architecture. The result is a palpable sense of vulnerability, underscoring the powerlessness of even the most formidable individual when confronted with otherworldly forces.
The film follows the lonely John Russell (Scott), a grief-stricken composer who moves to Seattle after losing his wife and daughter in a tragic accident. His pain acts as a conduit for the supernatural events that follow. Somehow, the personal events of John’s life and the specter of the little boy who is drawn to him are inextricably connected. His fate acts as a whisper of revelation that beckons John from the depths of his grief-induced isolation, offering a renewed sense of purpose that illuminates his path forward.
After John Russell breaks open an old storeroom, he uncovers a secret stairway that leads to a creepy space that begins to reveal the horrible history of the house and its ghostly inhabitant, the dark secret of a little boy’s cruel death, and the terrible truth about prominent senator Carmichael’s (Melvyn Douglas) origins. John rents a sprawling, imposing mansion that hasn’t been occupied in over a decade from Claire Norman (Van Devere Scott’s real wife), an agent of a local historical society. Soon after moving in, he experiences unexplained phenomena: Loud banging every morning, water taps turning on by themselves, a red stained glass window shattering, and the apparition of a drowned boy in a bathtub. John discovers a hidden attic room containing a child’s belongings and a music box that plays a tune he has just composed; it is not a coincidence.
These events lead him to investigate the house’s history, uncovering a dark secret involving Senator Joseph Carmichael. In one of the powerful scenes of the film, a medium conducts a séance, trying to discover the identity of the ghost, revealing the tortured spirit of a murdered boy named Joseph—the little boy who drowned in the tub.
One of the most chilling scenes involves Joseph’s cobweb-covered wheelchair appearing at the top of the stairs, creaking back and forth on its own, and chasing Van Devere down the great steps of the house. John witnesses the apparition of the drowned boy Joseph in the bathtub. The desperate pounding on the tub’s sides unleashes a thunderous, haunting cadence that echoes through the silence; the aural torment is akin to the pounding in Robert Wise’s The Haunting 1963. There is also disembodied crying, much like Shirley Jackson’s ghost story. John also hears the ghost’s voice on a recording, revealing how the boy died.
There’s also a frightening moment when his dead daughter’s little red rubber ball slowly bounces down the grand stairway. The unsettled John flees, frantically casting the spectral ball off the bridge into the abyss of the churning sea below. But when he returns home, the veil between worlds proves permeable; the sea-wet ball materializes once more, slowly bouncing down the staircase with an otherworldly persistence. This stunning, haunting image elegantly sums up the tenuous threshold separating the physical realm from the world of the dead and the liminal space where the laws of nature bend to accommodate the unfinished business of restless spirits. Something so simple can be so terrifying. The ball was seen in the beginning in John’s apartment in New York while he was packing up his family’s things and getting ready for his move to Seattle.
The Changeling received positive critical reviews and was an early Canadian-produced film to achieve major international success. It won eight inaugural Genie Awards, including Best Motion Picture, and was nominated for two Saturn Awards. The film is considered a cult classic and one of the most influential Canadian films ever.
The movie’s strength lies in its effective blend of traditional haunted house elements with a conspiracy thriller, creating a unique and compelling narrative. Its subtle approach to horror, relying more on atmosphere and psychological tension than graphic violence, has contributed to its enduring appeal among us horror fans.
GHOST STORY 1981
Ghost Story (1981), directed by John Irvin and based on Peter Straub’s novel, is a chilling supernatural thriller that intertwines past and present, guilt and revenge. The film boasts an impressive cast of Hollywood veterans in their twilight years, including Fred Astaire, Melvyn Douglas, Douglas Fairbanks Jr., and John Houseman, alongside younger talents like Craig Wasson and Alice Krige as the mysterious beauty who comes into their lives and creates a current of supernatural dread.
Set in a snow-covered New England town, the story follows four elderly men who form the Chowder Society, gathering regularly to share ghost stories. Their comfortable routine is shattered when one member’s son dies mysteriously, triggering a series of supernatural events that force them to confront a dark secret from their youth. Through haunting flashbacks, we learn of their encounter with the enigmatic Eva Galli, whose death they’ve concealed for decades.
