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The Oblong Box: Vincent Price and AIP’s Gothic Farewell to Poe

23 Friday May 2025

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Gordon Hessler’s somber, atmospheric horror marks a transitional moment as American International Pictures’ Poe cycle edges toward a darker, more violent future.

By the end of the 1960s, the gothic horror cycle popularized by American International Pictures was showing distinct signs of wear. Lavish yet increasingly formulaic, the once-groundbreaking Vincent Price/Edgar Allan Poe collaborations — most notably directed by Roger Corman — had set a high-water mark earlier in the decade. The Oblong Box, directed by Gordon Hessler and released in 1969, represents both a continuation and a mutation of that tradition: a film steeped in the tropes audiences had come to expect, but tinged with a harsher, more morbid tone reflective of the cultural shifts at the end of the decade.

Although marketed heavily as another Poe adaptation, The Oblong Box in fact has little to do with the author’s original short story, borrowing only the title and the general theme of premature burial. Nevertheless, its atmosphere — a decadent English estate rotting under the weight of ancestral sins — fits neatly into the aesthetic universe cultivated by AIP’s earlier Poe pictures. Vincent Price, ever the consummate performer, slips comfortably into the role of Julian Markham, a man haunted by familial guilt and constrained by social appearances. Price’s presence alone is enough to anchor the film in the familiar tradition of velvet-draped madness and doomed legacies.

However, The Oblong Box also marks a departure from the more theatrical, florid excesses of Corman’s earlier works. Hessler, stepping into the director’s chair after Michael Reeves’ untimely death and dissatisfaction from AIP’s executives, brings a colder, more clinical eye to the material. The film’s violence is more explicit; its themes — colonial guilt, fratricide, exploitation — emerge less as melodramatic devices and more as genuinely disturbing undercurrents. It is a film less concerned with Poe’s romanticised morbidity than with a burgeoning appetite for psychological and physical horror.

Christopher Wicking’s screenplay weaves in an uneasy undercurrent of imperialist critique, with the disfigured Sir Edward (played in part by Alister Williamson, though Price’s star power overshadows him) embodying the physical and moral consequences of colonial exploitation. The masked figure, red cloak swirling in the night as he seeks revenge, foreshadows the more explicit grotesqueries that would dominate British and European horror into the 1970s.

While The Oblong Box does not reach the stylistic heights of earlier Corman-Poe entries like The Masque of the Red Death or The Pit and the Pendulum, it nonetheless offers a compelling portrait of a genre — and a studio — in transition. Hessler’s film is handsomely mounted, if at times unevenly paced, and buoyed significantly by Price’s unerring ability to balance camp and gravitas. His Julian Markham is neither pure villain nor misunderstood hero, but a man slowly being devoured by forces he can no longer control, much like the American International Pictures horror line itself, inching toward its inevitable decline.

The Prognosis:

The Oblong Box stands as a fascinating artifact: a twilight entry that hints at both the glories of AIP’s earlier successes and the darker, less forgiving horror that the 1970s would embrace. It is not the purest distillation of Price’s talents nor Poe’s nightmarish imagination, but it remains a solemn, atmospheric bridge between eras — a coffin-laden corridor leading toward the more brutal horrors to come.

  • 1960s retrospective review by Saul Muerte

Frankenstein Must Be Destroyed: Hammer’s Bleak Descent into Moral Horror

16 Friday May 2025

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Peter Cushing delivers his darkest turn as Baron Frankenstein in Terence Fisher’s brutal, uncompromising portrait of ambition unmoored from humanity.

Few characters in horror history have undergone as grim an evolution as Hammer Films’ Baron Victor Frankenstein. By 1969, the once-charming and impassioned scientist had metamorphosed into something altogether colder, crueller — and never more so than in Frankenstein Must Be Destroyed. Marking one of the studio’s boldest and bleakest entries, Terence Fisher’s film plunges audiences into a chilling moral abyss, anchored by Peter Cushing’s most malevolent portrayal of the Baron.

