There’s a peculiar melancholy that lingers in the shadows of 1940s suspense cinema—a decade when the world seemed poised on a knife’s edge. The silver screen became a mirror for our deepest anxieties and desires. These films do so much more than simply entertain: they wrap us in a velvet shroud of uncertainty, where every footstep echoes with suspicion. Every silhouette threatens to dissolve into menace. They’re films spun from the fevered minds of visionary directors like Alfred Hitchcock, Fritz Lang, Robert Siodmak, and Jacques Tourneur, whose names became synonymous with the undercurrent of unease and tension, psychological intrigue, and atmospheric storytelling.
When I think about what makes 1940s suspense so compelling, often entering into noir territory, I always end up circling back to Robert Siodmak and Jacques Tourneur. Both directors had such a distinctive touch, but their approaches to tension and atmosphere were uniquely their own.
Robert Siodmak left a significant mark on cinema, blending noir atmosphere with psychological depth. He was a master of shadow and suspense, and you can see his roots in German Expressionism all over his films. He used black-and-white cinematography and urban landscapes not just for style, but to create a mood where darkness and light almost become characters themselves.
His films are packed with high-contrast lighting, inventive camera angles, and a sense of claustrophobia. He sets a mood that wraps the narrative in an airless vise like walls closing steadily around the story, unsettling and persistent.
Siodmak’s Phantom Lady starring Thomas Gomez, Ella Raines, and Franchot Tone.
Siodmak loved intricate, sometimes non-linear narratives—think of how The Killersunfolds through flashbacks, or how Criss Cross twists around on itself with betrayals and doomed romance. His characters are rarely straightforward heroes or villains; instead, they’re flawed, morally ambiguous, and often trapped by fate. Some of his best work includes noir masterpieces like The Killers 1946 and Criss Cross 1949, and suspenseful classics like Phantom Lady 1944 and The Spiral Staircase 1946—with Dorothy McGuire’s Helen navigating the labyrinth of shadows and peril—stand as cornerstones in the canon of suspense cinema, helping to define the genre’s enduring legacy of psychological complexity, visual innovation, and atmospheric dread.
Jacques Tourneur, on the other hand, brought a supernatural and Gothic edge to the genre. He was all about atmosphere and suggestion. He had this gift for making you feel like something terrifying was lurking just out of sight, using shadows, mood, and sound to let your imagination fill in the blanks. In his horror films—like Cat People 1942, I Walked with a Zombie 1943, and The Leopard Man 1943—he cultivates a cinematic spirit where the supernatural is always ambiguous, hovering just beyond the grasp of certainty.
James Bell and Jean Brooks in The Leopard Man 1943.
The sense of “the uncanny” is central: his films obscure any concrete visual cue, leaving us suspended between rational explanation and the possibility of something otherworldly. He rarely showed the threat outright, which somehow made things even more frightening.
Even when he shifted to noir with Out of the Past 1947, he brought that same sense of ambiguity and unease, blending hard-boiled crime with an almost ghostly mood. Tourneur’s camera work was elegant and fluid, and he had a real knack for subtle storytelling, leaving things unsaid, allowing us to draw our own conclusions. His best films (Out of the Past, Cat People, I Walked with a Zombie, Night of the Demon) are masterpieces of mood and restraint, proving that sometimes what you don’t see is even more powerful than what you do.
Both directors left a huge mark on suspense and noir, but in very different ways: Siodmak through his brooding, fatalistic cityscapes and tangled plots, and Tourneur through his poetic minimalism and haunting, ambiguous worlds.
Alfred Hitchcock stood at the high point of this thrilling movement— his American debut with Rebecca (1940), followed by Foreign Correspondent (1940), Suspicion (1941), Saboteur (1942), Spellbound (1945), and Notorious (1946). And one of Hitchcock’s most suspenseful works of the 1940s, Shadow of a Doubt (1943), with its chilling portrait of small-town innocence corrupted by Joseph Cotten’s unforgettable Merry Widow killer, Uncle Charlie. Hitchcock’s sensibility helped define the modern suspense film, blending ordinary protagonists, in seemingly ordinary situations, who find themselves mixed up with extraordinary danger.
Teresa Wright in Alfred Hitchcock’s suspense masterpiece Shadow of a Doubt 1943.
These directors dominated the suspense scene with pioneering cinematic techniques that heightened audience anxiety. I always marvel at how Hitchcock could make even the most mundane moments feel loaded with dread—he really knew how to keep us all on edge.
Honestly, I find myself endlessly drawn back to the suspense films of the 1940s—they just have this magnetic pull. Every time I revisit one, there’s that familiar jolt of excitement, like stepping into a world where danger is always just out of sight. The atmosphere is impossible to shake: shadows that seem to conspire, and a sense that every corner hides someone with sinister intentions. There’s something so compelling about watching depraved or nefarious characters weave their schemes while unsuspecting victims edge ever closer to peril. It’s that constant dance between predator and prey, menace and vulnerability, that keeps me hooked and makes these films feel so alive and unnerving. Suspense is painted with a palette of chiaroscuro, their stories flickering between light and shadow, hope and doom.
Fritz Lang was another towering figure. He brought his German Expressionist sensibilities to Hollywood and delivered classics like Man Hunt (1941), Ministry of Fear (1944), Secret Beyond the Door (1947), The Woman in the Window (1944), and Scarlet Street (1945). Lang’s films were marked by shadowy visuals, moral ambiguity, and a deep sense of fatalism.
Laird Cregar in Brahm’s The Lodger 1944.
John Brahm (Hangover Square, 1945; The Lodger, 1944) also contributed iconic suspense films that remain influential. Carol Reed’s Night Train to Munich (1940)and later The Third Man (1949) showcased British suspense at its finest, blending espionage with psychological tension. Alongside these luminaries, the decade was rich with directors who worked more quietly or off the beaten path, crafting understated or cult-favorite suspense thrillers. Mark Robson delivered the eerie The Seventh Victim (1943), a film that has grown in reputation for its ambiguous, atmospheric horror.
Carol Reed’s The Third Man starring Orson Welles as Harry Lime.
André De Toth’s Dark Waters (1944) offered a Southern Gothic take on suspense, while Stuart Heisler’s Among the Living (1941) explored madness and mistaken identity in a moody, underseen gem. Delmer Daves’ two superb 1947 gems – Dark Passage (1947), starring Humphrey Bogart and Lauren Bacall is a suspenseful thriller about a man falsely convicted of his wife’s murder who escapes from prison and goes on the run to prove his innocence, aided by a mysterious woman, and The Red Housea psychological mystery starring Edward G. Robinson and Judith Anderson, that centers on a secluded farmhouse, a mysterious red house in the woods, and dark family secrets that gradually come to light.
Joseph H. Lewis’s My Name Is Julia Ross (1945) is another compact, chilling entry, now celebrated for its taut direction and psychological depth. British directors also contributed to the genre’s richness. Norman Lee’s The Door with Seven Locks (1940)is a prime example of the “old dark house” thriller, and Thorold Dickinson’s Gaslight (1940) (the original British version) remains a masterclass in psychological manipulation and dread. There’s also George Cukor’s 1944 version of Gaslight starring Charles Boyer and Ingrid Bergman. Boris Ingster’s Stranger on the Third Floor (1940), though initially overlooked, is now recognized as a foundational film in both suspense and noir, with its surreal visuals and Kafkaesque atmosphere. Mexican director Roberto Gavaldón contributed with films such as La otra (The Other One 1946), a suspenseful tale of twins, murder, and identity. Starring Dolores del Río, La otra was later remade by Warner Bros. as Dead Ringer (1964)starring Bette Davis.
“A life that should have been but never was! A fate that moved on twisting and tortuous paths!” – Dolores del Río, La Otra (The Other One)
Charles Boyer and Ingrid-Bergman in George Cukor’s Gaslight 1940.
Italian director Mario Soldati’s Malombra (1942) is a Gothic thriller with psychological suspense, featuring a haunted castle and a woman tormented by the past. Spanish director Edgar Neville stands out as the filmmaker most closely associated with suspense and crime thrillers in 1940s Spain. His film The Tower of the Seven Hunchbacks (La torre de los siete jorobados 1944) is a prime example—a fantastical mystery that plunges beneath the streets of old Madrid into a hidden world of intrigue, secret societies, and atmospheric menace.
The era’s thrillers-whether set in fog-choked London alleys, rain-soaked American mansions, or the labyrinthine byways of the mind-wove together noir’s bruised romanticism with the Gothic’s haunted longing all left their mark.
To revisit these films is to wander through that gallery of haunted rooms and rain-slicked streets, to step into a hall of mirrors, where every reflection is tinged with longing and every corridor leads deeper into uncertainty. Guided by directors who understood that suspense isn’t just about who did it or how—it’s about why we’re so drawn to the darkness at the edge of the frame. The legacy of 1940s suspense lies not just in its twists and revelations, but in the way these stories taught us to savor tension, to live inside the question, and to find beauty—even solace—suspensce is not just in the twists and revelations but in the way these stories taught us to savor the tension. It’s the melancholy art of not knowing what comes next.
The suspense thrillers of the 1940s were far more than products of their time—they were blueprints for the future, boldly blurring the lines between crime, horror, melodrama, and psychological drama. This willingness to experiment with genre boundaries opened the door to hybrid storytelling and tonal complexity. What makes these films so enduring isn’t just their style, but the way they tapped into the anxieties and shifting social landscape of their era, layering narrative daring with emotional depth and visual invention.
