Night of the Demon: If Hitchcock Had Made a Horror Movie...

Although made in the late 1950s, Night of the Demon (US: Curse of the Demon) owes its inspiration to producer Val Lew-ton's 1940s “B” horror films. Constrained by a low budget, Lewton knew he couldn’t afford to show a scary monster, so he made psychological thrillers like The Leopard Man in which the film’s menace was implied. One of Lewton’s directors was Jacques Tourneur, who would later helm the film noir classic Out of the Past and, of course, Night of the Demon.

According to legend, Tourneur’s original cut of Night of the Demon never showed the title creature. The producers felt it wasn’t creepy enough, though, and inserted two scenes with a gruesome two-horned, fanged demonic creature created by Wally Veevers. Whether the tale is true or not, the decision to show the demon works to the film’s advantage. The creature’s rare appearances make quite an impact and Veevers’ work is quite impressive.

The real star of the film, though, is Niall McGinnis, who plays devil cult leader Dr. Julian Karswell. At the beginning of the film, Karswell receives a visit from Professor Harrington, who has been investigating the cult. A frightened Harrington tells Karswell that he will stop the investigation and pleads with Karswell to “call it off.” Karswell notes that “some things are more easily started than stopped.” Later that night, a hideous demon kills Harrington.

John Holden (Dana Andrews), an American psychologist, and Joanna Harrington (Peggy Cummins), the professor’s niece, pick up the investigation. Holden, who doesn’t believe in the supernatural, pays a call on Karswell at the latter’s country estate. Karswell, sporting clown make-up, is giving a Halloween magic show for the local children. It’s my favorite scene and features such great dialogue as:

Holden: I see you practice white magic as well as black.

Karswell: I don’t think it would be too amusing for the youngsters if I conjured up a demon from Hell for them. Or for myself for that matter. As we’re not protected by the magic circle, we’d both of us be torn to shreds.

Holden: And you’d spoil the party.

Karswell: You’re so right…but how to make the point.

To do just that, Karswell summons up a wind storm (a medieval witch’s specialty, he explains later) that sends screaming children running inside the house—a scene that foreshadows a similar children’s party gone awry in Hitchcock's The Birds.

The film's most famous sequence, though, is probably Holden's late night trek through the woods. After an encounter at Karswell's country estate, Holden makes for a quick exit out the study door. Karswell politely advises him not to take the path through the woods, but the defiant Holden does just that--setting the stage for a chase very reminiscent of those in Lewton pictures like The Cat People.


A creature worth showing!

Night of the Demon was loosely based on M.R. James' short story "Casting the Runes." The witty screenplay was co-authored by Charles Bennett, who worked on early Hitchcock classics like The 39 Steps. He gives McGinnis almost all the good lines. When Karswell finds the skeptical Holden searching his study, the cult leader remarks about Joanna: “At least, she doesn’t have her head in the sand. She believes she can see. She can. She believes that she’s alive. She is. She believes that you will die tomorrow night. You will.”

Indeed, the film’s only weakness may be that Karsell is so much more interesting than Holden. It doesn’t help that Dana Andrews gives a bland performance as the disbelieving hero and the talented Peggy Cummins has very little to do. The film's second best performance is given by screen veteran Athene Seyler, who plays Karswell's mother. Their mother-son relationship is straight out of Hitchcock (who seemed to have a soft spot for his villains' mothers).

Sadly, Night of the Demon would be the last significant film for director Jacques Tourneur. He worked mostly in television in the 1960s, directing episodes of shows like Bonanza, Twilight Zone, and T.H.E. Cat. Still, his final two films weren't without interest: War Gods of the Deep (1965) was a bizarre, entertaining adventure film about an underwater city and The Comedy of Terrors was an amusing trifle written by Richard Matheson and starring Vincent Price, Peter Lorre, Boris Karloff, and Basil Rathbone.

As Tourneur's swansong in the horror genre, he couldn't have done better than Night of the Demon. I've often thought that if Hitch had made a horror film, it might have looked something like Night of the Demon. He probably would have wanted to avoid showing the title creature, too. I’d have to disagree, though, because, in close-up especially, that disagreeable demon is quite chillingly memorable.

