In the barren, wind-bitten wilds of colonial Australia, Inn of the Damned (1975) found horror in isolation. Long before “Ozploitation” became a term of critical affection, Terry Bourke’s strange hybrid of gothic horror and western aesthetics dared to imagine the Australian bush as both a landscape of myth and madness. Half ghost story, half revenge thriller, Bourke’s film sits at the uneasy intersection of imported genre traditions and a uniquely Antipodean sensibility — a cinematic haunted house in the middle of nowhere.

At its core, Inn of the Damned is a tale of vengeance and retribution, filtered through the dusty lens of the frontier. A sheriff, played with rugged stoicism by Alex Cord, investigates the mysterious disappearances surrounding an isolated guesthouse run by the elderly von Sturm couple (Dame Judith Anderson and Joseph Furst). What he finds is not merely murder, but an eerie reflection of the Australian psyche in transition — a young nation still haunted by its colonial sins and moral wilderness.

Bourke, who had already made waves with Night of Fear (1972), one of Australia’s first true horror features, was an auteur working far ahead of his industry’s infrastructure. His style was raw, experimental, and unafraid to fuse European gothic tropes with distinctly Australian themes of isolation and brutality. If Night of Fear hinted at the emerging voice of a national horror identity, Inn of the Damned pushed it into bold new territory — a bush gothic western before the subgenre truly existed.

Where Hammer Films had their fog-drenched manors, Bourke found his decay in the vast, sun-bleached plains. The titular inn, set against the encroaching wilderness, becomes both physical and psychological prison — an emblem of trauma, repression, and a colonial past that refuses to die. The film’s atmosphere, lensed beautifully by Brian Probyn, carries an uncanny stillness, where the wind whistles like a whisper from another world.

Dame Judith Anderson, returning to Australian soil after a lifetime in Hollywood and Broadway, lends the picture a tragic gravitas. Her performance as the tormented landlady is both grand and grotesque — a figure of crumbling dignity and suppressed rage. Opposite her, Joseph Furst brings a feverish menace that toes the line between villainy and pity. Bourke’s direction draws from theatrical melodrama, but reframes it through the desolation of the Outback, where civility erodes and violence becomes a natural law.

Critically, Inn of the Damned was divisive upon release. Its tonal clashes — between horror, psychological drama, and western stylization — unsettled audiences and distributors alike. Yet, with distance, the film feels pioneering rather than confused. It laid groundwork for what would become the distinct Australian horror temperament later seen in films like Picnic at Hanging Rock (1975), The Last Wave (1977), and Razorback (1984). Bourke’s fascination with the land as both physical and metaphysical antagonist remains vital to understanding how the country’s genre cinema evolved.

Terry Bourke’s career never received the celebration it deserved. He was a filmmaker of contradictions — a tabloid provocateur with an artist’s ambition, a showman drawn to exploitation yet deeply attuned to atmosphere and theme. Inn of the Damned endures as his most ambitious statement, a film that reimagines the horror western not as frontier myth but as colonial nightmare.

The Prognosis:

Half a century later, Inn of the Damned stands as a curious but vital relic — a reminder that Australian horror was not born from imitation, but invention. In its madness, its rough edges, and its haunting sense of place, Bourke’s vision helped define the cinematic terror of the bush long before the term Ozploitation was coined.

• Saul Muerte