Category Archives: 1960s

The Trial (1962)

*. Franz Kafka is usually held, I think fairly, as being one of the great mythographers and prophets of the twentieth century. His work is also characterized most often as having the quality of a nightmare vision of bureaucratic hell. This too strikes me as fair.
*. I don’t mean to be perverse then when I say that I also find his novels strangely comforting. There’s something not modern but old-fashioned in his vision of a world dominated by creaky and opaque hierachies, with influence channeled through the mysterious influence of solicitous women. Of course no one would want to actually be Joseph K., but the lawyer Huld (named Hastler here) seems to lead quite the life, lying in bed all day while being tended to by Romy Schneider. It’s not necessarily a bad world, at least if you can find your place in it.
*. I think something of this ambiguity can be seen in the decor and setting of this version of The Trial. One expects to see the curtains rise on an envrionment not unlike the post-WW2 streets of Vienna in The Third Man but we instead find ourselves in a thoroughly modern apartment block, and then a giant open-concept office space filled with clacking typewriters that makes one think Terry Gilliam must have been taking notes for Brazil.
*. Later, however, we will step back into the past, with many of the interiors being shot in the vast and cluttered spaces of the Gare d’Orsay. These locations do have a bombed-out and antique feel to them and they help give the sense of a world so old it’s falling apart.

*. The Trial is a work that has always invited a wide variety of interpretations. Combined with Welles’s belief that film should never be an illustration of a book but an original creation, and that a director has not only the right but the obligation to turn a literary source into something different from what the author intended, we should expect something a bit different from a literal adaptation. And this is what we get.
*. What are the essential elements of Welles’s version? I’ll just mention a few of what I think are the most characteristic.
*. In the first place, it’s a comic Trial. Welles told Anthony Perkins that black comedy was what he was going for and I think that’s clearly what he achieved in several places. Just look at Welles’s own first appearance with a wet towel over his face. Nor is this a particularly revisionist reading of the text, since apparently Kafka himself thought The Trial to be very funny and would laugh out loud while reading the manuscript to friends (it was only published after his death).
*. Does the lightheartedness go too far? I think it does in one instance. What I’m referring to is the ending, which has a laughing and defiant K. blown up with a stick of dynamite instead of being ritually sacrificed with a knife.
*. Now Welles had a serious reason for doing this. He thought it a response to the Holocaust, in that he didn’t want to show K. as masochistically submitting to his death. He thought that that sort of thing “stank of the old Prague ghetto” and wanted instead to show K. making a final defiant gesture, even if it was fruitless. That’s fair enough, but the explosion at the end here — which some have seen as invoking the spectre of nuclear war, though this was not intended — strikes me as being light and cartoonish. One almost expects to see Perkins crawling out of the hole with his face blackened and clothes in tatters, still laughing away.
*. The second interpretive angle taken is to present K. as a social climber. Welles saw him a man on the rise, a pusher trying to make it in the bureaucracy rather than someone fighting against it. Explaining this point of view to some film students, he said K. was not in conflict with society but society was in conflict with him.
*. I like this point of view and think it’s successfully put forward. (I also think it’s something there in the text as well.) One of the interesting ways Welles shows it is by making elevation into a visual motif. Authority is always presented as being on high. K.’s “office” in the typewriter hall, for example, is just a raised platform at one end. The judge in the courtroom/hall is also on an elevated stage, and K. is shown having difficulty climbing onto it. The preacher’s pulpit forces K. to look up at him and even Hastler’s bed is on a kind of dais. These are the kinds of commanding heights that K. wants to climb. Instead, he descends into an open pit.

*. Finally, there is a sexual angle given to the proceedings. Some of this is in Kafka, like the way K. attempts to recruit women to help him in his cause. But there’s also the fact that Welles knew Perkins was homosexual and used that as a way of suggesting another layer of anxiety — the fear of exposure.
*. As a result, the film becomes what David Thomson calls “a homosexual horror story,” with a gay man afraid of being exposed finding himself at the mercy of a gang of “ravenous women.” Well, when you’re paranoid then the whole world is a threat, and I think all of this works really well. And I never really understood Joseph K.’s relation to women in the novel anyway.
*. A big scene (almost nine minutes) involving the computer was cut at the last minute. This would, according to Welles, have said something about man’s slavish relationship to something that was only a tool, a rather prophetic statement in 1962. This is another interpolation that was, of course, not in the book but which still would have fit well with it.

*. I have to say I’m not that happy with Welles’s own appearance as Hastler. Especially his strangely boyish haircut. The lawyer in the novel is an old man and unwell. Here he just seems odd. Welles had originally wanted Jackie Gleason (more comedy) but Gleason turned him down. I think with Welles in the part it’s definitely something different, but I still think it’s a case of miscasting.
*. All the usual comments one has to make about the bravura aspects of a Welles film — the use of space, the lighting, the editing, the long takes — apply here. It’s a visual treat from beginning to end. And the script is one of the most original things about it, full of well-timed diversions and clever bits of Pinteresque dark humour. I don’t think it adds up to one of Welles’s greatest films, but that’s a tough hill to climb. It’s still a truly great movie, and a landmark work of art in its own right.