At their heart, these films revolve around recurring themes that resonate as strongly now as they did then. The “innocent-on-the-run” motif—ordinary people ensnared in webs of danger, mistaken identity, or conspiracy—heightened suspense by placing vulnerable protagonists in unfamiliar, often threatening situations, as seen in Hitchcock’s Foreign Correspondent (1940).
There are recurring tropes of Psychological Manipulation and Gaslighting: Films like Gaslight (1944) explored the theme of psychological abuse and manipulation, often within domestic or romantic relationships. Films that include Hitchcock’s Suspicion 1941, Joseph L. Mankiewicz’s Dragonwyck 1946, and Douglas Sirk’s Sleep, My Love 1948.These stories delved into the erosion of sanity, the questioning of reality, and the power dynamics between abuser and victim, reflecting broader anxieties and inherent fear about trust and control.
Some stories dealt with Doomed Romance, Paranoia, Conspiracy, and Betrayal—the pursuit of the object of desire and the fatal consequences of passion or unrequited love became a staple theme. Shaped by the looming shadow of war, these stories have a sense of dread and moral ambiguity. At the same time, claustrophobic settings and the motif of “the trap” amplified the tension, both literal and psychological. The shadow of World War II and the emerging Cold War infused thrillers with a sense of paranoia and distrust.
Henri-Georges Clouzot’s Le Corbeau 1943.
Films like Rebecca 1940, Henri-Georges Clouzot’s Le Corbeau 1943, The Mask of Dimitrios 1944 directed by Jean Negulesco, Hitchcock’s Notorious 1946, and The Stranger (1946), directed by and starring Orson Welles, The Two Mrs. Carrolls 1947directed by Peter Godfrey. Reed’s The Third Man 1949, like many plots, often revolved around espionage, hidden enemies, and conspiracies, blurring the line between friend and foe and tapping into the era’s fear of infiltration and betrayal.
Moral Ambiguity and the Blurring of Good and Evil: Claustrophobia and the Trap: Many suspense films used confined or oppressive settings- locked rooms, shadowy mansions, fog-bound cities- to create a sense of entrapment. The “structure of the trap” was a key motif, with suspense built around the hero or heroine’s efforts to escape both literal and psychological confinement—Delmer Daves’s The Red House 1947. We also see Psychological Struggle and Internal Conflict: The best thrillers of the era didn’t just pit their characters against external threats, but also explored their inner turmoil. Themes of mental instability, trauma, and existential dread ran through films like Spellbound (1945) and The Spiral Staircase (1946), and Sorry, Wrong Number 1948, directed by Anatole Litvak and starring Barbara Stanwyck, where the real enemy was often within.
Barbara Stanwyck in Anatole Litvak’s Sorry, Wrong Number 1948.
Quite often, there was Patriarchal Control and Vulnerable Women: Many thrillers, especially those with noir or Gothic elements, explored the vulnerability of women in a patriarchal system, highlighting themes of emotional control, manipulation, and the struggle for autonomy, as seen in Gaslight and similar films. Women in Hiding 1940, directed by Richard Thorpe, and Uncle Silas 1947 (released in the U.S. as The Inheritance) starring Jean Simmons. Experiment Perilous 1944 directed by Jacques Tourneur. Starring Hedy Lamarr, it is a Gothic suspense film in which Hedy Lamarr’s character is trapped in a mansion with a controlling, possibly murderous husband. The story revolves around a woman’s struggle to survive and assert her autonomy amid a suffocating, patriarchal household. There was Undercurrent 1946, directed by Vincente Minnelli, starring Katharine Hepburn as a new bride who becomes increasingly fearful of her husband’s dark secrets and controlling behavior. The film explores the dangers of male authority and the erasure of female agency within marriage.
Crime, Murder, and the “Whodunit” Puzzle: Many suspense thrillers center on the mystery of a crime, often murder, and the gradual unraveling of clues, red herrings, and secrets. The “whodunit” structure provided a framework for suspense and brought us into the obstacle course and the tension of the mystery.
Olivia de Havilland in a dual role in Robert Siodmak’s The Dark Mirror 1946.
And, of course, we can forget: Psychological and Psycho-Sexual Disturbance. Beneath the shadowy intrigue of 1940s suspense thrillers pulses a current of psychological and psycho-sexual disturbance, where repressed desires, fractured identities, and taboo obsessions drive characters to the brink of madness and violence. This captures both the psychological and the psycho-sexual elements- think of films like The Strange Love of Martha Ivers (1946), directed by Lewis Milestone, Fritz Lang’s Secret Beyond the Door 1947, Phantom Lady 1944, Spellbound 1945, The Dark Mirror 1946, and that same year, Hedy Lamarr would become the dark antiheroine in Edge G. Ulmer’s taut, The Strange Woman. Ulmer brought a distinctive, atmospheric touch to this tale of power, desire, and moral ambiguity. Also in 1946, there was John Brahm’s The Locket, where inner turmoil and forbidden impulses are as suspenseful as any external threat.
One of the most unforgettable images comes from Alfred Hitchcock’s Saboteur (1942), where the climactic confrontation atop the Statue of Liberty’s torch delivers a harrowing blend of vertigo and dread. As the real saboteur Norman Lloyd as the villain Frank Fry, clings desperately to the statue’s hand, we’re left breathless, suspended between sky and sea, in a sequence that remains a blueprint for tension in visual suspense.
Norman Lloyd as the villain Frank Fry in Hitchcock’s Saboteur 1942.
One of the most haunting moments in 1940s suspense comes courtesy of Dorothy McGuire as Helen in Robert Siodmak’s The Spiral Staircase 1946. There’s a particular sequence that has stayed with me: Helen, mute and utterly alone in the storm-battered mansion, senses the killer closing in. McGuire’s expressive eyes and trembling hands do all the speaking—her fear is so palpable it practically seeps off the screen. As Helen ascends the shadow-soaked spiral staircase, every twist of the banister seems to tighten the grip of dread, the candlelight flickering across her face as if the house itself is conspiring to keep her silent. The camera coils around her, mirroring her mounting panic, while thunder rattles the windows and the killer’s presence presses in from every dark corner. It’s a stroke of genius in Silent Terror: McGuire’s Helen, trapped between floors and fate, becomes the embodiment of vulnerability and resilience, and in that moment, you can’t help but hold your breath right along with her.
For this collection of suspense that lurks off the beaten path, I’m hoping you’ll join me in descending these winding staircases and wander through this particular hall of mirrors, as we honor the spellbinding legacy of 1940s suspense- a genre that, like a half-remembered dream, refuses to fade with the dawn.
Alfred Hitchcock’s Psycho (1960) is the psycho-sexual thriller that yanked back the shower curtain on our deepest fears and cinema’s darkest secrets and showed us what real terror looks like. It’s the film that peered through the peephole and exposed the dark heart of the genre.
A film that didn’t just change horror, but rewired the DNA of cinema itself. Adapted from Robert Bloch’s 1959 novel, which itself drew chilling inspiration from the real-life crimes of Ed Gein, a Wisconsin serial killer whose crimes were truly disturbing. Psycho takes the seed of true crime and grows it into a nightmarish meditation on identity, repression, the monstrous potential, and the unsettling truth that real darkness can hide just beneath the surface of everyday life, tucked away within the people we’d usually never think twice about.
Part of Psycho’s enduring power lies in what it withholds—the violence is never explicit, but rather implied, allowing our minds to fill in the blanks with something far more unsettling. It’s a testament to Hitchcock’s mastery that, despite the lack of graphic imagery, the film remains so psychologically intense that many still find it too frightening to watch.
Janet Leigh’s Marion Crane, the Hitchcock blonde who didn’t make it out of the film, is our way into the story. On the run after a really bad decision, she starts out as our anchor, our heroine—until Hitchcock does something unheard of. He pulls the rug out from under us, shatters and subverts all narrative expectations with the infamous shower scene, a sequence so meticulously constructed (78 camera setups, 52 cuts in 45 seconds) that it became an instant cinematic legend that even now we can’t stop talking about it.
Psycho kicks off with Marion Crane making a desperate grab for a new life, stealing $40,000 and hitting the road. A rain-soaked detour leads her to the lonely Bates Motel, where she meets the awkward but oddly charming Norman Bates, who loves glasses of milk and stuffing things that were once breathing.
Norman Bates is a lonely caretaker running a rundown motel, totally warped and pretty much broken by his domineering mother. Hitchcock takes those two intersecting characters and, with Anthony Perkins in the role as Norman, gives us something unforgettable. Through his mesmerizing performance, Perkins brings Norman to life as both deeply sympathetic and seriously one of the film’s and historically, cinema’s most enduring and unsettling figures. A young man whose mind is so fractured that you’re never sure if he’s the victim, the villain, or somehow both at once. Norman Bates is not just a monster; he has become one of the first truly unflinching American psychos and anti-heroes, and you can’t help but be drawn in by how human he really is on the surface.
After a tense dinner and a fateful shower, Marion vanishes, leaving her sister, boyfriend, and a persistent private detective to unravel what happened. As they dig deeper, the secrets of the Bates house come spilling out, revealing a shocking truth about Norman and his “mother” that redefines the meaning of horror.
