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 Lodgeris 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 Lodgerits 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 Lodgerwas 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 Lodgeris 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 Squareis 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 Squareis 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!
STEPHEN KING once said of the novelist Jim Thompson: “He was crazy. He went running into the American subconscious with a blowtorch in one hand and a pistol in the other, screaming his goddamn head off. No one else came close.”
There’s a slow, simmering menace that seeps through every frame of Burt Kennedy’s The Killer Inside Me (1976), an adaptation of Jim Thompson’s notorious 1952 novel. Set against the dusty, sun-bleached backdrop of a small Texas town, the film unspools like a searing confession, drawing us into the mind of Deputy Sheriff Lou Ford—a man whose polite smile and soft-spoken charm mask a churning abyss of violence and madness. Stacy Keach inhabits Lou with a chilling subtlety, his performance a study in contradictions: gentle, almost affable on the surface, but with eyes that flicker with something cold and unreachable. Keach’s Lou is both Keach’s wry narration track, which acts as the unreliable witness, inviting us to see the world through his fractured lens, much like the first-person narration in Jim Thompson’s novel.
Burt Kennedy (The Rounders 1965, Welcome to Hard Times 1967, Support Your Local Sheriff! 1969), a director more often associated with westerns, brings a laconic, washed-out and weathered sensibility to the film, letting the oppressive heat and slow rhythms of small-town life lull you into a false sense of security. The screenplay, adapted by Edward Mann and Robert Chamblee, closely follows Thompson’s original story, retaining the novel’s bleak, first-person perspective and its refusal to offer easy answers or moral clarity. The cinematography by Gerald Hirschfeld (Goodbye, Columbus 1969, Last Summer 1969, Diary of a Mad Housewife 1970, Young Frankenstein 1974) is unhurried and unflashy, capturing the flat, open spaces and the claustrophobic interiors with the same aesthetic nuance. There’s a sense of inevitability to the way the camera lingers on faces, hands, and the slow drip of sweat down a glass—everyday details that become charged with menace and thick with unease.
The story unfolds as Deputy Sheriff Lou Ford, haunted by visions of his abusive childhood at the hands of his mother (played by Julie Adams), is tasked with running Joyce Lakeland (Susan Tyrrell), a local prostitute played by Susan Tyrrell with a raw, wounded sensuality, out of town. Joyce becomes central to the film’s web of blackmail and violence.
What begins as a routine fix for Lou to take care of quickly spirals into a sadomasochistic affair, with Joyce awakening something dark and uncontrollable in Lou. Their scenes together are charged with a dangerous intimacy—Tyrrell’s Joyce is both complicit and terrified, drawn to Lou’s darkness even as she senses its destructive power. The violence that erupts between them is shocking in its suddenness, rendered with a matter-of-fact brutality that refuses to let us look away.
As Lou’s carefully constructed mask begins to crack, the bodies start to pile up: Joyce is beaten to death in a scene that is as pitiless as it is clinical.
Elmer Conway, played by Don Stroud, is the hot-headed and impulsive son of powerful mining magnate Chester Conway (Keenan Wynn). As a prominent figure in the small Montana town, Elmer is entangled in the town’s political and social tensions, particularly those involving labor disputes at his father’s mine, and is romantically involved with Joyce. Elmer’s character embodies the town’s simmering tensions and serves as both a victim of Lou’s sociopathic machinations and a catalyst for the film’s spiral into violence. Don Stroud brings a raw, volatile energy to the role, making Elmer a memorable figure in the film’s grim, neo-noir landscape.
The situation escalates when Joyce and Elmer are drawn into Lou Ford’s deadly schemes. When Joyce is badly beaten (by Lou Ford, though Elmer is initially blamed), Elmer’s emotional volatility is on display—he is protective, jealous, and quick to anger. Lou manipulates both of them, and during a critical scene, Elmer arrives at Joyce’s house, only to be murdered by Lou, who then attempts to stage the scene as a lovers’ quarrel gone wrong.
Suspicion falls on Johnnie Pappas (Stephen Powers), who is found with marked money that Lou had given him after taking it off of Elmer. Lou is allowed to visit Johnnie in his cell, where he murders him and makes it look like a suicide, further cementing the devious frame-up.
John Dehner plays Sheriff Bob Maples, Lou’s boss and the head lawman in town. Amy Stanton, Lou’s fiancée, is played by Tisha Sterling with a heartbreaking vulnerability, who becomes both a victim and an unwitting accomplice. The investigation that follows is a slow, inexorable tightening of the noose,
Keenan Wynn, with his gruff manner, plays Chester Conway. Chester, a powerful local businessman and Elmer Conway’s father, also falls victim to Lou’s homicidal binge.
The supporting cast—Charles McGraw — plays the steely Howard Hendricks, the county attorney (sometimes referred to as the district attorney) who also becomes increasingly suspicious of Deputy Sheriff Lou Ford as the murders mount. As an investigator and legal authority, Hendricks is dogged and methodical, representing the force of law and reason closing in on Lou’s carefully maintained facade, realizing that something is deeply wrong with Lou Ford, even as the rest of the small Montana town is slow to believe it. McGraw’s character serves as one of Lou’s primary antagonists, persistently probing the inconsistencies and evidence surrounding the violent events in the town, circling ever closer to the truth.
John Carradine’s brief appearance in The Killer Inside Me (1976) is a dark wrong-way turn into macabre eccentricity. As psychiatrist Dr. Jason Smith arrives at Lou Ford’s home under the mundane pretense of wanting to buy the house, the encounter quickly turns unsettling.
Carradine’s character, gaunt and scholarly, is met by Lou, lounging in his robe, exuding an eerie calm, who begins to challenge Smith’s psychiatric expertise, citing medical texts and discussing mental illness, citing medical texts with a chilling, almost clinical detachment.
The scene is marked by Lou’s unsettling display of psychological knowledge and control. He assures Dr. Smith that his schizophrenia is under control, but this is offered unprompted, as Smith has not asked about Lou’s mental state.
The encounter is less a confession and more a demonstration of Lou’s manipulative intelligence and his awareness of how he is perceived. Lou uses the conversation to expose his own knowledge and to subtly let Dr. Smith know that he sees through the doctor’s intentions and perhaps even his identity. The scene is laced with dark humor and unease, revealing Lou’s unraveling persona and growing instability, a moment where the mask of normalcy slips just enough to expose the madness underneath, leaving Dr. Smith—and us—unnerved by the polite menace that hangs in the air.
After a few minutes in Lou Ford’s unnervingly casual presence, the lanky Carradine’s Dr. Smith decides he’s had enough psychological chess for one day. With the speed and discretion of a man who’s just realized he’s wandered into the lion’s den, he makes his excuses and beats a hasty retreat—practically leaving a cartoon puff of dust in the doorway as he escapes Lou’s polite but menacing hospitality.
All these characters populate the town with a sense of lived-in authenticity, each performance adding another layer to the film’s oppressive atmosphere.
Key scenes linger in the mind: Lou’s chillingly calm narration as he commits acts of unspeakable violence; the suffocating tension of the police interrogation; the surreal, almost dreamlike quality of the film’s final moments, as Lou’s world collapses in on itself. Throughout, the film maintains a tone of sunlit horror—violence and madness unfolding not in the shadows, but in the bright, pitiless glare of the Montana sun. The score by Andrew Belling is spare and haunting, underscoring the film’s sense of fatalism and doom.
The murder of Amy Stanton, played by the pixie-like Tisha Sterling, is the film’s most brutally sorrowful moment—a scene where horror and heartbreak bleed together beneath the surface calm. Lou Ford, with his mask of gentle affection still in place, invites Amy to elope, promising her a future just out of reach. The room is thick with longing and the hush of midnight hope, but beneath it all, a terrible inevitability pulses. As Amy lets down her guard, trusting the man she loves, Lou’s violence erupts with chilling suddenness. The blows fall with a mechanical cruelty, each one shattering not just flesh but the fragile dream Amy clings to. Sterling’s performance is devastating: her eyes wide with confusion and betrayal, her body curling in on itself, she becomes the embodiment of innocence destroyed by the very person she trusted most. The scene is almost unbearable in its intimacy—a murder not of passion, but of cold, methodical despair, leaving us with the ache of a soul extinguished in silence.
The Killer Inside Me is a film that refuses easy catharsis. It is a journey into the heart of darkness, not as spectacle, but as a quiet, relentless unraveling. Kennedy’s direction, Keach’s mesmerizing performance, and Thompson’s nihilistic vision combine to create a work that is both deeply unsettling and strangely hypnotic—a portrait of evil that is all the more chilling for its calm, measured surface. In the end, it is the ordinariness of Lou Ford, the banality of his evil, that unsettles me most about the film.
from an article – The Guardian by Peter Bradshaw: The Killer Inside Me remake in 2010 —
Casey Affleck grins like a death’s head with the flesh reattached in this noir thriller from British director Michael Winterbottom, which is sickeningly violent but undoubtedly well made. It has been widely condemned for the scenes in which women are brutally assaulted, and for many, this film will be just hardcore misogynist hate-porn with a fancy wrapper, and those who admire it, or tolerate it…
The Killer Inside Me is a particular distillation of male hate, as practised by repulsive and inadequate individuals who have been encouraged to see themselves as essentially decent by virtue of the trappings of authority in which they have wrapped themselves. And Winterbottom is tearing off the mask; like Michael Haneke, he is confronting the audience with the reality of sexual violence and abusive power relations between the sexes that cinema so often glamorises. Here, the movie is saying, here is the denied reality behind every seamy cop show, every sexed-up horror flick, every picturesque Jack the Ripper tourist attraction, every swooning film studies seminar on the Psycho shower scene. Here. This is what we are actually talking about.
#88 Down, 62 to go! Your EverLovin’ Joey, formally & affectionately known as MonsterGirl!
Goodbye Gemini (1970) is a feverish, kaleidoscopic plunge into the dark side of Swinging London, a film that fuses the era’s psychedelic excess with a twisted psycho-sexual horror that still feels transgressive and strange. Directed by Alan Gibson and based on Jenni Hall’s novel Ask Agamemnon, the film is a cult oddity that stands out for its blend of lurid exploitation, pop-art style, and a genuinely disturbing exploration of fractured identity and taboo desire, reflecting some of Gibson’s signature Grand Guignol theatrics.
