Category: Suspense

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

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

THE LODGER: A STORY OF THE LONDON FOG 1927

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE LODGER 1944

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

HANGOVER SQUARE 1945

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

MonsterGirl’s 150 Days of Classic Horror #88 The Killer Inside Me 1976

THE KILLER INSIDE ME 1976

STEPHEN KING once said of the novelist Jim Thompson: “He was crazy. He went running into the American subconscious with a blowtorch in one hand and a pistol in the other, screaming his goddamn head off. No one else came close.”

There’s a slow, simmering menace that seeps through every frame of Burt Kennedy’s The Killer Inside Me (1976), an adaptation of Jim Thompson’s notorious 1952 novel. Set against the dusty, sun-bleached backdrop of a small Texas town, the film unspools like a searing confession, drawing us into the mind of Deputy Sheriff Lou Ford—a man whose polite smile and soft-spoken charm mask a churning abyss of violence and madness. Stacy Keach inhabits Lou with a chilling subtlety, his performance a study in contradictions: gentle, almost affable on the surface, but with eyes that flicker with something cold and unreachable. Keach’s Lou is both Keach’s wry narration track, which acts as the unreliable witness, inviting us to see the world through his fractured lens, much like the first-person narration in Jim Thompson’s novel.

Burt Kennedy (The Rounders 1965, Welcome to Hard Times 1967, Support Your Local Sheriff! 1969), a director more often associated with westerns, brings a laconic, washed-out and weathered sensibility to the film, letting the oppressive heat and slow rhythms of small-town life lull you into a false sense of security. The screenplay, adapted by Edward Mann and Robert Chamblee, closely follows Thompson’s original story, retaining the novel’s bleak, first-person perspective and its refusal to offer easy answers or moral clarity. The cinematography by Gerald Hirschfeld (Goodbye, Columbus 1969, Last Summer 1969, Diary of a Mad Housewife 1970, Young Frankenstein 1974) is unhurried and unflashy, capturing the flat, open spaces and the claustrophobic interiors with the same aesthetic nuance. There’s a sense of inevitability to the way the camera lingers on faces, hands, and the slow drip of sweat down a glass—everyday details that become charged with menace and thick with unease.

The story unfolds as Deputy Sheriff Lou Ford, haunted by visions of his abusive childhood at the hands of his mother (played by Julie Adams), is tasked with running Joyce Lakeland (Susan Tyrrell), a local prostitute played by Susan Tyrrell with a raw, wounded sensuality, out of town. Joyce becomes central to the film’s web of blackmail and violence.

What begins as a routine fix for Lou to take care of quickly spirals into a sadomasochistic affair, with Joyce awakening something dark and uncontrollable in Lou. Their scenes together are charged with a dangerous intimacy—Tyrrell’s Joyce is both complicit and terrified, drawn to Lou’s darkness even as she senses its destructive power. The violence that erupts between them is shocking in its suddenness, rendered with a matter-of-fact brutality that refuses to let us look away.

As Lou’s carefully constructed mask begins to crack, the bodies start to pile up: Joyce is beaten to death in a scene that is as pitiless as it is clinical.

Elmer Conway, played by Don Stroud, is the hot-headed and impulsive son of powerful mining magnate Chester Conway (Keenan Wynn). As a prominent figure in the small Montana town, Elmer is entangled in the town’s political and social tensions, particularly those involving labor disputes at his father’s mine, and is romantically involved with Joyce. Elmer’s character embodies the town’s simmering tensions and serves as both a victim of Lou’s sociopathic machinations and a catalyst for the film’s spiral into violence. Don Stroud brings a raw, volatile energy to the role, making Elmer a memorable figure in the film’s grim, neo-noir landscape.

The situation escalates when Joyce and Elmer are drawn into Lou Ford’s deadly schemes. When Joyce is badly beaten (by Lou Ford, though Elmer is initially blamed), Elmer’s emotional volatility is on display—he is protective, jealous, and quick to anger.  Lou manipulates both of them, and during a critical scene, Elmer arrives at Joyce’s house, only to be murdered by Lou, who then attempts to stage the scene as a lovers’ quarrel gone wrong.

Suspicion falls on Johnnie Pappas (Stephen Powers), who is found with marked money that Lou had given him after taking it off of Elmer. Lou is allowed to visit Johnnie in his cell, where he murders him and makes it look like a suicide, further cementing the devious frame-up.

John Dehner plays Sheriff Bob Maples, Lou’s boss and the head lawman in town. Amy Stanton, Lou’s fiancée, is played by Tisha Sterling with a heartbreaking vulnerability, who becomes both a victim and an unwitting accomplice. The investigation that follows is a slow, inexorable tightening of the noose,

Keenan Wynn, with his gruff manner, plays Chester Conway. Chester, a powerful local businessman and Elmer Conway’s father, also falls victim to Lou’s homicidal binge.

The supporting cast—Charles McGraw — plays the steely Howard Hendricks, the county attorney (sometimes referred to as the district attorney) who also becomes increasingly suspicious of Deputy Sheriff Lou Ford as the murders mount. As an investigator and legal authority, Hendricks is dogged and methodical, representing the force of law and reason closing in on Lou’s carefully maintained facade, realizing that something is deeply wrong with Lou Ford, even as the rest of the small Montana town is slow to believe it. McGraw’s character serves as one of Lou’s primary antagonists, persistently probing the inconsistencies and evidence surrounding the violent events in the town, circling ever closer to the truth.

John Carradine-I am a ham! Part 1

John Carradine’s brief appearance in The Killer Inside Me (1976) is a dark wrong-way turn into macabre eccentricity. As psychiatrist Dr. Jason Smith arrives at Lou Ford’s home under the mundane pretense of wanting to buy the house, the encounter quickly turns unsettling.

Carradine’s character, gaunt and scholarly, is met by Lou, lounging in his robe, exuding an eerie calm, who begins to challenge Smith’s psychiatric expertise, citing medical texts and discussing mental illness, citing medical texts with a chilling, almost clinical detachment.

The scene is marked by Lou’s unsettling display of psychological knowledge and control. He assures Dr. Smith that his schizophrenia is under control, but this is offered unprompted, as Smith has not asked about Lou’s mental state.

The encounter is less a confession and more a demonstration of Lou’s manipulative intelligence and his awareness of how he is perceived. Lou uses the conversation to expose his own knowledge and to subtly let Dr. Smith know that he sees through the doctor’s intentions and perhaps even his identity. The scene is laced with dark humor and unease, revealing Lou’s unraveling persona and growing instability, a moment where the mask of normalcy slips just enough to expose the madness underneath, leaving Dr. Smith—and us—unnerved by the polite menace that hangs in the air.

After a few minutes in Lou Ford’s unnervingly casual presence, the lanky Carradine’s Dr. Smith decides he’s had enough psychological chess for one day. With the speed and discretion of a man who’s just realized he’s wandered into the lion’s den, he makes his excuses and beats a hasty retreat—practically leaving a cartoon puff of dust in the doorway as he escapes Lou’s polite but menacing hospitality.

All these characters populate the town with a sense of lived-in authenticity, each performance adding another layer to the film’s oppressive atmosphere.

Key scenes linger in the mind: Lou’s chillingly calm narration as he commits acts of unspeakable violence; the suffocating tension of the police interrogation; the surreal, almost dreamlike quality of the film’s final moments, as Lou’s world collapses in on itself. Throughout, the film maintains a tone of sunlit horror—violence and madness unfolding not in the shadows, but in the bright, pitiless glare of the Montana sun. The score by Andrew Belling is spare and haunting, underscoring the film’s sense of fatalism and doom.

The murder of Amy Stanton, played by the pixie-like Tisha Sterling, is the film’s most brutally sorrowful moment—a scene where horror and heartbreak bleed together beneath the surface calm. Lou Ford, with his mask of gentle affection still in place, invites Amy to elope, promising her a future just out of reach. The room is thick with longing and the hush of midnight hope, but beneath it all, a terrible inevitability pulses. As Amy lets down her guard, trusting the man she loves, Lou’s violence erupts with chilling suddenness. The blows fall with a mechanical cruelty, each one shattering not just flesh but the fragile dream Amy clings to. Sterling’s performance is devastating: her eyes wide with confusion and betrayal, her body curling in on itself, she becomes the embodiment of innocence destroyed by the very person she trusted most. The scene is almost unbearable in its intimacy—a murder not of passion, but of cold, methodical despair, leaving us with the ache of a soul extinguished in silence.

