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Twisted Nerve (1968) – A Mixed Bag of Psychological Thrills and Problematic Science

29 Saturday Mar 2025

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Roy Boulting’s Twisted Nerve is an unsettling psychological thriller that leans heavily on a sensationalised – and deeply flawed – portrayal of mental illness. The film follows Martin Durnley (Hywel Bennett), a troubled young man who assumes a childlike alter ego, “Georgie,” as a coping mechanism. After a failed shoplifting attempt, he latches onto a kind-hearted student, Susan Harper (Hayley Mills), spiraling into obsession with deadly consequences.

Despite its eerie atmosphere and chilling central performance by Bennett, the film is tainted by its pseudo-scientific premise. The idea that a hereditary “twisted nerve” could predestine mental instability, particularly through a link to Down’s syndrome, is not only outdated but also ethically dubious. The film’s opening narration posits this as a scientific truth, using it as a MacGuffin to justify Martin’s homicidal tendencies, a choice that has understandably drawn criticism over the years.

Director Roy Boulting, best known for his satirical British comedies, takes an unexpected turn into thriller territory here, crafting moments of genuine suspense. His direction ensures a polished visual style, aided by Bernard Herrmann’s menacing score—perhaps the film’s strongest asset. However, Boulting’s handling of the subject matter is clumsy, leaning into shock value rather than genuine psychological depth.

Hywel Bennett delivers a convincingly unnerving performance, switching between the vacant innocence of Georgie and the calculating menace of Martin. Hayley Mills, fresh from her Disney stardom, takes on a more mature role as Susan, though the script limits her agency, reducing her to the archetypal oblivious victim. Billie Whitelaw and Frank Finlay add solid support, but ultimately, the film struggles to balance its thriller elements with its problematic premise.

While Twisted Nerve succeeds in unsettling its audience, it leaves a sour taste with its outdated and irresponsible approach to mental illness. As a psychological thriller, it has its moments, but its reliance on dubious genetics as a horror device ultimately weakens its impact.

  • Saul Muerte

Curse of the Crimson Altar (1968) – A Star-Studded but Stumbling Occult

21 Friday Mar 2025

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By the late 1960s, British horror was riding the wave of gothic indulgence, and Curse of the Crimson Altar (also known as The Crimson Cult) fit right into that mold—on paper, at least. Featuring an enviable cast of horror icons, including Boris Karloff, Christopher Lee, and Barbara Steele, the film promises an eerie descent into black magic, secret rituals, and sinister family secrets. However, despite its intriguing setup and legendary names, Vernon Sewell’s film struggles to leave a lasting impression, failing to weave its disparate elements into something truly chilling.

The story follows Robert Manning (Mark Eden), who arrives at a countryside estate in search of his missing brother. Greeted warmly by his host Morley (Christopher Lee) and drawn in by his flirtatious niece Eve (Virginia Wetherell), Manning soon realises that something sinister lurks beneath the surface. At the heart of the mystery is Lavinia Morley (Barbara Steele), the legendary Black Witch of Greymarsh, whose influence still seems to haunt the house. Boris Karloff, in one of his final roles, plays Professor Marsh, adding a layer of authority to the film’s occult themes.

While the premise suggests a brooding supernatural thriller, Curse of the Crimson Altar never quite capitalises on its potential. The film’s pacing is uneven, bogged down by awkward tonal shifts and a reliance on hallucinatory dream sequences that, while visually interesting, fail to generate true suspense. The script meanders between traditional gothic horror and psychedelic surrealism, yet never fully commits to either. Some moments feel inspired—particularly the ritualistic scenes featuring Steele’s striking presence—but the film lacks a cohesive narrative drive.

That’s not to say there aren’t pleasures to be found. Karloff, despite his declining health, delivers a dignified performance, and Lee once again exudes effortless menace, even if his role is underwritten. The gothic atmosphere is well-crafted, and the concept of a lingering ancestral curse is one with rich potential. Unfortunately, the execution is middling, leaving Curse of the Crimson Altar feeling like a missed opportunity. As a late-era gothic horror, it’s worth a watch for genre completists, but it ultimately fails to cast a truly lasting spell.