Janet Leigh brings real vulnerability to Marion, while Vera Miles is all grit and determination as her sister Lila—she’s not letting anything go unsolved. Then there’s John Gavin as Sam Loomis, who’s basically the poster boy for stubborn, all-American macho (and honestly, sometimes he’s about as flexible as a brick wall). Martin Balsam’s detective Arbogast rounds things out with his dogged persistence. Together, this cast grounds the film’s surreal terror in raw, relatable humanity. When Marion vanishes without a trace, Lila, Sam, and Arbogast follow her trail to the Bates Motel. There, a watchful house on the hill hints at secrets far darker than they ever imagined. They uncover the chilling truth behind Marion’s disappearance and the twisted mystery of her tragic fate.
Cinematographer John L. Russell’s stark black-and-white visuals are more than an aesthetic choice—they’re a psychological landscape, channeling German Expressionism and film noir to mirror the splintered landscape of Norman’s identity and the film’s themes of duality and concealment. Shadows slice across faces, mirrors double and distort, and the Bates house looms like a Gothic specter over the isolated Motel, every frame charged with dread and ambiguity.
Bernard Herrmann’s score is the film’s nervous system: those shrieking, stabbing strings in the shower scene are as iconic as the images themselves, turning the amplifier up on the violence and anxiety to an almost unbearable pitch. The music’s relentless tension is inseparable from the film’s atmosphere, setting a new standard for how sound and image can conspire to unsettle our nerves.
Psycho didn’t just push the boundaries of violence—a violence rendered through Hitchcock’s art of suggestion and sexuality on screen—it obliterated them, introducing the world to the slasher film and forever altering the way filmmakers approached suspense, character, and narrative structure. It was the birth of the modern American horror genre.
Hitchcock’s masterpiece is more than the sum of its shocks; it’s a study in the darkness that can fester beneath the most ordinary facades, a film that forces us to confront the monsters within and leaves us, decades later, wary of shower curtains and gives every lonely roadside motel a sinister edge and certainly a fear of All-American males with boyish good looks who might just have their mummified mother’s body eternally presiding over the shadows, in the fruit cellar.
Alfred Hitchcock’s The Birds (1963) is a film where the ordinary turns apocalyptic, and at its center is Tippi Hedren’s Melanie Daniels—a woman whose arrival in the sleepy coastal town of Bodega Bay seems to unleash not just a flock of birds, but the full, terrifying force of female primacy. Melanie is no shrinking violet; she’s glamorous, independent, and unapologetically assertive, a socialite who crosses boundaries and upends the careful order of the Brenner family. Her presence is magnetic and disruptive, and as she steps into this insular community, the natural world itself seems to recoil and revolt.
The film opens with playful flirtation in a San Francisco pet shop, but as Melanie follows Mitch Brenner (Rod Taylor) to Bodega Bay, the tone shifts. What begins as a mischievous romantic pursuit quickly spirals into chaos when the birds—first a lone gull, then an unstoppable swarm—begin to attack. The violence escalates: children are beset at a birthday party, the town is terrorized, and the Brenner home becomes a fortress under siege. Hitchcock’s mastery is evident in every frame—the famous schoolyard scene, crows gathering with mathematical menace behind Melanie; the relentless assault in the attic, where she is reduced from poised outsider to battered survivor.
But beneath the surface, The Birds is a study in gendered power and social anxiety. Melanie’s arrival disrupts the fragile balance of the Brenner household: Lydia Brenner (Jessica Tandy), the possessive mother, sees her as a threat to her bond with Mitch; Annie Hayworth (Suzanne Pleshette), the schoolteacher and Mitch’s former lover, is collateral damage in the struggle for his attention. (It’s very hard for me to see Annie (or Bob Newhart’s Emily Hartley) lying face down with her beautiful eyes pecked out!) As critics and scholars have noted, the birds themselves become avatars of repressed female energy, latent sexuality, and the chaos that erupts when the established order is challenged.
Melanie’s very presence—her boldness, her beauty, her refusal to be cowed—seems to summon the avian apocalypse, as if the town (and nature itself) cannot contain the force she represents. The film never offers a tidy explanation for the attacks, leaving us to grapple with the possibility that the horror is a response to the threat of female autonomy and desire.
The birds, as related to the Harpies of Greek myth, can be seen as expressions pointing to a psychoanalytic and mythological interpretation of Hitchcock’s The Birds. According to Horowitz, the birds in the film can be seen as symbolic manifestations of the Harpies from Greek mythology: female, bird-like creatures associated with sudden violence, punishment, and the embodiment of destructive feminine energy.
The relentless bird attacks are not just random acts of nature, but are deeply connected to the psychological dynamics in the film, specifically, the jealousy and repressed rage of Lydia Brenner, Mitch’s mother. Lydia is threatened by Melanie Daniels’ arrival and her potential to disrupt the family structure. The Harpies, as mythic figures, were known for “snatching” away and exacting retribution, often representing uncontrollable forces of female anger and vengeance. In the context of the film, the birds become an outward expression of Lydia’s internal turmoil and possessiveness, as well as broader anxieties about female power and autonomy. Horowitz situates the bird attacks as both a mythic and psychological phenomenon, linked to the Harpies’ role as agents of chaos and punishment, and to Lydia’s own emotional state, making the violence in The Birdsa metaphor for the eruption of suppressed feminine power and resentment within the narrative.
Hitchcock’s technical innovation is everywhere: the seamless blend of live and mechanical birds, the absence of a traditional musical score replaced by electronic soundscapes and silence, the use of long takes and tracking shots to build suspense. The result is a film that feels both immediate and surreal, a waking nightmare where the familiar becomes uncanny and the safe becomes dangerous and lethal.
The Birds stands as a landmark in cinematic history, not just for its groundbreaking special effects and nerve-shredding suspense, but for its willingness to probe the psychological and social undercurrents of fear.
It helped birth the “nature attacks” subgenre, influencing everything from Jaws to Arachnophobia, but its true legacy lies in its ambiguity and its refusal to offer easy answers. The terror, like Melanie herself, is both alluring and unknowable—a force that cannot be domesticated or explained away.
In the end, as the battered survivors drive out of Bodega Bay, flanked by thousands of silent, watchful birds, we are left with a vision of power—feminine, natural, and utterly ungovernable—waiting just beyond the edge of our ordered lives. The Birdsis not just a tale of nature gone mad; it is a meditation on the dangers and desires that simmer beneath the surface, and a reminder that what we fear most may be the very thing we cannot control.
When I first saw The Otherduring its theatrical release in 1972, it left an imprint I’ve never quite shaken. The film washed over me with a beauty so haunting it hurt—a quiet devastation that crept in on the golden light of a sunny yet somber afternoon and lingered long after the credits faded. The film still has that effect on me. There was something almost unbearable in its tenderness, the way innocence unraveled into horror, each frame both a lullaby and a warning. I remember sitting in the dark, feeling as if the screen itself was breathing with sorrow and secrets, the story’s pain blooming inside me until it became somehow my own.
Even now, the memory of that first viewing feels like a bruise you press just to remind yourself it’s real: disturbing, yes, but also mesmerizing, impossible to look away from. It’s a film that compels me to return, to dig deeper, to give it the space it deserves at The Last Drive In—a place where I can finally unravel its strange, poetic ache and share the way it changed the shape of my heart and the essence of horror cinema. I’ll be delving deeper into the hauntingly idyllic yet menacing landscape of The Other in an upcoming piece, stay tuned for a closer look into the secrets of the Perry family farm, where twin boys embody two halves of a haunted whole, two currents swirling in the same dark stream, two reflections in a warped mirror.
In the haunted hush of The Other (1972), Robert Mulligan conjures a psychological horror that unfolds like a lucid dream beneath the golden haze of a Connecticut summer. The film’s surface is all sunlit nostalgia: tire swings, dusty barns, and the slow rhythms of rural life in 1935. But beneath this pastoral veneer, darkness coils and waits, ready to seep through the cracks of innocence. Here, evil is not a thing that comes from outside, but a shadow that grows within—a little boy, a secret twin, a buried grief, and a game that turns deadly.
Thomas Tryon’s work as a writer is marked by a haunting lyricism and a meticulous, almost sculptural attention to detail. After leaving behind a successful acting career (Tryon starred in The Cardinal 1963, directed by Otto Preminger, where he played the lead role of Stephen Fermoyle, a young Catholic priest.. On a lighter note, Tryon brought new meaning to “out-of-this-world romance” in the 1950s sci-fi gem I Married a Monster from Outer Space 1958—proving that sometimes, the real mystery is what your husband’s hiding in the spaceship out in the woods!) Thomas Tryon turned to fiction with a focus on psychological horror and the Gothic, crafting stories that linger at the edge of the everyday and the uncanny.
His prose is richly descriptive, conjuring vivid landscapes, whether the sun-drenched Connecticut countryside of The Other or the secretive, ritual-laden villages of Harvest Home, and suffusing them with a sense of unease and hidden menace. The latter, The Dark Secret of Harvest Home, a two-part miniseries aired on NBC on January 23 and 24, 1978, adapts Thomas Tryon’s chilling novel for television, with Bette Davis delivering one of her most commanding late-career performances as the enigmatic Widow Fortune—the iron-willed herbalist and matriarch whose presence anchors the secretive, ritual-bound village of Cornwall Coombe. Harvest Home delves into the dark undercurrents of small-town life, blending neo-pagan folklore with psychological suspense in a way that would influence later writers and filmmakers. His collection Crowned Heads turns a similarly unflinching eye to the glamour and secrets of Hollywood, revealing the masks and duplicity beneath the surface.