The first time I saw Goodbye Gemini, I went in with no expectations, lulled by its offbeat, decadent vibe and the peculiar innocence of its twin protagonists-only to find the film’s true horror creeping in almost imperceptibly, until by the finale I was left stunned, my mouth hanging wide open, reeling from the psychic shock of its quietly devastating impact. The film’s artistry lies in how its unsettling atmosphere and twisted themes sneak up on you, transforming what begins as a quirky character study into something far more disturbing and unforgettable.
Gibson directed several notable films and television works, particularly in the horror genre and British television. Some of his key films include Crescendo (1970)Dracula A.D. 1972 (1972) and The Satanic Rites of Dracula (1973), all these horror productions showcase his flair for atmospheric and stylish genre filmmaking.
At the center of the story are fraternal twins Jacki (Judy Geeson) and Julian (Martin Potter), whose unnervingly close relationship is the film’s emotional and thematic engine. Arriving in London for a break while their father is abroad, the twins are childlike and insular, clinging to their shared rituals and to Agamemnon, a battered black teddy bear they treat as a confidant and father figure. Their dynamic is immediately off-kilter: Julian, sensitive and increasingly unstable, rationalizes his incestuous fixation on Jacki as a natural extension of their “hive mind,” while Jacki, more grounded but not immune to her brother’s possessive love, floats like a leaf in the breeze between affection and resistance.
Judy Geeson is an accomplished English actress whose career has spanned film, stage, and television since the early 1960s. She made her stage debut as a child and quickly established herself as a versatile and striking presence. She gained international recognition at just 18 for her sensitive performance as Pamela Dare in the classic To Sir, with Love (1967)alongside Sidney Poitier, a role that showcased her fresh-faced charm and emotional depth. I’ve always adored Judy Geeson’s natural British beauty and pixie-like winsomeness- there’s an effortless radiance to her look that’s both enchanting and refreshingly uncontrived, making her presence on screen utterly captivating.
Geeson’s beauty is often described as luminous and quintessentially English. It is marked by her trademark blonde hair and soulful blue eyes with a star-kissed glimmer, which conveys both innocence and depth. With delicate, expressive features, a melodious and distinctly English voice, and a radiant complexion, she possesses a kind of fresh-faced charm that feels at once approachable and ethereal.
On screen, her beauty is never merely ornamental; it’s animated by an intelligence and emotional transparency that draw the viewer in, whether she’s playing a wide-eyed ingénue or a woman confronting darkness. Geeson’s performances are often noted for their authenticity, subtlety, and a certain luminous vulnerability, making her a standout in both horror and drama. Her enduring appeal lies in her ability to convey innocence and complexity, whether as a troubled schoolgirl, a Gothic heroine, or a woman facing extraordinary circumstances.
Judy Geeson became a familiar face in British cinema, starring in films such as Berserk! (1967), 10 Rillington Place (1971),and Brannigan (1975), often playing provocative or complex leads. Geeson’s presence is both classic and unconventional, capturing the spirit of the 1960s and 70s.
Martin Potter is a British actor whose career is marked by an eclectic mix of film, television, and stage roles. He first gained major international attention when Federico Fellini cast him as the lead, Encolpio, in the surreal epic Fellini Satyricon (1969), a performance that showcased his striking looks and ability to navigate complex, dreamlike material.
Potter followed this with notable roles in films like Goodbye Gemini (1970), where he plays the troubled and obsessive Julian, and Nicholas and Alexandra (1971), portraying Prince Yussoupov.
Potter’s career continued through the 1970s and 1980s with a range of genre work, including horror films like Craze 1974with Jack Palance and Satan’s Slave (1976) and the TV mini-series The Legend of Robin Hood (1975), in which he played the title role. On television, he appeared in series like Doctor Who, The Borgias, and A.D., demonstrating his versatility across historical, fantastical, and dramatic genres.
Known for his intense screen presence and ability to embody both sensitivity and menace, Potter brought a unique, almost androgynous charisma to his roles, qualities that made his performances in psychologically complex films like Goodbye Gemini especially memorable. His career, while perhaps never reaching the mainstream stardom of some contemporaries, remains notable for its adventurous choices and the lasting impression he left in cult and arthouse cinema. To me, Martin Potter possesses an ethereal, otherworldly beauty, almost fairytale-like striking, as if he’s wandered out of a dream or stepped from the passages of a fabled world. I find his features both celestial and enchantingly unreal.
In Goodbye Gemini, the city Jacki and Julian enter is a carnival of decadence and decay, captured in Geoffrey Unsworth’s dreamy, soft-focus cinematography. London’s nightclubs, strip bars, and swinging houseboat parties pulse with jazz-funk and lounge music (Christopher Gunning’s score is a highlight). The film’s parade of drag queens, swingers, and hustlers offers a snapshot of a counterculture, already the carnival atmosphere slowly casting a shadow over itself. All the bright colors of the era bleeding into something more toxic, darker, and more desperate.
The twins’ fashion is as striking as their behavior: Jacki’s mod dresses and Julian’s flamboyant, gender-fluid ensembles are emblematic of the era’s anything-goes ethos, but also signal their detachment from the world around them.
Things spiral when they fall in with Clive (Alexis Kanner), a charismatic but predatory gambler and pimp whose debts and schemes drag the twins into a web of blackmail and sexual violence. Clive’s manipulation of Julian is especially cruel: after plying him with drugs and alcohol, he arranges for Julian to be sexually assaulted by two of his “Circus” prostitutes in drag, photographing the act for leverage in a blackmail scheme.
This sequence, and the film’s willingness to confront sexual taboo head-on, marks it as one of the more daring entries in 1970s British horror- a time when the genre was increasingly preoccupied with the breakdown of family, identity, and societal norms.
Judy Geeson is mesmerizing as Jacki, channeling innocence and trauma in the same way. Her performance is the film’s anchor: she is both the object of Julian’s obsession and a victim of the world’s exploitations, moving from wide-eyed naiveté to near-catatonic despair as the story darkens. Martin Potter’s Julian is equally compelling; his delicate beauty and volatility make the character’s descent into madness both pitiable and chilling. Potter has the look of a seraphim, broken and a bit out of sync, trying to navigate the world, all the while consumed by his love for his sister. He moves through life like half of a puzzle piece without a picture, never quite fitting in, always searching for where he belongs, as long as it’s with Jacki.
Their chemistry is palpable, and the film’s many mirror shots and doubled images reinforce the sense that they are two halves of a single, fractured psyche.
The supporting cast adds further texture: Michael Redgrave, in one of his last roles, plays the aging MP James Harrington-Smith, whose attempts to help Jacki are compromised by his own fear of scandal. Alexis Kanner’s Clive is all sleazy charm and menace, while Marian Diamond’s Denise provides a rare note of empathy amid the film’s parade of grotesques.
As the plot unravels, the twins’ insularity proves fatal. After Jacki learns of Clive’s blackmail and the full extent of his cruelty, she and Julian lure him into a ritualistic trap, killing him in a scene that is both surreal and tragic and to be candid, it stands as one of the most macabre and unsettling murder scenes I have encountered in classic horror cinema. The destruction of Agamemnon, their beloved bear, during the murder shatters Jacki’s fragile psyche, and she flees into the city, lost and amnesiac. The film’s final act is a bleak, hallucinatory journey through a London that now feels cold and alien, culminating in a tragic confrontation between the twins that leaves both dead-victims of their own inability to escape the closed world they’ve built for themselves.
Goodbye Gemini is a film of contradictions: it is campy and stylish, yet genuinely disturbing; it revels in the fashions and freedoms of the late ’60s, but ultimately exposes the emptiness and moral bankruptcy beneath the surface.
Its impact on 1970s psychological horror is notable, as it anticipates later films that would explore the dark side of youth culture and the dangers of unchecked desire. The film’s queasy, dreamlike vibe, its willingness to confront taboo, and its visual inventiveness have earned it a cult following, even as some contemporary critics dismissed it as lurid or over-the-top.
Goodbye Gemini stands as a vivid time capsule of a society in transition, its pop-art excess and twisted themes offering both a critique and a celebration of the era’s freedoms and follies. Judy Geeson’s performance, in particular, remains a haunting portrait of innocence corrupted, while the film’s exploration of identity, sexuality, and the limits of familial love continues to showcase the film’s ability to fascinate and unsettle.
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“It wasn’t a message that stirred the audiences, nor was it a great performance… they were aroused by pure film.” – Alfred Hitchcock told Francois Truffaut about Psycho, adding that it “belongs to filmmakers, to you and me.” Hitchcock deliberately wanted Psycho to look like a cheap exploitation film.
Upon release, Psycho1960 polarized critics. Bosley Crowther of The New York Times initially dismissed it as “sicko” but later included it in his Top Ten of 1960, praising its “bold psychological mystery.”
film critic Roger Ebert that captures the enduring praise for Hitchcock’s Psycho: “What makes Psycho immortal, when so many films are already half-forgotten as we leave the theater, is that it connects directly with our fears: Our fears that we might impulsively commit a crime, our fears of the police, our fears of becoming the victim of a madman, and of course our fears of disappointing our mothers.”
Critics like David Thomson dismissed Psycho as a “concession to slasher trash,” arguing that Hitchcock “lost interest” post-Marion’s death. However, film scholars Raymond Durgnat and William Rothman argue that Psycho’s second half intensifies its psychological depth, particularly as Norman Bates spirals further into his fractured psyche. The chilling climax, revealing “Mother” as a mummified corpse, forces audiences to confront the unsettling reality of dissociative identity —a theme Hitchcock explores with meticulous rigor and haunting, unsettling intimacy.
From the very first jarring notes and the fractured lines that slice across the screen, spelling out “Psycho” in stark relief, we’re warned that we’re stepping into a story where nothing is as it seems. A ripple of unease builds, echoing the rising strings, as Hitchcock draws us into a world stitched together from secrets, betrayals, and broken minds. Joseph Stefano’s adaptation of Robert Bloch’s novel doesn’t just give us a tale of stolen money and shadowy murders—it peels back the wallpaper of ordinary life to reveal deeper questions about who we are and what we desire. Beneath its surface, Psycho is a mirror reflecting the anxieties of a society obsessed with appearances and haunted by what lurks beneath: the pull of forbidden wants, the tension between who we pretend to be and what we can’t admit even to ourselves. The film quietly warns us that when people are forced to hide or deny their true selves, when identity and desire are locked away, darkness finds a way to seep through the cracks, and the most shocking horrors can wear the most familiar faces.