Bob Hope Ain't Afraid of No Ghosts

Bob Hope and Paulette Goddard.

One of Bob Hope's best films, The Ghost Breakers is a first-rate haunted house comedy that benefits from a funny script and a strong cast. Made in 1941, it reteams Hope and Paulette Goddard from the similar The Cat and the Canary (1939). Both movies features spooky settings and were adapted from stage plays. However, while The Cat and the Canary comes off as a bit creaky, The Ghost Breakers holds up nicely.

Bob plays a radio broadcaster named Lawrence (Larry) Lawrence (his middle name is Lawrence, too--"My parents had no imagination"). He has a radio show on which he's billed as "the man who knows all the rackets and all the racketeers." While visiting a hotel to see a disgruntled gangster, Larry accidentally fires a gun at the same time another man is fatally shot. Thinking he has committed a homicide, Larry hides in the hotel room of Mary Carter (Paulette Goddard).

Mary (Goddard) encounters a zombie
played by Noble Johnson.

Mary has recently inherited a Cuban castle called Castillo Maldito, located on the ominous-sounding Black Island. For 20 years, no one has been able to spend a night in the castle and survive until morning. Additionally, an anonymous individual offered to buy the estate for $50,000, although Mary refused to sell. She helps Larry evade the police and, in return, he agrees to accompany her to the eerie castle. He keeps his promise even after he's cleared of the murder rap--and Mary receives a note stating: "Death waits for you on Black Island." By that point, it's clear that Larry has become smitten with Mary.

Unlike The Cat and the Canary, much of the plot takes place outside the haunted house. That's not a bad thing, with Hope delivering some of his most memorable wisecracks. My favorite is this exchange with Richard Carlson, in which the latter describes the island's undead:

CARLSON: It's worse than horrible because a zombie has no will of his own. You see them sometimes walking around blindly with dead eyes, following orders, not knowing what they do, not caring.

HOPE: You mean like Democrats?

Bob Hope and Willie Best.

Willie Best, who worked with many of the best comedians in Hollywood, has perhaps his most substantial role as Larry's valet. He and Hope form a funny team and, as Thomas Cripps points out in his book Slow Fade to Black, they even subtly poke fun at racial stereotyping: "As he (Best) fumbles with oars, Hope says, 'I thought you rowed for Harlem Tech'...(Later) they reverse the old humor when they see an apparition and Hope panics while Best says, "I know better.'"

It's funny to count the number of
scenes that emphasize Paulette's legs.

Paulette Goddard is in top form as the plucky heroine and genuinely seems to be having fun. The same could be said for the rest of the cast, which includes Noble Johnson as a zombie, Paul Lukas as an untrustworthy solicitor, and Anthony Quinn playing twins. Look fast and you might even spot Robert Ryan in his film debut as an ambulance driver.

The Ghost Breakers was loosely based on the 1913 Broadway play The Ghost Breaker by Paul Dickey and Charles W. Goddard. It was adapted twice previously as silent films. Additionally, Dean Martin and Jerry Lewis starred in a 1953 remake called Scared Stiff. It's one of their better comedies and features Lizabeth Scott as Mary. It was directed by George Marshall, who already knew the plot pretty well--he also helmed The Ghost Breakers.

Bob and Paulette in their earlier film.

After recently watching The Ghost Breakers again, I sought out the Hope-Goddard version of The Cat and the Canary (1939). Although the mist-filled Louisiana Bayou seems promising in the opening frames, the film quickly dissolves into a straightforward haunted house comedy. It's mildly amusing, with Goddard holding most of the plot together (the delightful Gale Sondergaard and George Zucco are sadly underutilized). Bob Hope still seems to be getting comfortable playing a lead role. It's amazing how much more assured he would be just one year later in The Ghost Breakers.

My recommendation is that--if you just see one of these two spooky comedies--your best bet is The Ghost Breakers. It's not scary, but if you're a 'fraidy cat, please note Bob's confession: "I'm so scared, even my goose pimples have goose pimples."