  • Saul Muerte

The Strange World of Coffin Joe (1968) – A Bizarre, Uncompromising Nightmare

15 Saturday Mar 2025

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José Mojica Marins, Brazil’s master of the macabre, brings his signature brand of nihilistic horror to The Strange World of Coffin Joe (O Estranho Mundo de Zé do Caixão), an anthology film that revels in the grotesque and the surreal. As a showcase of Marins’ bleak, transgressive vision, it’s both compelling and frustrating—packed with striking imagery and unrelenting cruelty, yet uneven in execution.

Framed by the presence of Coffin Joe himself (played by Marins), the film presents three eerie tales of obsession, madness, and moral decay. The first segment follows a dollmaker whose unsettling creations take on a sinister purpose. The second, the most infamous, features a deranged balloon seller whose necrophilic urges and foot fetish lead to nightmarish consequences. The final tale focuses on a sadistic professor performing horrific rituals, pushing the film into full-blown exploitation territory.

Marins’ raw, almost documentary-like approach to horror makes The Strange World of Coffin Joe feel uniquely unsettling. Shot in stark black and white, with unflinching depictions of violence and depravity, the film immerses the viewer in a world of unfiltered cruelty. Yet, as with many horror anthologies, the segments vary in quality. The middle story is the most effective in its sheer audacity, while the others, despite intriguing premises, suffer from pacing issues and a lack of narrative cohesion.

Despite its flaws, The Strange World of Coffin Joe remains a fascinating entry in Marins’ filmography. It lacks the narrative strength of At Midnight I’ll Take Your Soul (1964) but compensates with sheer audacity, cementing Marins’ status as a filmmaker unafraid to push the boundaries of horror. It’s not an easy watch, nor is it entirely successful, but for those drawn to the more extreme corners of 1960s horror, it’s a film worth experiencing—if only to witness the strange, twisted world of Coffin Joe at its most unhinged.

  • Saul Muerte

Living Skeleton (1968) – A Haunting, If Uneven, Nautical Nightmare

14 Friday Mar 2025

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Hiroshi Matsuno’s Living Skeleton (Kyūketsu Dokuro-sen) is a curious relic of 1960s Japanese horror—an eerie ghost story wrapped in revenge thriller trappings, with a striking visual palette that occasionally outshines its uneven narrative.

The film opens with a brutal act of piracy: a group of thieves slaughter the crew of a cargo ship, including a newlywed doctor, before subjecting his wife to a horrific fate. Three years later, her twin sister is drawn into a cycle of vengeance, as the killers begin to meet ghastly ends. What follows is a surreal and often hypnotic tale of supernatural retribution, blending gothic horror with psychological unease.

Matsuno’s direction leans heavily on shadow-drenched cinematography, making excellent use of stark black-and-white visuals that give the film a dreamlike, almost otherworldly quality. The maritime setting—complete with mist-covered waters and ghostly apparitions—enhances the atmosphere, at times recalling the expressionistic horror of Onibaba (1964) or Kwaidan (1964).

Where Living Skeleton falters is in its pacing and coherence. While the film’s themes of trauma, guilt, and spectral justice are intriguing, the execution wavers between compelling and sluggish. Some sequences are drenched in atmospheric dread, while others drag under the weight of exposition. The supernatural elements, though often effective, sometimes feel more ornamental than fully realised.

Despite its flaws, Living Skeleton remains an interesting artifact of 1960s Japanese horror—one that offers ghostly thrills and a visual style that lingers. While not on the level of Japan’s finest horror exports, it’s an atmospheric, occasionally haunting voyage into vengeance from beyond the grave.