Tryon’s novels often explore themes of identity, duality, loss, and the corruption of innocence. In The Other, the fragile boundary between reality and imagination becomes a source of dread, as the young Nile’s internal struggle manifests in the world around him.
Stylistically, Tryon’s writing is atmospheric, precise, and deeply psychological. He builds tension slowly, favoring suggestion and implication over shock, and his stories are often suffused with a sense of nostalgia tinged with a creeping darkness. Critics have noted his ability to juggle large casts of characters with internal consistency and to imbue even minor figures with memorable detail. His work is also confessional, sometimes drawing on his own experiences and inner conflicts, and can be read as part of the American Gothic tradition, where the fear of losing one’s sense of self is ever-present.
In the landscape of 1970s horror, Tryon stands out for his elegant restraint and psychological depth. His novels are not just stories of terror, but meditations on the secrets we keep, the selves we hide, and the darkness that can bloom in the most familiar, ordinary places.
The Otherorbits Niles and Holland Perry, identical twins whose bond is so close it seems supernatural. Their world is shaped by loss: a father dead in a cellar accident, a mother (Diana Muldaur) bedridden by grief, and a grandmother, Ada (Uta Hagen), whose Russian mysticism and gentle wisdom offer Niles a fragile anchor. Ada teaches Niles an arcane ritual called “the game”—a kind of astral projection that lets him slip into the lives of others, even birds in flight, a gift that becomes a curse as the summer’s tragedies mount. The twins, played with eerie naturalism by Chris and Martin Udvarnoky, move through fields and orchards with cherubic faces yet a feral grace, their matching blonde hair and secret glances hinting at a world only they can see.
Accidents begin to haunt the Perry farm: a cousin impaled on a pitchfork, a neighbor dead of fright, a baby drowned in a wine barrel. Mulligan, best known for To Kill a Mockingbird 1963 and Summer of ’42 (1971), directs with a poet’s restraint, letting horror bloom in the margins. The camera lingers on wind-stirred curtains, sun-dappled grass, and the slow drift of dust motes in an empty barn; it also quietly tracks the secretive movements of a boy in the bloom of childhood as he slips, unseen, through the hidden corners of the Perry farm and the broader pastoral landscape that embraces the nearby farms and their neighbors.
Robert Mulligan’s direction in The Other elevates the film into a psychological masterpiece by masterfully blending the innocence of nostalgia with a mounting sense of dread. Much like he did in To Kill a Mockingbird, Mulligan brings a gentle, observational style to The Other, using the rhythms of everyday life and a child’s perspective to let innocence and menace quietly intertwine.
Rather than leaning into overt horror tropes, Mulligan crafts a world that, on its surface, evokes the gentle rhythms of a Depression-era coming-of-age tale—sunlit fields, boys at play, and the warmth of family routines. But this idyllic veneer is a deliberate misdirection: Mulligan uses it to lull us into a false sense of security, only to reveal the darkness festering beneath gradually.
His approach is subtle and deeply psychological. Mulligan’s camera lingers on the ordinary—games in the barn, quiet moments with the grandmother, the stillness of the farmhouse, inviting us to inhabit the emotional world of young Niles. Mulligan’s restraint is key: he resists sensationalism, instead letting tension build through suggestion, silence, and the uneasy interplay between characters. The result is a pervasive sense of unease, as we become attuned to the small cracks in the film’s nostalgic façade
Mulligan’s greatest achievement is how he externalizes the film’s central psychological conflict. He draws natural, unaffected performances from the Udvarnoky twins, making the “good twin/bad twin” dynamic feel heartbreakingly real. Scenes unfold with a quiet intimacy that makes the eventual revelations all the more devastating. The director’s use of ‘on-screen’ sound—simple, natural noises like wind, footsteps, and distant voices—heightens the isolation and internal turmoil of the characters, especially as the story’s supernatural undertones begin to surface.
Ultimately, with his careful, understated guidance, Mulligan’s direction of The Other offers us not just a chilling film but a haunting exploration of hidden truths, a study in contrasts: sunlight and shadow, innocence and guilt, reality and delusion. By refusing to romanticize his characters or the era, he creates a claustrophobic atmosphere where the true horror is psychological, rooted in grief, repression, and the blurred boundaries between self and other.
Cinematographer Robert Surtees bathes the film in a luminous melancholy, every frame a study in contrasts—light and shadow, innocence and guilt, the living and the dead. Surtees was known for his innovative use of lighting and camera techniques, adapting his style to suit each film’s needs, whether lush Technicolor epics, gritty black-and-white dramas, or modern widescreen productions. His work is marked by a painterly attention to color, light, and composition—he could evoke sweeping grandeur in films like Ben-Hurand King Solomon’s Mines, or intimate psychological tension in The Graduate and The Last Picture Show.Surtees won three Academy Awards (Oscars) for Best Cinematography during his career. He received Oscars for his work on King Solomon’s Mines (1950), The Bad and the Beautiful (1952), and Ben-Hur (1959).
He was a master of both spectacle and subtlety, able to create immersive, atmospheric visuals that served the story above all else. Surtees’s style is often described as chameleon-like: he brought a distinct visual identity to each project, whether through lavish location photography, expressive use of negative space, or nuanced lighting that heightened mood and character.
Robert Surtees’ cinematography in The Other does more than capture the surface beauty of rural Connecticut—it’s deeply psychological and emotionally charged, shaping how we experience the story’s innocence and dread. His lens bathes the landscape in a nostalgic, sunlit glow, evoking the wistfulness of childhood memories and the illusion of safety. But beneath this golden veneer, Surtees subtly unsettles us: the camera lingers just a little too long on empty fields or quiet spaces, making the familiar feel uncanny and hinting at the darkness threading through everyone’s lives.
Jerry Goldsmith stands alone as my favorite composer—his music doesn’t just stir emotion; it resonates with me on a deeper, more elusive frequency, moving me beyond sentiment into something profound and ineffable. His melodies linger in my psyche, awakening feelings that words can’t quite reach.
For The Other, Goldsmith’s score is a minor-key lullaby, its gentle unease winding through the film like a half-remembered nursery rhyme. Each note seems to hang in the air like mist over a golden summer field—beautiful, yes, but edged with sorrow, as if the music itself is mourning something it cannot name. In The Other, Goldsmith doesn’t just underscore the narrative; he breathes life into its shadows, weaving a spell of longing and liminal otherworldliness. His music is the film’s secret language—evocative, haunting, and utterly inescapable.
The acting is quietly devastating. Uta Hagen, in one of her rare film roles, brings warmth and gravity as Ada, her love for Niles tinged with anguish and forboding as she begins to glimpse the truth. The twins are remarkable: Chris Udvarnoky’s Niles is all wide-eyed vulnerability, while Martin’s Holland flickers at the edge of the frame, a phantom of mischief and malice. The supporting cast includes Victor French, John Ritter, Jenny Sullivan, and Lou Frizzell, not to mention Diana Muldaur, who brings a quiet, aching vulnerability to the role of Alexandra, the twins’ incapacitated mother, grounding the story in a lived-in reality, their performances understated but deeply felt.
Key scenes unfold with a kind of dream logic: the twins’ secret rituals in the barn, the grandmother’s desperate attempt to save Niles from himself, the final conflagration that leaves the family farm blackened and cursed. The film’s great twist—that Holland has been dead since spring, and Niles, unable to bear the loss, has kept his brother alive through “the game”—arrives not as a cheap shock, but as a slow, dawning horror. The revelation is less about the supernatural than about the wounds of grief and the perilous power of imagination.
The Otherintentionally leaves the question of the supernatural ambiguous. The narrative blurs the line between psychological disturbance and genuine supernatural influence, never fully revealing whether Niles is simply taking on Holland’s malevolent nature as a coping mechanism for grief and trauma or if he is actually channeling his dead twin’s spirit through “the game” taught by Ada.
Throughout the film, Niles commits a series of increasingly disturbing acts, attributing them to Holland, much like a dissociative split or a child’s desperate attempt to avoid facing his own actions. The story is told entirely from Niles’s perspective, which is itself unreliable, further complicating the truth of what’s happening. The presence of “the game”—a form of astral projection or psychic play—adds a layer of supernatural possibility, but the film never confirms whether this is real or simply the product of Niles’s imagination and psychological unraveling.
There are specific moments, such as Ada’s confrontation with Niles at Holland’s grave and the surreal, dreamlike tone of the final scenes, that reinforce this ambiguity. We are is left to wonder: Is Niles possessed, delusional, or both? Is Holland’s influence a literal haunting, or the manifestation of Niles’s fractured psyche?
In the end, the film’s refusal to provide a clear answer is part of what makes it so haunting and enduring. The horror lingers precisely because it is unresolved, leaving us to grapple with the possibility that the true evil may lie within, or just beyond the veil of reality.
Mulligan’s film stands apart from the more sensational horror of its era. It eschews gore and jump scares for something quieter and more insidious: the terror of what we carry inside, the violence that can bloom in the most beautiful places. In the landscape of 1970s horror, it is an underappreciated outlier—a film that draws its power from suggestion, atmosphere, and the ache of loss. Its images linger: a ring wrapped in a handkerchief, a boy’s face reflected in a well, a barn consumed by fire. By the end, the sunlit fields are stripped of innocence, the pastoral dream transformed into a nightmarish reverie.
The Otheris a film of haunted silences and poisoned summers, a story where evil wears the face of a child and the greatest horrors are the ones we cannot see. It is a minor-key masterpiece, as beautiful as it is disturbing—a ghost story whispered in broad daylight, and a reminder that sometimes the scariest monsters are those we invent to survive.