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Becket (1964)

*. I recently found myself watching Becket at the same time as I was preparing notes on Cleopatra, a movie that had been released just the year before. Of course both movies are historical costume dramas made in the grand style, both won Academy Awards (Becket was nominated for twelve!), and both star Richard Burton, but I found another parallel more significant.
*. Despite being widely celebrated (Cleopatra was, among its other benchmarks, surely the most famous, or notorious, movie of its time), both films are almost entirely forgotten today.
*. Time was when even popular history books dealing with either figure would have to address their screen versions, pointing out signifcant inaccuracies or liberties taken with the historical record. Today that’s no longer necessary, as nobody comes to a book about Cleopatra or Thomas Beckett with preconceptions based on their memories of Elizabeth Taylor or Richard Burton needing to be overcome. Indeed, the films aren’t even mentioned in some recent studies.
*. Well, this is one case where I can’t fault the fickle taste of the public. I found Becket to be nearly unwatchable this time out, which was the first time I’d seen it in twenty years. It’s so heavy-handed, so ponderous, so pious, that it makes you feel like you’re visiting a different planet. Did we really think this was great filmmaking sixty years ago?
*. The script gives us lines like “Where honour should be, in me there is only a void.” Such lines are then underscored by musical notations that put the words into bold relief. And they are delivered by Burton in a manner that suggests either (or both) extreme boredom and/or someone already turning to stone. How many movies did Richard Burton ever smile in anyway?
*. I’ve heard that Burton actually wanted to play King Henry. I think that would have worked. He has that air of humourless cruelty I think the real Henry, and the part here, call for. O’Toole as Becket, however, would have been a dicier proposition.
*. Peter O’Toole does try his best to liven things up, but he’s stuck in a ridiculous part that barely makes any sense. Did you not know that he loves Thomas? Then he’ll tell you. Again. And again. But in what sense does he love him? How can such a long, overwritten film dealing with only two characters fail to give us any real sense of who they are, or of their motivations? They’re just voices and costumes.
*. About the only amusing thing is all the homoerotic stuff. I can’t call this a subtext because there’s nothing secondary or hidden about it. It’s so pervasive and explicit it starts to be funny after a while. I think there are even three scenes where Burton and O’Toole are lying or sitting in bed together (a couple of times after throwing a woman out).
*. It’s hard to overstate how blatant this is. The two men are more than just boon companions. As noted, Henry is constantly crying about his love for Thomas. His mother upbraids him for his “unhealthy and unnatural” attachment and his wife complains of his neglecting her.
*. On the DVD commentary O’Toole addresses this by saying that “to put it in terms of homosexual and heterosexual is to miss the point. It was love.” What he means is nothing platonic, but more a laddish, locker-room kind of thing. But then O’Toole says how, in a locker-room, “blokes often give each other a rub, if you follow me.” Then he breaks into laughter. So yes, we get it. We can’t miss it.
*. I wonder where this comes from. I don’t think Jean Anouilh, who wrote the play the film was based on, or screenwriter Edward Anhalt were gay. Homosexuality was still a crime in England at the time, and yet it’s not like they were hiding anything here. Is there a political point being made? I’m not sure what it could be.
*. But, as I say, this is the only thing that I found interesting in the film. A few years later O’Toole would return as Henry II in The Lion in Winter (1968) which at least had a bitchy, soap-opera charm to it I still enjoy. Come to think of it,even Cleopatra is more fun. Becket is only a turgid and fusty historical drama of the kind I’m relieved they don’t make any more.

Children of the Damned (1964)

*. Sequels often disappoint by being just a rehash of the original. Producers can’t be blamed for that, since what audiences usually want is more of the same. It’s a bold move to break with a successful formula.
*. So I’ll give Children of the Damned credit, a lot of credit even, for trying to do something different. This isn’t Village of the Damned 2: The New Batch. Unfortunately, that just makes me feel even more disappointed at how bad it is.
*. The storylines in the two films are so different that it’s sometimes said that this isn’t a sequel. To some extent I agree, but the children are still supernatural offspring (virgin births), still have the same powers (mind reading and mind control, a shared group consciousness), and they did make use of the “Damned” again in the title, so a sequel of sorts it is.
*. I assume they’re the same alien hybrids as in the first movie, though even in Village of the Damned the business of their mothers’ impregnation was left murky, for obvious reasons, and we never really knew who their daddy was. In this film it’s often said that the explanation offered of a sudden evolutionary jump through parthenogenesis means that there is no alien impregnation, but accelerated evolution, a “biological sport,” is just presented as a hypothesis and wouldn’t rule out an alien breeding program anyway.
*. On the DVD commentary track writer John Briley says he thought of the film as essentially “a moral fable about the Cold War” and not a psychological thriller. That seems right to me. The basic idea is that the children represent the best and the brightest of the scientific community being co-opted by the military-industrial complex to create more advanced weapons system. Given what they’re able to put together in the church out of scraps and spare parts one can see the potential.
*. So basically this is an anti-war movie piggy-backing on the premise from Village of the Damned. Even the end is meant to make a point about how easy it would be to accidentally turn a cold war hot. And I credit Briley (who would later win an Academy Award for writing Gandhi) for his political stand. But at the end of the day I don’t think it works.
*. I don’t know if it’s possible to make such a movie without seeming preachy. Children of the Damned is preachy, and was apparently meant to be even preachier. The kids even hole up in a church for heaven’s sake!