Before Psycho, most of Hitchcock’s films focused on building suspense and tension between characters, often using color and rarely diving deep into truly deviant or taboo subject matter—aside from a few exceptions like Shadow of a Doubt and Strangers on a Train. Hitchcock himself was known around Hollywood as a bit of an oddball: a perfectionist, sometimes difficult on set, and with a reputation for being both controlling and flirtatious. What’s fascinating is that, right as the 1960s were about to shake up society, Hitchcock decided to reinvent himself as a director with Psycho. Working with Joseph Stefano’s daring script, he delivered a film that shocked audiences with its sexual undertones, glimpses of nudity, and that now-legendary, brutally intense shower scene, pushing boundaries in ways he never had before and helping to usher in a new era of psychological horror.
Hitchcock shot Psycho on a modest $800,000 budget, using the crew from his television series Alfred Hitchcock Presents rather than his usual feature film team. Filmed in black and white, with long stretches of silence and minimalist sets, the Bates Motel and looming Bates house were constructed on Universal’s backlot. In its raw, visceral style, Psycho shares more with gritty noir films like Detour than with Hitchcock’s polished classics such as Rear Window1954 or Vertigo 1958.
No other Hitchcock film left a greater impression or such a powerful impact on its audience.
The runaway success of Psycho took Hitchcock aback so much that he reached out to the Stanford Research Institute to investigate what made it such a phenomenon. The film was a stark departure from his earlier, more polished, and high-budget productions, which made its impact all the more surprising to him. What truly astonished Hitchcock was how deeply Psychoconnected with audiences in ways he hadn’t fully anticipated. Its unique blend of extreme terror and dark humor created an emotional rollercoaster unlike anything he had achieved before, leaving audiences with a strange mix of both terror and his sardonic sense of humor.
According to film scholar Linda Williams, “Genre study has sometimes been the one place in film studies where repeatable audience pleasures…have been scrutinized” (“Discipline and Fun” 359).
“I was directing the viewers,” the director told Truffaut in their book-length interview. “You might say I was playing them like an organ.”
Hitchcock announced, “The late-comers would have been waiting to see Janet Leigh after she had disappeared from the screen action.” For its original audience, it was the most shocking film they had ever experienced. Hitchcock insisted, “Do not reveal the surprises!”
Janet Leigh pays for Anthony Perkin’s psychosis. Molly Haskell, in From Reverence to Rape makes an observation about the treatment of the Hitchcock woman “She must be punished, her complacency shattered; and so he submits his heroines to excruciating ordeals, long trips through terror in which they may be raped, violated by birds, killed. The plot itself becomes a mechanism for destroying their icy self-possession and their emotional detachment…
… Like Norman Bates ‘mother’ in Psycho, who might, by a stretch of the Oedipal complex, be categorized among the brunettes, they are inclined to be possessive and even a little sticky. The Hitchcock protagonist is attracted to the girl he can’t have, and the misogynist in Hitchcock invests the character with poisonous personality traits to punish her for rejecting him. If Hitchcock’s women must be tortured and punished, his men are fully implicated in the deed — and the more detached they seem, the more guilty and morally responsible. “
The ads proclaimed it loudly, yet no audience could have foreseen Hitchcock’s shocking twists—the brutal murder of Marion Crane (Janet Leigh), the apparent heroine, just a third of the way into the film, and the chilling revelation of Norman Bates’s mother. Psychowas marketed with the flair of a William Castle exploitation thriller, heightening its sensational impact. “It is required that you see ‘Psycho’ from the very beginning!”
Slavoj Žižek examines the unsettling narrative shift in Psycho following Marion’s death. The first third of the film highlights how it transitions from her story to a murder mystery centered around Norman Bates. Žižek notes that both Marion’s and Norman’s arcs could function as complete narratives on their own, yet Hitchcock disrupts this structure, creating a jarring effect that reorients the audience’s focus. This deliberate fragmentation underscores the film’s innovative storytelling and its ability to challenge traditional cinematic conventions.
Hitchcock’s decision to kill off Marion Crane in the first part of Psycho shattered the framework of storytelling, transforming the film from a crime thriller to a psycho-sexual shocker and destabilizing audience expectations. This bold move shifted the focus onto Norman Bates, the deeply troubled motel owner whose fractured psyche became a defining template for psychological horror. Hitchcock didn’t stop at narrative shocks—he layered the film with visual cues like mirrors and high-angle shots to evoke voyeurism and duality, drawing viewers deeper into Norman’s disturbed world. And then there’s Bernard Herrmann’s iconic score: among the film’s most indelible elements, and perhaps its most evocative hallmarks, are the shrieking violins during the shower scene, which contrast sharply with the eerie silence of Norman’s final stare, leaving audiences haunted by both sound and stillness.
“The first part (Marion’s story) could well stand alone: it is easy to perform a mental experiment and to imagine it as a thirty-minute TV story, a kind of morality play in which the heroine gives way to temptation and enters the path of damnation, only to be cured by the encounter with Norman, who confronts her with the abyss that awaits her at the end of the road — in him, she sees a mirror- image of her own future; sobered, she decides to return to normal life […] The film’s second part, Norman’s story, is also easy to imagine as a closed whole, a rather traditional unraveling of the mystery of a pathological serial killer.” (Žižek)
Although the twists in Psycho—Marion Crane’s shocking murder and the truth about Norman’s mother– are now common knowledge, the film remains a chilling thriller. This enduring impact lies in Hitchcock’s skillful crafting of two less obvious elements: Marion’s story setup and her complex dynamic with Norman Bates. Hitchcock treats these early moments with meticulous care, as though they will carry the entire narrative, making their eventual subversion all the more unsettling.
Alfred Hitchcock, Anthony Perkins, and Janet Leigh on the set of Psycho 1960.
Anthony Perkins and Janet Leigh, who played Norman Bates and Marion Crane, respectively, had a license to improvise their parts in Psycho to some degree. Hitchcock gave them free rein within scenes, as long as their ad-libbing didn’t change the angle required for a shot.
The film’s screenwriter, Joseph Stefano, would later describe one piece of improvisation by Perkins as his “most magical moment” in the film. It was the actor’s own decision to have Norman chewing on candy corn, nervously watching on as Marion’s car descends ever-so-slowly down into a swamp.”– (Source – during the scene where Norman disposes of Marion’s body – according to Guy Howie’s article published Mon, 25 March 2024, 11:00, UK from FAR OUT).
The setup revolves around a recurring Hitchcock theme: the guilt of an ordinary individual ensnared in a criminal act. Though Marion Crane steals $40,000, she remains emblematic of Hitchcock’s archetype—an otherwise innocent person caught in the web of wrongdoing.
This is not unlike Hitchcock’s Marnie (1964), in which he revisits his fascination with women on the run and the symbolic significance of their possessions, particularly their suitcases. In the film’s opening scenes, even before we meet Marnie herself, we are introduced to the items she has acquired: a bright yellow handbag containing stolen money, a new suitcase, freshly purchased clothes, and gifts for her mother. These objects are meticulously packed into her suitcase, reflecting not only Marnie’s compulsive need for control but also her attempts to construct a new identity.
Marion Crane’s introduction is far from glamorous—a clandestine afternoon in a dingy hotel room with her divorced lover, Sam Loomis (John Gavin), whose alimony keeps marriage out of reach. Enter $40,000, courtesy of a sleazy real estate client, Mr. Cassidy (Frank Albertson), who all but implies that Marion herself might have a price. Ironically, her crime is born of love, and her victim is hardly worth pity—a slimy opportunist who practically invites his own downfall.
Unveiling the Layers of Madness: Hitchcock’s “Psycho” and the Birth of Modern Horror:
Let’s face it: Anthony Perkins’ Norman Bates is an enigmatic anti-hero. Similarly, in Shadow of a Doubt (1943), Joseph Cotton’s Uncle Charlie’s chilling monologue about widows deserving death is framed from his niece’s horrified point of view. This juxtaposition of intimacy and menace creates both empathy for her fear and fascination with his charisma. By fostering empathy for antagonists, Hitchcock challenged traditional notions of good versus evil in horror storytelling.
Alfred Hitchcock’s cinematic virtuosity with his seminal psycho-sexual thriller, Psycho, has elevated the film to an unparalleled status in the history of cinema, rendering it instantly recognizable and profoundly influential. And let’s face it, what Jaws did for swimming in the ocean, Psychodid as the first horror movie that took away the safety of taking showers in your own home!
With his adaptation of Robert Bloch’s 1959 pulp novel of the same name, Bloch conjured Norman Bates, his mysterious and elusive mother, and the Bates Motel, helping it become a landmark in film history, renowned for its masterful direction and psychological depth. But his conjuration had its roots in the deeply disturbing, grim reality that defies the realm of myth and fantasy.
Beware My Brethren 1972 (also known as The Fiend) is a ’70s British psychological thriller directed by Robert Hartford-Davis. The film explores themes of religious fanaticism, sexual repression, and murderous obsession.
The story centers around the Wemys family: Birdy Wemys (Ann Todd), A diabetic widow who has become deeply involved with a fundamentalist religious sect called “the Brethren.” Kenny Wemys (Tony Beckley known for his disturbing portrayal of the homicidal psychopath Curt Duncan in When A Stranger Calls 1979), Birdy’s troubled and socially inept son, becomes a serial killer targeting young women he perceives as sinful. Patrick Magee plays the charismatic leader of the Brethren.
Brigitte Lynch (Madeleine Hinde) is a nurse hired to care for Birdy. Paddy Lynch (Suzanna Leigh), who plays Brigitte’s sister, is a journalist who goes undercover to investigate the Brethren.
The film is notable for several unsettling aspects. For one thing, its religious fervor: The Brethren’s intense services, complete with gospel-style music and frenzied baptisms, create an atmosphere of religious hysteria that is almost as disturbing as the killings. The graphic violence exacted by Kenny’s murderous mania and hatred of women is portrayed in brutal detail, with victims being strangled, stripped naked, and disposed of in shocking ways (e.g., dropped from cement mixers, hung on meat hooks, drowning, and crucifixion.
The sexual repression is not only attributed to Kenny’s murderous impulses, which are driven by his disgust at perceived sexual immorality, leading to disturbing scenes of violence against women but by his mother’s own sexual repression and latent lesbian desires. The Minister’s psychological manipulation and control over his followers, particularly Birdy, showcases the dangerous power of cult-like religious groups.