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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.
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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.
In films such as The Dark Mirror and The Locket, the male psychiatrist is posited as an antidote to the bad female by being "˜'established as a detective figure whose principal function is to investigate and ultimately to eradicate "˜deviance' (represented in these instances by excessive female desire.)'' From Frank Krutnik IN A LONELY STREET; FILM NOIR, GENRE AND MASCULINITY 1991
It is the phantom of our own Self, whose intimate relationship with and deep effect upon our spirit casts us into hell or transports us to Heaven – E.T.A. Hoffmann
”The figure of the double has been manifest in diverse forms. At times the doppelgänger has shown itself as an ether being – a shadow, a reflection or an animated portrait. At other points, it has taken the shape of an identical being – a person of kindred appearance, a relative, a twin.” From TWO-FACED WOMEN: THE "˜DOUBLE" IN WOMEN'S MELODRAMA OF THE 1940S – Lucy Fischer Cinema Journal 1983
In the 1920s hard-edged and gritty crime fiction became popular, and by the 1940s Hollywood embraced them. At the same time Freudian psychoanalysis became a big deal in America. People knew the basics of Freud’s ideas, so Hollywood could paint stories with ideas the audience could recognize, knowing that people would get the main gist. It became the foundation for some amazing visual displays. Dream sequences started popping up a lot in American cinema, most distinctive in thrillers and in particular in film noir. The Dark Mirror is one of the standout films made during the 1940s and 1950s that introduced psychiatry – like – Spellbound 1945 and two years later, de Havilland would star in Anatole Litvak’s The Snake Pit1948.
Much of film noir's psychological pathology gives rise to obsessive fixations on the object of one's desire. What differs with Siodmak's The Dark Mirror is that the psychotic's fixation lies with their sibling and not a lover.
The Dark Mirror is a psychological film noir released in 1946, directed by Robert Siodmak who worked with shadows in his various film noir/horror/ and thrillers like an artist works with paints. The film was produced and screenplay written by writer/director Nunnally Johnson who penned a slew of diverse screenplays that spanned the 1940s through the 1960s – including The Grapes of Wrath 1940, and The Dirty Dozen 1967.
Nunnally Johnson, transitioning from writer and producer to director, secured the rights and brought the story to life on screen. The film materialized through a collaborative effort between International Pictures, co-founded by Johnson and William Goetz, and Universal Pictures, marking their inaugural project under the Universal Pictures-International Pictures Banner.
The recently established studios were looking for a well-known name for their picture and Olivia de Havilland who was a huge star at the time came on board. She had recently taken legal action against Warner Bros. to terminate her contract and was now free from the studio's stranglehold.
In 1947, she delivered a noteworthy performance in To Each His Own for Paramount earning her the Academy Award for Best Actress. Following two films, The Well-Groomed Bride and Devotion in 1946, she entered into an agreement with Nunnally Johnson to star in The Dark Mirror.’
The Dark Mirror, like The Spiral Staircase both of which were classic ‘paranoid women’ /Â "˜woman's films' stars de Havilland who plays identical twins, one of whom is a knife-wielding paranoiac killer. The casting of de Havilland is significant particularly because she not only starred in a variety of women's pictures but her sister Joan Fontaine was also an iconic star of the paranoid woman's films. Some of the most notable are Hitchcock’s adaptation of Du Murier’s Rebecca 1940 and Nicolas Ray’s Born to Be Bad 1950.The Dark Mirror presents itself as a psychological noir right from the start of the film with the Rorschach blots backgrounding the titles.
Olivia de Havilland engaged in a notable real-life conflict with her younger sister – silver screen star Joan Fontaine. This behind-the-scenes rivalry positioned the actress to confront her own duality in Robert Siodmak’s 1946 quintessential film noir, The Dark Mirror.
Siodmak made some of the most critical film noirs in the late 1940s and early 1950s, including, The Killers 1946,Cry of the City 1948 Criss Cross 1949and The File on Thelma Jordon 1950. he had left the spotlight that shined on his pictures specializing in terror and became one of the most prominent directors of crime noir and suspense. By the early 1950s, he grew weary of Hollywood and returned to Germany.
In this way, the reception of Siodmak's 1940s Hollywood films demonstrates the ways in which the category of horrors incorporates films now seen as thrillers, film noir, and examples of the ‘woman's film.’ Siodmak brought with him the sensibility of German cinema strongly associated with the art of shadows and horror.
It's clear, that director Robert Siodmak was drawn to exploring the human psyche in his picture, and The Dark Mirror is a perfect example of this. Siodmak was fascinated with the dynamic of the good sister/bad sister which was apparent in his earlier works like Cobra Woman (1944)and The Strange Affair of Uncle Harry (1945).
Siodmak’s penchant for the use of shadow in his other work holds back his enduring use of chiaroscuro in The Dark Mirror. Apart from the opening scene, the only instances where he delicately manipulates light and shadow occur within the confines of the twins’ bedroom.
The bedroom is the place where we are most vulnerable, where they sleep, which is symbolic of the psychological warfare Terry wages against her sister Ruth. There was a historic rivalry and jealousy over the years. The perceived rejections by male suitors, even the adoptive parents who chose Ruth over her. At the end of the film, Detective Stevenson tells Dr. Elliot that he had the idea to lay a trap for Terry because he feared for Ruth's life. "˜'Even a nut can figure out that it's simpler to get rid of a rival than to go on knocking off her boyfriends all the rest of her life.''
A narrative featuring identical twins presented an ideal chance to delve deeper into the realm of the doppelgänger mythology, a theme that captivated him and inspired by Fritz Lang’s Metropolis (1927).
Based on a short story by Vladimir Pozner that appeared in Good Housekeeping in 1945, The Dark Mirroris notable for its exploration into the complexities of the human mind and the manifestation of conflicting identities.
Pozner's story was nominated for Best Story at the Academy Awards, though it lost to "˜'Vacation from Marriage” by Clemence Dane, which was adapted into a British movie released as Perfect Strangers in the UK starring Robert Donat and Deborah Kerr.
Collaborating with cinematographer Milton Krasner, known for his work on Lang’s Woman in the Window 1944 and Scarlet Street 1945, and All About Eve 1950, Siodmak enlisted an old colleague – Eugen Schüfftan, for visual effects. Schüfftan created the visual effects for Metropolis 1927. In the film, over three dozen shots feature mirrors, some to set the tone, but mostly to depict the inner conflict of the twins, highlighting their interchangeable likeness. De Havilland is shot beautifully in split screen using a stand-in when both twins appear.
Though de Havilland gave a very nuanced performance balancing opposing identities, down to the tone of her voice used for each sister, their body language, facial expressions, the subtle arching of her eyelids, and the sister's diverging character traits, Siodmak tried to ensure that the audience would have subtle cues for each of the characters. They were visibly "˜labeled' for us. De Havilland's Ruth is gentle yet timorous and softly spoken. She wrings her hands out of nervousness. Terry, however, is the bolder one, more assertive and hostile by a hair's breadth when challenged. Terry also smokes and is left-handed, while Ruth chooses to favor her right hand.
In a large part of the film, as in so many films, clothes often tell a story, in particular at the beginning of The Dark Mirrorthe twins wear identical clothing, Irene Shraff's costume designs, monogrammed dressing gowns, tailored houndstooth suits, initialed brooches, and largish necklaces bearing the letter ‘T’ and "˜R' might have been used as visual clues to help us sort out which twin was which, however, this does not dismiss de Havilland's ability to traverse the dueling roles.
The narrative is framed by the presence of two significant mirrors, serving as visual parentheses for the story.
Siodmak initiates ambiguity with his use of mirrors and reflections: right from the opening sequence there is a shattered mirror which is reiterated or "˜mirrored' at the climax of the film when Terry throws an object at the mirror after she sees Ruth's image in the glass. Throughout The Dark Mirror appearances are deceptions – this is the central substance of the story.
The Dark Mirroris a psychological study of identical twin sisters Terry and Ruth Collins both played by Olivia de Havilland who vex and bewilder Thomas Mitchell (Stagecoach 1939, Mr. Smith Goes to Washington 1939, Gone with the Wind 1939also with de Havilland, It's a Wonderful Life 1946, High Noon 1952.) who plays surly Detective Stevenson who gets frustrated and ornery trying to solve a murder he is convinced one of them has committed. Lew Ayres plays the role of Dr. Scott Elliott, a psychiatrist tasked by Stevenson to help unravel the mystery as to which one of the twins is guilty of murder.
De Havilland's performance is striking under Siodmak's direction a tough process considering both Collins sisters had to be filmed separately for the scenes where she/they occupied the screen at the same time. Adding to the struggle to make this work was the disagreements between Siodmak and de Havilland who clashed from the beginning over how to approach the way the twins were portrayed. Siodmak was making a psychological thriller and de Havilland saw the film as a character study of paranoid schizophrenia (Greco) "˜'One sister could and one couldn't commit murder, and that's all there is to it,'' the film's resident psychiatrist explains.