*. Briley also wrote a creepy little movie called The Medusa Touch that, when you think about it, is very similar to Children of the Damned. I hadn’t thought about the connection until I found out he wrote The Medusa Touch when researching these notes. (Yes, I do research. Not much, but a bit.)
*. When Doctors Llewellyn and Neville go knocking on Paul’s door and they are greeted by the lovely Barbara Ferris (playing Paul’s aunt) she asks them if she can help them. A leering Doctor Neville chortles “Rather!”
*. This seemed a bit out of character but I didn’t think much of it. Then, listening to Briley’s commentary, I was surprised to hear him say that he had to work hard to keep the audience from thinking of the two doctors as homosexuals. To be honest, I had never thought of this. Then, re-watching it, I guess I could see where people might get that idea. They never seem to hook up with Ferris. On the other hand, they are shown as sleeping in separate bedrooms.
*. I wonder if Black Sabbath were inspired by this movie when they wrote the song “Children of the Grave.” That was released in 1971 and the lyrics talk about children rising up to protest against war. There are lines like “Must the world live in the shadow of atomic fear? Can they win the fight for peace or will they disappear?” It’s not too much of a stretch to think there was some influence. I mean, they got the name of the band from the marquee outside a theatre playing Bava’s Black Sabbath.
*. Well, to sum up, it’s all quite earnest but I didn’t find it very interesting. I like the junior Anacharsis Cloots congress marching about London but they just don’t have the same edge that the cuckoos from the first film had. John Wyndham’s main theme about a competition between incompatible species never gets much of a hearing. These kids are the good guys, not damned at all but sent from above to redeem fallen humanity, and ending up much like that other fellow. This be the verse.

Village of the Damned (1960)

*. What’s in a name? A lot. You sure as hell weren’t goint to call the movie The Midwich Cuckoos, which was the title of the John Wyndham novel it was based on. Steve Haberman actually begins his DVD commentary by telling us what a cuckoo is and how it relates to the story, which is a bit of information that’s probably even more necessary to explain today than it was in 1960. Plus any title with “cuckoo” in it just sounds funny.
*. What’s in a name? Pauline Kael thought the moniker of Wolf Rilla “a terrific name for the director of this particular film.” Remarkably, it was his real name. Habermas calls Village of the Damned “by far his most important film” so despite having a long career in the business, and writing a couple of well-regarded books on filmmaking, he never had a breakthrough. He later remarked “I’ve made 27 films and this is the only one that people remember.” That’s a bit odd, as I think he does a good turn here. But it does happen.
*. Martin Stephens was another disappearing act. At the time he was Britain’s best known child actor, and just the next year would appear in the remarkable horror gem The Innocents. But he didn’t continue with acting and went on to become an architect.

*. Wyndham thought the novel would be unfilmable, and I can understand why. It has an odd structure that doesn’t lend itself to a dramatic adaptation, with a gap of quite a few years between the first part of the story and when we pick it up later on, with the children all of school age. It’s also the case that the children have mental powers that are difficult to show. Only their effects can be seen.
*. Another problem had to do with the subject matter. This was pretty risky stuff for 1960. You’ll note they don’t even say the word “pregnant” out loud. They only refer to the women’s “condition.” And at first the script was rejected because it was thought to represent an anti-Catholic mocking of the virgin birth (which Haberman confuses with the doctrine of the immaculate conception).

*. Overall, I think the script does a good job. The number of children is cut by quite a bit (there are around sixty of them in the novel). The use of their mental powers is signaled by the effect of their glowing eyes, which was a good idea (insisted on by MGM to liven things up a bit) but is undercut by the fact that they have to use what are obvious freeze frames to show it, except for one scene.
*. In the novel the children don’t have the ability to read minds. They can control other people, but can’t see what they’re thinking. This is a pretty major change, and leads to the film’s climax (which John Carpenter would follow in his remake), of Zellaby hiding the presence of the bomb in his satchel behind a mental brick wall. it’s another example of a change that made things more dramatic.
*. Barbara Shelley thought the script mistakenly marginalized the mothers. Carpenter’s remake would try to correct this, though I’m not sure if this was an improvement. For what it’s worth, Wyndham’s novel doesn’t play up this angle at all.
*. I don’t think this is necessarily sexism. Is there anything so depressing as that line-up of gloomy cuckolds at the pub? Nobody has to say anything.

*. The political reading is kind of interesting. On the one hand the kids may be the advance guard of a Nazi master race: little Aryans with a ruthless social Darwinist agenda. Or they may be communist cells, unfeeling apparatchiks with no individual identity looking to disperse and submerge themselves in their host society’s bloodstream.
*. The problem with either of these interpretations is that the children aren’t monsters. Sure they kill people, but they are being threatened with extermination and when they lash out it’s usually because of poor impulse control. I mean, they could behave a lot worse. They’re not as sympathetically drawn as the kids in the sequel, Children of the Damned, but if we were in their shoes would we behave any different?