The Leopard Man features "one of the greatest horror sequences ever filmed"

The accolade in the title of this review comes from director William Friedkin, who knows a little about creating horror (The Exorcist) and suspense (the chase scene in The French Connection). Of course, I didn't need Mr. Friedkin to tell me what I already knew. I saw The Leopard Man as a kid and that specific scene etched itself into my brain. Among classic film buffs, it holds its own against more famous sequences of implied horror like the rolling ball in Fritz Lang's M.

Are the screams behind the door a
childish ploy or a frightening reality?

The Leopard Man, though, is more than a one-tricky pony. It's a fascinating suspense film set in a small New Mexico town (atmospherically created on an RKO backlot). The catalyst for the plot is a black leopard that escapes during a foolish publicity stunt. When a young girl is found clawed to death, the leopard is blamed--but was it the killer?

Some critics have complained that The Leopard Man lacks the psychological complexity of Val Lewton's other RKO thrillers, such as The Cat People and The Seventh Victim. There may be some truth to that, but it makes up for any thematic deficiencies with an intriguing structure and three visually chilling sequences.

Clo-Clo cloaked in shadows.

Screenwriters Ardel Wray and Edward Dein break conventional narrative structure by shifting the story focus when characters interact. For example, after being introduced to castanets dancer Clo-Clo (Margo), we follow her as she walks down a shadow-filled street. She talks with the fortune-teller, playfully waves her hand through a ring of cigarette smoke, and smiles at lovers kissing. Then, as Clo-Clo walks past a young girl looking out the window, the plot shifts to that girl. Later, when Clo-Clo stops at a street florist, we follow another customer to the house where she works and, again, the plot shifts to follow different characters. In both instances, the new characters become murder victims. (Interestingly, Alfred Hitchcock used a slight variation of this same narrative device 17 years later in Psycho).

The end result of the film's unusual narrative is that it keeps the viewer in a state of unease by casting aside expectations. Director Jacques Tourneur plays with viewer expectations in other ways as well. In one scene, we follow Clo-Clo down a darkened street. We expect something bad to happen, but then she reaches the safety of her home. Tourneur gives the viewer a few seconds to exhale a sigh of relief before Clo-Clo realizes she dropped something valuable on the street and goes back out into the threatening shadows.

In addition to the almost constant state of unease, Tourneur tosses in the three chilling sequences mentioned earlier. The first--and the one mentioned by Friedkin--involves a girl sent by her irritated mother to buy flour. To say more would be spoil the impact...although the scene has been copied to the point that it may not be as disturbing to new viewers as it once was.

The second of the three scenes is classic Lewton, with a young woman trapped in a spooky cemetery at sunset. She hears a man outside the cemetery wall and asks for help. He leaves to get a ladder, giving us false expectations (again) that nothing bad will happen.

The final scene, during the climax, isn't really suspenseful. It is, though, visually unhinging with a contingent of hooded figures leading a column of men with candles as they march against a gray textured sky (again, amazingly, on the RKO backlot).

Everytime I watch Val Lewton's horror films, I seem have a new favorite. Last year, after watching The Seventh Victim, it moved into my top spot...replacing The Cat People. That said, the one that keeps coming back to haunt me is The Leopard Man. It's a unique, one-of-a-kind thriller and it does indeed feature one of the greatest horror sequences ever filmed. Plus, I just watched it.

Get Ready for Halloween with "House of Dark Shadows"

Barnabas Collins (with Carolyn
Collins in background).

The intended audience for House of Dark Shadows was undoubtedly fans of the popular 1966-71 ABC gothic daytime drama. If you watched the TV series dutifully (like me), you will enjoy this faithful big screen adaptation. For other viewers, though, House of Dark Shadows is a respectable 1970s vampire film with modest production values and a low-wattage, though quite capable, cast.

