Tag Archives: 1960s retrospective

The Shuttered Room (1967): A Decent Attempt That Falters in Execution

29 Friday Nov 2024

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The Shuttered Room, based on a story attributed to H.P. Lovecraft and August Derleth, offers an atmospheric dive into the macabre, set against the backdrop of a crumbling New England mill town. Directed by David Greene, the film’s most notable strength lies in its brooding atmosphere and unsettling locale, which captures the decayed charm of its rural setting. Yet, while the tone and setting intrigue, the narrative struggles to rise above mediocrity, leaving audiences with an experience more evocative than substantive.

Central to the film is the electrifying performance of Oliver Reed as the menacing Ethan. Reed commands the screen with an unpredictable energy, adding a palpable edge of danger that keeps the audience engaged. His interactions with Gig Young, playing the stalwart husband Mike, and Carol Lynley as the haunted Susannah, highlight the clash between Reed’s raw intensity and the more subdued performances of his co-stars. Lynley brings an understated fragility to Susannah, effectively conveying her character’s torment and vulnerability, though her role is often overshadowed by Reed’s larger-than-life presence.

The film’s atmospheric strength is undeniable. Cinematographer Kenneth Hodges crafts a visually arresting aesthetic, juxtaposing the rustic beauty of the mill with its sinister underpinnings. The eerie sound design and haunting score further amplify the sense of unease. However, The Shuttered Room falters when it comes to its central plot. The narrative’s slow pacing and predictable developments prevent it from fully delivering on the psychological horror and suspense it hints at, leaving viewers yearning for a sharper, more cohesive story.

Ultimately, The Shuttered Room stands as a fascinating but flawed entry in 1960s horror. While it showcases an engaging Oliver Reed and an immersive atmosphere, the film’s inability to break free from its languid storytelling prevents it from achieving the impact it so clearly aspires to. For fans of moody, vintage thrillers, this is worth a watch—but don’t expect it to haunt your thoughts.

  • Saul Muerte

The Sorcerers: Karloff and Lacey Shine in a Flawed Exploration of Desire and Control

28 Thursday Nov 2024

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Michael Reeves’ second feature film, The Sorcerers, ventures into the realms of horror and science fiction with a concept that is both intriguing and unsettling. Starring the legendary Boris Karloff and Catherine Lacey as an elderly couple, the Monserrats, the film delves into their dark quest to recapture the vitality of youth through occult science. Lacey’s portrayal of Estelle Monserrat is particularly striking, balancing vulnerability and cruelty as her lust for power spirals out of control. Meanwhile, Karloff exudes gravitas, lending dignity to Professor Monserrat’s conflicting morality as the experiment spirals into chaos. The duo’s performances ground the film, giving emotional weight to their descent into obsession.

Ian Ogilvy delivers a strong performance as Mike, their unwitting pawn and the victim of their telepathic control. Through him, the Monserrats experience a vicarious thrill that highlights the darker sides of humanity—greed, lust, and violence. The concept of transferring one’s consciousness into another’s body was fresh for its time and is executed effectively, especially in scenes where Mike’s inner conflict begins to reflect the fractured dynamics of his controllers. However, the story doesn’t always capitalise on its premise, leaving some potential for deeper exploration untapped.

Though The Sorcerers brims with ideas about the morality of power and the price of human desire, its execution feels uneven. The low budget occasionally hampers the film’s ability to fully realise its ambitious vision, and while Reeves shows flashes of brilliance in his direction, some sequences drag, detracting from the overall tension. Despite these shortcomings, the film’s climax is a gripping resolution, showcasing Reeves’ knack for atmospheric storytelling.

What stands out most about The Sorcerers is its ability to tap into the societal anxieties of the 1960s—the desire for youth, rebellion against aging, and the ethical dilemmas of scientific experimentation. It may not reach the heights of Reeves’ later masterpiece, Witchfinder General, but The Sorcerers still serves as an interesting stepping stone in his tragically short career. It’s a flawed but fascinating film, buoyed by Karloff and Lacey’s stellar performances, which make it a worthwhile watch for fans of 1960s horror and sci-fi cinema.