*. This is a point that could never be resolved. As noted, in the sequel the case is made that the children are potentially forces for good who are destroyed by accident only because they’re misunderstood. In the Carpenter remake one of the children is saved, having learned to achieve a certain level of empathy. Both films pull back from the harsh law of survival advanced by Wyndham’s book: that this world isn’t big enough for our two species and that one of us must be destroyed. Is that a political point though, or a more philosophical one? I guess it depends on how alien you see the children as being.
*. I think it’s this ambiguity that keeps Village of the Damned relevant. It’s also an interesting looking film, and the little blonde kids have become iconic But the suggestion that mankind is something to be surpassed, quickly and violently, is one that still has the power to make us feel uncomfortable. We could probably make our own genetically-engineered cuckoos now, and there may be some people who want to. Are they the enemy? I’m not drinking their Kool-Aid.

Torture Garden (1967)

*. So if you come to this knowing it has nothing to do with the novel by Octave Mirbeau but that it’s one of the horror anthologies put out by Amicus the first thing you’re likely wondering at is the presence of Burgess Meredith and Jack Palance.
*. Well, Christopher Lee and Peter Cushing were originally slated to star but since Columbia was supplying the money they wanted a couple of American names, hence Meredith and Palance. I don’t know if Palance took Cushing’s part or if he just jumped up to star billing. It’s not that it’s a big role anyway, though I think Palance is effectively countercast as a raspy connoisseur of Poe.
*. Aside from that quirk in the casting, this is a very typical Amicus product. Direction by Freddie Francis. Script by Robert Bloch (based on stories he had written). Four brief spooky tales bound up in a supernatural frame story.
*. I didn’t find this one very interesting. The main problem, I think, is Bloch’s script. The stories are pretty stupid, the frame is silly, and there’s a real lack of energy to drive things along.
*. That frame consists of Meredith as Dr. Diabolo, a fairground sinister who curates an exhibit of macabre waxworks. One of these is introduced as Atropos the Goddess of Destiny who holds the hypnotic shears of fate. When one of Diabolo’s guests looks at the shears they are offered a vision of their future doom in the form of a dark fantasy vignette.
*. This all seems a stretch to me, even beyond the usual. Here is Dr. Diabolo’s spiel: “There is a theory: the past, the present, and the future are merely different aspects of the same moment in time and space. You understand that theory? Then perhaps you can understand that since a drowning man can view his entire past in a few seconds, he can also view his future by the same rule.” How can you argue with that? After all, he is a doctor.
*. Stretching credulity further is Dr. Diabolo’s commentary that the visions of Atropos are warnings about “things that can be.” But these are not visions about things that anyone could believe actually happening, however far-fetched they may seem. They aren’t like the premonitions of disaster served up in the Final Destination movies. Instead they are weird tales of supernatural occurrences. And why would anyone be frightened by predictions of evil cats or killer pianos?
*. The same concept of prophecy was used in Dr. Terror’s House of Horrors, which I believe was the first of the anthology horrors Amicus did and which was also directed by Francis. To be honest, I think the idea of having the fates of the characters revealed after the fact, though it leads to some other problems, makes more sense. This was the route Amicus later took with Tales from the Crypt and The Vault of Horror.
*. The first story, “Enoch,” is very dull and predictable. Just another case of the grasping heir getting more than he bargained for with his inheritance.
*. “Terror Over Hollywood” struck me as the best of the bunch, and even stole a march on The Stepford Wives by five years (though the basic idea is nothing new). Beverly Adams is also great as the rising star Carla Hayes.
*. This segment also illuminates an interesting cultural shift. I think a lot of us might ask today what the big tragedy is about Carla’s fate. Hasn’t she wound up with everything she always dreamed of, and more? Success, fame, money, beauty . . . forever? Today, of course, the idea of transplanting (or uploading) one’s consciousness is something a lot of money is being spent researching. If only we knew the secret of Dr. Heim!
*. “Mr. Steinway” is about a haunted piano. At the end of the story it pushes the heroine out of a window. Really. The piano. It was going to take something special to make that work.
*. “The Man Who Collected Poe” is a somewhat interesting idea but it gets a very pedestrian treatment without any real twist. A lot of people like this episode the best but I think they’re just deferring to the leads. There’s nothing special about it.
*. It’s odd that Palance seems to have an almost orgasmic look on his face at the end. Was such a climax not frightening to him, but a consummation to be wished?
*. In sum, the individual stories, though weird in terms of content, are all pretty basic. Greed and ambition are punished (even the girl in the third story is an obnoxious climber, with her “Leo belongs to me now”). The frame ends on a bizarre note, not because of the silly revelation of Dr. Diabolo’s identity but because of his final interaction with Palance. What happens there? What deal have they struck?

*. The production is what you’d expect, and the same goes for Francis’s direction. He shows off his usual affection for depth of field, foregrounding or backgrounding key elements like the shears, a glass of medicine, a trapdoor, the tines of the pitchfork, the mother’s portrait, or the set of keys. But that’s really his only flash of style here.
*. As with all of the Amicus anthologies, it’s not a great movie but you do get something mildly entertaining. If you’ve seen enough of these, you’ll have a pretty good idea why the format never really took off. That’s a shame, as it always had potential (see Dead of Night or Kwaidan). But for various reasons it remained stuck in a rut of inexpensive and formulaic quickies.