The Killer Inside Me is a film that refuses easy catharsis. It is a journey into the heart of darkness, not as spectacle, but as a quiet, relentless unraveling. Kennedy’s direction, Keach’s mesmerizing performance, and Thompson’s nihilistic vision combine to create a work that is both deeply unsettling and strangely hypnotic—a portrait of evil that is all the more chilling for its calm, measured surface. In the end, it is the ordinariness of Lou Ford, the banality of his evil, that unsettles me most about the film.

from an article – The Guardian by Peter Bradshaw: The Killer Inside Me remake in 2010 —

Casey Affleck grins like a death’s head with the flesh reattached in this noir thriller from British director Michael Winterbottom, which is sickeningly violent but undoubtedly well made. It has been widely condemned for the scenes in which women are brutally assaulted, and for many, this film will be just hardcore misogynist hate-porn with a fancy wrapper, and those who admire it, or tolerate it…

The Killer Inside Me is a particular distillation of male hate, as practised by repulsive and inadequate individuals who have been encouraged to see themselves as essentially decent by virtue of the trappings of authority in which they have wrapped themselves. And Winterbottom is tearing off the mask; like Michael Haneke, he is confronting the audience with the reality of sexual violence and abusive power relations between the sexes that cinema so often glamorises. Here, the movie is saying, here is the denied reality behind every seamy cop show, every sexed-up horror flick, every picturesque Jack the Ripper tourist attraction, every swooning film studies seminar on the Psycho shower scene. Here. This is what we are actually talking about.

#88 Down, 62 to go! Your EverLovin’ Joey, formally & affectionately known as MonsterGirl!

 

MonsterGirl’s 150 Days of Classic Horror #65 GAMES 1967 / WHAT’S THE MATTER WITH HELEN? 1971 & THE MAD ROOM 1969

SPOILER ALERT!

GAMES 1967 

Deadly Diversions: Curtis Harrington’s Games and the Art of Psychological Deception:

I’ll be diving deeper into the chilling world of Curtis Harrington with a special feature on his thematic Horror of Personality at The Last Drive In, taking a close look at two of these fascinating psychological thrillers: What’s the Matter with Helen?-a feverish, Gothic tale of paranoia and unraveling sanity starring Shelley Winters and Debbie Reynolds-and of course a deeper dive into Games 1967, this stylish, twisted exploration of manipulation and deceit. Harrington’s films are masterclasses in atmospheric tension and the dark corners of the human psyche, blending Gothic horror with a uniquely personal, psychological edge.

Today, as a bonus, while it’s not a Harrington film, I’ll also be including The Mad Room 1969 in this lineup. Its claustrophobic tension, psycho-sexual spiral, and focus on madness and the terrors lurking within the mind make it a natural companion to Harrington’s work, fitting snugly alongside Games and What’s the Matter with Helen?

Curtis Harrington’s Games (1967) is a cocktail of psychological suspense, Gothic intrigue, and icy social satire- a film that marries Harrington’s avant-garde sensibilities with the polished veneer of studio-era Hollywood. Set in a labyrinthine Upper East Side townhouse dripping with pop art and baroque curios, the story follows Paul and Jennifer Montgomery (James Caan and Katharine Ross), a wealthy, thrill-starved couple whose penchant for macabre parlor games spirals into lethal consequences when they invite Lisa Schindler (Simone Signoret), a mysterious German cosmetics saleswoman, into their decadent world. Harrington, a maverick director who bridged underground cinema and mainstream horror, crafts a claustrophobic nightmare where identity, desire, and deception blur into a deadly charade.

It’s the pictures that got small! “Good Evening” Leading Ladies of The Alfred Hitchcock Hour Part 4

The Plot: A Deadly Masquerade:

The Montgomerys’ existence is one of curated ennui. Their home, a museum of kitsch and high art, doubles as a stage for cruel theatrics: staged séances, mock duels with antique pistols, and sadistic pranks played on guests. Lisa’s arrival, after a feigned fainting spell, disrupts their sterile routine. Claiming psychic abilities using her tarot cards, she suggests increasingly twisted “games,” including a fabricated affair between Jennifer and Norman (Don Stroud), a grocery deliveryman. What begins as a playful ruse turns fatal when Paul, wielding a pistol he believes loaded with blanks, shoots Norman in a fit of jealousy. The couple’s panic-stricken attempt to conceal the body- hoisting it via dumbwaiter, encasing it in plaster as a grotesque art piece- unravels into a cascade of paranoia, apparitions, and double-crosses. By the finale, Paul, who had been gaslighting Jennifer all along, conspiring with Lisa, winds up on the receiving end of her cool, maniacal trickery. She reveals herself as the true puppet master, orchestrating the conniving and cutthroat Paul’s poisoning to claim Jennifer’s fortune, leaving the audience to ponder who has been playing whom.

Harrington’s Legacy: From Avant-Garde to Hollywood Gothic:

Harrington, an associate of Kenneth Anger and Maya Deren, brought a subversive edge to Games. His early experimental works, like Night Tide (1961), explored existential dread through surreal imagery, a theme he transposed here into a bourgeois nightmare. While Universal marketed Games as a Hitchcockian thriller, Harrington infused it with camp irony and Freudian subtext.

The townhouse, designed by visual consultant Morton Haack, becomes a character itself: walls adorned with death-themed pinball machines (“Fatalities,” “Serious Injuries”), masks evoking commedia dell’arte, and a recurring crystal ball that refracts truth and illusion.

Harrington’s direction leans into the absurd- a hooded figure pumping a pipe organ during a faux-sacrifice, interrupted by lawyers bearing paperwork, while maintaining a suffocating tension. Critics like Roger Ebert dismissed it as “standard horror fare,” but modern reassessments praise its audacious blend of high camp and psychological horror, Harrington’s film an important forerunner in the evolution of the sophisticated, puzzle-box thriller, and a precursor to later works like Herbert Ross’s The Last of Sheila (1973).

Curtis Harrington’s most prominent work in the horror and thriller genres is distinguished by his flair for atmosphere, psychological tension, and his ability to draw extraordinary performances from legendary actresses. In Ruby (1977), Harrington cast Piper Laurie, fresh off her Oscar-nominated turn in Carrie 1976, as a former gangster’s moll haunted by her past and besieged by supernatural forces at her Florida drive-in theater. Laurie’s sultry performance is haunting and sexy, and the film is often cited as an off-beat gem that showcases Harrington’s “particular sensitivity and sympathetic eye for the vulnerability in women, much like Tennessee Williams”. The film’s grim, gritty atmosphere and supernatural setpieces, including the eerie possession of Ruby’s mute daughter, are hallmarks of Harrington’s style.

Piper Laurie: The Girl Who Ate Flowers

Equally notable, which I’ll be talking about in a sec, is What’s the Matter with Helen? (1971), a Gothic psychological thriller starring Shelley Winters and Debbie Reynolds as two mothers tormented by guilt and paranoia after their sons are convicted of murder. Harrington’s direction draws out chilling, complex performances, especially from Winters, whose descent into madness is both tragic and terrifying. The film is remembered for its stylish period detail, mounting suspense, and the way Harrington turns Hollywood nostalgia into a backdrop for psychological horror.

Throughout his career, Harrington was celebrated for revitalizing the careers of classic actresses and infusing his films with a sense of operatic melodrama and visual elegance. As Piper Laurie herself noted, working with Harrington was a “great experience,” and she praised his ability to create “complex characterizations of women in each of his films.” She told me that he was a lovely man to work with, and she thoroughly enjoyed making Ruby. Actually, she was delighted I wanted to talk about it as much as her more well-known work in Carrie!

These works are enduring testaments to Harrington’s unique voice in American horror and his gift for blending camp, tragedy, and genuine emotional depth.

The Cast: Performances of Deception and Desperation:

Simone Signoret (Lisa): Fresh off her Oscar win for Room at the Top (1958), subverts her Diabolique persona with a role both maternal and menacing. Her Lisa is a spider in a black turban, her world-weariness masking a calculating mind. For me, Signoret’s haunting presence-smoldering cigarettes, tarot card readings, and a climactic smirk-elevates the film from B-movie to high art.

Signoret stands as one of the most luminous and formidable figures in twentieth-century cinema, her career defined by a rare blend of sensuality, intelligence, and emotional depth. Born in Germany and raised in France, Signoret began her ascent during the tumultuous years of World War II, supporting her family through bit parts while hiding her Jewish heritage behind her mother’s maiden name. Her beauty was never of the conventional Hollywood variety; instead, critics and audiences alike were captivated by her earthy allure, expressive eyes, and a presence that radiated both strength and vulnerability.