  • Saul Muerte

Genocide (1968) – A Swarm of Ideas That Never Quite Land

09 Sunday Mar 2025

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The late 1960s saw Japanese genre cinema flourish with kaiju epics, psychedelic sci-fi, and political allegories wrapped in B-movie spectacle. Kazui Nihonmatsu’s Genocide (War of the Insects) falls somewhere in between—a paranoid, apocalyptic thriller that mixes Cold War anxieties, biological horror, and hallucinatory madness. While its ideas are ambitious, the execution is often as chaotic as the swarming killer bugs at its centre.

The premise is instantly gripping: a U.S. military plane carrying a hydrogen bomb is taken down by an unnatural insect swarm, leaving the surviving personnel scrambling to understand the origin of this bizarre attack. What initially appears to be a man-versus-nature horror quickly spirals into an entanglement of war crimes, espionage, and human depravity.

Rather than focusing purely on the terrifying concept of killer insects, Genocide introduces a convoluted web of subplots. We have an unhinged American pilot experiencing nightmarish visions, an entomologist caught in a moral crisis, and a femme fatale with ulterior motives. Throw in anti-war messages, nuclear paranoia, and a touch of psychedelic weirdness, and you get a film that is as thematically dense as it is narratively tangled.

Unlike its contemporaries, Genocide offers little in the way of heroics or redemption. The film presents humanity as doomed—corrupt, self-destructive, and ultimately unworthy of survival. This nihilistic outlook might have been compelling if handled with a deft touch, but instead, it becomes exhausting. The lack of a clear protagonist or sympathetic characters makes it difficult to invest in the unfolding disaster.

There’s an intriguing notion at the film’s core: that the insect swarm is not merely a freak occurrence but a force of nature’s reckoning. The idea of tiny, insignificant creatures bringing about global catastrophe is an effective counterpoint to the grand scale of nuclear warfare. However, the film struggles to balance this environmental horror with its more outlandish elements, including mind control and Cold War conspiracies.

Visually, Genocide has its moments. The bug attacks, though limited by the era’s special effects, are often unsettling. Close-ups of writhing insects and eerie sound design give these sequences a skin-crawling quality. But elsewhere, the film suffers from pacing issues, awkward editing, and a general lack of cohesion.

The Prognosis:

Genocide is a film that bites off more than it can chew, weaving an apocalyptic narrative that is too messy to be truly effective. Its nihilistic tone and paranoia-fueled themes make for an interesting historical artifact, but as a horror film, it’s too convoluted and bleak to be satisfying. While there are glimpses of a fascinating eco-horror buried within, it ultimately drowns in its own chaotic swarm of ideas.

  • Saul Muerte

Dracula Has Risen from the Grave (1968) – A Gothic Sequel with B-Movie Charm

08 Saturday Mar 2025

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By 1968, Hammer Films had firmly established itself as the home of Gothic horror, and Dracula Has Risen from the Grave arrived as another entry in the studio’s blood-soaked saga. Directed by acclaimed cinematographer-turned-director Freddie Francis, the film saw Christopher Lee return as the Prince of Darkness in a stylish, if somewhat uneven, sequel.

At its core, Dracula Has Risen from the Grave weaves in themes of religion, revenge, and the ever-present battle between good and evil. Religion is front and centre, with the story emphasising Christianity’s role in morality, yet its presentation often borders on heavy-handed. Dracula’s revenge plot—a vendetta against a Monsignor who has attempted to bar him from his castle—feels petty, making the stakes seem less dire than in previous installments. There’s also an undercurrent of atheism versus faith, represented through the character of Paul (Barry Andrews), a young man forced to confront the supernatural despite his disbelief.

The film’s Gothic atmosphere is undeniably one of its strengths. Francis’ eye for striking visuals ensures that the production is filled with rich, saturated colours and ornate imagery, making for some truly memorable sequences. However, the narrative itself is more loosely structured than its predecessors, favouring style over substance. While some fans appreciate its looser, almost dreamlike quality, others find it lacking the tight plotting that made earlier Hammer Draculas more engaging.

As always, Christopher Lee dominates every scene he’s in, exuding menace with his piercing gaze and towering presence. Unfortunately, his Dracula is given little to do beyond the usual bloodletting and brooding stares. Still, his performance alone elevates the material.