Director Hartford-Davis uses unsettling images, including dream sequences and vivid color contrasts, to create a disorienting and nightmarish atmosphere.
The opening sequence intercuts a religious service with the pursuit and murder of a young woman, set to an incongruously upbeat gospel song that includes lyrics like Wash Me In His Blood. Kenny’s attack on a prostitute, which involves forcing a torch down her throat, is particularly ferocious. Birdy’s lesbian attraction to Paddy leads to her being denied life-saving insulin by the Minister. All these elements, the religious extremism, sexual repression, and violence, make Beware My Brethren a deeply uncomfortable British video nasty.
WHEN A STRANGER CALLS 1979
When a Stranger Calls (1979), directed by Fred Walton, is one of the most chilling psychological thrillers of the late 1970s that has become a cult classic, particularly due to its shocking, nail-biting opening sequence.
Tony Beckley’s performance as Curt Duncan, the psychopathic killer, was notably compelling due to the actor’s low affect and intensity. Beckley portrayed Duncan as a complex character, balancing between a desperate attempt at sanity and terrifying volatility, tearing two young children apart with his bare hands.
Beckley did a masterful job of making his fiend both sympathetic and frightening. Tragically, this was Beckley’s final film role, as he passed away shortly after the movie’s release.
The film’s reception was mixed upon its initial release: Critics praised the opening 20-23 minutes, consistently regarding it as one of the scariest openings in film history. If memory serves me, it made me jump out of my seat in the theater. Despite mixed reviews, the film was commercially successful, grossing between $21.4 to $25 million against a $1.5 million budget.
Director Fred Walton, along with co-writer Steve Feke, based the story on the urban legend of “the babysitter and the man upstairs.” They claimed to have drawn inspiration from a real newspaper article about a babysitter in Santa Monica who received threatening calls from an attacker inside the house. The cast includes Carol Kane as Jill Johnson, the babysitter, Charles Durning as John Clifford, the undaunted detective on Duncan’s trail, and Colleen Dewhurst as Tracy, the barfly to whom Duncan takes an odd shine to.
The film’s narrative structure is unique, essentially combining two short stories with a police procedural middle section. The opening sequence, featuring Kane as the terrorized babysitter, is particularly noteworthy for its escalation of the tension and use of the telephone as a source of horror. Reminiscing of Bob Clark’s Black Christmas 1974, which used the telephone ingeniously. Black Christmas weaponizes it as an instrument of psychological terror, serving as a seminal example of this technique. The film’s masterful use of menacing phone calls transforms a mundane household object into a conduit for fear, creating an atmosphere of inescapable dread.
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Pretty Maids All in a Row is a 1971 film directed by Roger Vadim, blending elements of black comedy, sex, and murder mystery. Set in a California high school during the sexual revolution, it follows serial killer Michael ‘Tiger’ McDrew (Rock Hudson), who targets his female students. The film satirizes American high school culture and societal attitudes towards sex and violence.
In this dark sexploitation comedy by Vadim, Rock Hudson plays a beloved football hero/ faculty member who is, in fact, a lady-killer preying on the female student body at his high school!
Hieronymus Bosch – The Garden of Earthly Delights.
Pretty Maids All in a Row is bathed in hazy colors similar to that of Bosch’s epic triptych painting. I’m starting this post by emphasizing Bosch’s iconic work of art, as it significantly shapes the narrative.
This intricate panel of images appears in the film several times as a motif. Vadim possessed a clear grasp of what he was informing us about. It touches on a vital element and is the fundamental part of the narrative’s soul, yet it bears no resolution for us, the ‘voyeurs’, by the film’s end. Betty Smith (Angie Dickinson) has this painting in her apartment. We see it in several sequences; By framing the object in a tight close-up, scrutinized by the lens, the camera invites a nuanced inspection, underscoring Vadim’s intention to emphasize the painting’s thematic significance.
Read the feature below, which includes an Angie Dickinson overview!
Bosch’s painting serves as a prominent motif throughout the film.
Close-ups in the film at varying viewpoints of Bosch’s painting.
The painting depicts nude figures in the garden of temptation, ultimately setting them forth unto an eternal dance with damnation.
From Wiki:
The left panel depicts God presenting Adam to Eve, while the central panel is a broad panorama of sexually engaged nude figures, fantastical animals, oversized fruit, and hybrid stone formations. The right panel is a hellscape and portrays the torments of damnation.
“Art historians and critics frequently interpret the painting as a didactic warning on the perils of life’s temptations. However, the intricacy of its symbolism, particularly that of the central panel, has led to a wide range of scholarly interpretations over the centuries. 20th-century art historians are divided as to whether the triptych’s central panel is a moral warning or a panorama of paradise lost. American writer Peter S. Beagle describes it as an “erotic derangement that turns us all into voyeurs, a place filled with the intoxicating air of perfect liberty.”
One could say that this suburban American High School acts as a similar landscape depicted in Bosch’s painting. The school is ripe for sexual and unconventional anarchy, abound with young flesh, exploring a ‘perfect liberty’ flitting about in micro skirts and no bras, amidst the intoxicating air of youth and temptation.
Tiger McDrew reads Don Juan to his class.
Leaving these young people vulnerable and tempted by devouring demons like Tiger McDrew, who comes and preys upon their alluring innocence. Much like the painting, Pretty Maidshas a sense of erotic derangement that turns us into every bit the voyeur. The film is a thought-provoking amalgamation of interrelated questions, ultimately yielding a profound exploration of moral ambiguities and the deeply embedded systemic, hierarchical, and hegemonic complexities and challenges that shape historical narratives.
Add Vadim’s European, self-proclaimed Libertine sensibilities and his view of American culture, and you get a psychopathic Don Juan in Tiger McDrew, with voyeuristic close-ups of supposed adolescent young girls (the actresses were older) and a society that both condemns and perpetuates it.
An alternative title to this blog post – I could say might be this: “The Americanization of Debauchery, Perversion, Panties, Milton’s Paradise Lost, Hieronymus Bosch’s The Garden of Earthly Delights transfixed on the modern high school campus. The Socratic Infusion of Free Love & the Sexual Revolution. With traces of Bluebeard, Casanova. Sexism & Misogyny, the POV of the New Wave European Aestheticism of the Female Body as Fetish. Pom Poms, Peace Signs, The Cult of American Hero worship Molière & Lord Byron’s Don Juan with a smattering of Svengali, as a Homicidal Pedagogue in a tight pants.”
In Pretty Maids All In A Row, Ponce (John David Carson) and substitute teacher Betty Smith (Angie Dickinson) both read from Milton’s Paradise Lost. The telling of how Satan fell from grace, Adam and Eve were cast out of the garden, the angels fought amongst each other, and innocence becomes sacrificed as just part of the epic tale.
PRETTY MAIDS ALL IN A ROW – From the nursery rhyme, Mary, Mary, Quite Contrary.
Rock Hudsonwas the romantic leading man of the 1950s and 60s.
Tiger McDrew Hudson’s character exerts a subtle yet potent influence, leveraging his authority to manipulate and intimidate with understated finesse.
Bob Clark’s Black Christmas (1974) is a seminal proto-slasher film that laid the groundwork for the genre. It stars Olivia Hussey, Keir Dullea, Margot Kidder, and John Saxon. The film follows a group of sorority sisters who are terrorized by an unknown obscene caller/killer during the Christmas season. It has a ring of urban legend that gives a nod to ‘the killer’s inside the house’ trope. Clark’s direction creates a chilling atmosphere through the innovative use of POV shots and claustrophobic settings within the sorority house as ‘dirty Billy’ stalks his prey.
The film’s most unsettling scenes include the disturbing phone calls from the unseen maniac, whose unhinged rants are masterfully performed by Nick Mancuso and Clark himself (uncredited). Hussey’s portrayal of Jess, a strong-willed protagonist dealing with a personal crisis, adds depth to the typical “final girl” trope. Black Christmas can absolutely be seen through a feminist lens as the empowered Jess (Olivia Hussey) takes command of her own body without the influence of her manipulative and controlling boyfriend, Keir Dullea.
Kidder’s performance as the sharp-tongued Barb provides comic relief that contrasts sharply with the mounting tension. The film’s climax, set in the house’s shadowy basement, is a masterclass in suspense, with Jess confronting both the killer and her boyfriend Peter (Dullea), leaving the audience guessing until the end. Clark’s decision to leave the killer’s identity and motives ambiguous adds to the film’s enduring mystery and psychological impact.
Before John Carpenter’s Halloween in 1978, Black Christmas distinguishes itself with its nuanced approach to horror, merging realistic characters with an unsettling, almost surreal, claustrophobic atmosphere of dread. Clark’s masterpiece has had a profound influence on the genre and the countless slasher films that followed.
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“I shall waste you and waste you and waste you”¦”
The Ballad of Tam Lin, Tam Lin, Games and Toys or The Devil’s Widow 1970
“McDowall builds a broodingly enigmatic sense of menace out of stray allusions and apparitions that hover without ever really being explained or over-exploited: the snatches of [Robert] Burns intimating the presence of diabolic machinations; the girl terrified by her own unspoken Tarot prophecies; the dialogue that rings like blank verse, as though it had been used over and over again. Above all, though, this menace is effective chiefly because it is rhymed with a mounting sense of quiet decorum, as though reality, the world of the ordinary, everyday banality, were suddenly present to Tom for the first time.”“¨”” Tom Milne, Monthly Film Bulletin, June 1977
“She Drained Them Of Their Manhood–And Then Of Their Lives! “
That’s the tagline American International Pictures exploited to promote this obscure British fantasy/horror film. Made as a last hurrah at the close of the 1960s, The Ballad of Tam Lin or Tam Lin, emerged from a singular blend of McDowall’s audacious, unwavering, and fearless vision to subvert cinematic tradition and bring on board first-rate talent to see that vision realized.
Back in the day, I was armed with my VCR at the ready to capture those late-night TV excursions into obscure horror. Tam Lin would be one of those hidden gems that still lingers in my mind like a nostalgia hangover.
Dear friends, Ava Gardner and Roddy McDowall on the Tam Linset.
“The film is a gothic fairytale modernized. When viewed in those terms and in the context of the original folklore – it makes perfect sense.”-McDowall.