Her artistry was “marked by their minimalism and restraint, relying on small gestures, her incendiary eyes, a look, a purposeful walk, and few words.”– from Philip Kemp in his essay “The Secret to Simone Signoret’s Staying Power,”

This understated power allowed her to transcend the often typecast roles of tragic seductresses and prostitutes, which she initially played in films like La Ronde (1950) and Casque d’Or (1952).

In Casque d’Or, her portrayal of Marie, a woman torn between love and danger, became iconic, earning her a BAFTA and cementing her image as a symbol of troubled desire and resilience. The British Film Institute notes that “the image of her in full belle époque styling became one of the most famous of the era,” and her ability to elevate even clichéd roles was widely recognized.

Her turn to villainy in Henri-Georges Clouzot’s Les Diaboliques (1955) displayed her range, as she embodied Nicole, the calculating femme fatale, with a chillingly lucid performance that remains a benchmark of psychological suspense.

Signoret’s international breakthrough came with Room at the Top (1959), where her nuanced, sensual portrayal of Alice Aisgill won her the Academy Award for Best Actress, the first for a non-American film, as well as the Best Female Performance Prize at Cannes. Historian assessments often highlight how she “bypassed the clichéd writing that sometimes typified such characters,” bringing complexity and humanity to every role.

Signoret’s later career was equally distinguished, with acclaimed performances, one of my favorites was in Ship of Fools (1965). She also stunned audiences with Army of Shadows (1969), Le Chat (1971), and Madame Rosa (1977), the latter earning her a César Award for her portrayal of a weary Holocaust survivor. Throughout, she remained committed to portraying strong, complex women, unafraid of aging or embracing roles that challenged societal norms. As she famously remarked, “I got old the way women who aren’t actresses grow old.”

Her legacy is not only cinematic but also cultural. Signoret was a passionate advocate for human rights; the shadows of war and resistance shaped her life and work.

As the Criterion Collection observed, she was “an actor, a mother, a politically engaged artist, a lover, and a writer,” whose performances possessed “bravery, honesty, and commitment to cinema that remained of the highest order.” Simone Signoret’s career is a testament to the enduring power of authenticity, intelligence, and emotional truth in film.

Games also feature James Caan (Paul): Pre-Godfather, Caan channels Sonny Corleone’s volatility into Paul’s petulant cruelty. His descent from smirking manipulator to frantic conspirator shines with his performance in controlled hysteria.

Katharine Ross (Jennifer): Ross, months before The Graduate (1967), embodies brittle glamour, her wide-eyed vulnerability masking a latent ruthlessness. Her final breakdown- shooting a resurrected Norman in a pitch-black room- is visceral and tragic.

The Supporting Cast includes: Don Stroud’s Norman, a pawn in the Montgomerys’ games, embodies doomed naivete. Kent Smith (Cat People) and the delightfully dotty Estelle Winwood as their neighbor. Also on board are a mix of extras that add ghoulish levity as party guests, including Harrington’s Queen of Blood 1966 space vampire, Florence Marly. At the same time, the omnipresent character actor Ian Wolfe plays the bemused doctor who anchors the madness.

Don Stroud is a cult-favorite actor known for his rugged, imposing presence and a career spanning over five decades across film and television. Discovered as a surfer in Waikiki, Stroud brought a striking 6’2″ athletic build, chiseled features, and an intense, brooding charisma to the screen, making him a natural fit for tough, often villainous roles. Critics and writers have described his style as “raw,” “volatile,” and “magnetic,” with a penchant for playing outlaws, bikers, and morally ambiguous characters. I have always found him to possess smoldering, outlaw charm and a sense that trouble and temptation ride side by side whenever he enters a room.

Among his most prominent and cult works are not just in Games (1967), but also Coogan’s Bluff (1968), Bloody Mama (1970), The Amityville Horror (1979), and the James Bond film Licence to Kill (1989).

He also made his mark on television with recurring roles in series like Hawaii Five-O, Mike Hammer, and The New Gidget. Stroud’s on-screen persona is often described as “dangerously unpredictable,” combining physicality with a sly, rebellious edge that made him a memorable presence in both mainstream and genre cinema.

Visual Alchemy: Fraker’s Cinematography and Haack’s Design:

Cinematographer William A. Fraker, later famed for Rosemary’s Baby (1968) and Bullitt (1968), paints Games in lurid hues and disorienting angles. Dutch tilts mirror the couple’s moral decay, while chiaroscuro lighting- faces half-shadowed, bodies emerging from darkness- heightens the paranoia. Fraker’s camera lingers on grotesque details: blood seeping through a shroud, a prosthetic eye dangling from Norman’s socket. The townhouse’s cluttered opulence, juxtaposing Warhol-esque pop art with Gothic relics, becomes a prison of the protagonists’ own design. A standout sequence- Jennifer’s drugged hallucination of Norman’s ghostly return- uses double exposures and jarring cuts to fracture reality, a technique Harrington honed in his experimental shorts.

A forgotten gem of psychological horror, Games bombed on release, dismissed as a Diabolique knockoff, but its legacy endures as a testament to Harrington’s singular vision. It has never lost its allure for me. It is a film about the performance of identity, of sanity, of love, where every gesture is a lie and every room a stage. Harrington, ever the outsider, skewers the emptiness of wealth and the seduction of control, curated personas, and viral deception. With its razor-sharp performances, audacious design, and Fraker’s hypnotic lens, Games remains a chilling reminder that the most dangerous monsters wear human faces- and the deadliest games are played without us knowing that there are no rules.

“The thrust of the film is to present the artist as an alchemist who, through her creative work, becomes herself transmuted into gold.” -Curtis Harrington.

WHAT’S THE MATTER WITH HELEN? 1971

Curtis Harrington’s What’s the Matter with Helen? (1971) is an overwrought, lurid, baroque descent into the anxieties and obsessions of two women bound by guilt, paranoia, and a shared brush with infamy. Set against the backdrop of 1930s Hollywood – land of faded glamour, desperate ambition, and lurking menace- Harrington’s film stands as a quintessential entry in the “grand dame guignol” cycle, but with a psychological complexity and visual elegance that mark it as one of his most personal and accomplished works.

Certainly in part because of Shelley Winters and Debbie Reynolds, who bring a remarkable duality and psychological complexity to What’s the Matter with Helen?, their screen presence is both complementary and strikingly distinct. Winters, with her brooding intensity and expressive melancholy, masterfully charts Helen’s gradual descent into paranoia and delusion; her performance is a study in mounting instability, where even the smallest gesture or shift in tone signals the character’s unraveling. Winters’ portrayal, described as “utterly mesmerizing,” imbues Helen with a tragic vulnerability that is as chilling as it is sympathetic. By the film’s denouement, the shocking revelation is an utter fevered nightmarish tableau.

I’m thrilled to announce two major upcoming features at The Last Drive In that celebrate the remarkable legacy of Shelley Winters and challenge the narrow confines of Hollywood’s so-called “hag cinema.” First, The Bloodiest Mama of Them All will be a tribute to Winters herself, a larger-than-life talent whose fearless performance in What’s the Matter with Helen? stands as a testament to her range and power. This piece will explore how Winters redefined the boundaries of screen acting, especially for women cast aside by an industry obsessed with youth.

Her work in What’s the Matter with Helen? also serves as a springboard for my second feature, Deconstructing Hag Cinema, a critical deep dive that pushes back against the pejorative label assigned to actresses who “aged out” or I should say “pushed out” of Hollywood and were relegated to campy horror roles in the wake of Whatever Happened to Baby Jane? With Deconstructing Hag Cinema, I aim to reclaim and reframe these performances, spotlighting the artistry, complexity, and enduring influence of the women who made this genre unforgettable. Stay tuned for both features- coming soon to The Last Drive In.

Reynolds, meanwhile, subverts her wholesome star persona to inhabit Adelle’s brittle glamour and self-deluding ambition, revealing layers of vanity, longing, and desperation beneath the surface.

Her presence is dramatic, self-obsessed, and unexpectedly sharp, with critics noting the pleasure of seeing her play against type as a woman whose dreams of Hollywood stardom mask a deep-seated fear of irrelevance. Together, Winters and Reynolds command the screen with a sophisticated interplay: Winters’ haunted fragility and Reynolds’ performative optimism create a dynamic that is both haunting and electric, elevating the film’s gothic melodrama into a mesmerizing psychological duet, or dance – their pas de deux.

The story opens in Iowa, where Helen Hill (Shelley Winters) and Adelle Bruckner (Debbie Reynolds) are besieged by the press and public after their sons are convicted of a brutal murder. Fleeing the judgment and anonymous threats- one chillingly delivered by a man who slices Helen’s palm “to see her bleed”- the women reinvent themselves in Los Angeles, opening a dance academy for little girls whose mothers dream of Shirley Temple stardom.