From the outset, Frankenstein Must Be Destroyed is suffused with an atmosphere of stark brutality. Gone is the romanticised ambition of earlier installments; in its place stands a portrait of Frankenstein as a calculating sociopath, concerned only with his own vindication. Peter Cushing, always a master of understated menace, turns in a performance of extraordinary steeliness — chillingly urbane one moment, terrifyingly ruthless the next. His Baron is a man for whom human life is but clay to be shaped, discarded, or destroyed in pursuit of scientific triumph.

Fisher, who had been instrumental in defining Hammer’s gothic aesthetic, embraces a far colder visual palette here. The film trades ornate castles and vibrant colors for stark, drained settings — a reflection of Frankenstein’s spiritual desolation. Even the violence feels less operatic and more intimately brutal, culminating in moments that strip the mythos of any lingering romanticism.

Central to the film’s enduring controversy is the much-discussed scene in which Frankenstein rapes Anna (Veronica Carlson) — a moment absent from the original script and forced upon the production by studio pressure. Both Cushing and Carlson vehemently opposed the inclusion, and their disapproval seeps into the scene’s palpable discomfort. While ethically troubling, the moment undeniably darkens the character beyond redemption, underscoring the film’s unflinching portrayal of moral collapse. It transforms Frankenstein from a misguided idealist into a full-fledged predator — a monster not of nature, but of willful cruelty.

Carlson and Simon Ward, portraying the beleaguered couple ensnared in Frankenstein’s machinations, deliver affecting performances that heighten the tragedy. Carlson, in particular, lends a dignified pathos to a role burdened by the demands of a narrative far more nihilistic than Hammer’s previous outings.

Freddie Jones, in his first major film role as the tragic Professor Brandt, is a revelation. His performance captures both the physical fragility and the mental anguish of a man resurrected against his will, trapped within a stolen body and a crumbling mind. Jones infuses Brandt with a quiet dignity and simmering rage, crafting a character whose humanity serves as a stark rebuke to Frankenstein’s inhumanity. His confrontation with Cushing in the film’s final act offers a rare glimmer of emotional depth amid the relentless bleakness, elevating the story beyond pure gothic horror into something far more sorrowful and profound.

Thematically, Frankenstein Must Be Destroyed confronts the corrosion of empathy under the guise of scientific pursuit. It suggests that evil need not spring from grandiose ambitions but from the erosion of everyday decency. Frankenstein’s destruction of lives — not in moments of passion, but through cold, bureaucratic calculation — offers a horror far more enduring than any stitched-together monster.

The Prognosis:

Frankenstein Must Be Destroyed stands as a stark outlier within the Hammer canon — a film willing to fully reckon with the darkness its iconic character had always flirted with. Though marred by studio-imposed controversy, it remains a harrowing, essential entry in the Frankenstein cycle — a reminder that sometimes the true monster wears the most respectable face.

  • 1960s retrospective review by Saul Muerte

A Melting Dream: Nightmare in Wax and the Lurid Echoes of Late ’60s Horror

10 Saturday May 2025

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Cameron Mitchell shines amid the decay of a flawed but fascinating low-budget oddity.

By the tail end of the 1960s, horror cinema found itself at a strange crossroads — straddling the last gasps of gothic grandeur while cautiously eyeing the burgeoning grit of a new era. Bud Townsend’s Nightmare in Wax (1969) sits awkwardly between these two worlds, offering a sordid yet visually intriguing piece that, for all its flashes of style, ultimately crumbles under the weight of its own limitations.

At its core, Nightmare in Wax is a lurid revenge tale. Cameron Mitchell — always a reliable hand in low-budget horror — lends the film its most convincing element, embodying Vince Renaud, a once-celebrated actor whose face has been horribly disfigured in a freak accident. Swallowed by bitterness and madness, Renaud retreats into the uncanny embrace of a wax museum, where his obsession with preserving beauty takes on an insidious literalness. Mitchell throws himself into the role with a bruised intensity, managing to elevate dialogue that, in lesser hands, would have collapsed into pure melodrama. His performance is a reminder that even within the most wayward productions, a committed actor can carve out something worth watching.