  • Saul Muerte

Night of the Big Heat (1967): A B-Horror That Fails to Sizzle

23 Saturday Nov 2024

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With the dynamic pairing of Christopher Lee and Peter Cushing at its core, Night of the Big Heat seems poised for greatness, especially for fans of mid-century British horror. Directed by Terence Fisher, a Hammer Films mainstay, the movie adapts John Lymington’s novel about an unexplained heatwave plaguing a small island off the British coast. From the outset, the setup brims with potential: the mysterious weather anomaly and its connection to extraterrestrial forces create an intriguing framework. However, despite the gravitas brought by Lee and Cushing, the film fails to rise above its status as a modestly entertaining B-movie.

The charm lies primarily in its retro appeal, with limited special effects and a tone that leans into the quirks of low-budget 1960s sci-fi horror. Christopher Lee’s authoritative portrayal of scientist Godfrey Hanson adds depth, even when the plot veers into absurdity, while Peter Cushing delivers his signature polish, albeit in a more understated role than usual. However, the movie is let down by a slow pace and underwhelming tension, as well as budget constraints that reduce the alien threat to little more than glowing orbs. The production’s ambition to create atmospheric horror feels stifled by its resources, though the oppressive heat and rural isolation add some unease.

Ultimately, Night of the Big Heat offers mild entertainment but fails to distinguish itself in the pantheon of 1960s genre cinema. For devoted fans of Lee, Cushing, or nostalgic B-horror, it holds some charm, but for broader audiences, it’s more of a lukewarm experience that may not burn bright but flickers enough for the curious viewer.

  • Saul Muerte

Frankenstein Created Woman: Science Meets Soul in Hammer’s Boldest Frankenstein Entry Yet

16 Saturday Nov 2024

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By its fourth entry in Hammer’s Frankenstein saga, Frankenstein Created Woman veered into uncharted thematic territory, exploring the transference of the soul rather than focusing solely on the reconstruction of flesh. The film’s roots trace back to an abandoned concept for the Tales of Frankenstein television series, which was later resurrected as a collaboration between Hammer and Twentieth Century Fox. Loosely inspired by Roger Vadim’s And God Created Woman, the feature delved into theological and philosophical dimensions, examining identity, morality, and the repercussions of manipulating the human essence. This ambitious narrative shift elevated it among Hammer’s catalog and gained recognition from cinephiles such as Martin Scorsese.

Central to the film’s success is Peter Cushing’s commanding reprisal of Baron Frankenstein. Cushing’s nuanced performance lends gravitas to the morally ambiguous doctor, whose unrelenting pursuit of scientific discovery transcends ethical boundaries. Opposite Cushing is Susan Denberg as Christina, a woman resurrected with a fractured identity. The tragic duality of Christina and her lover Hans, whose soul is embedded within her, provides a poignant underpinning to the grotesque premise. Denberg, a former Playboy Playmate immersed in the vibrant “It” crowd of the 1960s, including Roman Polanski, brought an uncanny mix of fragility and menace to her role. To bolster the film’s appeal, she was featured in a high-profile publicity campaign, though her career in film was short-lived. With its innovative focus on the isolation of the soul and a revenge-driven narrative, Frankenstein Created Woman became a bold and emotionally charged addition to the Hammer canon.

  • Saul Muerte

Into the Depths of Darkness: Coffin Joe’s Twisted Quest Continues in This Night I’ll Possess Your Corpse

15 Friday Nov 2024

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This Night I’ll Possess Your Corpse (1967), José Mojica Marins’ sequel to At Midnight I’ll Take Your Soul, dives deeper into the twisted world of Coffin Joe, expanding on themes of existential defiance, legacy, and brutal self-justification. The film builds on the reputation of the sinister undertaker, who now intensifies his search for the “perfect” mother of his progeny. With higher stakes, more explicit brutality, and an even stronger commitment to thematic audacity, This Night I’ll Possess Your Corpse pushes the boundaries of Marins’ original vision.