While Dracula Has Risen from the Grave is a fun Hammer entry with B-movie charm, it doesn’t quite hold up to its predecessors in terms of narrative weight. It’s reactionary in its simplistic framing of good versus evil, yet it delivers enough Gothic atmosphere and unique set pieces to be enjoyable. Ultimately, it’s a solid but unremarkable addition to Hammer’s Dracula series.

The Prognosis:

A beautifully shot but narratively thin sequel, Dracula Has Risen from the Grave is worth watching for its Gothic aesthetic and Christopher Lee’s performance. However, its weaker plot and lack of high stakes keep it from being one of Hammer’s best.

  • Saul Muerte

Night of the Living Dead (1968) – A Genre-Defining Nightmare

01 Saturday Mar 2025

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Few horror films have had the seismic impact of George A. Romero’s Night of the Living Dead (1968). A micro-budget, black-and-white nightmare, the film forever altered the portrayal of zombies in cinema and ushered in a new era of socially conscious horror. More than just an exercise in terror, Night of the Living Dead is a politically charged masterpiece that reflects the anxieties of its era while setting the foundation for the modern zombie genre.

Redefining the Undead

Before Night of the Living Dead, zombies in popular culture were largely tied to the voodoo mythos, as seen in films like White Zombie (1932) and I Walked with a Zombie (1943). Romero and co-writer John A. Russo stripped the concept down and rebuilt it into something far more terrifying: relentless, flesh-eating ghouls with no master to control them. These undead creatures, driven by an insatiable hunger, served as an unsettling mirror to the living, an idea that would be expanded upon in Romero’s later Dead films.

Political and Social Commentary

What sets Night of the Living Dead apart from many of its horror contemporaries is its deep well of social and political commentary. Though Romero often insisted that the casting of Duane Jones as Ben—the film’s intelligent, level-headed protagonist—was not an overt political statement, it was impossible to separate his presence from the racial tensions of the time. Ben’s ultimate fate, gunned down by a posse of white men who mistake him for a zombie, is a chilling echo of America’s violent racial history, particularly in the wake of the assassinations of Martin Luther King Jr. and Malcolm X.

The film also taps into Cold War paranoia, with radio and television broadcasts offering conflicting theories about the zombie outbreak. The apocalyptic tone, coupled with government incompetence and misinformation, reflects the growing distrust in American institutions during the Vietnam War era. There is a sense of nihilism at play, where survival feels uncertain regardless of how rational or prepared one may be.

Themes of Fear and Isolation

At its core, Night of the Living Dead is a study in fear—both of the unknown and of each other. The film’s claustrophobic setting, a rural farmhouse besieged by the undead, intensifies the growing tensions among the survivors. Personal conflicts—embodied in the power struggle between Ben and the cowardly Harry Cooper (Karl Hardman)—highlight how, even in the face of an external horror, humanity’s greatest enemy may still be itself. The breakdown of cooperation and trust among the group underscores a bleak message: civilisation crumbles not just due to external threats, but because of internal divisions.

Legacy and Influence

Upon its release, Night of the Living Dead shocked audiences with its unflinching violence, nihilistic tone, and unorthodox approach to horror. While initially controversial—particularly due to its graphic scenes and bleak ending—it has since been recognised as a watershed moment in horror cinema. The film laid the groundwork for countless successors, from Romero’s own Dawn of the Dead (1978) to contemporary hits like The Walking Dead and 28 Days Later (2002).

More importantly, it demonstrated that horror could be both viscerally terrifying and intellectually stimulating, using the genre as a lens through which to examine societal issues. Over five decades later, Night of the Living Dead remains as haunting and relevant as ever, a grim reminder that the true horror lies not just in the monsters outside, but in the darkness within humanity itself.

  • Saul Muerte

Shogun’s Joy of Torture (1968) – The Rise of Ero Guro and Pink Cinema

22 Saturday Feb 2025

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A young magistrate recalls three tales of heinous crimes committed by women, and the brutal punishments that ensued.