The film opens with unemployed handyman Willie Loomis, a modern-day Renfield, inadvertently unleashing vampire Barnabas Collins (Jonathan Frid). Freed from decades of captivity in his coffin, Barnabas makes a house call on the wealthy Collins family, introducing himself as a cousin from England. The family welcomes the charming Barnabas, who presents matriarch Elizabeth (Joan Bennett) with a thought-to-be-lost, emerald-encrusted heirloom. Yet, while everyone else is enamored with the newly-discovered, gift-giving cousin, Professor Eliot Stokes (Thayer David) becomes immediately suspicious when the vampire avoids some pointed questions.

Kathryn Leigh Scott has written
several Dark Shadows books.

At a costume party, Barnabas meets Maggie Evans (Kathryn Leigh Scott), the apparent reincarnation of his lover Josette. While he woos Maggie, he has to deal with two jealous rivals for his affection: Carolyn Collins--who has become a vampire courtesy of a casual Barnabas biting--and Dr. Julia Hoffman (Grayson Hall), who has fallen in love with the vampire while developing a cure for his affliction. Not unexpectedly, things go badly for Barnabas, especially when Julia substitutes the anti-vampire serum with a drug with some unpleasant side effects.

Fans of the TV series will quickly recognize that the first 75 minutes of House of Dark Shadows condenses the TV show's familiar plot. However, to create an acceptable climax (and perhaps reward fans with some new material), producer-director Dan Curtis opts for a dramatic--and surprisingly bloody--ending. The truncated storyline also means that several popular characters only get a few minutes of screen time. Still, the focus on Barnabas works to the film's advantage, since Frid's nuanced performance is what made the show a hit in the first place.

Grayson Hall received an Oscar nom
for Night of the Iguana.

House of Dark Shadows also rewards fans by incorporating many of the TV series' familiar elements, from Robert Cobert's haunting music to the shadowy photography and atmospheric settings. Personally, I wish the film had been shot in black-and-white like the first year of the TV series (which looks much better than the later color years). However, mainstream black-and-white films were no longer in vogue by 1970, so that wasn't a realistic option.

For non-fans, House of Dark Shadows is a straightforward horror film released in the same year as another contemporary vampire outing, Count Yorga, Vampire. The Dark Shadows script has some bite (sorry!), such as when Carolyn (soon to be a vampire) tells Barnabas: "There's so much about you that I'm dying to know." One must also admire how the film avoids the whole "there are no such thing as vampires" discussion. Once Professor Stokes proclaims a vampire is to blame, everyone seems to accept that theory. (Of course, the townsfolk--except for Stokes--are slow to connect Barnabas's arrival with the sudden appearance of the bloodsucker).

Jonathan Frid in Dick Smith make-up
as the aged Barnabas.

After House of Dark Shadows turned into a solid box office hit, Curtis set out to make a sequel. However, the TV series had ended by then and Jonathan Frid had moved on to other roles. Therefore, Night of Dark Shadows focused on other characters played by David Selby, Kate Jackson, and Lara Parker. It was a modest hit, but no further sequels appeared.

That was not the end of Dark Shadows, of course, which has been released on video, revived multiple times for television, and recently turned into a campy motion picture by Tim Burton. The simple fact is that you can't keep a great vampire like Barnabas Collins down for long.

You Can't Keep a Good Mummy Down

As monsters go, I've never been a big Mummy fan. After all, the Mummy basically follows orders, kills people, and walks...very...slowly. For some reason, people tend to fall down a lot when he's stalking them. Otherwise, I'm not sure the Mummy would be very effective at accomplishing his deadly tasks.

Still, I am a fan of Hammer Films' The Mummy (1959), which features an imposing Christopher Lee as possibly cinema's most fleet-footed mummified monster. This version is not a remake of the interesting, but plodding, 1932 Boris Karloff original. It does borrow some elements, but Jimmy Sangster's script also gleefully dips into other Universal Mummy movies. In the end, it's sort of a "Best of the Mummy" and that works surprisingly well.

The plot begins in 1895 with three British archaeologists discovering the tomb of Princess Ananka. When left alone in the tomb, elderly Stephen Banning (Felix Aylmer) reads the scroll of life and inadvertently revives a mummy called Kharis. Banning suffers a stroke and winds up back in England in the Engerfield Nursing Home for the Mentally Disordered. He never says a word to anyone for three years. 