Legendary Hollywood Goddess Ava Gardner is the evil “Queen of the Fairies” in Roddy McDowall’s wickedly provocative adult fairytale. Initially presented as a horror film, Tam Lin, with its hauntingly beautiful narrative, emerges more as a tragic fable of love and revenge. Or it can be seen as a dark, cautionary adult fairytale with a tangible Brother’s Grimmesque tale of beware the wrath of a slighted Queen, or there is terror amidst the remote woods. With the emergence of the counterculture of the 1960s, there was a growing fascination with all things pagan and folk-sy, with the use of symbolism, iconography, and formal tropes. For instance, the use of bridges we see throughout Tam Lin has often represented those liminal spaces between divergent realms.
Among its myriad titles, at the heart of Tam Lin lies Michaela “˜Micky’ Cazarete – a worldly Aesthete or ‘sorceress,’ however you choose to see her… embodied by the luminous Ava Gardner in one of her 44th and final leading roles. As ravishingly beautiful as ever, Gardner plays the succubus-like enchantress always wrapped in stunning, opulent attire and a flickering flame, drawing the wings of any naive lad she captures for her bed.
The story retells the artfulness of a wicked enchantress, a queen of the faeries who enraptures the young with her otherworldly beauty and beguiles and mesmerizes them to drain their vitality. And there is a cruel twist to this Gothic fable. At sunset of the seventh year, she is compelled to sacrifice her favorite male love to replenish her (life force or her desire.) Eternally restless, she is a damned soul; she is a paradox both breathtaking and horrifying, filled with a hunger that can never be satiated.
Psychedelic Folkloristic cinema like Tam Lin represents a cultural paradigm situated at a point in time where things were poised to move away from the psychedelic utopianism and iconoclasm of the 1960s, which began to pivot towards more introspective, darker turns. Similar in an impressionistic aesthetic, Tam Lin evokes for me another moody art piece horror, Queens Of Evil, aka /Le Regine 1970/Il delitto del diavolo.
Above are two images from Queens of Evil (1970).
Both films stylistically point to the florid decadence that was evolving into the weary and hostile era to come. Like Ian McShane, with his piercing and intense blue eyes crowned by dark brows and lashes, the charismatic bad boy with a sculpted physique, Ray Lovelock, is lavished with adoration within an idyllic setting until he is ultimately led as a lamb to the slaughter.
A striking parallel exists between the archetypal narratives of wayward, virile princes ensnared within a pastoral paradise and the insatiable, evil queens and seductive sirens who seek to possess them. This clash of archetypes, the untamed masculine spirit versus the ruthless feminine intellect, reflects the deep-seated cultural anxieties and preoccupations surrounding the nature of power, desire, and the fear of women’s primacy, in particular, as with Tam Lin, older women’s primacy.
Scene from The Night of the Iguana 1964.
Ava Gardner circa 1960.
I can include another early 70s horror favorite that registers with its mod/post-modern indulgence  – Messiah of Evil 1973. Messiah of Evil began to show signs of a crack in the shimmery good vibes of the 1960s as it dips its toes – heavily –  into the stark contrast of the coming brutal, gritty tone of later 1970s horror films. Tam Lin and Queens of Evil feel akin to the Psychedelic Folkloristic cinema, which captures that brief moment when fashionable trends were turning towards folklore motifs. Films thrive on a strong narrative, and legends are fed by things that are false and things that are true.
Some critics consider it as one of the original folk horror films. Others see it as an improvisation of the post-Rosemary’s Baby cycle of genre films.
Above are two scenes from the folk horror film The Wicker Man (1973).
“In Tam Lin there is a sense of playful opulence and a mod/post-mod sharpness to the style which could be compared and contrasted with say the murk, grime and tattiness of the also sub/counter-culture orientated folk horror related film Psychomania which was released in 1973.” (Stephen Prince founder/writer at A Year in the Country)
A pioneering work of folk horror, Tam Lin can be considered a proto-folk horror film. Not only does it predate The Wicker Man by four years, but it shares some striking thematic similarities. Both films delve into the darkness of cults, driven by a need to appease deities through ritual sacrifice. An unsettling yet obscured supernatural atmosphere permeates both narratives, further accentuated by their remote, rural settings, fertile ground for tales of witchcraft and pagan practices. Notably, both films boast innovative and provocative British soundtracks and share the distinction of being primarily filmed in the evocative landscapes of Scotland.
Tam Linanticipates Blood on Satan’s Claw, released in 1971, and yes, once again, like The Wicker Man in 1973, showcasing its creeping pastoral horrors. The film’s ’60s art-house decadence and its aesthetic serve as many of the films that could be perfectly placed inside a time capsule from the merging decades of the late ’60s & 1970s. A film movement that draws inspiration from the rich period of European art cinema. Tam Lin’sdreamy and, at times, barely lucid tone frames this moody lyrical love story set in the bucolic countryside of Scotland until it moves into a horror-filled, phantasmagorical manifestation of the original poem the story is based on. Midway, the film shows a visual shift of spiritual flight, transformation, and salvation from supernatural retribution.
"This is the way of television"¦ Half-hour shows were becoming one-hour shows, so it was decided that ours was to become a one-hour show. I don't recall whose idea it was. I cannot say I know how the arrangements were made. In television the problem is to maintain a standard (especially after seven years). We were always pretty offbeat, but people get used to us being offbeat." "”Alfred Hitchcock (as quoted in "The Alfred Hitchcock Presents Companion," 2001)
“TV has done more for old movie stars than plastic surgery,” -Popular TV critic for the LA Mirror Hal Humphrey wrote his articles based on network and press agent publicity, defended television's stars in comparison to films during the time in the period when big screen actors were transitioning to television.
The Anne Sothern Show began in 1958.
Citing the examples of Joan Blondell, Ann Sothern, and Joan Crawford, Hal Humphrey claimed that these actresses were not “has-beens.” It might be more apt to describe them as mistakes made by the movie industry and rectified by television.”
During the 1950s after decades of escaping the world and its worries within the vastness of the darkened movie theater, television delivered the actors we imagined vividly on the big screen and altered the illusion by fitting them inside a little box in our homes.
Television of the 1950s brought the big screen stars into the inner sanctum of our living rooms.
The emergence of television in the 1950s and 60s transformed the entertainment industry, leading many iconic Hollywood actresses to transition from film to TV.
In the 1950s, the transition from film to television was still a relatively new concept, and many Hollywood actresses were hesitant to make the switch.
“The dominant tendency in star studies has been to denigrate the stature of television stardom, to argue that television does not actually produce stars of the complexity, depth, and cultural value that film does, largely because of the medium’s lesser cultural status and its essential familiarity and intimacy…
Television studies scholar Susan Murray rightly comments suspiciously on these theories:
“. . . it would appear as though, while the cinema’s star system was delineated by a complicated aesthetic, industrial and economic history, the television star is simply a fall from grace."
Therefore, it would seem essential for television to boost the images of such marginal stars by drawing on authenticity as a value superior to the artificiality of constructed glamour and by underscoring television’s ability to rediscover or uncover the genuine talents of the film world’s castoffs and supporting players.”
While some actors perceived TV work as an abdication of their star power, others recognized it as an avenue to sustain their careers and connect with a fresh audience.
Early television frequently recruited performers from various entertainment media, enlisting film actors, radio personalities, and Broadway/stage performers to provide programming talent for the burgeoning medium. Radio had previously offered such a space for Hollywood stars to supplement their film work, but television increasingly took over this role. (Becker)
Until the mid-1950s, studios purposefully kept their stars away from television. However, this claim overlooks the significant number of actors who were no longer bound by contracts with major studios due to the upheaval in the industry.
As a result, these actors were able to seek employment wherever opportunities arose. With labor changes in Hollywood and a decline in overall film production, television became an attractive and viable option for Hollywood actors who were out of work. Studios relented provided the stars received the opportunity to plug the studio and its recent releases. Variety also cited the decision to allow the 1953 Academy Awards to be aired on NBC as a sign of the film industry’s acceptance of television’s credibility.
Television desperately trying to establish itself big Hollywood name became an incredibly exploitable asset as famous actors discovered a new outlet that eagerly sought their skills and their drawing power Hollywood actors played a crucial role in contributing the nuance of prestige to their anthology shows and dramatic teleplays.
Early television strategically leveraged the fame of numerous Hollywood film actors to generate publicity for specific shows, attracting viewers and driving the sales of television sets. Simultaneously, television presented a convenient new job market, offering a fresh lease on life for supporting actors and former stars who needed to revitalize their careers, maintain their popularity, and make money from the emerging medium of television.
Several iconic actresses from classic Hollywood successfully made the swift transition including Joan Crawford, Loretta Young, Bette Davis, and Barbara Stanwyck, all made the leap to television during this period. One of the most notable actresses was Lucille Ball, who starred in the popular sitcom I Love Lucy from 1951 to 1957. Television actually made Lucille Ball a household name.
There were obstacles these actresses encountered, such as adapting to the demands of the smaller screen and managing the more accelerated production schedules of TV shows.
Their performances retained every ounce of their impact, if not enhanced, as they continued to evoke profound emotions and captivate us with the same level of skill, quality, and substance
In fact, given the advent of dramatic teleplays featuring exciting directors and writers who either adapted classic stories, challenging content, or groundbreaking camerawork much of the performances were enhanced by the live format.
The assumption that only displaced film stars would agree to appear on television is challenged by a diverse array of stars who wound up making a foray into that medium. So what precipitated the union between Hollywood movie stars and television programming during the first commercial decade of TV? And how did television showcase the abundance of screen royalty that ran the gamut of beloved character actors to the reigning stars on the big screen? They were able to transfigure stardom and draw audiences with the same desire to see their iconic stars continue to shine but on a more intimate level.
Joan Crawford and The Pepsi-Cola Playhouse on ABC from 1953-1955.
"It is commonly assumed that only dethroned film stars would ever consent to appear on television, but the wide range of stars listed above certainly complicates this hypothesis and raises myriad questions. What industrial circumstances made possible this substantial marriage between Hollywood film talent and television programming in TV’s first commercial decade, and how did early television present this plethora of film talent, from the character actor to the reigning star? What can we learn about concepts of stardom by closely analyzing the activities of film stars at the discrete historical moment when television began as a mass medium, borrowing programming formats, corporate methods, and talent from radio and theater, while simultaneously trying to forge a unique institutional and cultural identity?"¦
…despite an avowed stigma attached to film stars appearing on television, a significant number did appear on the infant medium"¦ and television’s presentations of these stars, along with the public discourse that surrounded them, helped to expose and even alter the parameters of the filmic star system as it was developed to that point, an aspect which audiences surely perceived." – Christine Becker: Televising Film Stardom in the 1950s
Alfred Hitchcock’s anthology television series, which aired from 1955 to 1965, was a popular show that featured a variety of Hollywood actresses in its episodes.
