“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’s collaborative 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 Psycho and 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 Limits The 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 of The 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.
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 Haunted in 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.
