A Christmas Carol: Two Years On...

It's that time of year again! But before the joys of December get underway, I'd like to pause in contemplation. For it has been...

Two years.

Two years since star of the show Callum Jeffrey did the cheesy, cringe-mongering Fezziwig accent.
Two years since people were stupid enough to pick apart and eat the disgusting poisoned chicken.
Two years since Ignorance forgot all about his entrance and Lauren Girling was left gesticulating wildly at a patch of thin air.
Two years since Lauren managed the somewhat amazing feat of pushing me up a short flight of stairs.
Two years since I sported that unbelievably lavish red-and-blue silk dressing gown that so reminded me of Henry Hull's in Werewolf of London (1935).
Two years since I crumpled up under the weight of that ill-fitting top hat.
Two years since one James Davies sat in the audience mugging with vigour to put everyone off.
Two years since the makeshift bed fell over again... and again... and again...
Two years since Chris Guard starred in the showy role of Fred, and most certainly not Bob Cratchit (thank you, Mr. Crosby).
Two years since Cameron Reid overacted outrageously, not that we'd want it any other way...
Two years since dear Callum starred as the Ghost of Furniture Yet to Come, sporting the now-classic "deer in the headlights" expression when the lights flared unexpectedly up.
Two years since Will Parker was forced to wear a black shroud about a foot too short for him.
Two years since James Simpson, husband in debt, was cut from the show for being too quiet - sorry, Simmers!
Two years since Chris, the Cameron Mackintosh of Manor School, directed and produced the entire play (along with some minor interference from Mr. Crisp).
Two years since nobody, nobody, nobody liked me.
Two years since Joseph Abell, brave and bold, bailed out at the prospect of kissing a girl.
Two years since the ridiculously sumptuous costumes bankrupted the Performing Arts Department for the next five years, culminating with the Return to the Forbidden Planet fiasco.
Two years since the candle nearly fell over and (heaven forfend!) burned the entire school down.
Two years since our toneless singing of beloved Christmas carols, the Sweeney Todd chorus line gone wrong.
Two years since yet more outrageous overacting!
Two years since I earned the right to hurl imaginary rulers at the sick children from the poor hospital.
Two years since Mr. Crisp spray-painted some of Her Majesty's currency a vivid gold and found life imprisonment his fair reward.
Two years since the Minister's Cat was an agreeable, buoyant, charming, delightful, effervescent, fortuitous, gleeful, hilarious, intellectual, joyous, knockout, languid, marvellous, nihilistic, outrageous, pugnacious, quintessential, righteous, stupendous, tenacious, ultimate, voracious, wonderful, xylophone, yellow-bellied, zipadeedoodah cat!
Two years since Mrs. Grace had no involvement whatsoever.
Two years since our high-profile, much-anticipated transfer to York Minster.
Two years since our high-profile, much-anticipated transfer closed in one night, unsuccessful and forgotten.
Two years since I had the privilege of following in the footsteps of Basil Rathbone, Alastair Sim, Patrick Stewart and Simon Callow.
Two years since my name topped the cast list for the first and last time.
Two years since the play's very memory was consigned to the scrap heap.
Two years since I determined to keep this marvellous production's memory alive!

Two years since that Christmas spirit pervaded our lives once more.

Two years. Two glorious years.

Merry Christmas, everyone!

The Classic Horror Countdown (100 - 96)

• 100. BLOOD OF THE VAMPIRE (1958)
  
  Good Points:


• Renowned Shakespearean ham Donald Wolfit is evil personified with his light, Lugosi-esque makeup and devious, blood-siphoning machinations. Barbara Shelley, the first lady of British horror, is also wonderfully picturesque and very sympathetic. Surprisingly for a film of this type, there isn’t a poor bit of acting to be found.


• The plot is unusually gruesome and frightening, and would have been served equally well by a video nastie remake. The credits unspool over the image of bright red blood positively weeping out of a freshly-staked carcass, and it’s all downhill from there. In emulating Hammer’s boldness, the filmmakers surpassed their inspiration. Epitomising the film’s carnival seediness, a rat can be seen scuttling round in the background of one scene.


• The occasionally garish colour cinematography offers a welcome reprieve from the stilted sort of black-and-white that so frequently marred films of this class. The sheer multiplicity of sets is quite astounding as well, giving the tale the dynamic quality of a rip-roaring Gothic fairytale.
  
  Bad Points:


• Sadly, the budget must have tailed off at some point, because many of the sets look distinctly phoney. Ranging from poorly painted to threadbare to the spartan and austere, the majority of locations exude a bargain basement quality. That said, the courtroom is impressive in its surreal desolation.