These actresses had already made a name for themselves in classic Hollywood films but found a new audience and showcase their talents. Anthology series typically featured a new story and cast of characters in each episode, allowing actresses to take on a variety of roles.
One of the more regular actresses to appear in Alfred Hitchcock Presents was Barbara Bel Geddes, who starred in the episode “Lamb to the Slaughter” in 1958. Barbara Bel Geddes’ performance in “Lamb to the Slaughter” episode of Alfred Hitchcock Presents has also received acclaim, with critics noting her ability to shift between a sweet and innocent demeanor to a more understated sinister one as her character’s composed homicidal streak are revealed.
Bel Geddes previously starred in films such as “I Remember Mama” and “Vertigo,” and her appearance in Alfred Hitchcock Presents helped cement her status as a talented actress with a range of skills.
Another actress who appeared in the series was Vera Miles, who starred in the iconic episode “The Perfect Crime” in 1957 and Alfred Hitchcock Presents the very first episode, Revenge. And the episode that I will cover here Don't Look Behind You. and in Part 4 of my series, Death Scene co-starring John Carradine.
Teresa Wright appeared in perhaps 2 of the most enthralling episodes one darkly disturbing and one darkly humorous. And Mildred Dunnock appeared in 3 episodes of Alfred Hitchcock Presents and 1 episode of The Alfred Hitchcock Hour. Jeannette Nolan is in 5 of the series and Jessica Tandy appeared in 3. That's a lot of star power in a small box.
Miles had previously worked with Hitchcock in the film “The Wrong Man,” and her appearance in Alfred Hitchcock Presents helped establish her as a talented actress who could hold her own in a variety of roles.
In addition to Bel Geddes and Miles, several other classic Hollywood actresses appeared in the series, including Joan Fontaine, Teresa Wright, Lillian Gish, Mary Astor (who also appeared in the Boris Karloff Anthology series Thriller) Gladys Cooper, Anne Sothern, Gloria Swanson, Anne Baxter, and Bette Davis, just to name a few.
Bette Davis in Out There-Darkness for Alfred Hitchcock Presents S4E16 1959.
Gloria Swanson in Behind the Locked Door S2E22 1964.
Lillian Gish in The Alfred Hitchcock Hour episode Body in the Barn S2E32 1964.
These actresses brought their star power and talent to the Hitchcock series and helped to establish it as one of the most popular anthology shows of the era. When Hollywood wasn't giving them the scripts and not renewing their contracts, they found a chance to continue showcasing their versatility and kept themselves a continuing familiar face with their fans new and old alike.
The success of Alfred Hitchcock Presents helped pave the way for more classic Hollywood actresses to make the transition to television in the 1950s and 1960s. It also helped to establish television as a legitimate platform for entertainment and helped to blur the lines between film and television.
Other actresses who appeared in anthology series in the 1950s include Barbara Stanwyck in “The Barbara Stanwyck Show,” Bette Davis in “The Bette Davis Show,” and Joan Crawford in “The Pepsi-Cola Playhouse.”
These shows allowed actresses to showcase their versatility and reach audiences on a regular basis, helping to solidify their status as Hollywood legends and both critics and fans have praised these actresses’ abilities to transition from film to television
Acting in front of the camera wasn't the only transition powerful Hollywood actresses made, Ida Lupino – pioneering actress, director, and producer, known for her trailblazing work in the male-dominated Hollywood industry of the 1940s and 1950s stepped into the episode of The Twilight Zone with its scathing mediation on the Hollywood system that chewed up actresses and spits them out as they aged out of their perceivably viable roles. In The Sixteen-Millimeter Shrine starring Lupino – the opening narration goes as follows:
The Twilight Zone S1E4 1959 Ida Lupino The Sixteen-Millimeter Shrine.
"Picture of a woman looking at a picture. Movie great of another time, a once-brilliant star in a firmament no longer a part of the sky, eclipsed by the movement of earth and time. Barbara Jean Trenton, whose world is a projection room, whose dreams are made out of celluloid. Barbara Jean Trenton, struck down by hit-and-run years and lying on the unhappy pavement, trying desperately to get the license number of fleeting fame."
Lupino plays aging film star Barbara Jean Trenton a recluse who lived in her private screening room reliving her old movie roles from the 1930s over and over. When she is offered a part in a new movie playing the mother, insulted by the callous film mogul who tells her she's living in the past, all the while Martin Balsam tells her she's wishing for things that are dead"¦ Barbara vanishes into a movie reel with her old co-stars descends the stairs and blows Balsam a kiss goodbye throwing down a scarf toward the camera and vanishes.
Not just on screen but behind the scenes Lupino who worked avidly with the camera directed several of the Hitchcock episodes. Another influential woman in the technical side of Hollywood, Joan Harrison made the transition from film to television. She came on board to produce the show and create the legacy that both series became in American Television.
“Seeing a murder on television… can help work off one’s antagonisms. And if you haven’t any antagonisms, the commercials will give you some.”
“T.V. has brought murder back into the home where it belongs.”
“It seems to me that television is exactly like a gun. Your enjoyment of it is determined by which end of it you’re on.”
“Blondes make the best victims. They’re like virgin snow that shows up the bloody footprints.”
“A glimpse into the world proves that horror is nothing other than reality.”
"What is drama but life with the dull bits cut out."
“I’m sure anyone who likes a good crime, provided it is not the victim.”
“Suspense is when the spectator knows more than the characters in the movie."
"Always make the audience suffer as much as possible."
“I can’t read fiction without visualizing every scene. The result is it becomes a series of pictures rather than a book.”
“I’m a writer and, therefore, automatically a suspicious character.”
“Dialogue should simply be a sound among other sounds, just something that comes out of the mouths of people whose eyes tell the story in visual terms.”
“You think she’s pretty, you ought to see my slingshot!”
Promotional portrait of British-born American film and television director Alfred Hitchcock (1899 – 1980) as he sits on a stool inside an open steamer trunk, next to an unidentified woman in a top hat, short, satin outfit, and fishnet stockings, for his anthology program ‘The Alfred Hitchcock Hour,’ August 10, 1962. (Photo by CBS Photo Archive/Getty Images)
“… I never said all actors are cattle; what I said was all actors should be treated like cattle.” – Hitchcock according to designer Edith Head who dressed Grace Kelly, Doris Day, and Ingrid Bergman in Hitchcock’s movies. The two reportedly clashed heavily over wardrobe ensembles.
"” Alfred Hitchcock
"No one is writing good suspense stories these days"¦ I don't know what has happened to the great story tellers "” people like Kipling and Stevenson. We have to take stories and shape them to our needs. Meanwhile, we must go on. We can't wait for the great ones to show up. I must take the scripts as they land on my desk. I'm responsible for sixteen programs, and I have only seven properties on hand. [Lloyd and Harrison produced all but four episodes from the first season] I've managed to get several fine stories, I believe. One is a gambling tale, A Piece of the Action, starring Gig Young and Martha Hyer. It has bitter irony in it. Another is The Final Yow, in which Carol Lynley plays a nun involved in a search for a stolen statue. It has a delicious twist." "”Norman Lloyd (The Newark Evening News, August 26, 1962)
Here are a few quotes from classic actresses who starred in The Alfred Hitchcock Hour and Alfred Hitchcock Presents:
Joan Fontaine & Gary Merrill in The Alfred Hitchcock Hour episode The Paragon S1E20 1963.
Fontaine and Hitchcock on the set of The Alfred Hitchcock Hour.
“Working with Alfred Hitchcock was a great honor and an unforgettable experience. He was a master of suspense and a true genius of filmmaking.”– Vera Miles
“Appearing in Alfred Hitchcock Presents was a unique challenge as an actress, as each episode was its own story and character. But it was also a great opportunity to showcase my range as an actress.”– Barbara Bel Geddes
“Alfred Hitchcock had a way of bringing out the best in his actors and actresses. He knew how to create tension and drama on screen, and he trusted his performers to deliver their best work.” – Joan Fontaine
“Alfred Hitchcock Presents was an exciting and innovative show, and I was thrilled to be a part of it. It allowed me to work with some of the best actors and directors in the business.” – Anne Baxter
Vera Miles and Hitchcock on the set of The Alfred Hitchcock Hour.
Hitchcock made the shift from a half-hour show to an hour format without much issue. "When we had a half-hour show, we could do short stories"¦{"¦} Now, in an hour, we have to go to novels."His staff read through thousands of crime novels to find the right script. Yet frequently it became necessary to utilize a short story and expand it, in order to fill out the hour.
In the opening set of each episode, the fabulist Hitchcock is given props against an empty stage. At times he himself becomes the prop or main focal point where he imparts either sage elucidation, comical warning, or sardonic advice. A witty prelude to the evening's tale or just a frivolous bit of shenanigans to put one in the mood for the evening's program. As he drolly introduces the night's story, his monologues were conceived of by James B Allardice.
Jessica Tandy in Alfred Hitchcock Presents episode The Glass Eye s3e1 1959.
THE ALFRED HITCHCOCK HOUR — “The Trap” Episode 18 — Aired 02/22/1965 — Pictured: (l-r) Anne Francis as Peg Beale, Donnelly Rhodes as John Cochran (Photo by NBC/NBCU Photo Bank via Getty Images)The Alfred Hitchcock Hour Triumph Episode 9 Aired 12/14/1964 Pictured: Ed Begley as Brother Thomas Fitzgibbons, Jeanette Nolan as Mary Fitzgibbons (Photo by NBC/NBCU Photo Bank via Getty Images)
Patricia Collinge in The Alfred Hitchcock Hour episode The Ordeal of Mrs. Snow -S2E25 1964
Repeat Performances:
*Jessica Tandy 3 episodes Alfred Hitchcock Presents – The Glass Eye and not included Toby S2e6 and The Canary Sedan S3e37.