Kwaidan (1965)

*. Kwaidan is a movie that vibrates on a string of tension plucked between opposing elements in its design. I know that sounds kind of fluffy, but I’ll try and explain.
*. Most obvious, at least at a first glance (and a first glance is all it takes), is the opposition of nature and art. Kwaidan flaunts its artificiality in nearly every shot. There are only a few scenes that were filmed on location, the rest being shot inside what was a converted airplane hangar (that was being used as an auto warehouse at the time) because there weren’t any studios in Japan big enough for the sets.
*. What gives rise to the tension is that this isn’t a movie of notable interiors but one largely set out of doors, filled with forests and rivers and lakes and dazzling skyscapes. I’ve even heard it suggested that the stories are meant to represent the different seasons, though I have trouble seeing it. In any event, it’s a movie that constantly evokes the natural world, but in outlandishly unnnatural ways. The skyscapes are operatic backdrops (Coppola was obviously a student, borrowing those floating eyes for Dracula), and even the sound of the blowing wind is played on flutes.
*. Another opposition, much commented on by Stephen Prince in his DVD commentary, is between surface and depth. On the one hand there’s what Prince identifies as the imitation of traditional Japanese painting and its “flat, 2-D pictorial space” that mitigates any sense of volume. On the other, there is the frequent use of foreground items, often with a thematic intent (for example, a post or other vertical barrier dividing a pair of characters), or the tunnels of trees, or gates and doorways seeming to open unto endlessly receding vistas.

*. I also think of the use of colour to create a sense of depth and space, which is something Welles did in The Immortal Story (1968). Is it a coincidence that both films were their respective director’s first feature work in colour?
*. Then there is the opposition of sound and silence. Welles too thought that music in film allowed silence afterward, and even suggested that this silence was music’s most important role. As Prince notes, that’s also the function it has here, as the odd score by Toru Takamitsu deliberately loads up calculated intervals of silence. Assistant director Kiyoshi Ogasawara remarks that the point was to show how “silence is also sound.” The one creates the other.
*. Here’s another pair to consider: unity and diversity. Kwaidan is an anthology-horror film, a genre not usually identified with the art house or high production values. Such films are often only loosely held together by a frame narrative, but there is little attempt at that here (or none at all, depending on how you read the ending). This makes the audience wonder what it is that connects them, or if there is any connection aside from their all being adapted from the stories of Lafcadio Hearn.

*. In his Criterion essay, Geoffrey O’Brien writes that “the first three stories Kobayashi chose to include all involve broken vows, broken not through conscious malevolence but through what seem like unavoidable circumstances.” Well, yeah. Sort of. This seems awfully loose to me though. Sort of like “angry ghosts.”
*. Personally, I don’t see much in the way of a unifying theme aside from the fact that all the stories deal with the supernatural. But because they’re all collected here together we instinctively look for ways to combine them, to see what they have in common in less obvious ways. The alternation of horror and sadness mentioned by Ogasawara strikes me as a good insight, but again it’s rather vague, describing a general tone adopted toward the material rather than a guiding principle.

*. Finally, I’d point to the opposition of big and small. On the one hand it’s an epic, the most expensive Japanese film ever made to date, filmed in the vernacular of the historical costume drama and even incorporating a giant naval battle scene. But it’s also a movie that was shot on what I think were just a couple of studio sets, however elaborately designed. In short, it’s a movie that feels cramped and expansive at the same time.
*. These are some of the ways I look at Kwaidan. There are others, like the tension between the Kubrickian exactness and control of the film, its flatness and precision, with its subject matter of heightened emotional states, but you get what I’m saying. It’s a movie that rides a balance between all of these opposites and remains hard to pin down.

*. One of the things that makes it hard to pin down is that it’s hard to connect to what came before or after. I think in particular of how bizarre and extreme Japanese fantasy and horror films were soon to become, from Goke, Body Snatcher from Hell (1968) and Obayashi’s House (1977) to today’s J-horror, but those movies don’t feel anything like Kwaidan despite some surface similarities. If there’s a link to Kwaidan it’s in the anti-mimetic or anti-realistic rendering: the highly artificial sets and nervy music. But still, they seem very different.
*. At three hours, does it go on too long? Of course purists will howl no, but it’s a question worth considering. It was cut in order to be shown at Cannes, and an entire story (“The Woman of the Snow”) dropped for the American release. Only recently was it restored to its original length.
*. I find that the slow, deliberate camera work and pacing does work against the film somewhat, but in ways that I can’t really put my finger on. Obviously Kobayashi isn’t in a rush, and that’s his style, but for all the loveliness of the film to look at I do think that it’s missing something.

*. I mentioned already that’s it’s not a movie that inspires much in the way of a larger interpretation. I don’t see a unifying theme to it. The same could be said of the symbolism. Most obviously there is the all-seeing eye in the sky. What is the meaning of this bit of design? Prince’s commentary takes a stab at it, referring to it as the eye of God and the surveillance state, the “cosmic celestial eye” and the “nightmarish translation of this ideal of imperial divinity and slavish service to it.”

*. Perhaps, but I don’t see what that has to do with the action. My hunch is that the eye is like F. Scott Fitzgerald’s billboard of the eyes of T. J. Eckleburg in The Great Gatsby. These eyes became the novel’s most famous iconic image, but Fitzgerald may have just thrown them in because he was struck by the original cover art for the novel. I have a hunch the eyes in the sky here might be the same: evocative but perhaps merely whimsical.
*. As for the final image of the man in the urn, that may be meant to be Hearn but I think it’s really Kobayashi himself, waving at us like the image of God that scientists saw in the photographs of the Big Bang at the beginning of the universe. I think it’s a perfect touch to place at the end of such a heavy film. Heavy, and light.