With new names, platinum hair, and a veneer of optimism, Adelle and Helen attempt to escape their past, but the film’s atmosphere is thick with dread from the start.

Harrington’s genius is in how he layers this surface of Hollywood fantasy with undercurrents of repression, transferred guilt, and psychological unraveling. The dance school, with its chorus lines of precocious children and pushy stage mothers, becomes a grotesque funhouse mirror of lost innocence and thwarted dreams. Adelle, vivacious and self-deluding, quickly adapts, charming wealthy widower Lincoln Palmer (Dennis Weaver) and chasing her own vision of reinvention. Helen, by contrast, is consumed by religious guilt and paranoia, her fragile psyche haunted by visions of blood and retribution motifs that Harrington and screenwriter Henry Farrell (of Whatever Happened to Baby Jane? fame) weave throughout the film, most memorably in the recurring image of Helen’s wounded, bleeding hands.

In one of the film’s most haunting flashbacks, Helen is seized by a vivid, nightmarish memory of her husband’s gruesome death in a thresher accident. The scene unfolds with a visceral intensity: Helen envisions the brutal moment when her husband is mutilated by the farm machinery, blood and violence erupting in a blur of guilt and horror. The imagery is fragmented and expressionistic, reflecting Helen’s fractured psyche, her face contorted with anguish as the mechanical violence of the accident replays in her mind. This flashback not only underscores the trauma that haunts Helen but also foreshadows her later confession that she was responsible for pushing her husband to his death, layering her present paranoia with the inescapable weight of her past sins.

The visual style, courtesy of legendary cinematographer Lucien Ballard, is lush yet claustrophobic. Ballard, known for his work with Sam Peckinpah and Stanley Kubrick, bathes the film in a sepia-tinged palette that evokes both period nostalgia and a sense of rot beneath the surface.

Lucien Ballard, widely regarded as one of Hollywood’s most accomplished cinematographers, left an indelible mark across genres and decades. Uncredited, he contributed to the visual poetry of Laura (1944), a foundational film noir whose shadowy elegance and psychological complexity helped define the noir sensibility and its visual language. In The House on Telegraph Hill (1951), Ballard’s lens heightened the film’s gothic suspense and postwar paranoia, making it one of the era’s quintessential noirs, set against the fog-draped streets of San Francisco.

31 Flavors of Noir on the Fringe to Lure you in! Part 4 The last Killing in a Lineup of unsung noir

With Stanley Kubrick’s The Killing (1956), Ballard crafted a tense, atmospheric heist thriller that broke new ground in film noir, blending documentary realism with existential dread. A Kiss Before Dying (1956) stands as a late-period noir, its sunlit exteriors and shocking violence subverting the genre’s conventions and leaving a lasting sting on audiences.

Ballard’s artistry extended to the Western, most notably with Sam Peckinpah’s Ride the High Country (1962), a revisionist take that balanced classic genre values with a new, somber realism. His work reached its zenith in The Wild Bunch (1969), where his sweeping, sun-drenched vistas and kinetic camerawork redefined the Western with unprecedented brutality and lyricism, earning Ballard the National Society of Film Critics award for Best Cinematography. Finally, The Getaway (1972) starring Steve McQueen showcased his versatility, bringing a gritty, propulsive energy to the action thriller and further cementing his legacy as a master of cinematic mood and movement.

In What’s the Matter With Helen? shadows loom, staircases twist, and mirrors reflect fractured identities, echoing the characters’ descent into madness. Harrington’s direction is both theatrical and intimate, lingering on Shelley Winters’ increasingly unhinged performance as Helen’s grip on reality slips. Debbie Reynolds, cast against type, brings a brittle glamour and cunning to Adelle, her optimism shading into self-preservation and, ultimately, complicity in the film’s spiral of violence.

The supporting cast adds further texture: Micheál Mac Liammóir is memorably sinister as Hamilton Starr, the elocution coach whose ambiguous motives unsettle both women, while Agnes Moorehead’s radio evangelist Sister Alma offers an austere, false comfort to Helen’s spiritual torment. The film’s set pieces- Helen’s hallucinations backstage at the recital, the murder and disposal of a would-be avenger, the slaughter of Helen’s beloved rabbits- are staged with a mix of Gothic excess and psychological realism that is pure Harrington.

What makes What’s the Matter with Helen? so unique within the psychological thriller and “hagsploitation” genres is its empathy for its damaged protagonists. Rather than simply exploiting their unraveling for shock, Harrington probes the loneliness, guilt, and desperation that drive them. The film’s climax- Helen, having murdered Adelle in a jealous frenzy, playing “Goody Goody” on the piano for Adelle’s corpse, dressed in a child’s dance costume- is both grotesque and heartbreaking, a tableau of madness that lingers long after the credits roll. This lasting, grisly snapshot stuck with me days after seeing the film in its original theatrical run -and for years beyond. Its power is such that it imprints itself on the memory, refusing to fade.

Harrington’s legacy is that of a director who brought a painter’s eye and a poet’s sensitivity to genre filmmaking. His work, from the dreamy Night Tide to the campy menace of Whoever Slew Auntie Roo?, also starring Winters, is marked by atmosphere, psychological depth, and an ability to elicit career-best performances from his stars.

What’s the Matter with Helen? is perhaps his most personal film-a meditation on guilt, female friendship, and the price of survival in a world that punishes women for both their sins and their suffering.

Though the film was compromised by studio interference- Harrington lamented the loss of his preferred dissolves and the toning down of the murder scene to secure a GP rating- it remains a visually sumptuous, emotionally resonant work. Critics at the time were divided, but the film has since been reclaimed as a cult classic, its blend of Gothic melodrama, psychological horror, and Hollywood satire as potent now as it was unsettling then. It has not lost any of its disturbing impact and knack for provoking unease.

In the end, What’s the Matter with Helen? is a tragic masquerade, a cautionary tale about the impossibility of escaping one’s past, and a showcase for Harrington’s singular vision – a vision haunted by lost ideals, painted in blood and shadow, and illuminated by the flickering hope of redemption.

THE MAD ROOM 1969

Bernard Girard’s The Mad Room (1969) is a brooding, atmospheric entry in the late-1960s cycle of psychological thrillers that probe the darkness lurking within the domestic sphere.

Loosely adapted from the 1941 noir Ladies in Retirement, the film is reimagined for a more sensational era, blending gothic suspense, familial trauma, and the corrosive effects of secrets into a single, claustrophobic narrative. At its heart is Ellen Hardy, played with wide-eyed intensity by Stella Stevens, a poised but increasingly fragile young woman whose carefully constructed world begins to unravel with the return of her troubled siblings.

Ladies in Retirement (1941) Though this be madness

Ellen serves as a live-in assistant to the wealthy, eccentric Mrs. Gladys Armstrong, portrayed by Shelley Winters in another one of her signature late-career roles. Winters brings to the part a brittle authority and sly humor, her presence both domineering and oddly sympathetic- a matriarch whose suspicions are as sharp as her tongue. Ellen’s plans to marry Mrs. Armstrong’s stepson, Sam, are thrown into chaos when she is summoned to retrieve her younger siblings, George and Mandy, from the mental institution where they’ve been confined since childhood, after being suspected of the brutal murder of their parents. Desperate to keep their past a secret, Ellen persuades Mrs. Armstrong to let George and Mandy stay in the mansion, fabricating a story about a dying uncle.

From the moment the siblings arrive, a sense of unease takes hold. Mandy, played with unnerving innocence by Barbara Sammeth, insists on having a “mad room” – a private space to vent frustration and anxiety, echoing the siblings’ institutional upbringing. Ellen reluctantly allows them access to Mr. Armstrong’s forbidden study, deepening the house’s atmosphere of secrets and locked doors. The mansion itself, shot by cinematographer Harry Stradling Jr., becomes a labyrinth of shadowy corridors and cluttered relics, its claustrophobic interiors amplifying the psychological tension that simmers among the characters.

One of the film’s most unsettling motifs is the use of gore and bloody imagery as a form of disturbed expression, most memorably, when blood is used to daub crude, childlike finger painting flowers on the walls of the mansion. These painted flowers, rendered in vivid red, are both grotesque and eerily innocent, their cheerful shapes clashing with the violence of their creation. The sight of these sanguine blooms transforms the domestic space into a nightmarish tableau, blurring the line between trauma and art, and serving as a haunting visual reminder that madness and violence lurk just beneath the surface of the everyday. This motif lingers in the mind, its disquieting effect amplified by the tension between the innocence of the imagery and the horror of its medium.