*Patricia Collinge 4 episodes Alfred Hitchcock Presents –The Cheney Vase, The Rose Garden, Across the Threshold, and The Landlady-Â The Alfred Hitchcock Hour – 2 episodes Bonfire – and not included The Ordeal of Mrs. Snow April 17, 1964.
*Anne Francis 2 episodes Alfred Hitchcock Presents – Hooked and not Included Keep Me Company and The Trap S7e5 Feb 22, 1965, aired Nov.7, 1961.
*Mildred Dunnock 3 episodes of Alfred Hitchcock Presents – None Are So Blind, Heart of Gold and not inlcuded The West Warlock Time Capsule S2e35 and 1 episode of The Alfred Hitchcock Hour – Beyond the Sea of Death.
*Vera Miles 1 episode of Alfred Hithcock Presents – Revenge and 1 episode of TheAlfred Hitchcock Hour– Death Scene.
*Margaret Leighton 1 episode of Alfred Hitchcock Presents – Tea Time and 1 episode of The Alfred Hitchcock HourWhere the Woodbine Twineth.
*Barbara Bel Geddes – 4 episodes of Alfred Hitchcock Presents – Lamb to the Slaughter, The Morning of the Bride and not included The Foghorn s3e24, and Sybilla S6e10 aired Dec. 6, 1960.
*Gena Rowlands – 1 episode of Alfred Hitchcock Presents – The Doubtful Doctor and 3 episodes of The Alfred Hitchcock Hour – Ride the Nightmare, The Lonely Hours, and Murder Case.
*Doris lloyd 5 epsiodes of Alfred Hitchcock Presents – The Impromptu Murder, and not included Dip in the Pool, Safety for the Witness, The Shartz-Metterklume Method and The Silk Petticoat. And 4 episodes of The Alfred Hitchcock Hour – One of the Family, Thou Still Unravished Bride and not included The Dark Pool s1e29, and Isabel s2e31.
*Gia Scala – 2 episodes of Alfred Hitchcock Presents -Deathmate and not included Mother, May I Go Out and Swim? s5e26 and 1 episode of The Alfred Hitchcock Hour not included The Sign of Satan s2e27
*Jeannette Nolan –4 episodes of Alfred Hitchcock Presents – The Right Kind of House, The Morning After, and not included The Young One s3e9 and Coming Home s6e35. 1 episode of The Alfred Hitchcock Hour – Triumph.
*Teresa Wright – 2 episodes of The Alfred Hitchcock Hour – Three Wives Too Many and Lonely Place.
Mildred Dunnock in The Alfred Hitchcock Hour – Beyond the Sea of Death -S2E14 1964.
Teresa Wright and Bruce Dern in Lonely Place The Alfred Hitchcock Hour S3E6 1964
Married American actors Gena Rowlands and John Cassavetes (1929 – 1989) in an episode of the television anthology series ‘The Alfred Hitchcock Hour’ entitled ‘Murder Case,’ January 24, 1964. The episode, directed by John Brahm, was originally broadcast on March 6, 1964. (Photo by CBS Photo Archive/Getty Images)
Alfred Hitchcock Presents renamed The Alfred Hitchcock Hour (between 1962-1965), is a classic American television anthology series hosted by preeminent filmmaker Alfred Hitchcock, the show was also an Alfred Hitchcock Production produced by Joan Harrison and Norman Lloyd, airing on CBS and NBC between 1955 and 1965. The series premiered on CBS in October 1955 and went through several changes during its long run. It switched over to NBC for the 1960-61 season. It then returned to CBS with its hour-long format from 1962-1963. Getting whiplash it turned back to NBC once again to finish out its final season.
"One must remember that in the early half-hour days, we were getting the cream of the crop"¦ Some of the best stories of their type in English literature, such as The Glass Eye. In the latter days of the hour show, however, we occasionally had to develop stories from scratch, and the results didn't always measure up. The half-hour show, which ran twenty-two and a fraction minutes, was sometimes a delight in its brevity and its point, but that doesn't mean it was a better format." "”Norman Lloyd (as quoted in "The Alfred Hitchcock Presents Companion," 2001)
Both series have become seminal works in television history, known for their unique blend of suspense, mystery, and dark humor. The show often revolved around murder plots, mind games, gaslighting, and visceral intrigue, featuring psychological dramas, suspenseful thrillers, and crime-oriented stories often framed through a noir lens and written by celebrated authors featuring a far-reaching cast of Hollywood stars and electrifying performances by beloved character actors.
Both series’ earned a fistful of Emmy, Look Magazine, Golden Globe, and Television Champion awards for the best anthology and/or mystery program during their decade-long run.
Known for its suspenseful and thrilling stories that often revolve around murder, mystery, and psychological intrigue that often framed crime-oriented stories through a noir lens.
"I much preferred writing for the half-hour show"¦ There was always the possibility of doing what I call "˜gems.' The half-hours were compact and full of sharp point-breaking, bringing the audience in at the middle and then hitting them with the climax. Very clean. This got a little difficult to achieve in the hour shows, which were more like features except that they weren't, not really. They were actually more like extended half-hours. More was told about the same thing. I think the show suffered because of it, and I think the Hitchcock people felt so, too.""”writer Henry Slesar (as quoted in "The Alfred Hitchcock Presents Companion," 2001)
Initially, a variety of the stories adapted for the show appeared to be written with the implication that "˜crime does pay if you’re clever and lucky enough to get away with it – clincher. But this did not sit right with the network censors, not to mention Hitchcock's regular derogatory indictment of their commercials which put him at odds with the sponsors. So"¦ by the postscript he would update us on the fate of the villains, evildoers, and culprits to assure us that there was a moral code that existed on the show, and ultimately these malefactors paid a price for their immorality.
In other stories, not all the players were inherently malicious, wicked, twisted, greedy, or conniving. Innocent bystanders and some protagonists were set down in a story that challenged them to come out on the other end of their unnerving or sinister circumstances, and ultimately either found redemption or were delivered from their ordeal. Instead of fate’s unwavering day of retribution, anyone who deserved a break got one, and the sympathetic characters found a silver lining to their storm cloud. Many of the show’s stories, revealed their humanity
The episodes of Alfred Hitchcock Presents cover a wide range of genres, including crime- drama, mystery, suspense, psychological thriller, and the occasional horror story. Many of the episodes are adaptations of short stories and novels by famous authors, such as Roald Dahl, Ray Bradbury, and Cornell Woolrich, among other notable novelists and screenwriters.
One of the trademarks of the series is its surprising turnaround of events and twist endings, which are often unique, cleverly crafted, and carefully calculated plots that keep viewers on the edge of their seats. The show’s stories often explore the darker aspects of human nature, delving into the psychology of the characters and their motivations. Themes of guilt, paranoia, revenge, and moral ambiguity are often explored, creating a thought-provoking viewing experience, framed with masterful understatement all wrapped up with Hitch’s deliciously droll commentaries, dramatic musical flourishes, and palpable fade-outs.
“Alfred Hitchcock Presents” has been highly acclaimed for its innovative storytelling, compelling performances, and Hitchcock’s masterful direction.
Hitchcock's strictly British sense of humor, the deliciously wicked tone of the series, and his attitude toward directing television had carried over from his big-screen work in a similar vein for small-screen audiences.
At first, Hitchcock was hesitant about the idea of appearing on TV as his primary interest rested with film. Hitchcock biographer John Russell Taylor wrote the revelation Alfred Hitchcock Presents could work came from MCA's Lew Wasserman who had been Hitchcock's former agent and friend. In 1955, Wasserman was putting his mind to potential programming during the early days of television. "We ought to put Hitch on air." The idea of putting the master of suspense hosting a weekly show had a great deal of good sense."
Hitchcock had signed a contract with Richard Decker allowing his name to be the image of a monthly magazine Decker published featuring short stories with a mystery theme written by established or up-and-coming authors. In return for allowing his name to be used Decker hired Hitch's daughter Patricia as assistant editor. The publication would be called Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine.
In the mid-fifties, very few of Hollywood's major studios were actively involved in producing series for television. In 1959 MCA under President Lew Wasserman's leadership added Universal Pictures to its growing list of subsidiaries, and MCA/Revue was changed to Universal Television which then released Alfred Hitchcock Presents.
According to biographer John Russell Taylor, Hitchcock was not pretentious about his success in the motion picture business, however, the iconic director was aware that not many filmmakers who had maintained visibility on his level were actively working in that industry’s medium. While other directors wouldn’t want to be associated with television, Hitchcock had faith in his friend Lew Wasserman and agreed to delve into the world of the small screen, and the series was born.
Alfred Hitchcock named the new telefilm company Shamley Productions after the summer home he and Alma owned in a small village in Shamley Green south of London.
*For most in Hollywood, tv was considered a spurious and unauthentic medium, a commercial junkyard suitable only for unknowns and has-beens." – (from John McCarty and Brian Kelleher from Alfred Hitchcock Presents – An Illustrated Guide to The Ten-Year Television Career of the Master of Suspense)
Wasserman viewed the show and Hitchcock's hosting of it as a logical, intuitive outgrowth of the very successful Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine. In fact, many of the series' episodes were adapted from stories that first appeared in the magazine.
And Hitchcock's attitude toward directing television was that it was a bit of jolly devilry and fooling about from directing feature-length films, as it was far less a painstaking endeavor.
Though Hitchcock still brought his methodical work ethic to the table-
"He took enormous pride in doing these things very fast on a tight TV schedule without going a moment over. I remember when he did Lamb to the Slaughter" and he finished on the nose at six o clock quitting time, he turned around and said "there's your picture" Then he looked at everybody as if to say, "So don't comet o me with any ideas that you need an extra hour or two for something else. "It was all in fun, but the message was clear: all of you had better be able to finish at six too." – Norman Lloyd
Vera Miles in the premier episode of Alfred Hitchcock Presents ‘Revenge’ S1E1 in 1955.
After its debut on October 2 1955 with the first episode "Revenge" directed by Hitchcock himself, each week gained devoted viewers who were thrilled with the show's sense of the macabre.
Hitchock’s well-known public persona while considered the archetype of genius over collaboration, boldly moved into the realm of television and was part of a team that created an anthology series with a team of extraordinary writers & directors who were perceptive, literate, and witty.
Above are two images of Jessica Tandy and Tom Conway in The Glass Eye S3E1 1957.