Twice-Told Tales (1963)

*. From the TCM website: “After completing Tales of Terror (1962), Vincent Price took a break from Roger Corman’s low-budget but atmospheric adaptations of Edgar Allan Poe stories and tried something different with another studio. The result was the United Artists production, Twice-Told Tales.” Wait a second . . . did they say “something different”?
*. This is an obvious sequel to Tales of Terror, from a not-so-obvious source. I mean, The House of Seven Gables? Really? As was done with the stories of Poe in the earlier film, we are talking very, very free interpretations of the source material. Only “Dr. Heidegger’s Experiment,” by the way, was included in Hawthorne’s volume of Twice-Told Tales.
*. Aside from the different sources, there are two other big differences. First: No Roger Corman. Sidney Salkow does a decent job, but you can feel the lack of imagination. Second: No Richard Matheson. There’s no humour or wit in the script, which makes it all seem stuffy and heavy. Is that a distinction we could also make between Poe and Hawthorne? Maybe. But Hawthorne could have a light touch.
*. You’ll tell from this that I didn’t like this one as much as Tales of Terror. I’m not sure moving to United Artists even led to having more money to play with. No one could make a movie for less than Corman, but I haven’t been able to find a budget for either movie reported. This certainly doesn’t look like a movie that cost any more to make. Not that it looks bad — the collapsing house at the end is respectable — but it doesn’t look any better.
*. I wonder what the first house to drip blood was. There would be a lot of them later, but were there any before this? I’m sure there were but I can’t think of them.
*. Is the poison plant acidic or radioactive? Or both? At one point Rappaccini refers to being burned by “radiation from the acid’s heat.” Does this make sense?
*. Poor Vincent. He just kept playing this jealous or bitter loser at love. Three times here. In the first story his mistress marries his friend (so he kills her). In the second his wife leaves him and his daughter despises him. In the third his new bride can’t wait to run into the arms of a rival. I wonder if this thematic consistency was intentional.
*. The first two stories in particular are downers. And the first is rather odd. Price is (sort of) the villain of the piece, but he’s also the sole survivor. Are we meant to feel sympathy for him at the end?
*. I don’t see this as being of much interest to anyone other than a fan of the horror films of this particular period or of Vincent Price. I think more might have been made out of the stories, but it wasn’t. “Rappaccini’s Daughter” in particular really drags (despite Joyce Taylor looking lovely), and it doesn’t have the sort of shocking climax that anthology-horror specializes in. But then nothing about this movie stands out very much, for good or ill.

Black Sabbath (1963)

*. Chekov! Tolstoy! Maupassant! Damn, we’re taking the high road here! Just because it’s a low-budget anthology horror film doesn’t mean it has to be Poe or Lovecraft!
*. Alas, the stories here have barely any connection to the work of these big-name authors. The origins of all three, in so far as they can be said to have origins, come from the pulps. You just can’t dress this genre up and take it anywhere.
*. I guess I should file these notes under the original Italian title, I tre volti della paura (The Three Faces of Fear), since it was released in America as Black Sabbath in a much cut (and indeed rearranged) form by American International Pictures, and I’m talking about the Italian version here. But I’ll stick with what’s most familiar.
*. I don’t think there’s any point denying this movie is trash, but Mario Bava made great trash and seems to have been perversely inspired by a low budget. The first and third stories here are delightful exercises in minimalism and constraint, with lonely women being terrorized by, respectively, a ringing telephone and the sound of dripping water.
*. So forget about the stories. They’re not important anyway. What’s important is the construction of suspense and the theatrical and otherworldly atmosphere evoked by Bava’s signature elements: dramatic zooms, wandering dollies, and garish, pulsing pools of colour.
*. “Death by self-suffocation.” Hm. That sounds a bit like swallowing your own tongue. I’m not buying it.

*. Apparently both Roger Avary and Quentin Tarantino say they were influenced by this film’s structure when writing Pulp Fiction (1994). Tarantino remarked in an interview that “what Mario Bava did with the horror film in Black Sabbath, I was gonna do with the crime film.”
*. I guess this was in the very early going, as I don’t see any connection between the two films in terms of structure at all. There’s no attempt in Black Sabbath to connect the three stories in any way other than the thematic, and even that is pretty loose (with the middle story, about the vampire/Wurdulak, being the outlier).
*. I think the third story is the strongest, with the rictus grin of the dead woman being a truly frightening motif. The first film struck me as rather obscure, especially given how minimalistic it was. The American release version was changed dramatically, and the fact that it could be changed so much tells you something.
*. The middle story, “The Wurdulak,” is the showpiece, with star Boris Karloff (who also does duty as the frame narrator) buried under living-dead make-up and a shaggy wig. Unfortunately it is also the most predictable and doesn’t give us anything more than another vampire tale playing out among the usual Universal-style sets. The shot of Karloff riding his stuffed mount through the night and  the little boy pleading to be let in are the only highlights.
*. The introduction is lousy, but the final pull back, revealing Karloff on his hobby horse riding through the studio, redeems the frame somewhat. I like this way of winding up, especially given Bava’s usual over-the-top manner of presentation. Did he take any of this seriously? Probably not.
*. I’m still not sure I understand this film’s reputation. It has its moments, but I can think of at least half a dozen Bava movies I’d rather watch. I think the English title helped given it a certain cachet. This is weird, as it doesn’t have a damn thing to do with the movie, but it certainly caught on and stuck in people’s heads.
*. Today I think a lot of people reference it without knowing the movie very well, or from confusing it with Black Sunday. I’m not even sure if the members of Black Sabbath saw it before taking their name from a marquee they saw across the street from one of their shows. In any event, I think it’s second-rate work, only of interest to hardcore Bava fans.