As the vengeful spirit returns to exact her revenge, the film builds tension through Jack Cardiff’s atmospheric cinematography, which masterfully captures both the eerie present and the golden-hued past. Jack Cardiff’s most influential cinematography works include A Matter of Life and Death (1946), Black Narcissus (1947), and The Red Shoes (1948). These three films, directed by Powell and Pressburger, established Cardiff as a legendary cinematographer. His work on Black Narcissus earned him an Academy Award for Best Color Cinematography.
From shocking deaths to spectral appearances on snowy bridges, Ghost Storyis one hell of a horror film that culminates in a climactic confrontation at Eva’s decaying house and her excruciating death.
The narrative structure of Ghost Story plays a crucial role in creating its eerie and suspenseful atmosphere. The film employs a non-linear storytelling approach, interweaving past and present events to gradually reveal the dark secret that haunts the protagonists. The dual timeline structure, the present focusing on the members of the Chowder Society and flashbacks to their youth, reveals their dark secret connected to the enigmatic Eva Galli.
The film’s strength lies in exploring how past sins haunt the present, both literally and figuratively, creating a ghost story that is as much about psychological torment as it is about supernatural scares.
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The Beast in the Cellar (1971) is a British horror film directed by James Kelly, starring two inimitable British actors, Beryl Reid as Ellie Ballantyne and Flora Robson as Joyce Ballantyne. The film follows two proper elderly sisters living near a rural army base in Lancashire, where soldiers are being mysteriously murdered.
In the delightfully dreary The Beast in the Cellar (1971), two spinster sisters, Ellie (Beryl Reid) and Joyce (Flora Robson), are living their best lives in a rural English cottage, complete with a secret ingredient that’s not exactly listed in the local cookbook: their deranged brother Steven (Dafydd Havard), who’s been locked in the cellar for decades.
The story revolves around the Ballantyne sisters’ dark secret: their brother Steven, whom they’ve kept locked in their cellar for nearly 30 years in order to keep him from joining the war effort. After their father returned from World War I traumatized and violent, the sisters decided to protect Steven from being drafted into World War II by drugging and imprisoning him in the cellar until he evolved into a feral animal.
As the murders continue, the sisters realize that Steven has escaped through a tunnel he dug and is responsible for the killings plaguing the village. His years of confinement and abuse have left him with a hatred for uniformed soldiers.
Through the plodding and cloyingly oppressive atmosphere, the film builds tension as the sisters struggle to conceal their secrets and deal with the consequences of what they have done.
While The Beast in the Cellar attempts to blend psychological horror with social commentary on the effects of war, it received mixed reviews. Critics noted its slow pace and lack of traditional horror elements but praised the performances of Reid and Robson, who never disappoint. The film has since gained a cult following for its unique premise and exploration of family secrets and the long-term consequences of misguided protection.
THE SHUTTERED ROOM 1967
The Shuttered Room (1967), directed by David Greene, marked Greene’s feature-film debut after directing episodes of The Twilight Zone and Playhouse 90. Greene would go on to direct notable films such as the very taught psycho-sexual thriller I Start Counting (1969), starring Jenny Agutter, and Godspell (1973). His television work includes acclaimed projects like Roots (1977), for which he won an Emmy.
This is another British psychological horror film steeped in Gothic atmosphere and folk horror elements. Based on the 1959 short story by August Derleth, written as a “posthumous collaboration” with H.P. Lovecraft, the film loosely draws inspiration from Lovecraftian themes while carving out its own identity. The screenplay was penned by D.B. Ledrov and Nathaniel Tanchuck. Carol Lynley delivers a nuanced performance as the haunted Susannah Kelton, balancing vulnerability with quiet resilience as she confronts both external threats and internal demons.
The film also stars Gig Young as the pragmatic Mike Kelton and Oliver Reed as the menacing Ethan. Reed’s portrayal echoes his earlier work in Joseph Losey’s These Are the Damned (1963).
The insular island community evokes themes of the folk horror elements of superstition and isolation common in folk horror, predating films like The Wicker Man (1973).
The Shuttered Room also stars the wonderful Flora Robson (she would later return to the genre in Beast in the Cellar in 1970), who delivers a memorable performance as the mysterious Aunt Agatha. Robson shines as Aunt Agatha, embodying the archetype of the wise but cryptic elder who knows more than she reveals.
The film includes moody cinematography by Ken Hodges and music by Basil Kirchin, which further enhance the film’s unsettling tone.