Robert Stevens who directed 145 episodes of a similar theme show Suspense which ran between 1949-1954 directed over thirty episodes in Hitchcock’s series more than any other director overall, including some of the most memorable like the chilling installment – The Glass Eye starring Jessica Tandy which is a ghoulish adaptation of the classic theme of the ventriloquist who is bedeviled by his dummy. This installment of the show’s second season earned Stevens an Emmy as best director of a half-hour show. He was the only director ever to win an award for Alfred Hitchcock Presents.
In 1959 Stevens took time to direct the pilot for Rod Sterling’s Twilight Zone with Earl Holliman in Where is Everybody. He did another of the show’s most memorable episodes, Walking Distance.
They helped establish Alfred Hitchcock Presents and The Alfred Hitchcock Hour as one of the great classics of American television – distinctive for their sardonic prologues with Hitchcock as the master of ceremonies conducting the series of sketches, and macabre tableaus that invited you into the evening’s story. Hitchcock intoning impish incentives by writer Jimmy Allardice. The show offered a collection of Mephistophlean teleplays, infused with suspenseful, often darkly humorous masquerades.
The series also features a collection of impressive directors: Ida Lupino, Paul Henreid, Herschel Daugherty, John Brahm, Arthur Hiller, Alan Crosland Jr., Leo Penn, Joseph Pevney, Robert Stevenson, Stuart Rosenberg, Bernard Girard, Robert Florey, John Newland, Don Medford, Francis Cockrell, Boris Sagal, Alf Kjellin and George Stevens Jr.
Hitchcock, Joan Harrison, and actor/producer/director Norman Lloyd preferred stories about unextraordinary people, their lives outwardly not illicit or taboo however they become involved in dubious, unlucky, or dangerous situations like murder, blackmail, or misguided schemes that descend into a darkly ironic conclusion.
Norman Lloyd, whose speech and singularity carved out a niche as typically British and thoroughly sardonically impish appeared in several of Hitchcock's films, most notably Saboteur 1942as the menacing Frank Fry who meets a spectacular cinematic end.
Norman Lloyd in Alfred Hitchcock’s Saboteur 1942.
"Around 1955 they got Hitchcock to say he'd do television which was a big thing. And in '57 the order for the half hour show was amplified, with a new series called Suspicion. I think Suspicion had many shows. Hour shows. And MCA took ten of them. New York took ten and so forth. And with the ten he was adding on they used to do 39 half hour shows a series. It was his producer Joan Harrison, is how I really learned how to be a producer. Divine. She was beautiful, exquisitely dressed, in perfect taste for the set. She was divine. She was a writer for him, and she was now his producer. And they needed someone else to come in an help her because of the quantity of the work not for the half hours, but now the hour. So she and Hitch decided, they wanted me to do it. Cause I also knew Joan very well. And so they presented my name"¦ however"¦ And this was told to me by Alan Miller who headed television at MCA, he came back, Alan Miller from the network and says "˜there seems to be a problem about Lloyd' and Hitch said, "˜I want him!' that was the end of the blacklist!" -Norman Lloyd
The television series also consisted of several episodes that featured both Hitchcock and Lloyd’s daughters Patricia and Josie.
The show is characterized by its Aesopean host- "Televisions jovial undertaker"(McCarty and Kelleher)"¦ offering his solemn "˜Good Night.’
Alfred Hitchcock’s cheeky little teasers featured its iconic musical initiation with Gounod's "Funeral March of a Marionette" as Hitch's silhouetted kisser merged with the quirky little line drawing which was led into one of Allardice's offbeat fun size segues.
Hitchcock emerges mischievously at the beginning and end of each episode, delivering satirical introductions and conclusions, with his signature tongue-in-cheek reaction to that evening’s stories. His dry and sardonic presence effectively compliments the show’s featured parable and displaces any tension from the seriousness of the episode with Hitch’s comic relief.
The show was ravenous for stories trying to compete with its rivals The Twilight Zone and Boris Karloff’s Thriller. The insistence on only published stories.
One of Hitchcock’s primary producers was a British-American film producer, screenwriter, and casting director, Joan Harrison. She met Hitchcock in 1935 after answering his ad in a London newspaper for a secretary. She may have begun her career as a secretary to Alfred Hitchcock in 1939. Harrison gained momentum, forging ahead with her career, and by 1940 she was Hitchcock’s associate producer.
But it was her ultra-motivated astuteness and keen administrative proficiency that helped advance herself until in 1939 she became his closest collaborator co-writing several screenplays for Jamaica Inn, Rebecca 1940, Foreign Correspondent Suspicion 1941, and Saboteur. Additionally working with Hitchcock on several films, including Shadow of a Doubt (1943), Rope 1948 and Strangers on a Train (1951).
In 1942 she pursued her own career as an independent producer, a position not held by many women, then. Much of her films fall under the influence of a mystery bent, with one of her finest films being They Won't Believe Me 1947 a psychological film noir directed by Irving Pichel and starring Robert Young, Susan Hayward, and Jane Greer.
Joan Harrison produced one of the most underrated film noirs Phantom Lady 1944, directed by Robert Siodmak, based on a novel by Cornell Woolwich author of Rear Window, and scripted by Bernard C. Schoenfeld, who would both later write many of the show’s episodes. Another highly effective and sorely underrated noir Harrison directed is Ride the Pink Horse 1947.
In 1944, she left Hitchcock’s production company to start her own, producing several films, including The Strange Love of Martha Ivers (1946), and The Locket (1946).Â
One of the aspects of both the half-hour and full-hour series’ magic was the brilliant cast, borrowing from some of television’s outstanding dramatic character actors of that period, but notably, the stars who made the transition from the big screen to television’s more intimate venue.
Working with Hitchcock on The Trouble with Harry clearly foreshadowed the direction Hitch’s show was going to take. In 1955 Joan Harrison rejoined him as an associate producer both knowledgeable about mystery and suspense literature – she became actively involved in the story selections.
In 1955, Harrison not only produced the show but she served as the casting director for Alfred Hitchcock Presents for its entire run from 1955 to 1965.
She helped cast some of the show’s most famous episodes, including Back For Christmas, Lamb to the Slaughter, and “Hitch Hike”
Isobel Elsom and John Williams in Alfred Hitchcock Presents – Back for Christmas s1e23 1956.
Alfred Hitchcock Presents Hitch Hike S5E21 1960 starring Suzanne Pleshette, John McIntire, and Robert Morse.
Joan Harrison lends the show its engaging charm which credits Harrison’s keen eye for selecting the best possible actors to fit the archetypal characters for the compelling ironic murder mysteries, nail-biters, and crime-driven stories.
Harrison who progressed from secretary to screenwriter to independent producer signed onto the show where she was fully able to materialize her vision of some of the most suspenseful dramatizations. She retired from the film industry in 1965.
Norman Lloyd started producing and directing a limited number of episodes each season. At this same time, Gordon Hessler was elevated to associate producer.
Gordon Hessler who had a tv background that included a period where he was enlisted as a story editor, director, and production associate also joined the show as a producer. Once Harrison started to phase out her involvement on the show and move back to England with her husband British mystery writer Eric Ambler, she passed it on to Lloyd while he continued to assist as associate producer.
"At the end of this time, there was a rearrangement at Shamley and I was made a producer equally with Joan Harrison. It was also around this time that the show went to an hour. We both produced alternately. Then, for the final two years, I was made the show's executive producer alone."
Eventually, he moved on to directing horror features- The Oblong Box 1969, Scream and Scream Again 1970, Cry of the Banshee 1970, Murders in the Rue Morgue 1971, and The Golden Voyage of Sinbad 1974.
The series often used writer Robert Bloch who began working on the show in 1959 in the middle of its ten-year run. The writer hadn't met with Hitchcock while filming the adaptation of his novel Psycho 1960. Two of Bloch's published stories had been bought for the series and adapted by others before his arrival in Hollywood later that year.
He began adapting his own published stories and his work was dramatized for the series. He was heavily involved in the show and mutually committed to writing screenplays and contributing to Boris Karloff's similar anthology series Thriller both programs produced at Universal Studios.
"Shortly after I began my own work as a novice television writer for a little-esteemed syndication series, I was summoned to Hitchcock's Shamley Production office and offered an assignment to do a script based on Frank Mace's story ‘The Cuckoo Clock.'– Robert Bloch
“Give them pleasure. The same pleasure they have when they wake up from a nightmare.” – Alfred Hitchcock
The role Barbara Steele plays in the legacy of Italian Gothic cinema of the 1960s achieving cult status, is arguably her most recognizable contribution to the sub-genre of the horror film. She’s been christened The High Priestess of Horror, Queen of Horror, and The Dark Goddess, the latter, the implication being her prowess is proof there’s a link between beauty (a woman’s power) and evil. Steele’s persona is suitable as a femme fatale, and the sum of her work is extremely feminist.
According to journalist Maitland McDonagh, she is The Face that Launched a Thousand Screams. She is the sadomasochistic Madonna of the “cinefantastique”; the queen of the wild, the beautiful, and the damned.”
“Of all the stars of horror cinema, Barbara Steele may have come the closest to pure myth {“¦} she suggests a kinky and irresistible sexual allure” – (David J Hogan)
“With goldfish-bowl eyes radiating depraved elfin beauty, and what she calls her ‘old, suspicious Celtic soul burning blackly within, Steele played the princess in a dark fairytale.” ‘They sense something in me’ she once said of her fans, but surely it was true of her directors also. Steele followed with ‘Maybe some kind of psychic pain. The diva Dolorosa of the 1910s, reincarnated as a voluptuous revenant.’ – (from David Cairns and Daniel Riccuito for Sight and Sound)
“Angel Carter (1982) named the three surrealist love goddesses as Louise Brooks first and foremost followed by Dietrich and third Barbara Steele. With regards to Steele however, not all the following descriptions emanate from surrealists caught in the grip of amour fou”(obsessive passion).- (The Other Face of Death: Barbara Steele and La Maschera Del Demonio by Carol Jenks from NECRONOMICON edited by Andy Black)
“The very symbol of Woman as vengeful, alien and “˜other’.” (Nicholls 1984)
“Steele perfectly embodies both the dread and the desire necessary to imply alluring and transgressive sexuality.”(Lampley-Women in the Horror films of Vincent Price)
“It’s not me they’re seeing. They’re casting some projection of themselves, some aspect that I somehow symbolizes. It can’t possibly be me.” Barbara Steele quoted-(Warren 1991)
“You can’t live off being a cult.” Barbara Steele