As Mrs. Armstrong’s suspicions mount, the film’s suspense tightens. Ellen’s increasingly desperate lies and erratic behavior raise the possibility that she may be more unstable than she appears. The tension erupts one night when Mrs. Armstrong is found dead in the “mad room,” her throat slashed by a saber.

In a panic, Ellen orchestrates a cover-up, telling the staff that Mrs. Armstrong has left on business and hiding the body- a macabre charade that unravels with the discovery of the family dog carrying a severed hand through the estate’s manicured grounds. The siblings, meanwhile, turn on each other, accusing one another of murder, while Ellen’s own sanity teeters on the brink.

The supporting cast adds further texture: Michael Burns plays George with a blend of inscrutability and suppressed menace, while Beverly Garland’s scene-stealing turn as the drunken, embittered Mrs. Racine injects the film with a jolt of Grand Guignol camp. Yet it is Stevens and Winters who anchor the film, their performances oscillating between vulnerability and ferocity, fear and calculation.

What sets The Mad Room apart is its ability to sustain a mood of dread and ambiguity. The film never fully embraces the madness its premise promises, but it simmers with the threat of violence, the weight of repressed trauma, and the ever-present possibility of collapse. Its focus on damaged women, family secrets, and the thin veneer of respectability aligns it with contemporaneous works like What’s the Matter with Helen? and Whoever Slew Auntie Roo?, assuring its cult status among fans of domestic Gothic and camp-inflected thrillers.

Though sometimes criticized for its uneven tone and missed opportunities for deeper psychological exploration, The Mad Room remains a compelling artifact of its era- a chamber piece of paranoia, repression, and melodramatic menace, elevated by committed performances and a suffocating sense of doom. It is a film that lingers on the edge of madness, never quite plunging in, but always threatening to do so, leaving us with a disquiting feeling of dis-ease and an uncomfortable sense that the true horror lies not in the supernatural, but in the secrets we keep and the rooms kept lock inside ourselves.

#65 down, 85 to go! Your EverLovin’ Joey formally & affectionately known as MonsterGirl!

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

The Nanny 1965

SPOILER ALERT!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dead Ringer 1964

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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The Curious Charisma of Roddy McDowall: A Life in Art and Film

Film critic Leonard Maltin: “Roddy McDowall’s career spanned more than six decades, and he managed to remain relevant and respected throughout. His performances were always compelling, and his contributions to cinema are invaluable.”

Roddy McDowall certainly had a distinctive presence: He always seemed to exude this uncanny youthful appearance. Even as an adult, McDowall was described as being “perpetually youthful.”

“McDowall was sharp-faced, clearly intelligent, chilly in his pride, and a kid who believed in masking his feelings (just like real kids). There are scenes in the film (How Green Was My Valley) in which older actors seem to learn restraint and stealth from the child. He was so emphatically honest in that film, and a kid who sometimes looked like a little old man (it was observed in life how, close to 70, Roddy still had “a child’s open face’).”– David Thomson for The Independent:

In 1941, The Detroit Free Press had this to say: “The child marvel of Hollywood right now is 12-year-old Roddy McDowall who arrived here from England a year ago. The public hasn’t had a really good look at him, but he has already been boosted to stardom. If you saw Manhunt, that was a small part; it was just a warm-up for the role in How Green Was My Valley, which Fox had in mind when they signed him. It is in this, his second film over here, that Roddy is becoming an American screen personality in his own right.”

“I enjoyed being in movies when I was a boy. As a child, you’re not acting- you believe. Ah, if an adult could only act as a child does with that insane, playing-at-toy-soldiers concentration!” – Roddy McDowall

Roddy McDowall was a highly prolific and versatile actor whose career spanned nearly six decades, encompassing a variety of genres in film, television, and radio. He began his acting journey as a child in 1938 and continued to be a prominent figure in Hollywood until his death in 1998. Throughout his extensive career, McDowall appeared in a wide range of classic films, beginning with 20th Century Fox’s 1941 thriller Manhunt directed by Fritz Lang and including his breakout role in How Green Was My Valley (1941).

Maureen O’Hara and Roddy McDowall in How Green Was My Valley 1941.

This is where he met and became lifelong friends with actress Maureen O’Hara. After Fox’s Best Picture winner, they cast him in the war film Confirm and Deny 1941. The following year, he played Tyrone Power as a young boy in Son of Fury: The Story of Benjamin Blake 1942.

Also, in 1942, they gave him top billing in On the Sunny Side, and he was given co-star credit alongside Monty Woolie in The Pied Piper, playing an orphan of the war. With McDowall’s success sealed, MGM borrowed the fine young actor to star in  Lassie Come Home (1943). The studio held onto him and gave him the leading role in The White Cliffs of Dover in 1944. 

Anne Baxter, Monty Woolley, and Roddy McDowall in The Pied Piper 1942.

Roddy McDowall was voted the number 4 ‘Star of Tomorrow’ in 1944, and Fox gave him another starring role in Thunderhead – Son of Flicka 1945.

Early on, he turned to the theater, starring in the title role of Young Woodley in the summer stock production in West Port, Connecticut, in July 1946. With his love of working on the stage, Orson Welles cast him in his production of Macbeth, where he played Malcolm. In 1948, he took on the same role in the film version.

By now, it was the late 1940s & 1950s, and he signed with Monogram Pictures, a low-budget studio that embraced recognizable stars to make two pictures a year. McDowall made seven films with them and worked as associate producer for director Phil Karlson’s Rocky 1948, a story about a boy and his dog. This was followed by the adaptation of Robert Louis Stevenson’s Kidnapped in 1948, Black Midnight directed by Budd Boetticher, Killer Shark, Big Timber in 1950, and The Steel Fist in 1952.

Lyn Thomas and Roddy McDowall in Black Midnight 1950.

Fans appreciate his appearance in the 70s disaster film The Poseidon Adventure (1972) and Overboard (1987). In the latter part of his life, he became a sought-after voice actor, lending his talents to animated projects such as A Bug’s Life (1998) and the popular television series Pinky and the Brain (1995-1998). Notably, McDowall also received acclaim on stage, winning a Tony Award for his supporting role in The Fighting Cock. McDowall worked with some of the most prominent actors in the industry, including Elizabeth Taylor, Gregory Peck, Orson Welles, Charlton Heston, Angela Lansbury, Kim Hunter, Vincent Price, Donald Crisp, Maureen O’Hara, Irene Dunne, Rock Hudson, Bette Davis, Jennifer Jones. Maurice Evans, Ruth Gordon, Natalie Wood, Lauren Bacall, Ava Gardner, and Rex Harrison. His career also included working with directors like Joseph L. Mankiewicz, John Ford, Jack Smight, Franklin J. Schaffner, and John Huston. His ability to transition from a child star to a respected adult performer set him apart in the industry.

Roddy McDowall possessed a fascinating duality; the contrast between his youthful looks and worldly-wise poise defined his unique charm and quiet intensity.

He was noted for his expressive eyes and articulate dispatch, which were instrumental in conveying a wide range of emotions. Roddy McDowall was intelligent and witty and often brought sharp intellect and a keen sense of humor to his roles, delivered with impeccable timing. McDowall was praised for his ability to mask feelings and convey restraint, even as a child actor. As an adult performer, he was characterized as “unpredictable,” which suggested a dynamic and varied approach to his roles. Critics noted his reliability as an actor, describing him as “always dependable.”

McDowall’s performances were subtle and nuanced: his approach to acting was all about restraint and introspection rather than over-the-top dramatics, at least in his earliest work. His acting was emotionally authentic, bringing a palpable sincerity to his characters and allowing audiences to connect with them on a profound level. Even in roles like Planet of the Apes, navigating the constraints of elaborate makeup, he transformed physical limitations into artistic opportunities. His performance transcended mere mimicry, embodying the character through a masterful blend of precise gestures and subtle nuances. Playing Cornelius in the Planet of the Apes series, he masterfully balanced intelligence, empathy, and subtle humor.

Continue reading “The Curious Charisma of Roddy McDowall: A Life in Art and Film” →

MonsterGirl’s 150 Days of Classic Horror #25 The Bad Seed 1956

The Bad Seed (1956) is one of the most disturbing psychological thrillers that transcend conventional narratives of psychopathic homicidal antagonists, deriving its profound disturbance from the jarring realization that innocence can be masking a malevolence embodied in a child—a cunning, blonde, pigtailed, enfant terrible who is growing up in the middle-class home of an all-American family. The film stars Nancy Kelly as Christine Penmark and Patty McCormack as her precocious, deadly daughter, Rhoda.