Visually, Nightmare in Wax occasionally brushes against something far more interesting than its narrative suggests. The cinematography, while often rudimentary, occasionally slips into unexpected pockets of stylisation. The flickering, chiaroscuro lighting of the wax museum sequences conjures a greasy, dreamlike atmosphere — a kind of sun-bleached noir sensibility that suggests a more ambitious film trapped inside the one we actually received. Shots linger just a touch too long on the deformed figures and melted visages, a grotesque fascination that, when paired with the film’s threadbare budget, achieves an uncanny, unsettling texture.

However, these moments are fleeting. The broader construction of Nightmare in Wax is messy and unfocused, with a meandering pace that undercuts its own tension. What might have been an incisive study of madness and celebrity decay is instead rendered clumsy by stilted secondary performances, ham-fisted exposition, and an aesthetic that lurches uneasily between pulp thriller and camp horror. Even the gruesome set-pieces, while conceptually fascinating, lack the polish and menace needed to make them truly memorable.

There is, to be fair, a certain tawdry charm in the film’s audacity — its waxen tableaux of frozen horror and its feverish, sun-drenched grotesquerie — but these alone cannot rescue Nightmare in Wax from its fundamental shortcomings. It remains a curious artifact: a film not without merit, but one whose flashes of inspiration are too isolated to coalesce into something enduring.

The Prognosis:

For those willing to sift through the wreckage, Cameron Mitchell’s performance and the occasional visual flourish offer a glimpse into the strange, transitional state of late-1960s horror. It’s a nightmare, yes — but one that flickers, briefly, with the strange, melting beauty of a dying dream.

  • 1960s Retrospective review by Saul Muerte

Ink, Flesh, and Fire: Teruo Ishii’s Inferno of Torture (1969)

03 Saturday May 2025

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A feverish plunge into Edo-era exploitation, where the beauty of art is carved from the cruelty of flesh.

By the late 1960s, Japanese director Teruo Ishii had cemented his reputation as a provocateur—an auteur of the abnormal whose films constantly tested the limits of good taste. Following the surreal sadism of his Joys of Torture series and the florid transgressions of Orgies of Edo, Ishii would return once more to the nexus of eroticism and agony with Inferno of Torture (徳川いれずみ師：責め地獄). Released in 1969, this film marked yet another swirling descent into the baroque horrors of Japan’s past, tinged with the obsessions of modern exploitation cinema.

Set during the Tokugawa era, Inferno of Torture builds its narrative around the booming trade of tattooed geisha—women whose bodies are transformed into canvases to satisfy the exotic desires of wealthy Europeans. What begins as a lushly costumed tale of artisanship soon mutates into something darker and more sinister. The competition between two rival tattoo masters (each with their own brand of brutality and artistry) spirals into a portrait of obsession, commodification, and systemic cruelty, where the female form becomes both sacred and sacrificial.

Ishii’s camera lingers with equal reverence on the intricacies of traditional Japanese tattooing (irezumi) and the often shocking violence enacted to “preserve” or “perfect” these living artworks. His aesthetic is unmistakable: elaborate production design, garish colour palettes, and sudden, shocking cuts that blur the boundary between the ceremonial and the obscene. Here, torture is not only spectacle—it’s also currency. Beauty is literally etched into pain.

While some of Ishii’s contemporaries were leaning into more psychological or supernatural horror, Inferno of Torture embraced the physical and the performative. The film sits on a precarious edge, asking the audience to reckon with the allure of suffering while never quite condemning its purveyors. It is this ambiguity—this refusal to clearly moralise—that makes the film both fascinating and uncomfortable. Is it an indictment of patriarchal cruelty, or an indulgence in it? Ishii leaves that question open, daring the viewer to look closer.

It’s important to view Inferno of Torture not as an isolated work, but as part of Ishii’s greater obsession with the grotesque pageantry of pain. Like his earlier Shogun’s Joy of Torture (1968), this film pulls from real historical punishments and court practices but filters them through a lens of stylised surrealism. Yet, where Shogun’s Joy was fragmented and episodic, Inferno is more narratively cohesive—anchored by the rivalry of the tattoo artists and the women who bear the consequences of their egos.

As noted in our prior discussion of Ishii’s legacy, the director had a unique ability to cloak exploitation in aesthetics. Inferno of Torture exemplifies this duality. It is a film of contradictions: gorgeous yet grotesque, meditative yet exploitative, artistic yet undeniably sleazy. Ishii revels in this tension, crafting a work that is less about resolution and more about confronting the audience with their own thresholds of taste.