A Cinematic Descent into Ero Guro:
Few filmmakers pushed the boundaries of Japanese cinema in the 1960s quite like Teruo Ishii. Known as the godfather of Japanese exploitation cinema, Ishii was instrumental in popularizing ero guro—a genre blending eroticism and grotesquerie, often rooted in historical or supernatural themes. Shogun’s Joy of Torture is one of his most infamous films, an anthology of sadistic punishments, brutal executions, and twisted morality tales that shocked audiences upon release.

The film is structured as three separate stories, each delving into themes of power, oppression, and the consequences of transgression in feudal Japan. These vignettes are marked by graphic depictions of torture, sexual violence, and extreme suffering, making it one of the most unsettling films of its time. Yet, beneath the extreme content, there is an undeniable artistry at play. Ishii’s masterful use of color, lighting, and atmosphere elevates Shogun’s Joy of Torture beyond mere shock value, crafting an experience that is as visually arresting as it is disturbing.

This film emerged at the dawn of Japan’s pink film movement, a wave of softcore erotic films that would dominate the nation’s underground cinema for decades. Unlike standard pink films, which leaned more toward romantic or comedic erotica, Ishii’s work was unrelentingly dark and often tied to historical narratives, reflecting the oppressive nature of the past and the inescapable suffering of its victims. Shogun’s Joy of Torture is particularly notable for its depiction of institutional cruelty—whether from the state, religious authorities, or social customs, Ishii presents a world where brutality is the status quo.

Though controversial, Shogun’s Joy of Torture was a precursor to the rise of more extreme Japanese cinema in the decades to follow, influencing filmmakers such as Takashi Miike. It remains a difficult watch, even by today’s standards, but for those interested in the intersection of horror, history, and ero guro aesthetics, it stands as a landmark of the genre.

Both The Ghastly Ones and Shogun’s Joy of Torture exemplify the outer limits of 1960s horror and exploitation cinema, albeit from very different cultural angles. Where Milligan’s work found itself caught in the wave of moral panic that swept through the UK in the 1980s, Ishii’s film helped shape the future of Japanese underground cinema. Both films challenge viewers with their content, making them fascinating case studies in censorship, controversy, and the evolution of genre filmmaking.

The Ghastly Ones (1968) – A Video Nasty That Earned Its Reputation

21 Friday Feb 2025

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Mad creatures of the night existing only for sensual sadistic moments of human slaughter!
Three sisters must spend three nights on an eerie island to inherit their father’s fortune. A deformed man leads them to the estate where horrors await.

Andy Milligan’s The Ghastly Ones is an oddity in the realm of horror cinema, a sleazy and grimy piece of exploitation that, while low-budget and technically amateurish, found itself enshrined in infamy as one of the notorious “video nasties.” When the UK’s Director of Public Prosecutions compiled a list of banned films in the early 1980s, The Ghastly Ones was among the titles deemed too extreme for public consumption. But how did this modestly made film wind up alongside some of the most controversial horror films of its era?

One of Milligan’s most notorious works, The Ghastly Ones stands as a testament to his unapologetically crude and nihilistic style. Known for his erratic camera work, grating dialogue, and gruesome depictions of violence, Milligan was a filmmaker who operated on the fringes of respectability. This film is no exception. It blends elements of gothic horror and grindhouse sleaze, using its limited resources to create an atmosphere of decay and depravity.

What cemented The Ghastly Ones as a video nasty was its unrelenting depiction of sadism and mutilation. While some of its peers on the list, such as The Evil Dead or The Texas Chain Saw Massacre, were films of technical skill and thematic weight, Milligan’s film was a crude, unpolished fever dream of carnage. The inclusion of lingering shots of gore, crude special effects, and an all-around unsettling tone ensured its place in the annals of censorship history. Unlike some of the other video nasties, which gained a cult following, The Ghastly Ones remains a film that only the most dedicated of exploitation fans seek out.