The story follows Susannah Kelton (Carol Lynley), a young woman raised in foster care who inherits her childhood home—a decrepit mill on a remote New England island—after her parents’ death.
Accompanied by her husband, Mike (Gig Young), Susannah reluctantly returns to confront her past. The island’s insular and hostile locals, led by her lecherous cousin Ethan (Oliver Reed), warn of a family curse tied to the mill, where an unseen terror lurks in the attic’s shuttered room.
As Susannah grapples with repressed childhood memories of trauma, she becomes the target of both Ethan’s (Reed) violent advances and the mill’s dark secret. The film builds toward a shocking revelation: the “monster” in the attic is Susannah’s deranged sister, Sarah, who has hidden away since birth due to her deformities and homicidal tendencies, which leads to a climactic confrontation.
David Greene’s direction imbues The Shuttered Room with a brooding atmosphere that blends Gothic horror with modern psychological tension. Though set in New England, the film was shot entirely in Norfolk, England, lending an eerie, decayed charm to its rural setting. Greene employs innovative techniques for his time, including point-of-view shots from the “monster,” which later became a hallmark of slasher films.
Ken Hodges’s cinematography captures the desolation of the island and the oppressive gloom of the mill with stark contrasts between light and shadow. The titular shuttered room becomes a visual metaphor for repression—both familial and psychological—while recurring imagery like decaying wood and shattered glass underscores themes of fragility and entrapment.
Basil Kirchin’s score alternates between jaunty jazz motifs and ominous basslines, creating an unsettling juxtaposition that mirrors Susannah’s uneasy return to her roots. This departure from traditional gothic orchestration gives the film a modern edge while maintaining its sense of dread.
The Shuttered Room1967 explores repression and trauma and how buried secrets—both familial and personal—can fester into destructive forces. Susannah’s repressed memories parallel Sarah’s literal imprisonment.
The Shuttered Roomoccupies an intriguing position within British horror cinema of the 1960s. While often overshadowed by Hammer Films’ Gothic output during this period, it stands out for its fusion of Gothic tropes with modern psychological horror. Its depiction of rural hostility and repressed trauma aligns it with early folk horror works that would later define the subgenre.
With its decaying millhouse hiding both family secrets and unspeakable horrors, The Shuttered Roomweaves a tale where Gothic dread meets up with folk horror unease—making the film a chilling exploration of things lurking behind locked doors.
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The Blood Spattered Bride (Spanish: “La novia ensangrentada”) is a 1972 Spanish horror film directed by Vicente Aranda, based on Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu’s vampire novella “Carmilla.” The film stars Simón Andreu as the husband, Maribel Martín as Susan, and Alexandra Bastedo as Carmilla/Mircala Karstein.
Newlyweds Susan and her husband arrive at his ancestral estate for their honeymoon. Susan begins experiencing disturbing dreams and visions of Mircala Karstein, an ancestor who murdered her husband on their wedding night centuries ago. As Susan becomes increasingly detached from her husband, she falls under the influence of Carmilla, a mysterious woman who appears on the beach.
Central to the film’s impact is the seductive Carmilla, who is revealed to be a vampire and the reincarnation of Mircala Karstein. She seduces Susan, awakening her repressed desires and leading her on a bloody rampage. The film climaxes in a violent confrontation between the women and Susan’s husband.
The Blood Spattered Bride gained cult status for its blend of horror, vampirism, progressive ideas on gender and sexuality, female empowerment, and rebellion against patriarchal oppression set against the backdrop of Gothic horror.
The film’s erotic elements and violent imagery, including dream sequences and surreal visions, contribute to its unsettling atmosphere as Aranda’s direction creates a haunting and visually striking film that explores sexual politics cloaked in traditional vampire lore.
BLOOD AND ROSES 1960
Roger Vadim’s Blood and Roses (1960) is a visually sumptuous and erotically charged adaptation of Sheridan Le Fanu’s “Carmilla,” transporting the vampire tale to modern-day Italy. Set in modern-day Italy, the film follows Carmilla (Annette Vadim), who becomes possessed by her vampire ancestor Millarca (also Vadim) during her cousin’s engagement party.