The film’s plot follows Coffin Joe (Zé do Caixão) as he continues his obsessive quest for a worthy woman to bear his child, a pursuit that becomes even darker and more violent. After surviving the retribution faced in At Midnight I’ll Take Your Soul, Joe, unrepentant and emboldened, begins torturing and testing women, pushing them through horrifying trials to determine if they meet his twisted criteria. While his earlier blasphemy and moral nihilism painted him as a provocateur, Joe now appears even more ruthless, embodying a sort of twisted Darwinism as he justifies his crimes in the name of securing his legacy. The sequel effectively ups the ante, making Coffin Joe’s deranged quest for immortality and control over fate feel more visceral and disturbing.

The film’s visual style expands as well, reflecting the broader canvas Marins had to work with. There’s a particularly memorable scene where Coffin Joe dreams of Hell, shot in lurid colour, providing a startling contrast to the film’s otherwise stark black-and-white palette. This scene remains one of the most striking and surreal moments in 1960s horror cinema, reinforcing the film’s surrealist roots and adding a vivid, almost expressionistic element to Joe’s nightmarish world. Marins used his limited resources creatively, and this bold use of colour makes an already intense story feel even more haunting and visually ambitious.

In terms of character, Coffin Joe is more complex here, though still equally loathsome. Marins’ portrayal captures Joe’s internal contradictions—the philosophical musings, violent nihilism, and brazen self-confidence—that make him such a compelling anti-hero. Joe’s obsession with purity and genetic perfection not only reflects his ego and disregard for human life but also serves as a grim satire of authoritarian ideals. His monologues delve further into his worldview, questioning religion, morality, and society, challenging the audience directly as he did in the first film, but now with even greater force. Marins’ unhinged commitment to the role provides a dark charisma that keeps the viewer hooked, even if the character’s acts are nothing short of monstrous.

The film’s pacing and plot structure, however, have their challenges. While This Night I’ll Possess Your Corpse benefits from a clearer narrative arc than its predecessor, some scenes feel repetitive, with certain trials and tortures overstaying their welcome. The intense focus on Coffin Joe’s sadistic “experiments” on the women he encounters might leave some viewers feeling fatigued, as the shock value loses impact with repetition. Additionally, the sequel’s reliance on violence and shock elements over psychological horror can sometimes feel less innovative than the original’s eerie atmosphere and unstructured approach.

Nevertheless, This Night I’ll Possess Your Corpse is a provocative work that explores the darker sides of human nature with a gleeful defiance of conventional morality and cinematic norms. While not perfect, the film stands as a testament to Marins’ singular vision, and his fearless approach makes this entry a cult classic in its own right. For those willing to venture into Coffin Joe’s demented quest, the film delivers a rare and unique horror experience that continues to resonate as both an unsettling thriller and a pointed critique of authoritarian ideals.

For fans of At Midnight I’ll Take Your Soul, the sequel is a must-watch, pushing Coffin Joe’s story further into the realm of mythic horror while reflecting the raw inventiveness of 1960s horror cinema.

  • Saul Muerte

Blood of the Virgins: A Lustful Bite of 60s Horror That Misses the Mark

14 Thursday Nov 2024

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Blood of the Virgins (1967) is an interesting attempt at vampire horror that stumbles through its narrative despite its atmospheric promise. Directed by Emilio Vieyra, the film tries to capitalise on the familiar gothic elements of betrayal, seduction, and the eternal curse of vampirism, but its low budget and muddled storytelling prevent it from fully sinking its teeth into viewers.

The film opens with Ofelia, who’s set to marry Eduardo but finds herself in a tangled web with her lover Gustavo. Despite some pre-wedding jitters, Ofelia goes through with the marriage, only for Gustavo to interrupt their wedding night with murder and a fateful bite, turning her into a vampire. Fast-forward to the 1960s, where a group of travellers takes refuge in a deserted lodge after their van breaks down. Ofelia reappears, now a tragic figure caught between the pull of seduction and her growing weariness with the vampire’s curse.

While the setup is promising and echoes classic vampire tales, Blood of the Virgins falters in its execution. The transition from Ofelia’s tragedy to the modern-day storyline is rough, leaving viewers with little investment in the new characters. The young travellers quickly fall into horror stereotypes, and their interactions feel shallow, making it hard to care about their fates as they encounter Ofelia. The central mystery surrounding the vampire’s motives and how the group will survive unfolds predictably, with suspense largely absent and horror scenes lacking bite.

