HYSTERIA (Freddie Francis, 1965)

The eponymous Mr. Smith seemingly falls victim to more than amnesia; his mind betraying his actions, he fears that he has become a devious murderer without a corpus delecti. But in the Hammer idiom things are never quite what they scream.

“Chris Smith” awakes from a car crash without memory of his past, his only possession a torn magazine cover sporting the lovely visage of a beautiful woman. Does this woman hold the key to unlocking his past? As he recuperates, an unknown benefactor pays his medical bills and even sets him up in a penthouse apartment. Lurking in this empty building are disembodied voices and, strangely, two exotic birds in a gilded cage. Meanwhile, Chris hires a private investigator to discover the identities of his mysterious patron, the cover girl and himself! The tangled plot quickly becomes a web of writer’s conceit, becoming more convoluted than reason allows.

Freddie Francis helms this tepid thriller penned by Hammer journeyman Jimmy Sangster, imbuing the film with a visually arresting form which is often more interesting than the illogical plot. The opening montage foreshadows events to a snappy jazz beat, which seems better suited to a beatnik road film than a psychological thriller. The film quickly becomes talky and explanatory, revealing plot points through exposition instead of exhibition. The slow pace is burdened further by Robert Webber whose bland performance makes it difficult to empathize or care much about his predicament. But Francis captures Webber in intriguing mise-en-scene: a triptych in a mirror reflecting his fractured memory; or an extreme high-angle omniscient shot where Webber moves through the crisscross lines of an empty parking lot like a game piece; and framed through the metal bars of a birdcage. Thanks to Francis the film is technically sound but the fatal flaw is embedded in the plot itself, as the tail (or tale) wags the dog.

A myriad of events must come together just right for this complex murder to be successful and ultimately, it’s not very believable. When the big reveal is exposed and Smith cops to psychological fraud, he becomes complicit in this humdrum battle of (nit)wits.

Final Grade: (C-)

THE CURSE OF THE WEREWOLF (Terence Fisher, 1961)

Leon is born with tainted blood and position, cursed with both lycanthropy and dehumanizing poverty. Terence Fisher’s horror show becomes a metaphor of social hierarchy, of the diminished class struggling against the power of entitlement.

The first act is narrated by an omniscient presence, explaining the brutality of a local Baron and his cruelty towards the villagers, excising taxation without representation, bleeding the poor folk of their livelihood. A beggar stumbles into this morass and is caged, where he is reduced to pure animal instincts, imprisoned for many years in the tomblike dungeon. He eventually rapes a young servant and her child is born, not of man and woman, but of base vicious desire and trauma. Leon is eventually raised by a loving family, strangers who discover his pregnant mother drowning in a swamp, thus explaining the narrator’s identity. But Leon is a bastard who doesn’t stand a chance, as the tidal forces of destruction pull his soul apart.

Fisher focuses his story upon Leon and his knowledge of the beast that lurks within, his discovery that only love can tame the savage wraith. But his love is endowed to a wealthy landowner, and the pull of social gravity is a irrepressible as the moon’s ubiquitous presence. Leon is an innocent born into this mystical poverty, sharing the same birthday as the Christian savior and suffering the same sacrifice: he begs for death to save their souls. Like Jesus, Leon was birthed in a world of shit and treated as such by Pharisees.

Oliver Reed’s physicality is wonderful to behold, a grueling and growling ballet of blood, an extroverted performance that transcends subtly, like the clotted wounds splashed in bleeding Technicolor. The basic cinematography propels the narrative but doesn’t rise above the mundane, though a few interesting compositions exist. For example, when the baby Leon is purged we hear a howling before a baby’s cry, and the swaddled child is lifted up to the camera while a portrait of the Virgin Mary and baby Jesus dominate the background, setting up the parable.



Final Grade: (B-)

CURSE OF THE WEREWOLF Limited Edition DVD

I received my limited edition steelbook a few days ago and it's an excellent addition to any film collection! I imported from the UK so the DVD is PAL and region 2 locked, so make sure your setup can handle both before ordering. I also own the US DVD that is part of the Hammer Collection Box and the A/V quality of this disc far exceeds it. The image quality is superb and makes me wonder why a high-def master wasn't produced for a blu-ray release. The first disc contains the film while all extras are relegated to a second disc, though all features probably could have been stored on one DVD. A great set with really superb cover art!

Now I can only imagine Yvonne Romain in 1080p....

CHRISTOPHER LEE FILMOGRAPHY Circa 1976

This is a photo that came attatched to the introductory letter to the Christopher Lee International Fanclub.  I have also scanned the initial letter that promises a signed photograph for every member. I have that photo with a beautiful blue ink signature from Mr. Lee himself! The photo depicts Christopher Lee in a white suite holding binoculars with a mansion in the background. I wonder what movie that image is from? 