The film also stars Mel Ferrer as Leopoldo and Elsa Martinelli as Georgia. Vadim’s direction blends surrealism, psychological horror, and sensuality, creating a dreamlike atmosphere that blurs the line between reality and fantasy. A defining scene that encapsulates the film’s unique style is the surreal black-and-white dream sequence with vibrant blood-red accents. In this pivotal moment, Georgia experiences a hallucinatory journey through a watery landscape, culminating in an operating theater where Carmilla/Millarca reveals her true nature. The sequence, with its striking visuals and symbolic imagery, showcases Vadim’s artistic approach to the vampire genre. The film’s innovative use of color, particularly in its surreal black-and-white sequence with red accents, elevates it beyond typical vampire fare.
Claude Renoir’s cinematography is a breathtaking piece of phantasmagoria, particularly in scenes like Carmilla’s ethereal wandering through the misty cemetery in her white dress. The lush setting of Hadrian’s Villa provides a backdrop of decadent beauty, contrasting with the film’s darker themes.
Blood and Rosesexplores themes of jealousy, forbidden desire, and the thin veil between life and death, offering a sophisticated take on the vampire mythos that influenced later erotic horror films. While it may not have achieved widespread recognition, it remains a visually striking and thematically rich entry in the vampire genre.
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“Supernaturally or otherwise, we are all haunted. Anyone who’s lived in this past century, this last week, cannot escape being haunted. For some of us, it’s a mass haunting, an all-pervading specter of guilt or futility or alienation that we suffer collectively. For others, the haunting is more private and more terrible because the ghosts are ours alone and we recognize them. Sometimes it takes so little to free ourselves of our ghosts. And if my believing in another man’s haunting helps to free him, does it matter whether science calls his agony hallucinatory or real?”
Joseph Stefano’s and Villa Di Stefano Productions (his sole effort as a director) The Ghost of Sierra de Cobre 1964 emerges as a fascinating yet obscure and underappreciated artistic artifact in the landscape of 1960s television horror. Its legacy, while somewhat overshadowed by Stefano’s more famous works, remains an intriguing footnote in the history of televised terror. The film ambitiously blends elements of horror, paranormal investigation, and film noir, creating a narrative that is both intriguing and yet potentially unwieldy.
In 1964, while Joseph Stefano was immersed in the production of the inaugural season of his acclaimed science fiction anthology series The Outer Limits (1963-1965), a series created and executive produced by his old friend Leslie Stevens. Stefano felt inspired to create a companion show that would explore more supernatural themes.
Over the next year or so, he wrote two scripts as pilots for the proposed spin-offs, The Unknown and The Haunted.
The Unknown didn’t quite hit the mark, so it was reworked and added as an episode of The Outer Limits entitled The Forms of Things Unknown, which starred Barbara Rush, Vera Miles, David McCallum, and Sir Cedric Hardwicke.
The Ghost of Sierra de Cobre’scollaborative endeavor by Stefano, photographer Conrad Hall, and its incredibly intuitive cast of actors make it a little jewel that remained shoved in a drawer for decades. This made-for-TV film, which was originally conceived as the unrealized pilot for the ill-fated series called The Haunted, offers a compelling glimpse into Stefano’s creative vision beyond his most famous work on Psychoand highlights Joseph Stefano’s inclination to embrace a subtext that deals with psychological inner chaos through his eye for compelling narratives even within the constraints of modest television productions. The film’s existence in this liminal space between pilot and standalone feature offers a unique opportunity to examine the evolving landscape of horror in 1960s television.
The Haunted/The Ghost of Sierra de Cobre features Martin Landau as Nelson Orion, Diane Baker as Vivia Mandore, and Judith Anderson as their housekeeper Paulina.
Tom Simcox plays Henry Mandore, Diane Baker’s husband; Nellie Burt (who appeared in The Outer Limits episodes, Don’t Open Til Doomsday and The Guests in 1964 plays Mary Finch, Orion’s skeptical but loyal housekeeper, and Leonard Stone plays Benedict Sloane, the remarkably tolerant head of the architectural firm where Orion works. Both actors had a fine working relationship with Martin Landau and with each other and helped embellish Nelson Orion’s world. John Drew Barrymore was initially cast as Henry Mandore.
Tom Simcox, Nellie Burt, Martin Landau, and Dame Judith Anderson.