Visually, Blood of the Virgins does manage to capture some atmospheric shots with moody lighting and a dreamy, surreal quality. However, it doesn’t do enough to maintain tension or provide any significant scares. Vieyra’s direction seems uncertain, as if torn between crafting a horror film and leaning into the film’s more exploitative elements. The horror never reaches the eerie or unsettling, instead landing in a kind of melodrama that drags down the pacing.

Ofelia, the story’s would-be tragic heroine, lacks the depth that might make her journey compelling. Her transformation and internal conflict about her cursed life could have added emotional weight, but they’re skimmed over in favour of a few romanticised seduction scenes that lack nuance. The attempt at sensual horror falls flat, feeling more like an obligatory nod to the eroticism associated with vampire lore than an organic part of the story.

While Blood of the Virgins holds some intrigue as a piece of Argentinian horror cinema from the 1960s, it ultimately fails to deliver as either a compelling vampire story or an effective horror film. It’s an uneven experience best suited for those curious about vintage Latin American genre cinema, but for most viewers, it’s likely to feel like a missed opportunity. Vieyra’s vision doesn’t quite come together here, leaving Blood of the Virgins feeling more like a hazy, half-formed nightmare than a film that truly haunts.

  • Saul Muerte

Shadows and Secrets: Eye of the Devil’s Haunting Descent into Gothic Horror

07 Thursday Nov 2024

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Eye of the Devil, directed by J. Lee Thompson, is an atmospheric Gothic thriller that dives into the shadows of rural France with a sophisticated mix of suspense, mystique, and ritualistic undertones. Adapted from the novel Day of the Arrow by Robin Estridge, the film is a hypnotic journey into the arcane—a chilling portrait of an ancient family curse lurking beneath a veneer of nobility. As the last black-and-white film released by MGM, Eye of the Devil serves as a haunting swan song for monochrome thrillers of its kind, delivering a visually striking experience.

The film’s magnetic pull begins with its stellar cast, headed by Deborah Kerr and David Niven, whose portrayal of a nobleman bound by ancient family duties brings both gravity and dread. Kerr, as the resolute yet vulnerable Catherine de Montfaucon, brings nuanced intensity, grounding the film’s surreal moments with an emotional weight that feels real and human. Niven, always a master of restrained expression, gives one of his most haunting performances, adding a foreboding edge to his noble character.

Rounding out the remarkable ensemble are Donald Pleasence, David Hemmings, and John Le Mesurier, each delivering layered performances that enhance the eerie atmosphere. Pleasence stands out in his role as a creepy village priest, an unsettling presence who is quietly complicit in the town’s disturbing traditions. Hemmings and Sharon Tate, in one of her earliest roles, exude an ethereal quality as brother-and-sister keepers of dark secrets. Tate, especially, captivates with a bewitching mix of innocence and menace that underscores the film’s ominous tone.

One of the film’s greatest strengths is its cinematography. Shot in crisp black-and-white, Eye of the Devil takes full advantage of its shadows and contrasts, imbuing each scene with a sense of haunting elegance. The off-kilter tone, aided by this stark visual style, reflects the otherworldly nature of the story and lends the film an unsettling beauty. The rural landscapes and gothic architecture frame the narrative with a sense of isolation and timelessness, allowing audiences to feel as if they, too, are trapped within the same ancient, oppressive traditions as the de Montfaucon family.

The film’s pace may feel unusual, but its deliberate nature only deepens its eerie pull. Eye of the Devil is not a straightforward thriller; it’s a study in atmospheric horror that never rushes to reveal its secrets, instead drawing viewers deeper into its seductive darkness. For anyone who appreciates horror that unnerves through performance, tone, and imagery rather than jump scares, Eye of the Devil is a timeless gem of the genre.