"˜'The film suggests but does not develop the possibility that Terry is Ruth's other self, the "˜dark mirror' that reflects the negative potential lurking beneath Ruth's sunny mask. However, the insistence on the separation of the characters into icons of good and evil makes the film a superficial melodrama rather than a probing psychological study. Good and evil do not engage in an internal clash but are presented as the essence of two separate characters, as in a medieval morality drama.''– Foster Hirsch The Dark Side of the Screen: Film Noir
The film’s foundation rests on the "˜old wives tale' about twins, suggesting that one must possess an inherent darkness"”in this instance, a deep-rooted psychological one. Featuring the dramatic taglines: Dramatic tagline Twins! One who loves… and one who loves to kill! This is conveyed in the film's promotional ads, “To know this twin is to love her"¦ to know this twin is to die!”
When one of the twins is accused of murdering a doctor, both come under scrutiny. Ironically, it becomes impossible to establish which twin was identified by the eyewitnesses, so the law can't touch them.
Dr. Scott Elliott who frequents the medical plaza's magazine stand where he purchases his lemon drops from Terry, is shocked when he discovers that she has an identical twin sister Ruth. Dr. Elliot (Lew Ayers) is called to the district attorney's office to help with the investigation because he is an expert in the study of behavioral genetics in twins.
The Dark Mirror was Lew Ayers’s first movie after a four-year absence acting as an Army medic and awarded three battle stars during WWII. He returned to acting and became famous for his kindly Dr. Kildare series of films which was on the nose having been away for four years working as a doctor.
A darkened cityscape leads to an apartment that unfolds with a nighttime homicide and a shattered mirror like a fractured mind, an overturned lamp, and a man lying on the floor with a. knife stabbed through his heart. It establishes an atmospheric backdrop for a sinister and psychological story where the thin line between the narratives’ proposed trope of good vs evil is obscured behind the enigma of perceived "˜female' duality.
At the opening of the film, it is nighttime in the city and Siodmak masterfully employs protracted camera movements through two rooms in an apartment. He unveils the time of a violent struggle, the time is precisely 10:48 pm. A man has been stabbed in the back. A prominent mirror over the fireplace becomes the silent witness to the murder – shattered – it is a visual testament to the intensity of the attack.
Cut to Detective Stevenson (Thomas Mitchell) assigned to the case, who is interviewing several witnesses in his office at the police station. The identity of the victim is revealed to be Dr. Frank Peralta. Two of the witnesses claim they saw a woman leaving his apartment around the time of the murder. Soon he learns the name, Theresa ‘Terry’ Collins.
Peralta’s assistant tells Stevenson that the doctor was in love with Terry and had planned to propose to her which gave Terry a motive. It was no secret that Terry was dating Peralta. Maybe it was a lover’s quarrel? As far as Detective Stevenson knows, the only suspect is Terry Collins.
The next morning, Stevenson brings his two solid witnesses to Terry’s magazine stand in the medical building, in order for them to lay eyes on her and confirm she is the woman they saw leaving Peralta’s apartment. They are both certain it was her. He begins to interrogate her but is cut off when Dr. Scott Elliot comes by to purchase his well-loved lemon drops. Stevenson continues to put pressure on Terry to give her whereabouts the night before. She is able to detail every move as well as deliver the names of several witnesses who can swear to her presence, including a police officer and her butcher.
Once Terry learns that Peralta has been murdered she faints and seems genuinely shaken up by the news. Stevenson cannot break Terry’s alibi so he can’t arrest her. But this cop is doggedly convinced the girl is good for the murder and drops by her apartment to get to the bottom of the confusion with the witnesses. Then Ruth appears. The sisters are wearing the same bathrobes, though one is adorned with the monogrammed ‘T’ and one has the letter ‘R’ on it.
Stevenson almost combusts from the revelation that there are two of them- identical in every way and he is convinced that one of them murdered Peralta. The Collins sisters are resolute to stay silent. Neither sister will confess to which one has the foolproof alibi and which one stayed home that night. This drives Stevenson to distraction. The interrogation is getting him nowhere, there are no fingerprints on the knife and no way to prove that either one of them was there at the crime scene.
Orphans since childhood, Ruth and Terry Collins are inseparable. They live together, dress alike, and even wear wire necklaces that bear their names with a peculiar"” over-obsessive clunky jeweled monogram – as if they force their identities upon us or perhaps each might be threatened by losing themselves without them. Ruth is older by seven minutes, yet Terry seems to be the more dominant, controlling sister. Terry has a maniacal obsession with Ruth and is driven to prove that she is the superior twin.
The story unfolds – Stevenson learns how Terry and Ruth seamlessly orchestrate a charade, both working at the magazine stand as the same girl – taking turns to enjoy moments of respite – essentially to "˜switch out'' when one of them wants time off.
Under the guise of a singular job (which they cleverly share under Terry’s name), to the casual observer, no one can tell the difference until the murder exposes that they are, in fact, two separate people. Even Dr. Peralta didn’t know he was actually dating twins at the time he asked Dr. Elliott about split personalities.
Terry stands as a mother figure, a notion that the ‘bad twin’ constantly drives home to Ruth by asserting she is protecting her, making it more of a challenge for Ruth to betray her sister in the maternal role.
Among other films exploring dynamics projected by the good twin/the bad twin trope – they are often suggestive of variations on schizophrenia.
Detective Stevenson brings the sisters in for a line-up but they are so uncannily alike, that the witnesses can’t tell them apart.
Because both Terry and Ruth stay quiet, the DA is forced to drop the case against them because they won’t be able to convict with no evidence. But Stevenson is a bulldog and isn’t willing to give up. That’s when he seeks out Dr. Scott Elliott to help him uncover the truth about which one murdered Peralta.
The investigating officer on the case is Lt. Stevenson (Thomas Mitchell) enlists the unofficial help of up and coming psychiatrist, though Stevenson is more of a skeptic about psychology referring to him as a "˜fortune teller' who employs "˜gimmicks.' "Don't you witch doctors treat people with tinker toys?''
Dr. Elliot doesn't ascribe to the age-old superstitions that twins are usually "penalized in some way, physically or psychically."
He believes that "character, personality is the key" – that the two elements which are very black & white are pivotal, though one is a moral question and the other is scientific. Ayers is an actor who often comes across as a paternalistic figure puffs on his pipe and uses softly phrased insights as the even keel Dr. Elliott.
Dr. Elliot says, "Not even nature can duplicate' this quality, "even in twins" so this is what would tell who is the murderer. He adds that "˜one could and one couldn't commit murder, and that's all there is to it."
"˜'the insistent separation of the characters into icons of good and evil makes the film a superficial melodrama rather than a probing psychological study. Good and Evil do not engage in an internal clash but are presented as the essence of two separate characters, as in a medieval morality drama.'' Foster Hirsch
Terry and Ruth agree to be added as another set of twins for Dr. Elliott's research, though Ruth appears to be more wary of submitting to his examinations and acts cautious believing that Terry might be guilty of the murder.
Terry admits to Ruth that Peralta did propose to her and that she did see Peralta the night he was murdered. But Ruth agrees not to talk. She poses the question to Ruth, why would I kill him? Ruth is frightened that the truth will come out during Dr. Elliot’s examinations, but Terry thinks she's smarter than him and can pass all his ridiculous tests.
As Dr. Elliott delves into the lives of Terry and Ruth, he discovers the stark contrast in their personalities. While Terry is manipulative, cunning, and emotionally unstable, Ruth is kind-hearted and virtuous.
The mystery deepens as Dr. Elliott tries to understand the motives behind the murder and grapples with the challenge of distinguishing between the sisters. The film takes an intriguing turn as Dr. Elliott employs psychological techniques to uncover the truth.
Elliott puts the girls through a series of standard psychological tests that seem to imply more of a moral evaluation than a psychiatric one. After Terry gives her impressions of the inkblots Elliott determines that she has a dark inner conflict, clever and calculating, even a tendency toward violence, after she describes "the lamb looks so innocent, but it has two men under its paws."
Terry's answers seem rehearsed, suggesting an attempt to assert her power though she tries to convey a helpless innocence. But Elliott notices the contrast in Ruth's answers right away. She appears very genuine, and is not aggressive, or threatening, with her contemplations more of a refined nature, as in dancers around a maypole and skaters in an ice show. Ruth is more retiring and amiable. This leads Elliott to conclude that Ruth is normal and Terry is the one who is mentally disturbed. Eventually, the monograms are disposable as de Havilland manifests the difference through her acting skills.
As Dr. Elliott delves deeper into the two personalities he begins to fall in love with Ruth, while Terry pursues him romantically. A pattern that is replaying itself. In the past, men have always chosen Ruth over her, while Terry desires them herself.
We learn that as orphans, a couple wanted to adopt Ruth but not Terry, and as they grew up, men were always drawn to Ruth, even Dr. Peralta preferred Ruth though he didn't know why. It was when he was with Terry that he feared she suffered from a split personality.
Ruth isn’t aware of Terry’s psychosis but Dr. Elliott is convinced that she is insane and killed Peralta in a jealous rage.
The narrative appears somewhat superficial, adopting a simplistic approach wherein the individual potentially toying with Elliott’s psyche, teasing him with aggressive insights, is labeled as the embodiment of evil. Meanwhile, the one exhibiting a gentler perspective through her mild and innocuous visions is deemed the epitome of normalcy.
"˜'20 percent of people who see things in the inkblots that expose the "˜'true secret patterns of their own minds'' The results for Elliott point to this"¦ "˜'one of our young ladies is insane.''
During the free association session, Dr. Elliott is left a bit mystified because the only unusual reflex is Ruth's reaction to the word "˜'mirror,''to which she responds, "˜'death.'' Now he cannot wait to see how Terry responds to his prompts. But being visibly unnerved, having found out from Ruth how she reacted to the word mirror, it is not clear whether Terry would have given the same answer or if she is now toying with Elliott.