There’s also an additional nod to The Outer Limits with its use of an eerie score from series regular Dominic Frontiere, who created much of that anthology series’ transcendent hymn-like qualities. Here, Frontiere’s score keeps the story a little off-kilter and nightmarish.
The movie features black and white photography by Conrad Hall (an Outer Limits regular and later working on films like The Day of the Locust (1975) and Marathon Man (1975); 1965 would be his first of ten Oscar nominations, three of which he would win.
Conrad Hall’s visual artistry vs the television constraints is a standout element, pushing the boundaries of what was typically expected in TV productions of the era. His use of expressive lighting and ambitious camera work, dramatic use of shadows and light, striking black-and-white imagery, spectral elongation effects, and rare-for-TV crane shots demonstrate a cinematic ambition that strains against the medium’s limitations. It all lends to the film’s eerie quality. His camera operator, William A. Fraker, was on the brink of shooting Roman Polanski’s Rosemary’s Baby (1968)and a career of five Oscar nominations in cinematography.
The Outer Limits Season 1 episode, The Galaxie Being aired Sep. 16, 1963
Also adding an effective creepy touch is the black-and-white art direction by McClure Capps and the sets by veteran designer Frank Tuttle. Fred B. Phillips’s makeup revises his groundbreaking work on The Outer LimitsThe Galaxy Being for the spectral figure using the reverse negative. The Galaxy Being itself was created using a negative image effect, with the actor wearing a black scuba diving suit covered in oily makeup that reflected light. When filmed, this created a glowing, otherworldly appearance when the image was reversed to negative. This gave the alien a distinctive face with no mouth and glaring eyes.
There are a few visual set pieces that are deconstructed; they are quite compelling. The movie also includes a bit of a rare hallucinogenic drug and a creepy bit of business, with a ghostly Dame Judith Anderson stalking Baker as she sits in a car on a clifftop in the tragic finale.
A striking title sequence features the Los Angeles skyline being wiped out by a tidal wave. The artful visual blend at the very start shows a wave breaking on a beach, metaphorically devouring the city.
There’s a visually arresting sequence that weaves together multiple elements of suspense and atmosphere. The scene unfolds in a single, meticulously choreographed shot that showcases both Stefano and Hall’s technical prowess and artistic vision.
The camera’s gaze encompasses the ominous phone line, a lifeline between two worlds: the foreboding crypt, the silent sentinel of family secrets; Pauline’s furtive movements, a dance of noirish light and shadow; and nature’s subtle intrusion.
A transition from a small, enigmatic black vial nestled in the crypt to Paulina’s windswept figure on the beach, her black attire echoing the vial’s darkness, a visual metaphor, linking disparate elements of the story through powerful imagery.
Stefano, fresh from his triumph with Psycho, cleverly leverages his Hitchcock connections in casting to orchestrate a cinematic reunion of sorts, bringing together some of Alfred Hitchcock’s wonderful ensemble of cast members.
Martin Landau, who gave a mesmerizing performance in North by Northwest, brought his intense gaze and brooding presence of cool demeanor and class; Judith Anderson, the imposing Mrs. Danvers in Rebecca 1940; her steely spined visage lends her formidable presence as the sinister housekeeper Paulina, And Diane Baker, the fresh-faced ingénue from Marnie 1964, and in William Castle’s Strait-Jacket that same year, adds a touch of vulnerable allure.
Stefano’s shrewd choices infused each frame of this atmospheric production with an unmistakable aura of suspense, a subtle homage to the master of suspense. Each frame carries with it the echoes of these actors’ Hitchcockian past. In addition to Nellie Burt’s appearance on two episodes ofThe Outer Limits during Stefano’s tenure on that series, Martin Landau, who is one of my favorite underrated actors, starred in perhaps one of the most enduring, evocative, and emotionally compelling of that series, The Man Who Was Never Born which aired in 1963. Landau portrays Andro, a time traveler from a decimated world in the future who travels back in time to prevent the birth of the inventor who would become the inventor of destruction. He was cast opposite another favorite of mine, Shirley Knight, as Noelle Anderson, the intended mother of the future antagonist.