Directed by Mervyn LeRoy, the film is based on the 1954 play by Maxwell Anderson, which was adapted from William March’s 1954 novel. The film explores themes of inherited evil, family dynamics, and the facade of 1950s suburban perfection. It delves into the nature vs. nurture debate throughout the story, centered around a seemingly perfect child with a sinister soul.

Director LeRoy was known for his versatility, directing classics like Little Caesar (1931) and The Wizard of Oz (1939). The Bad Seed 1956 marked a departure into psychological horror for him. Nancy Kelly, who reprised her role from the Broadway production, was a former child actor herself, bringing depth to her portrayal of a mother grappling with a horrifying realization that her little girl is a murderer, having killed a young boy in a shocking way in order to get his penmanship medal she wanted to claim for herself.

Patty McCormack, only 11 at the time, delivered a chilling performance as Rhoda that would define her career. I had the pleasure of meeting Patty McCormack recently, and I can tell you that she is the complete opposite of the chilling Rhoda. She possesses some of the brightest, sparkling blue eyes and has the most wonderful laugh and sense of humor, still able to make fun of one of the most compelling psychopaths in the history of cinema.

McCormack, along with Eileen Heckart, reprised their roles from the Broadway production, bringing a seasoned depth to their performances.

The film’s cinematography was handled by Harold Rosson, an industry veteran known for his work on the iconic fantasy The Wizard of Oz and the musical Singin’ in the Rain (1952). Rosson’s use of shadow and light in The Bad Seed heightened the psychological tension, particularly in scenes featuring Rhoda’s seemingly innocent facade.

The critical reception of The Bad Seed was generally positive, with praise for its performances and psychological depth. The film received four Academy Award nominations, including Best Actress for Kelly and Best Supporting Actress for both McCormack and Eileen Heckart.

Eileen Heckart delivers a powerful and heartbreaking performance as Mrs. Hortense Daigle. Her portrayal of a grieving mother struggling to cope with the loss of her son Claude is one of the most memorable aspects of the film.

In a particularly emotional scene, Mrs. Daigle arrives at the Penmark house intoxicated, seeking answers about her son’s death. Her drunken state is both a coping mechanism and a source of raw, unfiltered emotion. Heckart’s performance captures the complex mix of grief, desperation, and anger that she experiences.

Heckart is masterful at showing a heightened state of vulnerability as Mrs. Daigle openly admits to being drunk, saying, “I’m drunk. It’s a pleasure to stay drunk when your little boy’s been killed.” The desperation as she seeks to find some closure drives her desire to hold Rhoda and talk to her, hoping to uncover any small detail about Claude’s final moments. Mrs. Daigle shares touching recollections of Claude, revealing the depth of her loss, all the while balancing her underlying suspicion that Rhoda knows more than she’s telling despite her inebriated state. Mrs. Daigle hints at her suspicions, noting, “Children can be nasty.” Heckart’s portrayal is praised for its authenticity and emotional impact. Her ability to convey the character’s pain and desperation while maintaining a sense of dignity in her grief adds depth to the film’s exploration of tragedy and evil. This scene serves as a stark contrast to Rhoda’s lack of empathy and remorse, heightening the psychological horror of the story. Heckart’s performance in this role was so compelling that it earned her the Academy Award nomination for Best Supporting Actress.

What a Character! 2018 – Sassy Sisterhood: Eileen Heckart & Louise Latham

The most chilling manifestation of psychopathology is that which emerges from within an ostensibly innocent child. This notion taps into our deepest fears about the nature of evil, challenging our assumptions about childhood purity and the origins of mental disturbance, creating a uniquely unsettling psychological horror as it subverts our expectations and confronts us with the possibility that darkness can lurk behind even the most angelic facade.

Rhoda’s facade of perfection and outward appearance as a polite, well-groomed, and respectful child makes her evil nature even more chilling, as it suggests that darkness can lurk behind even the most picture-perfect exterior. Combining these elements makes Rhoda a uniquely terrifying and compelling character in horror cinema, challenging societal notions of childhood innocence and the origins of evil.

Psychologically, The Bad Seed tapped into 1950s anxieties about the nature of evil and the debate between nature versus nurture. The film explores the controversial idea of inherited criminal or evil tendencies as Rhoda’s sociopathic behavior is suggested to be genetic, despite her loving upbringing.

A concept that resonated in an era grappling with rising juvenile delinquency. It also subverted the idealized image of 1950s suburban life, suggesting darkness could lurk behind even the most ideal American family.

The film’s ending was altered from the original play to comply with the Motion Picture Production Code, which required that evil be punished. While some criticized this change, it added an extra layer of irony to the film’s exploration of morality and fate. The Bad Seed has since become a cult classic, influencing numerous “evil child” narratives in cinema and establishing many tropes of the subgenre.

Some of the film’s most defining moments include Claude Daigle’s drowning. This off-screen event sets the plot in motion and introduces the audience to Rhoda’s true nature. Other significant moments are – Christine’s realization of Rhoda’s guilt: The moment when Christine catches Rhoda trying to burn her tap shoes in the incinerator is a pivotal turning point. Leroy’s confrontation with Rhoda: The caretaker, Leroy, played by Henry Jones, taunts Rhoda about her involvement in Claude’s death, leading to dire consequences. Mrs. Daigle’s drunken confrontation: Eileen Heckart delivers that scene I mentioned with her powerful performance as the grieving, intoxicated mother of Claude, adding emotional weight to the consequences of Rhoda’s actions and Christine’s attempted murder-suicide. This shocking scene demonstrates the depths of Christine’s despair and her misguided attempt to protect society from Rhoda.

The supporting cast adds richness to the film’s exploration of 1950s society: It includes Evelyn Varden as Monica Breedlove, the Penmarks’ neighbor, who represents the nosy but well-meaning suburban housewife archetype. Henry Jones, as the creepy, belligerent Leroy, the caretaker, serves as a foil to Rhoda’s carefully maintained facade, seeing through her act in a way the adults cannot. William Hopper, as Colonel Kenneth Penmark, Rhoda’s father, embodies the often absent 1950s patriarch, unaware of the drama unfolding in his household.

Rhoda’s character is compelling and terrifying for several reasons: The subversion of innocence: As a young child (around 8-10 years old), Rhoda presents a stark contrast between her seemingly perfect exterior and her sinister nature. This juxtaposition of childlike innocence with murderous intent is deeply unsettling. Rhoda is portrayed as a driven perfectionist and manipulator, willing to commit brutal, unthinkable murders to get her way. This level of calculation in a child is both fascinating and disturbing.

The Bad Seed is believed to be one of the first horror films featuring a child as the villain, making Rhoda’s character groundbreaking for its time and a pioneering role brought to life by Patty McCormack. McCormack’s ability to convey Rhoda’s duality was so convincing that she earned an Academy Award nomination at eleven years old.

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

SPOILER ALERT!

THE BIRD WITH THE CRYSTAL PLUMAGE 1970

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

DEEP RED (PROFONDO ROSSO) 1975

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Provacateur & Libertine Roger Vadim’s Dark Satire: Pretty Maids All In A Row (1971): Rock Hudson’s Killer Casanova & The Garden of Earthly Delights – “Wonder why they always seem to die with a smile on their face?”

Pretty Maids All in a Row is a 1971 film directed by Roger Vadim, blending elements of black comedy, sex, and murder mystery. Set in a California high school during the sexual revolution, it follows serial killer Michael ‘Tiger’ McDrew (Rock Hudson), who targets his female students. The film satirizes American high school culture and societal attitudes towards sex and violence.

In this dark sexploitation comedy by Vadim, Rock Hudson plays a beloved football hero/ faculty member who is, in fact, a lady-killer preying on the female student body at his high school!

Hieronymus Bosch – The Garden of Earthly Delights.

Pretty Maids All in a Row is bathed in hazy colors similar to that of Bosch’s epic triptych painting. I’m starting this post by emphasizing Bosch’s iconic work of art, as it significantly shapes the narrative.

This intricate panel of images appears in the film several times as a motif. Vadim possessed a clear grasp of what he was informing us about. It touches on a vital element and is the fundamental part of the narrative’s soul, yet it bears no resolution for us, the ‘voyeurs’, by the film’s end. Betty Smith (Angie Dickinson) has this painting in her apartment. We see it in several sequences; By framing the object in a tight close-up, scrutinized by the lens, the camera invites a nuanced inspection, underscoring Vadim’s intention to emphasize the painting’s thematic significance.

Read the feature below, which includes an Angie Dickinson overview!