Terry is agitated when she hears Ruth's answer which shows some understanding of "˜that mumbo jumbo.' She refers to Dr. Elliott's tests as "˜'kindergarten games’' obviously trying to poison Ruth's faith in the doctor's credibility and that his psychological tests are nothing more than childish trials.
When Dr. Elliott gives them both a polygraph, it is hard for Terry to successfully manipulate her responses. Terry’s blood pressure spikes every time Elliott invokes Ruth’s name. Whenever her sister is mentioned the needle bounds frantically across the paper in a storm of black lines, especially bringing up the subject of a particular boy who liked Ruth.
From these tests, Elliotts makes his diagnosis – Ruth is sane and innocent of the murder while Terry is "˜'a paranoiac- a paranoiac is capable of anything.'' He is assured that Terry merely found his tests "˜'another challenge to her, another opportunity to show the world what contempt she has for it. That was the tip-off."
"A marker for insanity, or at least "˜'abnormality'' for women, then, is the transgression of typical patriarchal authority. The "˜tip-off' to Elliott that Terry is the "˜'wrong'' twin is her effort to thwart the masculine power and rules that are being applied to explain her motives, psyche, and very existence." – THE DARK MIRROR PSYCHIATRY AND FILM NOIR BY MARLISA SANTOS
Though Terry thinks she is putting one over on Elliott with his psychological "˜analysis' she begins to feel threatened by the growing romantic relationship between him and Ruth.
Terry witnesses Elliott and Ruth in an embrace outside their apartment building, but when asked Ruth doesn’t mention it. Terry becomes more desperate to sabotage Ruth's budding romance, something she evidently has done in the past. She decides to seduce Dr. Elliott herself, while gaslighting Ruth, trying to make her think she is losing her mind.
She begins to torture Ruth, hoping to push her to commit suicide and pin Peralta’s murder on her. She crafts illusions, spins nightmares, and conjures conversations, savoring every moment of her imaginative ploy.
Initially puzzling is why Ruth willingly covers for Terry despite being the target of Terry’s cruel gaslighting, nearly driving her to a mental breakdown. As Ruth witnesses Terry’s darker side, she hesitates to betray her, fearing that Terry’s potential for evil, even going as far as murder, might also exist within herself.
Terry starts by telling Ruth that she's been having nightmares, talking in her sleep, and then waking hysterical and terrified. Persuading Ruth to consume an excessive amount of sleeping pills, Terry secretly uses flashbulbs to light up their pitch-black bedroom in the dead of night. Ruth awakens startled while her cunning sister Terry pretends not to have seen anything.
Terry also secretly turns on a music box so it will remain playing after she leaves their apartment, to create the illusion that Ruth is only hearing the music from inside her head.
After all this, Ruth begins to believe she is descending into madness. Her head grasped between her hands she breaks down, – "Something's happening to me, and I don't know what it is. I don't understand it. I'm so scared; I don't know what to do."Pleased with her scheme to drive her sister crazy Terry reassures her –
"˜'Just remember that I'm with you and I'm always going to be with you. no matter what"¦ no matter happens, they can't do a thing without {her} consent.''Â
Terry is suggesting that Ruth is mad, but she'll be there to protect her as always. "˜'We'll be together as long as we live.''
"Terry converts feelings of loss and fragmentation into fantasies of total power and god-like control; she projects lack onto her own sister in the form of psychological disorder."˜' – Lutz Koepnick from Doubling the double: Robert Siodmak in Hollywood
Self-absorbed, Terry constantly seeks approval from Elliott, wanting to know what it is about Ruth that draws him to her. In a crucial scene, she even pretends to be Ruth, kissing Elliott and challenging him to be able to tell the difference. Yet she cannot restrain herself from self-aggrandizing “Terry is the smart one,” the one men usually go for.''
The use of a one-way mirror becomes a visual metaphor and a symbolic tool, reflecting not only the physical likeness of the twins but also the duplicity and hidden facets of their personalities. As the story unfolds, the audience is taken on a journey through the labyrinth of the human mind, exploring the nature of identity, morality, and the thin line between good and evil.
As the walls close in around Terry, she becomes more and more possessive of Ruth: "You and I are never going to be separated, as long as we live. You and I are going to be together. Always.''
Elliott tells Stevenson that Terry is a paranoiac and definitely killed Dr Peralta. Stevenson becomes concerned for Ruth's safety, so Elliott promises to tell Ruth that night about her sister. He calls the sister’s apartment and asks Ruth to come to see him later. But he is actually talking to Terry pretending to be Ruth. Fortunately, Ruth stops by his office right after the phone call, so he uncovers Terry's ruse. Later on, Terry arrives at his apartment not realizing that Elliott knows about her trickery.
In a demeaning and sexist soliloquy, Elliot begins to enlighten fake ‘Ruth’ about sisterhood rivalry. All sisters are rivals for men. How it is stronger for sisters than other women. Elliott doesn’t even take into consideration ‘social class’. This jealousy is ‘‘why sisters can hate each other with such a terrifying intensity.” Considering this misguided theory, the rivalry between twins is even more intense. It is this rivalry that has consumed Terry.
Dr. Elliot –"˜' All women are rivals fundamentally, but it never bothers them because they automatically discount the successes of others and alibi their own failures on the grounds of circumstances – luck, they say. But between sisters, it's a little more serious. Circumstances are generally the same, so they have fewer excuses with which to comfort themselves"¦ That's why sisters can hate each other with such terrifying intensity. And with twins, it's worse.''
He describes how the murder might have taken place. When he confronts Terry about her split personality, she realizes that he was in love with the part of her that is Ruth, even though he didn’t know that Ruth existed. In a jealous rage, she stabbed him in the heart. It struck me how risky this meeting is for Elliott, as Terry is genuinely dangerous having already killed one man. Sure enough, she goes to grab a pair of scissors when the phone rings, and Stevenson gives him the news that Ruth has killed herself. Terry snaps out of her homicidal rage and they rush to the sister’s apartment.
Terry as ‘Ruth’ tells Stevenson that Ruth killed herself because she was ‘sick’ and ‘twisted inside,’ words Elliott used to describe Terry. That it was Ruth who was insane and committed the murder. She killed herself over the guilt. Terry begins to ramble that she is actually Ruth. That it is Terry who has killed herself because she was so jealous of Ruth.
Elliot tries to provoke the fake "˜'Ruth'' into revealing herself as Terry, antagonizing her about her past rejections. The family that wanted Ruth but not her, and the boys who preferred Ruth.
He confronts Terry by telling her how mentally disturbed she is. He tells her while she is pretending to be "˜Ruth' that "Terry is "˜sick inside'and needs help. He imagines that it is tied to something that happened in their past when they were quite young but has grown inside like a poisoned seedling. "˜'more and more bitter and is now abnormal.’'
Finally working with the police, Ruth, who has been reluctant up til now to believe that Terry is dangerous stages her own "˜'suicide'' in order to trap her sister. As Terry begins to unravel, Ruth suddenly emerges from the bedroom. When Terry sees her reflected in a mirror behind her she throws an object and smashes it, symbolically destroying her sister who is the constant evidence of her "˜lacking.'
At this revelation it is all over for Terry and she smashes the mirror when she sees Ruth’s reflection.
By the end of the picture, Elliott and Ruth are united. He asks Ruth, ” Why are you so much more beautiful than your sister?”
"˜'Terry's possessiveness may be interpreted as a desire to absorb Ruth, to eliminate the "˜difference'' between them that haunts her and frustrates her desires.'' Marlisa Santos -The Dark Mirror
Dr. Elliot's comment in the end supports the actuality that good and evil can exist within two identical people as he tells Ruth, "˜'That's what twins are you know, reflections of each other, everything in reverse."˜'
This mental image -Â signals the shattering of the mirror by the darker souled Terry at the climax of the picture when she is ultimately caught in her game of deceit, tricked by Detective Stevenson into thinking that the real Ruth has committed suicide. Caught by her own duplicity, she cannot help through her conceit she reveals her lies while claiming that she is actually Ruth and it was Terry that has killed herself.
She tries to convince Stevenson that "Terry' despised her (Ruth) out of jealousy because men always found her more attractive and likable. Unlike the doppelgänger who inhabits an evil that is transferred to the good person, this is subverted with the evil person Terry claiming that she possesses all the good attributes from their double.
The Dark Mirror is often praised for its innovative narrative and psychological depth. The film’s exploration of the duality within a single person, embodied by the twin sisters, adds layers of complexity to the story. Olivia de Havilland’s stellar performance in the dual role is a highlight, showcasing her ability to convey the nuances of two distinct characters.
It is lauded for its psychological depth, but some critics have noted that the resolution of the murder mystery may be somewhat predictable for modern audiences. However, it’s essential to appreciate the film in its historical context, considering its influence on subsequent psychological thrillers.