THE OUTER LIMITS – “The Man Who Was Never Born” – Airdate: October 28, 1963. (Photo by ABC Photo Archives/Disney General Entertainment Content via Getty Images) SHIRLEY KNIGHT; MARTIN LANDAU
Martin Landau in The Outer Limits episode The Bellero Shield
One account suggests that the pilot for The Haunted either never aired on U.S. television or was shown only once in limited markets. Stefano wound up adding extra footage and an alternative ending to the pilot, extending it from sixty to eighty minutes and releasing it as a feature-length and re-named The Ghost of Sierra de Cobre internationally, but not in the US.
The Ghost of Sierra de Cobre reveals the adaptability required of creators in the face of network rejection. By extending the runtime and altering the ending, Stefano attempted to salvage his work for a different market, showcasing the malleability of content in the pursuit of an audience.
Kino Lorber yanked it out of obscurity and released it on Blu-ray, allowing us to witness its moody and intriguing hint at what might have been a full-length feature and a continuing series.
There is a commentary track by film historian David J. Schow and an unrestored print of The Haunted(the sixty-minute pilot) with a commentary track by film historian Eric Grayson, who actually owns the print that Kino Lorber used.
Eric Grayson, who covers The Hauntedin the commentary, makes the keen observation that the name Mandore sounds like Manderley, the mansion in du Maurier/Hitchcock’s Rebecca.
One narrative suggests that the pilot’s intensity exceeded the comfort level of American audiences; reports indicate that the TV stations that did air it received countless concerns from viewers that the story was just too frightening for television, and ultimately, the show was dropped.
Joseph Stefano and Martin Landau planned for this movie to be the pilot for a new show similar in concept to The Twilight Zone (1959)and The Outer Limits (1963) but with a much greater focus on horror rather than science fiction and fantasy.
An anecdote attributed to Martin Landau claims TV executives “soiled themselves” during the pilot’s screening. While likely hyperbolic, this underscores the potential disconnect between creative ambition and network expectations. It highlights the subjective nature of evaluating content and the power dynamics at play.
According to David Schow in his commentary for the Kino Lorber release – the then-President of the CBS Television Network, James T. Aubrey, did pick up the series, but when the unpopular executive was fired from CBS, his successors scrapped all his other projects – including The Haunted.
This account involving CBS President James T. Aubrey, If true, demonstrates how industry politics and personnel changes could abruptly alter a show’s trajectory, regardless of its intrinsic worth. This unrealized potential serves as a poignant reminder of the often arbitrary nature of television development and the impact of network decisions on the evolution of genre television.
Despite its promising elements, The Ghost of Sierra de Cobre fell victim to the capricious nature of network television. The departure of CBS president James T. Aubrey effectively sealed the fate of the proposed series, relegating this potential pilot to standalone film status, and it begs the question – what if? – what would have been the potential impact of a Stefano-helmed supernatural anthology series? Stefano’s vision for The Haunted as an anthology series, with its promise of weekly paranormal investigations, could have potentially predated and influenced later similarly themed pilots that failed to take off.
Roy Thinnes and Angie Dickinson in The Norliss Tapes TV movie 1973.
There was a similar attempt at the television supernatural detective genre with Harvy Hart’s Dark Intruder in 1965, starring Leslie Nielson as Brett Kingsford, an investigator with an occult bent, and in the 1970s, there was Dan Curtis’s The Norliss Tapes 1973, and Spectre 1977 co-written by Gene Roddenberry, or the beloved television series from the prolific Dan Curtis with Kolchak: The Night Stalker. And, of course, The X-Files, the show’s creator, Chris Carter, lovingly touts the former as his inspiration.
The Ghost of Sierra de Cobre isn’t just a curiosity in Stefano’s career but also a harbinger of the more sophisticated, genre-blending television that would emerge in subsequent decades.
The enigmatic fate of The Haunted pilot not only emphasizes the conflict between artistic vision, network politics, and audience sensibilities in 1960s television. The show’s rejection and decision-making in the industry remain very opaque, as do the challenges faced by boundary-pushing, innovative content in early television. Despite its initial obscurity, The Ghost of Sierra de Cobre has gained recognition for its chilling atmosphere and compelling storytelling.
Nelson Orion (Martin Landau) is an architect by profession with a passion for the supernatural and a paranormal investigator who lives in a self-created garçonnière, hazy in its aesthetic futurism, precariously situated as an audacious cantilever on a cliff, hanging on the edge of a sheer drop.