CHRISTOPHER LEE BIOGRAPHY Circa 1976

A mimeographed biography that was part of the Christopher Lee International Fanclub newsletters that I purchased in the estate sale last year. I do have about ten more copies of both Lee and Peter Cushing fanclub issues each, but I need to take the packets apart to scan. I'll work on it and meanwhile, you're welcome to download each issue in my archive. It would be a shame to lose these to the sands of time, as there are many personal anecdotes and photos that I've never seen reprinted anywhere else!



CHRISTOPHER LEE INTERNATIONAL FAN CLUB (AUTUMN 1976)

PREHISTORIC WOMEN (Michael Carreras, 1967)

A tribe of beautiful women worship the extinct white rhino, their insufferable men relegated to grim impotence who are now replaced by an gigantic artificial phallus. Michael Carreras usually produces Hammer films but adequately directs this tepid tale of gorgeous women and tribal rhythms set amid the temperate savannahs and jungles of Bray Studios. This ho-hum drama has two good reasons to view...and they both belong to Martine Beswick! Ok, so we never get full frontal and all the women a drop-dead beautiful with perfect hair and makeup, but the self-assertive Beswick as the evil Queen steals the film. She moves like a jungle cat stalking prey, her lithe disarming sensuality dominating and nakedly severe. My disbelief was terminally suspended, not with the very absurdist concept of the story itself, but in the fact that the “hero” David spurns her aggressive advances!

The convoluted plot has something to do with a tribe forced into bondage because the white man has slaughtered the last albino rhinoceros, and David is magically thrown backwards into time to correct the sins of his fathers. He does this by freeing a tribe of blonde women and their spurious spouses all at the expense of a bevy of raven haired matriarchs. Is this a metaphor concerning the failing of male entitlement and the rise of feminist empowerment? Or a subversive metaphor about the fall of British Imperialism? Or could it reflect the fear of interracial marriage and racist propaganda? Well, I just think it’s a rather ignorant Eurocentric story about the mysteries of darkest Africa told like a juvenile adventure story. Carreras pads the film with too many dances and ceremonies but the actors fulfill their roles with utmost integrity, emoting the cheap dialogue with gusto and verve. This is a film that is actually better (though not by much) than it has any right to be.

Final Grade: (D)

THE HORROR OF FRANKENSTEIN (Jimmy Sangster, 1970, UK)

Victor plays with divine fire but instead of giving it to mortals, hordes this messianic power to sate his voracious intellectual appetite, sacrificing morality for immortality. Director Jimmy Sangster stitches together droll comedy and horror tropes, revealing the origin of the failed protagonist from the four humours of bathos.

The horror of Victor Frankenstein resides not in the beast born of stitch and staple, but in the cold dark pit that substitutes for empathy, a carnivorous void that consumes knowledge for the sake of self. The story begins with Viktor idly dissecting the female anatomy as he sits through a boring lecture, lost in electric dreams. He challenges his professors and decides to leave school to focus upon his masters thesis: to create mankind by his own hand. After murdering his father, he inherits title and estate, as well as a buxom maid to fulfill his dietary needs and continues with his experiments.

Ralph Bates plays Frankenstein with a cold self assurance tinged with a wry humor, spitting aspersions and venom with a grin and firm handshake. It’s a wonderful performance because Victor’s actions are despicable, yet somehow he remains marginally sympathetic. He is adored by Elizabeth, the beautiful daughter of part number 25, and in her time of need subjugates her into physical and emotional bondage. Truly a cad! Once he finishes his pet project, the stumbling monster (played by David Prowse) initiates murder and mayhem which Viktor uses to his own advantage. The plastic and putty makeup is awful, with Prowse display the emotional range of a vole, neither imbuing the creature with sympathy or malevolence: it makes one yearn for the days of the sad eyed Christopher Lee as the tortured servant of a demented mind.

Sangster’s film is rarely laugh out loud funny but is laced with black humor: a horror noir. Frankenstein makes his monster in his own selfish image: a patchwork forgery.

Final Grade: (C)

LITTLE SHOPPE OF HORRORS (Number Two; July 1981)

More Hammer goodies from your humble host! I've posted all the issues I own of HAMMER COLLECTOR'S CRYPT (hope you've downloaded and enjoyed them all!) and now I have one issue of LITTLE SHOPPE OF HORRORS. This issue is a tribute to Terence Fisher with great interviews and insight into his career, with other interesting articles about our favorite studio. My favorite article is an interview with composer James Bernard whose Hammer scores are too often overlooked by cinephiles. I think the eerie and unsettling musical riptide he created for THE QUATERMASS XPERIMENT made the film much better than it actually was and remains one of my favorite Hammer scores.

UPDATE 10/10/2011: I was asked to remove the links by Richard Klemensen owner of LITTLE SHOPPE OF HORRORS. I will definately respect his wishes since this issue is available from him directly as a reprint HERE.
This issue (and the many others!) are worth every penny with expansive articles, interviews and great photos.