It’s the pictures that got small! – “Good Evening” Leading Ladies of The Alfred Hitchcock Hour Part 1

Bosch’s painting serves as a prominent motif throughout the film.

Close-ups in the film at varying viewpoints of Bosch’s painting.

The painting depicts nude figures in the garden of temptation, ultimately setting them forth unto an eternal dance with damnation.

From Wiki:

The left panel depicts God presenting Adam to Eve, while the central panel is a broad panorama of sexually engaged nude figures, fantastical animals, oversized fruit, and hybrid stone formations. The right panel is a hellscape and portrays the torments of damnation.

“Art historians and critics frequently interpret the painting as a didactic warning on the perils of life’s temptations. However, the intricacy of its symbolism, particularly that of the central panel, has led to a wide range of scholarly interpretations over the centuries. 20th-century art historians are divided as to whether the triptych’s central panel is a moral warning or a panorama of paradise lost. American writer Peter S. Beagle describes it as an “erotic derangement that turns us all into voyeurs, a place filled with the intoxicating air of perfect liberty.”

One could say that this suburban American High School acts as a similar landscape depicted in Bosch’s painting. The school is ripe for sexual and unconventional anarchy, abound with young flesh, exploring a ‘perfect liberty’ flitting about in micro skirts and no bras, amidst the intoxicating air of youth and temptation.

Tiger McDrew reads Don Juan to his class.

Leaving these young people vulnerable and tempted by devouring demons like Tiger McDrew, who comes and preys upon their alluring innocence. Much like the painting, Pretty Maids has a sense of erotic derangement that turns us into every bit the voyeur. The film is a thought-provoking amalgamation of interrelated questions, ultimately yielding a profound exploration of moral ambiguities and the deeply embedded systemic, hierarchical, and hegemonic complexities and challenges that shape historical narratives.

Add Vadim’s European, self-proclaimed Libertine sensibilities and his view of American culture, and you get a psychopathic Don Juan in Tiger McDrew, with voyeuristic close-ups of supposed adolescent young girls (the actresses were older) and a society that both condemns and perpetuates it.

An alternative title to this blog post – I could say might be this:  “The Americanization of Debauchery, Perversion, Panties, Milton’s Paradise Lost, Hieronymus Bosch’s The Garden of Earthly Delights transfixed on the modern high school campus. The Socratic Infusion of Free Love & the Sexual Revolution. With traces of Bluebeard, Casanova. Sexism & Misogyny, the POV of the New Wave European Aestheticism of the Female Body as Fetish. Pom Poms, Peace Signs, The Cult of American Hero worship Molière & Lord Byron’s Don Juan with a smattering of Svengali, as a Homicidal Pedagogue in a tight pants.”

In Pretty Maids All In A Row, Ponce (John David Carson) and substitute teacher Betty Smith (Angie Dickinson) both read from Milton’s Paradise Lost. The telling of how Satan fell from grace, Adam and Eve were cast out of the garden, the angels fought amongst each other, and innocence becomes sacrificed as just part of the epic tale.

PRETTY MAIDS ALL IN A ROW – From the nursery rhyme, Mary, Mary, Quite Contrary.

Rock Hudson was the romantic leading man of the 1950s and 60s.

Tiger McDrew Hudson’s character exerts a subtle yet potent influence, leveraging his authority to manipulate and intimidate with understated finesse.

Continue reading “Provacateur & Libertine Roger Vadim’s Dark Satire: Pretty Maids All In A Row (1971): Rock Hudson’s Killer Casanova & The Garden of Earthly Delights – “Wonder why they always seem to die with a smile on their face?”” →

A Tale of Two Spirits- The Haunting of Windward House: A Study of Gothic Horror in The Uninvited 1944

Retrospective reviews have continued to hold the film in high regard, with Carlos Clarens calling it ” the best and most unusual” horror film of 1944 in his book An Illustrated History of the Horror Film.

“ The supernatural is dealt with seriously in this dynamic, suspenseful melodrama, chock full of fine acting that will hold audiences glued to their seats for its entire 93 minutes…
Once in, they’ll like it, but getting audiences into the seats to stay “glued” there was less than a dead cert due to the film’s “unusual and controversial subject.” — Review from the 5 January 1944 issue of Variety.

In his review of The Uninvited for The New York Times, Bosley Crowther remarked that while the film features a “glaring confusion in the wherefore and why of what goes on,” it effectively showcases the talents of its cast, particularly noting that Ray Milland and Ruth Hussey “do nicely as the couple who get themselves involved” and praising Gail Russell as “wistful and gracious” in her role.”

Paramount’s The Uninvited 1944, MGM’s The Haunting 1963, and Twentieth Century Fox’s The Innocents 1961 stand as the finest examples of achievements in the realm of sophisticated supernatural cinema to come out of Hollywood in the forties. Horror in the 1940s were overwhelmingly monster movies, considering Universal’s trend, which was characterized by a blend of classic literary monsters and folktales and their more modern reinterpretations, such as Dracula, Frankenstein, and werewolves. The Gothic ghost story has had quite a resurgence in the past few decades and has become its own genre.

All three of the aforementioned Gothic supernatural films are ‘gravely’ serious and refined visions that tell a subtext or deeper meaning about inner psychological conflict and the path of self-discovery, which is effectively brought to life by the presence of ghosts and spirits. Therefore, while on the surface, the films appear to haunt the screen as a well-crafted ghost story, they also delve into meaningful themes that reach beyond their supernatural framework and their sense of the otherworldly.

These films represent a departure from typical ghost stories, offering nuanced, psychologically complex narratives that delve into the human psyche. These narratives are particularly powerful when amplified through the Gothic aesthetic.

With its cold earnestness, Lewis Allen’s stunning prototype of an authentic cinematic ghost story doesn’t expose the uncanny happenings as a mere gimmick perpetrated by human design to misdirect and obscure mischief. These ghosts are very real and dangerous.

Right off the bat, the movie gained attention for being above other horror films —as an early example of “elevated horror” or “higher bracket horror pictures,” as Jack Cartwright wrote at the time.

Hollywood normally sprinkled its ghost stories with a generous dose of comedy or as a subterfuge devised to cover up some criminal operations. Four years earlier, Paramount released the Bob Hope comedy classic The Ghost Breakers; the horror/comedy subgenre shifted to a lighthearted tone characterized by antics with the ‘it can all be explained away by the end of the picture’ flare. We can see this type of over-the-top carnival horror in pictures pulled off by showman William Castle in the 1950s & 60s, with House on Haunted Hill and 13 Ghosts.

Paulette Goddard and Bob Hope in The Ghost Breakers 1940.

Kay Hammond, Rex Harrison and Constance Cummings in Blithe Spirit 1945.

The Uninvited is an innovative approach to the supernatural Hollywood horror formula. It takes a bold stance by presenting these elements as genuine occurrences rather than comedic devices or plot misdirections and was considered “unusual and controversial” at the time, setting it apart from lighter iterations like Blithe Spirit or Topper, refraining from the campy theatrics typical of its predecessors. Allen’s film can be regarded as the first major Hollywood motion picture that transformed ‘ghosts’ into something malignant and threatening.

Gary J. Svehla’s The Uninvited essay in Cinematic Hauntings states: Hollywood’s glib attitude toward ghosts – perhaps they quickly became the caricature of human beings wearing a white sheet in two-reel comedies or the comical howling spirits of Disney cartoons, the ghost in Hollywood has never been taken seriously enough. Hollywood’s attraction to the ghost movie genre has largely been tongue-in-cheek with early thirties encounters between spooks and Laurel and Hardy, the Three Stooges, and the robust, demented Little Rascals. Even the MGM late thirties version of A Christmas Carol, featuring disembodied spirits of the spookiest nature, still managed to keep the proceedings moralistic, tidy, and safe (even fun).

Svehla cites the Halperin Brothers’ deadly serious pre-code horror Supernatural 1933, starring Carole Lombard, as one of the first mature ghost movies. It is still an obscure gem barely remembered today.

The Uninvited emerged as a pivotal work in the supernatural thriller canon, marking a significant shift in the genre’s trajectory, opting for a nuanced exploration of spectral phenomena that would redefine the genre.

This 1944 Paramount picture starred Ray Milland, one of its top stars, and Ruth Hussey, best known for her Oscar-nominated performance as Best Supporting Actress in The Philadelphia Story 1940.

Directed by the English-born Lewis Allen, with over thirty West End productions to his credit and several successful Broadway shows as well, he established himself as a prominent figure in theatre until he went to Los Angeles and joined Paramount.