Inferno of Torture remains a vivid example of the extremities that defined the tail-end of the 1960s in Japanese genre cinema. It’s a challenging watch—not merely because of its brutality, but because of its beauty. That beauty, as Ishii reminds us again and again, comes at a price.

  • 1960s retrospective review by Saul Muerte

Whispers in The Mad Room: A Slow-Burning Descent into Familial Fear

26 Saturday Apr 2025

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This under-the-radar 1969 thriller simmers with quiet dread and strong performances, even if it never fully embraces its madness.

In the shadow of better-known psychological thrillers of the 1960s, Bernard Girard’s The Mad Room sits in a strange limbo — a Gothic-tinged chamber piece that doesn’t quite unravel as boldly as its premise promises, but nonetheless simmers with intrigue, dread, and the occasional jolt of melodramatic madness.

A reimagining of Ladies in Retirement (1941), the film casts a young Stella Stevens as Ellen Hardy, whose attempt to build a respectable life is threatened by the sudden return of her institutionalised siblings. With a wedding on the horizon and a matriarchal employer (a scene-stealing Shelley Winters) to appease, Ellen’s composure begins to unravel as past horrors threaten to bleed into the present — culminating in a suspicious death and an ever-darkening sense of claustrophobia.

While The Mad Room never fully descends into the psychological chaos it flirts with, it crafts a tense atmosphere within the confines of its limited setting. Girard’s direction is largely restrained, letting the performances do most of the heavy lifting, particularly Stevens, whose nervous energy gives the film a pulse even when the pacing sags.

However, despite its sinister setup and a few genuinely unsettling moments, the film doesn’t push far enough. Its secrets are telegraphed too early, and the final revelations feel like a missed opportunity to truly shock. The film lingers just on the edge of greatness, unwilling to let itself go mad.

The Prognosis:

For fans of slow-burning, character-driven thrillers with a taste for domestic unease and lingering trauma, The Mad Room offers a slightly underappreciated detour into late-60s psychological horror — flawed, yes, but not without merit.

  • Saul Muerte

Two Undercover Angels (1969): Painted Corpses and Pop Art Piffle

19 Saturday Apr 2025

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Jess Franco’s Two Undercover Angels serves up mod-era sleaze with a wink and a shrug, but its psychedelic style can’t disguise the limp thrills underneath.

As far as Euro pulp oddities go, Two Undercover Angels—aka Rote Lippen, Sadisterotica—might be one of Jess Franco’s more playful deviations. On paper, it’s a mod-era mash-up of pop art, pulp thrills, and soft sleaze: two stylish female detectives from the “Red Lips” agency are on the trail of missing models and dancers. Their investigation leads them to Klaus Thriller, a sinister pop artist with a penchant for painting corpses, and his werewolf-esque henchman, Morpho.

But beneath its colourful veneer, Two Undercover Angels struggles to keep its footing. The plot is both wafer-thin and weirdly convoluted, more concerned with psychedelic set pieces and lounge room flirtations than any real sense of momentum. There’s a certain charm to Franco’s anything-goes attitude, but this one too often feels like a parody without punch, skimming the surface of spy pastiche without offering much intrigue.

Still, there’s no denying the camp value. The film is drenched in candy-coloured lighting, groovy outfits, and suggestive camera work that borders on the absurd. It’s Euro camp through and through—like a budget Bond fantasy filtered through a lava lamp and shot on the run. Lovers of kitsch might find some delight in the film’s unabashed frivolity, but those looking for coherence, or even competent thrills, may walk away bemused.

Franco fans will recognise familiar touches: nonsensical plotting, dreamy eroticism, and the ever-present air of detachment. But even by his standards, this feels like an undercooked entry. The “Red Lips” duo never quite click as compelling protagonists, and while Morpho adds a dose of monster movie weirdness, he’s more curious footnote than actual menace.

Two Undercover Angels is a wild title for a limp romp—cheeky in intent but dull in execution. There’s pop-art potential here, but much like Klaus Thriller’s paintings, its mostly just lifeless models draped in excess.