Tales of Terror (1962)

*. Wherein Vincent Price really finds a home with American International and, more than anything else, with Poe. Because he looks like he belongs in the nineteenth century, and that creepy voice . . .
*. Price is fine here, but I think most of the credit actually should go to Roger Corman. You can argue over whether he was a great director, or could have been a great director had he chosen to go a less commercial route. But the fact is he was always a good director. He wasn’t averse to trying different things and adding a few notes of style, and while these weren’t always successful there’s rarely anything in one of his movies that doesn’t work. He knew how to put a movie together.
*. As examples here I’d note little things like the slight zoom into Peter Lorre’s Montresor as he spies on his wife making love (in the old-fashioned sense) with Fortunato, or the composition of the death-bed formation in the final story, going from a theatrical presentation to a shot through the headboard of the bed.

 *. I also like how the stories are arranged. You usually want to begin and end these omnibus films with your strongest material, but in this case, with only three stories (P.O.E.: Poetry of Eerie would give us 13!) that rule of thumb doesn’t hold. Instead Corman places the strongest, and longest, story in the middle. This is where it belongs because it also has a different tone from the other two stories, being the only one with a clear comic bent.
*. So all-in-all, a solid job of direction by Corman. The only place where I had to cringe a bit was with the shots of M. Valdemar approaching Basil Rathbone appearing totally out of focus. I take it this was to disguise some really lousy make-up effects of the rotting face, which would have made showing the face a loser no matter how Corman chose to do it. Still, I think he should have trusted with whatever effects he had. It would have been better than just blurring the shot.
*. Holy May/December! I thought for sure that Joyce Jameson was playing Peter Lorre’s daughter, not his wife (she was 27 years younger). Ditto for Debra Paget and Vincent Price (she was 22 years younger). Then in the first story, “Morella,” the dead wife literally replaces the daughter. Is this a problem? It’s not unfaithful to Poe, who married his own child bride.
*. I wonder if it’s possible for spider webs to cover as much interior as we see them on in the first story. The dining table looks like it came from Miss Havisham’s house in Great Expectations. I have some experience with cobwebs, having lived for a long time in an old house that I never cleaned. And, well, I think there are limits to how much webbing you can have.
*. Most accounts of the horror-anthology genre refer back to Dead of Night (1945), which is a great movie but is in many ways atypical. What I mainly mean here is the extent to which it foregrounds the frame narrative that introduces the different stories. That was never done as well, and in many later efforts it was almost entirely disposed of. Here we get Price doing a bit of voiceover and some animation, but there’s no attempt made at providing a framing story. In retrospect, that seems to have been more of a British thing, though it was revived by the V/H/S franchise.
*. It’s a good script by Richard Matheson, interpreting the sources with intelligence and economy. Sure it’s a very free-spirited mangling of Poe. But the cross-hatching of “A Cask of Amontillado” with “The Black Cat” makes sense and is done well. And why not? I’m not one of those people who believe that classic texts have to be religiously adhered to. If the changes work, then filmmakers should feel free to interpret and re-interpret. I might not like what Altman did to Raymond Carver in Short Cuts, but it was an Altman movie. This is an AIP production. It isn’t Poe.
*. I’ve always wondered about the exchange in “The Cask of Amontillado” where Fortunato cries out “For the love of God, Montresor!” and Montresor answers “Yes, for the love of God!” What does this mean? Is it just madness? In the film version, when the police discover the walled-up bodies it’s due to the howling of the entombed cat, which leads one of the cops to say “What in the name of God . . . ?” I wonder if the echo was intentional, and if Matheson was puzzling over the original exchange as well.
*. At the time it was easy to sniff at fare like this. The New York Times review, for example: “a dull, absurd and trashy adaptation of three Edgar Allan Poe stories, broadly draped around the shoulders of such people as Vincent Price, Peter Lorre and Basil Rathbone (who at least bothers to act). Skip it, if possible.” This isn’t even strictly accurate, because it’s actually an adaptation of four stories condensed into three. But while it’s clearly a Corman quickie, I found it to be a good-looking production where everyone seems to have done their part. Price, Corman, and Matheson were nothing if not professionals. Quite a lot of success in art as well as life consists in just doing your job.