In his directorial debut, Allen masterfully adapted Irish writer and activist Dorothy Macardle’s 1941 novel Uneasy Freehold, renamed The Uninvited, for its U.S. publication.

While his repertoire includes films like The Unseen 1945 (also a Dorothy Macardle adaptation which made it to the screen a year later), Desert Fury (1947), the atmospheric noir So Evil My Love (1948), and the tense thriller Suddenly (1954), it’s The Uninvited (1944) of all his moody offerings; it’s the film that stands out as his crowning achievement. Paramount allocated a substantial budget and assembled a talented cast for the production, resulting in a successful hit!

Joel McCrea and Gail Russell in The Unseen 1945.

Though more of a continuation of the theme rather than a literal sequel, Lewis Allen directed the follow-up, The Unseen (1945), also starring Gail Russell, this time playing a governess – echoing the Gothic themes of The Innocents (1961).

“As we think about The Uninvited today, its production tells us a lot about why it remains so culturally significant. When producer Charles Brackett bought the rights to Dorothy Macardle‘s 1941 novel, he had Alfred Hitchcock in mind to direct. Hitchcock had made Rebecca a year earlier in a similar fashion to what Brackett imagined The Uninvited could be: moody, gothic, and haunting. Brackett met with Hitchcock, who read the book but could not direct it due to scheduling conflicts. Hitchcock did give some suggestions to Brackett, but whether or not he used those suggestions is unknown.” – from The Original Ghostly Thrills of ‘The Uninvited’ published October 26, 2021, by Emily Kubincanek, senior Contributor for Film School Rejects.

The Uninvited will certainly resonate with admirers of Hitchcock’s adaptation of Daphne du Maurier’s Rebecca 1940, sharing some of its elements of psychological suspense and haunting ‘spirits’ from the past. Both stories explore parallel themes that center around the ‘afterlife’ influence of the idealized woman/wife revered as the epitome of perfection who casts a long, malevolent shadow over a pure-hearted girl.

Dame Judith Anderson and Joan Fontaine in Alfred Hitchcock’s Rebecca 1940.

It’s a complex blend of a psychological thriller and the obvious supernatural horror, blurring the lines between the tangible and the specters of the afterlife. It’s also a harmony of melodrama and Gothic romance, drawing inspiration from films like Rebecca; The Uninvited utilizes gothic elements such as a foreboding mansion and a sense of lingering past trauma. In addition to that, the murder mystery structure is a story in which Ray Milland and Ruth Hussey uncover clues about past events and dark family secrets as they investigate the haunting.

Allen clues us in on the uncanny phenomena by using sound, melancholic sobbing is particularly powerful, and other unseen forces to suggest a supernatural presence—such as intense cold, the lingering scent of perfume, and an overwhelming sense of oppressive sadness. This likely had a significant impact on another iconic film about a haunted house: Robert Wise’s The Haunting 1963.

Ray Milland was cast as the sophisticated Rick Fitzgerald, who seeks to lighten the tense atmosphere with his comedic flair—a skill playing the charming everyman he frequently showcased in his roles as a romantic lead. That same year, he co-starred with Ginger Rogers in the romantic musical drama Lady in the Dark and Fritz Lang’s spy thriller Ministry of Fear.

“He’s been described as an existential Cary Grant, and his performance here captures that sentiment perfectly. Ultimately, though, the comedy here feels more like genre residue, the persisting remnants of a past cycle that championed comedy over horror in a film pushing new boundaries of otherworldly terror. It’s in the film’s most haunting, stylized moments that it feels most grounded and self-assured.” — from Caleb Allison from the 2021 essay Erotic and Esoteric : The Uninvited as Queer Cult Film.

In her debut role, Gail Russell’s performance as the twenty-year-old Stella Meredith is the driving force of the film, making her character a pivotal element of the story. In her first leading role, Russell masterfully embodies Stella’s complexities; her portrayal captures the essence of a true Gothic heroine, as she combines vulnerability with courageous spirit, gentility with a rebellious heart throughout the picture. She is ideal – haunted and consumed.

She brings a feverish intensity as a waif longing for her mother, who spirals into a state of desperation as a young woman under a spell.

The role of Stella Meredith is widely regarded as one of her best and played a significant role in establishing her as a star in Hollywood. With The Uninvited, and for a brief time during the 1940s, Gail Russell’s spellbinding, ethereal beauty, which trade magazines compared to Hedy Lamarr, the film captured the essence of what might have been for the talented actress, showcased in films like Frank Borzage’s Moonrise 1948. The Western, Angel and the Badman (1947) featuring John Wayne and once again alongside Wayne in the South Seas adventure Wake of the Red Witch (1948). She also starred in John Farrow’s noir/psychological horror film Night Has a Thousand Eyes 1948, co-starring Edward G. Robinson.

Gail Russell and John Lund in Night Has a Thousand Eyes 1948.

From the time she started out at the age of 19, Gail Russell fell victim to the ravages of the Hollywood star factory and descended into a tragic life of alcoholism. Withdrawn, anxious, and out of place for the Hollywood hustle, she drank to calm her nerves while on the set of this movie.

Russell suffered from pathological shyness, preferring to have lived a reclusive life as an artist. Her mother pushed her into an acting career, wishing to exploit her sensual good looks to move the family up in class. It is an ironic twist that she plays a young woman in the grip of her mother’s controlling influence.

By the time she appeared in Budd Boetticher’s Seven Men from Now in 1956, alcoholism had taken a toll on her once-stunning looks, and her career was nearly at an end. Tragically, she passed away in 1961 at the age of thirty-six due to complications related to her drinking.

The screenplay, brimming with intelligence and wit, was written by Frank Partos, a staff writer for both Paramount and RKO, and Dodie Smith, the established playwright and children’s author known for The Hundred and One Dalmatians, which itself was infused with a few Gothic elements. Partos had often worked with Paramount Producer Charles Brackett, who often collaborated with Billy Wilder.

According to Emily Kubincanek, Partos was “ Only available because he’d turned down co-writing Double Indemnity 1944 because he felt the morally challenging plot of that classic noir was too ‘sordid’ and bound to violate the Hays Code.”

Continue reading “A Tale of Two Spirits- The Haunting of Windward House: A Study of Gothic Horror in The Uninvited 1944” →

Feature & Interview with Iconic Actress, Dancer, and Photographer, Barbara Parkins

The Raven-haired sylph who: "walks in beauty like the night"¦ Of cloudless climes and starry skies; And all that's best of dark and bright; Meet in her aspect and her eyes"¦" "” Lord Byron

Barbara Parkins is an icon of the 1960s, appearing in two of the decade's most popular and legendary film and television productions.

Barbara's exquisite beauty is undeniable, but her captivating performances in Peyton Place and Valley of the Dolls truly secured her legacy in Hollywood history and our collective consciousness. As beloved – Betty Anderson in the television series Peyton Place and as Anne Welles in the notorious adaptation of Jacqueline Susann's sensational novel Valley of the Dolls (1967). These memorable roles continue to resonate with audiences today.

But beyond any of it, the glamour, serious drama, pulp fiction, or even the camp, there is an actress who possesses an otherworldly beauty and a depth of character and quality. Not only has she touched our hearts with her performances as these two classic heroines, but she is also one of those recognizable actresses who project strength, confidence, and poise.

Barbara Parkins will undoubtedly be remembered for her portrayal of Betty Anderson Cord in the iconic 1960s prime-time operatic melodrama Peyton Place, which ran from 1964 to 1969.

Based on Grace Metalious's "˜dirty book,' Peyton Place blew the lid off of the hypocritical conformity of small-town America, capturing the complexities of American morality through high drama, showing the dark underbelly of a quaint community of "˜wholesome' families striving for normalcy amid controversial issues. That everything is not safe, it's not always comfortable, and it is without real struggle. And sometimes, life can be downright ugly. Her novel captures the "complexities of human existence"”the dramas, highs and lows, conflicts, and teenage sexuality"”depicting life’s un-romanticized, unvarnished reality. While the book offended some readers, it intrigued others, and despite being a popular show, critics often deem it shocking yet captivating." (The Baltimore Sun 1999 Laurie Kaplan article THE WOMEN OF PEYTON PLACE)

“Barbara Parkins has caught the public's eye, partly because of her beauty, partly because she is a capable little actress. But mostly because she seems to have an inner fire. She's a volcano in a tight dress.'' (From an article BARBARA PARKINS: MOST PROMISING NEWCOMER – Niagra Falls Gazette March, 1965 by Dick Kleiner)

 

Continue reading “Feature & Interview with Iconic Actress, Dancer, and Photographer, Barbara Parkins” →