"˜'Sugar wouldn't melt in the mouth of Nancy, the heroine of The Locket. Yet if we are to believe the evidence, she is a first-class criminal. With this to go on, Nancy brings the wicked-lady psychopathic parade up to date. Laraine Day gives what must be her most fascinating performance. As with so many of these wide-eyed innocents who are supposed to be baddies inside, the spectator maybe have difficulty in crediting her with such heatless villainies. However, there is just enough of a defiant something about Miss Day. More of the spirit than the actual behavior, to raise the shadow of doubt. It is this question mark that holds one rapt.'' "”Philip K. Scheuer, "Laraine Day Psychotpath.'' Los Angeles Times May, 27 1947
"˜'The complexity of Sheridan Gibney's plot was what really enticed me to the material. It was an enigma within an enigma within an enigma. John Brahm, had done a very good horror picture at Twentieth about Jack the Ripper called The Lodger. He was a German- but not too German "” and I thought he would be good to direct this and give it some of the same atmosphere.''"”producer Bert Granet in Lee Server's Baby, I don't Care
The New York Times (1946) found The Dark Mirror to be a lamentable production that operated as little more than a vanity project for Olive de Havilland, who "˜has been tempted by the lure of playing against herself.'
"˜'Siodmak explained that "˜audiences love a picture like The Dark Mirror because it affords what psychoanalysis call a psychic renovating'' The strategy of bringing all aspects of The Dark Mirror under the rubric of psychological science including even its purportedly positive influence on audiences, is indicative of the representational shift away from the cynical and at times gruesome depictions of psychiatrists and psychological practices that characterized wartime horror cinema. The horror films that went into production after the ebbing of the Shock controversy evinced Hollywood's newfound commitment to responsible depiction of psychiatry. A case in point was the 1947 film Possessed''– Bad Medicine from book Merchants of Menace: The Business of Horror Cinema edited by Richard Nowell.
In 1948 the Screen Guild Theater produced a radio version of The Dark Mirror starring Lew Ayres and Loretta Young. In 1950 de Havilland reprised her role for a radio broadcast at Screen Director's Playhouse.
“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 as a 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, the live format enhanced many performances.
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 a showcase for 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 is ” Don’t Look Behind You. and in Part 4 of my series, Death Scene co-starring John Carradine.
Teresa Wright appeared in perhaps two of the most enthralling episodes, one darkly disturbing and one darkly humorous. Mildred Dunnock appeared in three episodes of Alfred Hitchcock Presents and one episode of TheAlfred Hitchcock Hour. Jeannette Nolan appeared in five of the series, and Jessica Tandy appeared in three. 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 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 familiar face with their fans, new and old.
The success of Alfred Hitchcock Presents helped pave the way for more classic Hollywood actresses to transition to television in the 1950s and 1960s. It also helped establish television as a legitimate platform for entertainment and blurred 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 lives 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.
Lupino, who worked avidly with the camera not just on screen but behind the scenes, 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 to 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, which often frame 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.
Alfred Hitchcock Presents’ episodes 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 characters’ psychology and 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 that the revelation that Alfred Hitchcock Presentscould 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 their 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 complements 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 Woolrich, author of Rear Window, and scripted by Bernard C. Schoenfeld, who would 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).
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 also 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 an 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
I saw this obscure chiller during its theatrical release and remember being very effected by its moody, dissonant, and menacing tone. Like many of the horror films that exist in the ether of the 1970s, (Let’s Scare Jessica To Death 1971, The Brotherhood of Satan 1971, Don’t Look Now 1973, Silent Night, Bloody Night 1972, Lemora, A Child’s Tale of the Supernatural 1973, The Witch Who Came From the Sea 1976, Squirm 1976, The Sentinel 1977, Tourist Trap 1979) this is among those films that left an impression on me.
A supernatural-psychological horror film by director Robert Allen Schnitzer, with cinematography by Victor Milt leads us in a dream state that is not only atmospheric and Kafkaesque it conjures up lucid nightmares for the bright mother, Sheri, and for us.
Raven-haired psychotic Andrea Fletcher (Ellen Barber) has been declared an unfit mother, and unfortunately is released from the mental institution too soon. She immediately goes in search of her little girl Janie (Danielle Brisebois in her first role) who has been adopted by Sheri and Miles Bennett (Sharon Farrell and Edward Michael Bell).
Andrea seeks help from her companion Jude, a former patient at the same hospital, a woeful carnival clown who goes looking for Janie, finding her with her adoptive mother Sheri.
The two wounded souls, Andrea and Jude, restless in their desire to reunite Janie with her birth mother, lead to Janie’s kidnapping. When Andrea snaps, Jude kills her in a fit of rage. Devastated by the loss of her daughter, Sheri has a breakdown and becomes haunted by psychic images of her adopted daughter Janie and Andrea’s tortured spirit. Andrea’s insanity reverberates beyond her death and outward like an echo that is picked up by Sheri, whose disturbing visions reveal that she is clairvoyant.
Sheri’s husband Miles, an astrophysicist brings in a colleague, Jeena Kingsly a professor of parapsychology, who studies the realms of human consciousness. Kingsly attempts to help Sheri connect to Janie telepathically. The two mothers begin a psychic tug-of-war over the possession of Janie.
Ellen Barber gives a paralyzing performance as the deranged Andrea, volatile and unhinged; she is a dark wraith in her red satin dress and black velvet cameo choker.
The character of Jude is perhaps the most layered. Richard Lynch (The Seven-Ups 1973, God Told Me Too 1976, Vampire 1979 TV movie, The Ninth Configuration 1980, The Formula 1980, Invasion U.S.A 1985, Bad Dreams 1988, Rob Zombie’s Halloween 2007) – is an interesting actor, ever present in so many roles, with his interesting angular face, scarred and weathered and blond hair that hangs like a darker archangel, he is oddly sinister-sexy. A hard-working actor in film and television, he is often strikingly cast in horror and action films, playing odd characters with his unique persona. Schnitzer apparently hired him for his “widely divergent moods.” Lynch influenced by legendary mime Marcel Marceau, brought an element of his gestures to the role of Jude.
This is your EverLovin’ Joey saying I had a premonition that you’ll be back to The Last Drive In, very soon! Happy month of October!
Euro art house director Roger Vadim adapted Blood and Roses in 1960, from Sheridan Le Fanu’s Sapphic vampire novella Camilla, setting down in contemporary Italy.
A lonely and bitter young heiress – jealous of her cousin’s engagement to another woman – becomes dangerously obsessed with legends surrounding a vampire ancestor, who supposedly murdered the young brides of the man she loved (IMDb).
The role of Carmilla was cast by Annette Vadim and Elsa Martinelli plays Georgia Monteverdi engaged to Leopoldo (Mel Ferrer). Camilla is secretly in love with Leopoldo. He and Georgia host a costume party to celebrate their upcoming wedding, which includes fireworks, that wind up unearthing the grave of Milarka, who is Carmilla’s ancestor, a vampiress. Milarka now possesses Camilla and designs to corrupt the lovers. Although the film is in Technicolor, Vadim shoots his impressionistic dream sequence in black-and-white with red-tinted blood.
The film stoked the theme of the lesbian vampire, though not explicit, the trope gained traction in the late 1960s and 70s with Hammer Studios. Martinelli also appeared in The 10th Victim 1965.
Hayley Mills comes from acting royalty, she is the daughter of great British actor John Mills and the younger sister of Juliet Mills. I happened to have the good fortune of meeting the gorgeous Juliet Mills twice at the Chiller convention here in New Jersey. I have to say that I’ve never met a more kind and gracious actor who has a profound inner glow. Having already been a fan, I’m even more enamored with her.
Hayley was discovered while at her parents’ home in 1958 by director J. Lee Thompson, who immediately cast her opposite her father in the thriller Tiger Bay 1959. Her breakthrough performance, winning an award at the Berlin Film Festival and being acknowledged in Hollywood by Walt Disney, signed her to a five-year contract. There she starred in Pollyanna 1960 garnering rave reviews, and a second hit was for The Parent Trap 1961. She went on to do That Darn Cat! 1965 and The Trouble with Angels 1966.
Mills had been offered the role of Lolita in Stanley Kubrick’s film (1962) but her parents warned off the part fearing the sexual nature of the role would taint her iconic image of purity. Sue Lyon was cast in the role instead, but Mills regretted not taking the part.
In Twisted Nerve 1968, Hayley Mills plays Susan Harper, who befriends psychopath Martin Durnley (Hywel Bennett), who appears to be a painfully troubled young man, taking on the persona of a six-year-old boy who calls himself Georgie. His mother (Billie Whitelaw) infantilizes Martin. He has a brother with Down syndrome who has been hidden away in an institution. Georgie becomes fixated on the lovely and patiently kind, who realizes there’s something very wrong with Martin, who ultimately goes into a murderous rage.
After Twisted Nerve in 1968, Hayley Mills went on to do more psychological thrillers in the 1970s – Once again co-starring with Hywel Bennett in Endless Night in 1972, and Deadly Strangers in 1975.
Anna also comes from acting royalty being the daughter of actor Raymond Massey. She is known for her role as Helen Stephens in Michael Powell’s Peeping Tom 1960 starring Karlheinz Bohm as Mark, a disturbed young man who films women as he kills them with a tripod sword so that he can get off on their reactions of terror. Anna plays Helen Stephans, the one girl with whom Mark feels a connection.
Once Mark is drawn to Helen, they begin to spend time together. In Helen’s innocence, she remains out of danger from his dark, deranged eye on women’s suffering.
She also appeared in Otto Preminger’s Bunny Lake is Missing 1965, a psycho-sexual thriller drenched in paranoia. Carol Lynley reports her little girl missing, but there seems to be no evidence that she ever existed. Anna plays Elvira Smollett, one of the teachers at the school where she disappeared.
Massey went on to do two more horror films in the 1970s, Alfred Hitchcock’s Frenzy 1972 and The Vault of Horror 1973 an anthology directed by Roy Ward Baker.