The Immortal Story (1968)

*. It may be immortal, but it’s not a very well known story. I mean film. Thanks to Criterion for putting this one out in such a nice release (with a commentary and lots of extras), because I’d never managed to see it before now.
*. I’ll also confess that I’ve never read the Isak Dinesen (Karen Blixen) story it’s based on. I think I should, since it’s the story here that I find to be the movie’s biggest flaw. What Welles saw in Blixen (who he apparently rated only just below Shakespeare) is a mystery to me.
*. I get that the story is meant to be a kind of parable, but of what exactly? Isn’t a parable, especially one presented, as here, in such a bare, minimalist manner, supposed to have at least a surface meaning that is easy to grasp? But what is The Immortal Story about?
*. Take the title. In his commentary, Adrian Martin asks the question of what the immortal story is. He figures it just refers to a man and a woman having sex, which is the most ordinary and natural thing in the world. It is this story that the dried-up Clay wants to (re?)connect himself to.
*. That doesn’t seem right to me. Clay’s purpose is more obscure, having something to do with making a mere story (a fiction) into something true. Does he really care what the particular story is about? Wouldn’t any story do?
*. Then there is the story itself. It’s treated as a running gag that everybody knows it. I think even modern audiences will find it has a familiar ring. An old man pays a young sailor to sleep with his wife.

*. Is that an immortal story? As I understand it, what’s meant by “immortal story” here is one without any known author or original source that re-occurs in different forms in different cultural contexts. Basically it’s an archetype: one of the mythic building blocks of narrative, a part of the collective unconscious.
*. If we allow that the sailor-gigolo story is such an archetype, it seems odd to me that Clay wants to make it true by re-creating a fictional version. I mean, Virginie (Jeanne Moreau) is not his wife. Indeed, it’s not clear to me if he ever even sees her except through the curtain, briefly, in the bedroom scene. So the story isn’t being made true, it’s only being dramatized.

*. Welles rejected the interpretation put to him by Peter Bogdanovich of Clay being the director. I think he was just playing with Bogdanovich. This is obviously the role Clay has in the film: he has the script, he hires the actors, gives them their lines, and oversees the production in every regard.
*. If Clay is not the director then he’s God. Levinsky makes such a parallel explicit in the way he describes Clay as the prime mover in the universe. It’s also suggested by the various thrones Clay occupies. Welles seems to have had a thing for thrones. He might have just thought he looked good in one. Or he might have got tired of standing up for long periods of time.

*. Martin calls Welles “the best commentator on his own work.” It’s hard to agree. In general, I think artists (authors, filmmakers, whatever) are some of the least reliable commentators on their own work. And among unreliable artists, wouldn’t you put Orson Welles in one of the top spots?
*. In sum, I really don’t care for the story. It just seems to be trying too hard to be suggestive of something, but it’s not clear what, and the characters remain merely symbolic. Clay is God the director. Virginie is the fallen woman. Elishama Levinsky (Roger Coggio) is the facilitator. Paul the sailor is . . . what? Everyman I suppose.
*. Are we really supposed to believe that Paul was stranded on a desert island? That sounds like just another immortal story. Though I’ll admit that he does seem like a stranger from another planet.
*. Does that mean Norman Eshley was miscast? I’m inclined to think so. Martin likens him to a gay icon I guess because he seems a bit passive or feminine and his bleached hair looks silly. Plus he’s a sailor. Does that change the story though?
*. If Paul doesn’t look much like a real sailor, he sounds even less like one. What he sounds like is a British stage actor being asked to speak very slowly. And he is not helped by his lines, which make him sound even more like an alien.
*. Apparently the lines were hard to hear as well. As usual the sound was all added postproduction and the synchronization wasn’t right on the English version. Manny Farber found only four of the lines to be audible. He wasn’t missing anything. If not for the music and the nice effects (like the crickets) I honestly think you might enjoy this movie more if you just turn the sound off.

*. If Paul was too grimy and covered in tar to get into Clay’s carriage, don’t you think he might have taken a shower or washed up before he went to bed with Virginie? I mean, you do have to at least try, man.
*. There is, however, no faulting the look of the film. Welles hadn’t done a feature in colour before, and had made comments about how he didn’t like it because it emphasized visual elements over actors (as I think it does here), but he took to the new medium like Michelangelo took to fresco.
*. Cinematographer Willy Kurant praised the framing and composition in particular. He called Welles “very, very rigorous” when it came to such matters, and it shows in nearly every shot. And I have to wonder if this is a dying art. For all the expense and accomplishment that goes into art direction and production design today, who really does framing as good as this? I’m trying to think of recent films that struck me as really accomplished in this regard and not coming up with much. Yet Welles apparently did it on the fly.

*. Speaking of on the fly, damn that fly on the doorjamb in the scene between Virginie and Levinsky at the bedroom door! Or should we see it as a bit of serendipity? I don’t think there’s any way it could have been intentional (you can’t wrangle flies), but is it a flaw? Perhaps we can see it as foreshadowing Clay’s attempt to later be a fly on the wall, observing the bedroom re-enactment.
*. In addition to the framing there is an exotic sense of design (the bedroom as jungle, complete with cricket sounds) and a striking and unorthodox use of colour and lighting. That dining scene made me think of the Red Room on Twin Peaks so much that I think Lynch must have had it in mind, even subconsciously.

*. Colour and lighting are also an integral part of the framing, which is used throughout to create depth of field and a strong sense of space. Zones of colour, light and shade, demark different areas as much as physical boundaries and shapes. A yellow spotlight or a band of shadow are as material as the bend in a tree, a doorway, or the frame of a mirror.
*. I’ve never made a secret of my feeling that Orson Welles was the greatest genius in the history of film, and I think The Immortal Story only underlines this by showing how much he could make out of such unpromising material. It certainly has its flaws, but it’s so smooth, gorgeous, and accomplished in all aspects of the filmmaker’s art that it still invites being studied and enjoyed.