He is recruited by heiress Vivia Mandore (Diane Baker), who mistakenly thought herself free from the domination of her recently deceased mother-in-law, Louise Mandore, whose ghost is seemingly exerting her will via telephone. Vivia is married to the wealthy and blind Henry Mandore (Tom Simcox). The couple lives on a large, rustic 100-acre family estate.
Henry is being tormented by nocturnal calls from the ghost of his dead mother, who, haunted by the fear of being buried alive, had installed a telephone in the family crypt. The old woman appears determined to continue her controlling ways… from beyond the grave.
In her will, she stipulated that there must be five doctors who examine her before signing her death certificate. She must not be embalmed. The coffin lid must remain open. And there must be a telephone placed by the coffin with a direct line to her son Henry’s bedroom. She would also be able to dial the code H.E.L.P., something also engraved on a cross in her tomb.
Louise Mandore’s death marks the beginning of an unsettling time. Not too long after, the phone rings in Henry’s room, its eerie tones ringing out through the silence. On the other end, a woman’s sobs echo, each cry steeped in dissonant sorrow and desperation. The haunting timbre of her voice weaves a chilling narrative as if the very air is thick with unresolved grief and lingering shadows. Like a ghostly leitmotif, these unsettling cries constantly remind us of the supernatural forces at play. The eerie wail of a tormented soul is a haunting prelude to the macabre tale that unfolds at the very top of the chilling The Ghost of Sierra de Cobre.
The basic tenet of horror movies – "˜ Nothing is as it seems "˜ and for me, Don't Look Now is a death of all certainties.
In the early seventies, when even mainstream films could be fearless and experimental, smashing taboos and taunting the censors, it was non-conformists who offered cinemagoing a uniquely intense experience.
 “Don't Look Now 1973 retains its power and mystery today thanks to Roeg's mastery of what Alfred Hitchcock famously called "pure cinema," manifest in his visual sleight of hand and, above all, in his refusal to be bound by the conventions of dialogue-driven narrative and simple chronology. All this has shaped a style that has justifiably come to be described as "Roegian."– (David Thompson: Seeing Red 2015 article CRITERION )
“Nothing is what it seems," says John Baxter, the protagonist of Don't Look Now, at the start of the film. The rest of the movie depicts the tragedy of Baxter's incapacity to apply this fundamental wisdom in his own life. "Nothing is what it seems" may be an untested platitude, but it's a truism when it comes to movies, and Don't Look Now is one of the great "movies-about-movie-watching" ever made. Primarily, it is about the act of perception itself"¦ By seeing an event that has not yet happened as something that is already happening (what-will-be as what-is), he (John) fatally confuses the signs and makes the future the past, i.e., irrevocable, inescapable. Like a movie stamped on celluloid, or the glimpse of the satanic dwarf on the slide Baxter is handling in the opening scene, he fixes something in time, and thereby turns life into death.""” (article – Jasun Horsley Cinephilia and Beyond)
"He was a genius, Nic. A visionary. He made a love scene between a grieving wife and herhusband with no cries of passion, no sounds of orgasm, no words. All you hear is Pino Donaggio's music as Nic intercuts their making love with them getting dressed to go out to dinner. Magical. You don't see that scene as a voyeur. You watch it and it reminds you of yourself, of you being loving and you being loved. We decided it would be wisest not to shoot John's death scene until we'd done everything else, in case the unreliable prop knife failed and my throat would be cut, spilling red. Fragmented, abstract images colour and tell his stories. Look at Omar Sharif on a camel, coming from the other end of the desert towards the camera. That's Nic. Look at the Sahara's empty foreground and suddenly the smokestacks of a steamer crossing from left to right along the unseen Suez canal. That's Nic. He was the was the first to use Panavision's R-200°, which meant he had 15 degrees more shutter for Don't Look Now than the 185°s that were the best before. He was everything I ever wanted from a filmmaker. He changed my life forever. Francine and I asked him if we could name our firstborn after him. He said yes. Our glorious son is named Roeg." - (Interview – Donald Sutherland)
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In just a few days, I’ll be publishing my feature article for Nicolas Roeg’s meditation on grief, Don’t Look Now 1973. This is perfect timing to pay tribute to one of the most prolific, beloved actors, Donald Sutherland, who we just lost a few days ago.