  • Saul Muerte

Persona (1966): Bergman’s Masterpiece of Identity, Insanity, and Empowerment

02 Saturday Nov 2024

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Ingmar Bergman’s Persona stands as one of the most hauntingly enigmatic films of the 1960s—a cinematic labyrinth that delves into the very depths of identity, sanity, and the blurred boundaries between individuals. Nearly six decades later, Persona remains powerful, confounding, and profoundly unsettling. At its core, Persona is a psychological examination of two women—Elisabet Vogler (Liv Ullmann), an actress who falls mysteriously silent, and her nurse, Alma (Bibi Andersson)—whose relationship unfolds in a crescendo of intimacy, rivalry, and dependence. Together, they embody a deeply human duality, a study in the fragility of personal identity and the paradoxical strength found within vulnerability and silence.

From its opening frames, Persona plunges the audience into a torrent of fragmented imagery—eyes blinking, a hand being nailed, and flashes of existential dread. Bergman’s powerful imagery cuts through the narrative like lightning, creating an atmosphere that feels both personal and universal, nightmarish and poetic. Each frame is meticulously crafted to peel back layers of the psyche, inviting audiences to explore the dark, uncharted spaces of consciousness. Cinematographer Sven Nykvist’s stark black-and-white visuals illuminate every flicker of emotion, every hesitation, every unspoken fear, turning the film’s silence into an unnerving scream.

The film’s exploration of duality is revolutionary, merging psychological horror with existential inquiry as Alma’s identity slowly begins to blur with Elisabet’s. Elisabet’s silence becomes a vacuum that Alma fills with her own confessions and vulnerabilities, pouring her soul into the emptiness that her patient refuses to acknowledge. Through their interactions, Bergman crafts a uniquely female experience of empowerment and collapse, showing strength not as an opposing force to vulnerability, but as something that paradoxically emerges from it. Elisabet’s refusal to speak serves as a quiet act of rebellion, a gesture of power, and a declaration of self that is both empowering and isolating.

Bergman uses this silence to unmask both women, pushing them—and the audience—into confronting painful truths about their identities. Alma’s increasing desperation to be seen and understood by Elisabet serves as both a mirror and a betrayal, revealing her deepest insecurities and, ultimately, her own hidden capacity for cruelty. The duality of their personas reveals the terrifying notion that selfhood is both separate and intertwined with others; we are who we are alone, but also who we are in the eyes of others. Bergman brings the film to a shattering apex when Alma, seemingly empowered, seeks to shake Elisabet out of her silence, but instead finds herself teetering on the edge of her own sanity.

Persona touches on insanity not as a medical phenomenon but as a profound loss of self, a disintegration of the carefully crafted masks we wear. By the film’s conclusion, Alma and Elisabet’s identities are so entangled that the distinction between them dissolves entirely, echoing the film’s central question: can anyone ever truly know another person, or even themselves? This fusion—and confusion—of selfhood is where Persona finds its chilling power, making us question how much of who we are depends on others, and how much can ever truly belong to us alone.

For all its psychological weight, Persona remains a cinematic experience of unparalleled beauty and precision. Bergman, at his most unrestrained, took enormous risks with this film, pushing the boundaries of narrative structure and challenging audiences to reckon with uncomfortable truths. The result is a visceral study of femininity, insanity, and selfhood that has remained deeply influential, inspiring generations of filmmakers to explore the fractures within human identity.

The Prognosis:

Persona is not just a film but a living question, an exploration of the human condition in all its fractured, dualistic beauty. It holds a mirror up to our own shifting faces, daring us to look at the unvarnished truth within. Decades later, Persona endures as one of cinema’s boldest expressions of identity and power.

  • Saul Muerte

La strega in amore (1966): A Dreamlike Descent into Obsession and Magic Realism

01 Friday Nov 2024

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Damiano Damiani’s La strega in amore (The Witch) is a strange and beguiling entry in 1960s Italian cinema, blending horror with lush, dreamy visuals that linger in the mind. The film, based on Carlos Fuentes’s novel Aura, creates a surreal experience that echoes the atmosphere of magic realism—at once a haunting journey into obsession and a metaphor for Italy’s evolving cinematic landscape in the late ‘60s.