An atmospheric shot of the Mummy
emerging from a bog.

Hence, his son John (Peter Cushing) is surprised when he learns his father wants to see him. Dad tells John that there's a mummy roaming the English countryside. John doesn't believe him until the elderly Banning is found strangled in his room at the nursing home--the bars to his window bent like putty.

As mentioned earlier, many familiar plot elements are interwoven into Hammer's The Mummy. There's the sinister Egyptian scholar who wants to punish the men who desecrated Princess Ananka's tomb. There's the expected reincarnation subplot, this time involving Banning's wife (French actress Yvonne Furneau).  And there's a lengthy flashback that explains how Kharis, a high priest to Ananka, became a vengeful mummy.

Apparently, Mummies don't knock.

However, director Terence Fisher freshens up The Mummy with two marvelous set-pieces and some atmospheric visuals of the formidable monster traipsing through the English countryside. The film's best scene has Kharis bursting through the double doors of Banning's stately manor and killing a relative as Banning fires bullets into the impervious creature. A similar later scene is just as effective when Kharis plunges through a floor-length glass window and shrugs off two blasts from a shotgun. 

The reliable Peter Cushing.

As he did in Hammer's Dracula films, Cushing brings intelligence and physicality to his role as a monster adversary. But more than that, he brings conviction to the point that his character can discuss a living mummy committing murders and not sound silly. As the Mummy, 6' 5" Christopher Lee makes a pretty scary monster, assisted by effective make-up and those penetrating eyes. He gets some face time, too, as Kharis in the flashback sequence.

It's a shame that the budget prevented on-location filming for the Egypt footage. It's woefully apparent that these scenes were shot indoors. On the other hand, set designer Bernard Robinson creates some highly effective sets for the scenes taking place in England.

Valerie Leon--she's no mummy!

The Mummy doesn't belong in Hammer's top tier of films (which includes the likes of Brides of Dracula, Frankenstein Must Be Destroyed, and The Devil Rides Out). That said, it's a very satisfying take on the Mummy pantheon and recommended for horror fans. Hammer made three sequels (of sorts). Skip The Curse of the Mummy's Tomb (1964) and The Mummy's Shroud (1967) and go straight to Blood from the Mummy's Tomb (1971). In lieu of a mummy, you get the stunning Valerie Leon in an intriguing adaptation of Bram Stoker's novel The Jewel of the Seven Stars.

Bela Lugosi Meets the East Side Kids in "Spooks Run Wild"

As a youngster, I loved the juvenile antics of the Bowery Boys and must have seen all their movies on a local TV station. Even the silliest films reflected an appreciation for classic vaudeville comedy with a duo comprised of a wisecracking straight man and a not-so-bright funny guy. I don't think Leo Gorcey (as Slip) and Huntz Hall (as Sach) will ever be considered comic geniuses--but they could be pretty funny.

Bobby Jordan, Gorcey, and Hall.

Still, their act evolved over the years from "straight roles" in Dead End (1937) and Angels With Dirty Faces (1938) to a string of "B" films. In the early 1940s, producer Sam Katzman signed the principal Boys to a contract with Monogram and billed them as the East Side Kids in a series of films. These pictures initially included dramatic elements, but gradually transitioned to straight comedies. By then, Leo Gorcey and Huntz Hall had emerged as the stars--and, in 1946, they revamped the series as the Bowery Boys.

This prelude brings us to Spooks Run Wild (1941), one of the better East Side Kids comedies. The somewhat jarring opening scene shows the gang in handcuffs. Yet, instead of being shipped off to a reform school, these "underprivileged youths" are sent to a two-week camp in the rural community of Hillside. It's a tense time in the small town, for a "monster killer"--who has committed "three inhuman murders"--is on the loose.

A publicity still with Lugosi, Angelo
Rossitto, and the guys.