While it may not hold the same level of esteem as some of its video nasty contemporaries, The Ghastly Ones is a fascinating piece of horror history, both as an example of Milligan’s warped vision and as a film that managed to stir enough outrage to be banned in the UK. Today, it remains a curiosity—an obscure but significant entry in the era of censorship battles that defined 1980s horror fandom.

  • Saul Muerte

Frankenstein’s Bloody Terror (1968): The Birth of Spain’s Hombre Lobo Legend

15 Saturday Feb 2025

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Enrique López Eguiluz’s Frankenstein’s Bloody Terror (La marca del Hombre Lobo) might seem like a misstep of marketing rather than a monumental moment in horror, but it marked the start of one of Spain’s most enduring contributions to the genre. Starring the legendary Paul Naschy, this film introduced audiences to the character of Waldemar Daninsky, a tormented werewolf who would go on to become a staple of Spanish horror cinema. Despite its narrative shortcomings and modest budget, the film’s legacy lies in its role as a launchpad for Naschy’s prolific career and his significant impact on the genre.

The story follows Waldemar Daninsky, a man cursed with lycanthropy who seeks aid from a seemingly kind doctor and his wife. Unbeknownst to him, they are vampires, leading to an inevitable showdown between werewolf and vampire in a battle of supernatural forces. While the plot is more convoluted than compelling, the film is more about the atmosphere, performances, and sheer enthusiasm for the genre than a tightly crafted narrative.

Paul Naschy (born Jacinto Molina) was the driving force behind Frankenstein’s Bloody Terror and Spanish horror at large. Inspired by Lon Chaney Jr.’s The Wolf Man and Universal’s classic monsters, Naschy not only played the titular werewolf but also penned the script under his real name. His dedication to the genre and his character, Waldemar Daninsky, would lead to a series of werewolf films that spanned decades, solidifying him as an icon of Spanish horror cinema.

What sets Naschy apart is his unabashed love for horror and his commitment to his craft, even when working with limited resources. His portrayal of Daninsky blends physicality, melancholy, and pathos, echoing the tragic monsters of Universal’s golden age. While Frankenstein’s Bloody Terror might not showcase his best work, it laid the foundation for a career that brought Spain’s horror scene to international prominence.

Frankenstein’s Bloody Terror became the first in the Hombre Lobo series, which would see Naschy reprise his role as Daninsky in films like Werewolf Shadow (1971) and The Beast and the Magic Sword (1983). Each entry brought new layers to the character and often leaned into gothic horror tropes, with crumbling castles, fog-drenched landscapes, and a revolving door of supernatural foes, from witches to zombies.

While not every film in the series is a classic, the Hombre Lobo saga became a defining feature of Spanish horror, rivaling the works of Italy’s giallo masters and Britain’s Hammer Films. Naschy’s dedication to the genre and his character ensured that Spain had a unique voice in the horror landscape of the 20th century.

Though Frankenstein’s Bloody Terror is notable for its place in history, the film itself is far from flawless. The story often feels like a patchwork of horror clichés, with minimal cohesion. The addition of “Frankenstein” to the English title was a purely marketing-driven decision, as no such character exists in the film. The low-budget effects and some uneven performances don’t help, though they do add a certain charm for fans of campy horror.

What saves the film is its gothic atmosphere, a strong sense of visual style, and Naschy’s earnest performance. The battle between werewolf and vampire, though somewhat clunky, is a highlight and hints at the potential that would be better realised in later films.

While Frankenstein’s Bloody Terror may not rank among the greats of 1960s horror, it deserves recognition for what it represents. It’s the birth of a legend—Paul Naschy’s Waldemar Daninsky—and a pivotal moment for Spanish horror cinema. The film’s flaws are undeniable, but its ambition and Naschy’s passion shine through, making it a must-watch for fans of cult horror history.

With Frankenstein’s Bloody Terror, the seeds of an enduring legacy were sown. Though not the best in the Hombre Lobo series, it is an important first step in Paul Naschy’s journey as the face of Spanish horror—a journey that would cement his place among the genre’s most iconic figures.

  • Saul Muerte