In La strega in amore, magic realism is the key to the film’s allure. Damiani doesn’t rely on traditional horror but instead fills each frame with subtle, supernatural touches. At its heart is a compelling story of identity, where young historian Sergio (played by Richard Johnson) is drawn into a strange affair with two enigmatic women: the sensual Aura (Rosanna Schiaffino) and her eerie mother, Consuelo (Sarah Ferrati). The mansion they inhabit seems to breathe with ancient secrets, and as Sergio delves deeper into their world, the film’s reality blurs, suggesting that the house itself might be alive with occult powers.

The cinematography is a triumph in establishing a dreamlike experience that feels detached from conventional time and space. The dark, shadowed corridors and surreal mise-en-scène are crafted to mirror Sergio’s disorientation, drawing viewers into a trance-like state that echoes the protagonist’s growing obsession. There’s a slow, sensual quality to the pacing, with lingering shots and moody lighting that bring the viewer deeper into the labyrinth of desire and deception.

One of the film’s core fascinations is its exploration of double identities. Aura and Consuelo seem like mirror images of each other, reflecting youth and age, beauty and decay, reality and illusion. As Sergio’s obsession deepens, he begins to lose himself, questioning not only the identities of the women but his own purpose and sanity. This psychological complexity places La strega in amore among other 1960s films that delve into the fragility of identity—challenging viewers to untangle the film’s mysteries or, perhaps, accept that some secrets are meant to remain hidden.

With its understated horror, La strega in amore might not appeal to all, but its power lies in the mesmerising spell it casts—a meditative tale of supernatural obsession where magic realism meets the horror of self-doubt. Though it remains a niche classic, this film is worth watching for its atmosphere and haunting beauty, revealing a side of Italian horror that’s less about fear and more about surrendering to the unknown. In this, Damiani created something remarkable: a film that blurs the line between the real and the surreal, lingering with viewers like a dream from which they’ve yet to awaken.

  • Saul Muerte

“Chamber of Horrors: A Grisly Premise That Misses the Mark”

31 Thursday Oct 2024

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Chamber of Horrors (1966), directed by Hy Averback, brings a compelling cast and an intriguing plot to the table, promising much with its premise but ultimately delivering a middling experience. The story revolves around a deranged murderer, Jason Cravette (played by Patrick O’Neal), who, after escaping execution, embarks on a grisly path of revenge. Adding to the intrigue, Cravette’s severed hand is replaced with various weapon attachments, turning him into a unique, albeit underutilised, antagonist in this Gothic-inspired tale.

The ensemble cast is a highlight. Wilfrid Hyde-White and Cesare Danova bring charm and wit as the amateur sleuths operating out of a wax museum who try to solve the gruesome crimes. Laura Devon as Marie Champlain adds an element of romantic allure, while O’Neal does his best with Cravette, crafting a chilling performance as a vengeful madman with a penchant for leaving his victims in creatively staged scenarios. Their combined talents elevate the film, giving it moments that shine despite the otherwise flat storytelling.

The plot, though clever in its concept, quickly falls into formulaic territory, relying heavily on gimmicks like the “Fear Flasher” and “Horror Horn”—signaling moments when audiences should brace themselves for terror. These devices, while initially engaging, fail to sustain the suspense, resulting in a series of anticlimactic sequences that detract from the film’s tension. The movie’s energy sags under the weight of predictable scenes that feel less terrifying and more theatrical, ultimately failing to evoke the intended horror.

Though it has a visual flair, with its dark, misty atmosphere and elaborate period costumes, Chamber of Horrors misses the mark in pacing. The film feels padded, and the lack of genuine thrills or surprises makes it feel more like a TV special extended to a feature-length runtime. The concept of a wax museum as a horror setting is ripe with potential, yet the film never fully capitalises on the sinister possibilities, choosing instead to tread familiar ground that fails to grip the audience.

Chamber of Horrors is far from a total misfire, as it does offer a macabre curiosity for fans of 1960s horror with its eccentric villain and a cast that brings spirit to the lacklustre script. But for all its tricks and stylistic flourishes, it’s a film that, in the end, feels like a missed opportunity—one that hints at terror but struggles to sustain it, leaving audiences with a chamber that’s more dreary than dreadful.

  • Saul Muerte