  • Saul Muerte

Fear No Evil (1969) – A Reflective Look at Occult TV Horror

12 Saturday Apr 2025

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By the late 1960s, television horror was beginning to dip its toes into more psychological and supernatural territory, often embracing the occult with varying degrees of success. Fear No Evil (1969), directed by Paul Wendkos, fits squarely into this mold, offering a made-for-TV horror experience that flirts with interesting ideas but ultimately feels constrained by its small-screen limitations.

The story follows Dr. David Sorell (Louis Jourdan), a psychiatrist with a particular interest in the supernatural, as he becomes entangled in a case involving an antique mirror with a sinister history. The mirror’s influence extends beyond the realm of the living, allowing a grieving fiancée to reconnect with her deceased former lover. What begins as a promising supernatural mystery soon devolves into a predictable exercise in TV-movie theatrics, relying more on melodrama than genuine chills.

Jourdan, ever the consummate professional, carries the film with an air of refined authority. His performance elevates the material slightly, making even the more overwrought moments watchable. He leans into the gothic atmosphere with conviction, though the film itself doesn’t always support his efforts. The occult elements, while intriguing, never reach their full potential, often feeling more like window dressing than integral components of the plot.

Visually, Fear No Evil does what it can within its limited budget, employing shadowy lighting and moody cinematography to create an eerie ambiance. However, the production values betray its television origins, making it difficult to shake the feeling that this could have been an episode of an anthology series rather than a standalone feature. The film lacks the polish and cinematic depth of its theatrical contemporaries, and its pacing suffers as a result—dragging when it should build tension.

Despite its shortcomings, Fear No Evil was notable enough to warrant a spiritual follow-up, Ritual of Evil (1970), which continued Dr. Sorell’s supernatural investigations. This suggests that there was an audience for this type of made-for-TV horror, even if it never quite managed to transcend its format.

The Prognosis:

In the end, Fear No Evil is a passable, albeit forgettable, occult thriller that never fully commits to the weight of its premise. While Louis Jourdan gives it his all, the film struggles to break free from its “cheesy TV movie” trappings, leaving it as little more than a curiosity for genre enthusiasts rather than a must-see classic.

  • Saul Muerte

Blind Beast (1969) – A Haunting Dive into Obsession and Madness

05 Saturday Apr 2025

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Few films capture the terrifying extremes of desire and artistic obsession as viscerally as Blind Beast (盲獣, 1969), directed by Yasuzō Masumura. Adapted from Edogawa Rampo’s twisted tale, this haunting psychological horror film immerses viewers in a nightmarish world where the boundaries between love, art, and cruelty blur beyond recognition. As a prime example of Japan’s pinku eiga movement, Blind Beast is both provocative and deeply unsettling, an eerie descent into madness that remains as hypnotic as it is disturbing.

The film follows a blind sculptor, Michio, who kidnaps an artists’ model, Aki, and imprisons her in his warehouse studio—a surreal, cavernous space adorned with grotesque sculptures of oversized body parts. In this tactile prison, Michio seeks to craft the ultimate masterpiece, guided only by touch and an all-consuming obsession with the female form. As the two become locked in a perverse battle of control and submission, their dynamic spirals into a shocking climax that pushes the limits of psychological horror.

Masumura’s direction transforms Blind Beast into a fever dream of sensual horror. The set design alone is unforgettable—giant, looming sculptures of lips, breasts, and limbs create a surrealist landscape that feels more like a descent into the subconscious than a physical location. This oppressive, tactile environment enhances the film’s themes of blindness, sensation, and the distortion of reality. The film’s use of lighting, shadow, and close-ups amplifies the claustrophobia, making Aki’s entrapment feel as much psychological as it is physical.

Unlike many films within the pinku eiga genre, Blind Beast isn’t merely an exercise in exploitation; it’s a deeply unsettling meditation on power, art, and the consuming nature of obsession. The performances, particularly by Mako Midori as Aki, elevate the material beyond its pulp origins. Her transformation from victim to something far more complex is both terrifying and mesmerising, reinforcing the film’s psychological depth.