Donald Sutherland (NY Times article), whose unforgettably versatile performances in films like Don’t Look Now has left an indelible mark on cinema and the artistry that defined his impressive career. Films that include M*A*S*H 1970, Kelly’s Heroes 1970s, Klute 1971, Casanova 1976, Invasion of the Body Snatchers 1978, and Ordinary People 1980.
I am also really, really excited to announce… my upcoming interview with the indomitable Adrienne Barbeau, A Trailblazer of Stage and Screen!
So grab a box of raisinets and get ready for some good ol’ long-winded stuff from your EverLovin’ Joey!
The Raven-haired sylph who: "walks in beauty like the night"¦ Of cloudless climes and starry skies; And all that's best of dark and bright; Meet in her aspect and her eyes"¦" "”Lord Byron
Barbara Parkins is an icon of the 1960s, appearing in two of the decade's most popular and legendary film and television productions.
Barbara's exquisite beauty is undeniable, but her captivating performances in Peyton Place and Valley of the Dolls truly secured her legacy in Hollywood history and our collective consciousness. As beloved – Betty Anderson in the television series Peyton Place and as Anne Welles in the notorious adaptation of Jacqueline Susann's sensational novel Valley of the Dolls (1967). These memorable roles continue to resonate with audiences today.
But beyond any of it, the glamour, serious drama, pulp fiction, or even the camp, there is an actress who possesses an otherworldly beauty and a depth of character and quality. Not only has she touched our hearts with her performances as these two classic heroines, but she is also one of those recognizable actresses who project strength, confidence, and poise.
Barbara Parkins will undoubtedly be remembered for her portrayal of Betty Anderson Cord in the iconic 1960s prime-time operatic melodrama Peyton Place, which ran from 1964 to 1969.
Based on Grace Metalious's "˜dirty book,' Peyton Place blew the lid off of the hypocritical conformity of small-town America, capturing the complexities of American morality through high drama, showing the dark underbelly of a quaint community of "˜wholesome' families striving for normalcy amid controversial issues. That everything is not safe, it's not always comfortable, and it is without real struggle. And sometimes, life can be downright ugly. Her novel captures the "complexities of human existence"”the dramas, highs and lows, conflicts, and teenage sexuality"”depicting life’s un-romanticized, unvarnished reality. While the book offended some readers, it intrigued others, and despite being a popular show, critics often deem it shocking yet captivating."(The Baltimore Sun 1999 Laurie Kaplan article THE WOMEN OF PEYTON PLACE)
“Barbara Parkins has caught the public's eye, partly because of her beauty, partly because she is a capable little actress. But mostly because she seems to have an inner fire. She's a volcano in a tight dress.'' (From an article BARBARA PARKINS: MOST PROMISING NEWCOMER – Niagra Falls Gazette March, 1965 by Dick Kleiner)
Dolls, with their lifeless gazes, imprint in our collective phobias and on Robert Bloch's & Amicus's narrative "” and like clowns, and zombie children– dolls have always given us a dreadful feeling of unease that lingers in our psyche. It's their dead stare and their cold watchful eyes – like soulless little polymer devils. Cinematographer/ Director Freddie Francis who previously worked at Hammer, makes use of the accursed doppelgänger dolls as macabre iconography. Bloch likely viewed the British-based Amicus as the substantial alternative worth embracing, signing a three-picture deal with Paramount.
Horror filmmakers have explored this causality of jitters for decades. In Amicus's The Psychopath 1966 – it is the symbology of dolls that gives the film its creepy attraction to what is essentially a crime drama and creative whodunnit with a few unsettling moments while trying to unravel a tale of a homicidal maniac who leaves a unique signature"”the very likeness of the victims.
The Psychopath was made midway in the decade, featuring the mellifluous tagline “A New Peak in Shriek,” The film marks Freddie Francis's foray into colour psycho-thrillers and with its use of vibrant reds, it’s a departure from his previous repertoire of haunting black-and-white psychological horror tales crafted for the illustrious Hammer.
Elisabeth Lutyen's beautifully carnivalesque score washes over the opening as dismembered doll parts accompany the credits. The film sticks to the classic crime procedural script, but it’s not afraid to paint it with a touch of horror, throwing in the voodoo-like doll motif for that extra dash of macabre flair. It’s your standard crime fare, just with a wicked twist. Bloch's script presents the crimes using the doll fetish in such a way – that remains formulaic – though it does succeed in having a moody impact by the end.