The killer is almost certain to be one of two strangers that stops at the local gas station: a mysterious man (Bela Lugosi) with a dwarf assistant (Angelo Rossitto) and a kindly gentleman that introduces himself as Dr. Von Grosch (Dennis Moore). I bet you can guess which one is the killer!

The boys get involved when Muggs (Gorcey), Glimpy (Hall), and Danny (Bobby Jordan) sneak out of their cabin to visit the pretty blonde at the sweet shop. En route to town, they encounter an overzealous cemetery attendant who shoots Pee Wee (David Gorcey, Leo's younger brother). The guys seek help at the mysterious house on the hill. What follows is a traditional haunted house comedy with familiar gags such as Muggs and Glimpy donning suits of armor (with each thinking the other is a ghost or the killer). 

Lugosi and Rossitto.

The proceedings get a lift from the presence of Bela Lugosi. He's not in a lot of the movie, but--as he did later in Abbott and Costello Meet Frankenstein--he's not afraid to have a little fun at his own expense. His short-statured co-star Angelo Rossitto had a very long screen career, ranging from John Barrymore's The Beloved Rogue (1927) to Mad Max Beyond Thunderdome (1985).

In 1954, Gorcey and Hall returned to the haunted house setting with The Bowery Boys Meet the Monsters. I haven't seen it in ages, but recall it being a funnier film. It boasts a pretty good supporting cast with John Dehner, Ellen Corby, and Lloyd Corrigan--but there's no Bela Lugosi.

The Town of Midwich Becomes the Village of the Damned

There’s nothing to distinguish Midwich from any other rural English village—except that one day, every living inhabitant passes out for four hours. A man slumps over the steering wheel of a tractor as its runs in circles. An unconscious telephone operator doesn’t hear the constant ringing of incoming calls. Water overflows bathtubs, irons scorch clothes, and a stuck phonograph record repeats the same musical notes over and over. Then suddenly, everyone wakes up and all seems normal again.

Except it isn’t, of course. A month later, every woman capable of bearing a child is pregnant. Twelve perfectly healthy children are eventually born, each with blonde hair, “arresting” eyes, and narrow nails. At the age of 12 months, one of them opens a Chinese puzzle box. And what one learns, they all do—immediately—as if they share the same consciousness.

Few films can match Village of the Damned for its eerie opening and original premise. Much of the credit belongs to John Wyndham, who wrote the source novel The Midwich Cuckoos (as well as The Day of the Triffids). However, director Wolf Rilla builds on Wyndham’s ideas by giving the film an otherworldly quality. Some of his images are disturbingly hypnotic, such as the sight of the Aryan-like children, walking like a pack, through the quaint village. Likewise, his use of natural sound—even the opening credits roll over church bells instead of music—gives the film a different aural quality.

George Sanders portrays the only sympathetic father (as you can imagine, the “fathers” have difficulty accepting the children). Sanders’ character, though, appreciates the children’s tremendous intellectual potential. He and his son, David, may not love each other in a conventional sense, but they admire and respect one another. In contrast, David has little need for his coddling mother, though he is always polite to her.

As David, young Martin Stephens gives a fine performance. One of the best child actors of the 1960s, Stephens had enough screen presence to hold his own against Deborah Kerr in The Innocents (1961). He had the unique ability to act like an adult trapped in a child’s body.

Village of the Damned is an unconventional science fiction film, so don’t expect answers to the questions it poses. A 1964 sequel, Children of the Damned, expanded on the notion that the children are feared mainly because they’re different (a theme also explored in Larry Cohen’s It’s Alive movies). John Carpenter directed a lifeless remake of Village of the Damned in 1995.

(Incidentally, co-writer Stirling Silliphant had an interesting career. He created the TV series Route 66 with Herbert B. Leonard and wrote most of the episodes. He later won an Oscar for In the Heat of the Night, had a boxoffice smash with The Poseidon Adventure, and became a martial arts student and friend to Bruce Lee. Silliphant, Lee, and James Coburn conceived a martial film called The Silver Flute. It was eventually made as Circle of Iron with David Carradine in the role intended for Bruce Lee.)