That said, Blind Beast isn’t for everyone. Its slow, methodical pacing and unnerving themes may alienate viewers looking for more conventional horror. However, for those drawn to the eerie, the grotesque, and the philosophical, it stands as a singularly unique film—a macabre masterpiece.

  • Saul Muerte

Scream Baby Scream (1969) – A Psychedelic Nightmare with More Style Than Substance

04 Friday Apr 2025

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The late 1960s saw an influx of bizarre, low-budget horror films that leaned into surrealism and psychological horror. Scream Baby Scream (1969), directed by Joseph Adler, fits squarely into this niche—an oddball mix of artsy horror and grindhouse sleaze. While the film struggles with pacing and lacks narrative depth, its eerie dreamlike atmosphere and grotesque imagery make it a strangely compelling relic of its time.

The plot follows a deranged artist who kidnaps models and disfigures their faces to create his own “masterpieces,” a setup that recalls Eyes Without a Face (1960) but with a much grimier, low-rent execution. The film attempts to explore themes of artistic obsession and vanity but never fully commits, instead relying on a series of repetitive kidnappings and hallucinatory sequences that teeter between hypnotic and tedious.

Where Scream Baby Scream excels is in its visuals. While the budgetary constraints are obvious, the film embraces a psychedelic aesthetic with strange lighting, distorted imagery, and an eerie, off-kilter score that adds to its nightmarish quality. The scenes of the artist at work, transforming his victims into grotesque creations, are genuinely unsettling, even if the effects aren’t always convincing.

However, the film suffers from a sluggish pace and a script that struggles to maintain tension. The dialogue is clunky, and the characters feel more like sketches than real people, making it difficult to invest in their fates. Despite its flaws, the film’s feverish tone and macabre concept give it an undeniable cult appeal.

The Prognosis:

While not a lost classic, Scream Baby Scream is an intriguing example of late-’60s horror, where artistic ambition and exploitation filmmaking collided in strange and sometimes fascinating ways. Fans of obscure, surreal horror may find something to appreciate here, but casual viewers may find the experience more frustrating than frightening.

  • Saul Muerte

A Horrible Double-Faced Man (1975) – A Forgotten Gem of Korean Sci-Fi Horror

02 Wednesday Apr 2025

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South Korean horror cinema in the 1970s rarely delved into the mad scientist subgenre, making A Horrible Double-Faced Man (공포의 이중인간), directed by Lee Yong-min, a fascinating oddity. Mixing elements of gothic horror, psychological terror, and pulp sci-fi, the film weaves a macabre tale of resurrection gone horribly wrong. While it suffers from uneven pacing and some narrative absurdities, it remains an intriguing, if flawed, effort that deserves a closer look.

The film follows Dr. Jeong, a morally corrupt scientist whose obsession with reviving the dead leads him to commit unspeakable acts. His ultimate goal is to resurrect Ono, a war criminal who hid a fortune in diamonds, using a twisted method that involves transplanting a dying man’s soul into a dead body. The result is a monstrous “double-faced man” – a being with a fractured existence, caught between life and death. It’s a compelling concept, one that recalls Frankenstein, Eyes Without a Face, and even Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, but infused with distinctly Korean cinematic sensibilities.

Lee Yong-min, best known for A Devilish Homicide (1965), once again showcases a flair for eerie atmosphere. The film makes excellent use of stormy weather, dimly lit laboratories, and desolate graveyards to craft a moody, almost dreamlike setting. However, the execution of its horror elements is inconsistent. Some moments, particularly those involving the resurrected Ono’s eerie movements and disjointed identity, carry an unsettling edge, while others feel unintentionally campy due to the era’s limited special effects and melodramatic performances.

The film’s thematic depth, exploring the dangers of unchecked ambition and the consequences of playing god, gives it an intellectual weight beyond its B-movie trappings. Yet, its pacing can be sluggish, and the narrative sometimes loses focus, shifting between horror, crime thriller, and supernatural drama without fully committing to any.

While A Horrible Double-Faced Man never achieved international recognition, it remains an interesting relic of 1970s Korean horror—one that blends genre influences into something both familiar and uniquely strange. Fans of vintage sci-fi horror will appreciate its eerie concept, even if its execution doesn’t fully realise its potential.

  • Saul Muerte