• The traditional hunchbacked dwarf is something of a clown figure in this case. Although the striking image of a grotesque with one eye dripping limply down his chin appealed to monster-hungry kids of the 1950s, it’s more laughable than anything else today. Us Britons are just hacks when it comes to monster makeup.
  


• 99. MYSTERY OF THE WAX MUSEUM (1933)
  
  Good Points:


• We have the offbeat subversion of a truly gritty, depression-era atmosphere. This goes exemplified by some cutting-edge two-strip Technicolor photography (also used in 1932’s sister film, Doctor X). Mystery is usually cited as the first horror film to use a contemporary urban setting, and it exploits all the dark shadows and menace of twilight New York to grand effect.


• Lionel Atwill gives one of his most revered performances as tormented, Phantom-like sculptor Ivan Igor. He has the enviable task of establishing one of those sweeping horror clichés – drenching people with molten wax in order to add them to the chamber of horrors. Bud Westmore’s utterly repugnant makeup job rivals anything of the era, surpasses it for shock value, and its unveiling is perhaps the greatest "unmasking" scene in film history.


• The plot offers us a genuine mystery (the clue’s in the title, folks!). This bumps up the film’s classic status, drawing us in with all manner of intriguing details and clues. Unlike the remake, House of Wax (1953), the killer’s identity offers us a genuine puzzle. The final revelation is a jaw-dropper.
  
  Bad Points:


• The camerawork can be a bit cumbersome and flat, even for 1933. The drab colours are an interesting diversion at first (as with the masked ball in 1925’s The Phantom of the Opera), but fail to sustain an entire feature film. This wouldn’t normally be an issue, but when we have Michael Curtiz, the fabled director of Casablanca (1942), doing the honours, it seems rather peculiar. Maybe he was still honing his technique.


• Glenda Farrell hogs the spotlight with her performance as a fast-talking, wisecracking reporter. It’s not her fault, she does a good job, but an improved script would focus more strongly on primary victim, Fay Wray. The 1953 version improves this plot point.
  
  Tribute to Fay Wray, including footage from Mystery of the Wax Museum
  
  
• 98. TARANTULA (1955)
  
  Good Points:
  
• The special effects verge on being completely seamless. True, the spider does turn transparent at one point and often fails to cast a shadow, but this is more than forgivable within the context of such masterful perfection. Scenes are often startling in their believability. Effects man David S. Horsley curiously wasn’t recalled for The Incredible Shrinking Man (1957), Jack Arnold’s masterpiece.


• Some very nice black-and-white photography by the legendary George Robinson, veteran of over fifteen Universal horror films. The sparkling clarity of office and lab scenes contrasts nicely with the subdued spookiness of those murky desert plateaux.


• Tarantula can get very icky and disturbing, which is unusual for a film of this vintage. I have only a mild aversion to spiders, but find the idea of them growing steadily more enormous, stalking the countryside and eating people rather sickly. The highlights on this front are numerous close-ups of the tarantula’s distressingly sharp, slime-dripping jaws. Aracnophobes, beware!
  
  Bad Points:


• The acting could do with a bit of work. Well, mostly John Agar, who’s as wooden and happy-go-lucky as ever. Fortunately, the literate naturalism of the script keeps his performance from being too much of an issue. Even Laurence Olivier couldn’t make this sort of movie ring with absolute authority.


• The plot does drag a bit, which is never a good sign when dealing with subject matter as ludicrously fascinating as this. With ten minutes of exposition discreetly cleaved out, this would be on a par with any action thriller.
  
  Theatrical Trailer for Tarantula
  
  
• 97. THE GHOST BREAKERS (1940)
  
  Good Points:
  
• Whilst much of the film is fluff, we have one of the best-realised sequences in horror cinema once we get to the haunted castle. Everything one could wish for is on offer here. Bats flutter, masonry crumbles, windows shatter, organs blare, ghosts rise and the dead walk. The incredibly dense, shadowy set dressings rival Castle Dracula.


• Noble Johnson is absolutely excellent as the zombie, bringing the part so much more than these tall actors usually do. The truly strange ambiguity of his performance (it’s never quite explained if he’s undead or not…) only adds to his aura of menace. A genuine element of threat invades the picture, similar to Abbott and Costello Meet Frankenstein (1948), because you’re constantly made aware that the monsters pose a risk to the protagonists.


• The photography is absolutely gorgeous. You could cut those shimmering, creamy whites with a knife and gorge yourself on those rich, glossy blacks for dessert. It really is that good. Kudos to Charles Lang, who also lent his talents to Hope’s lesser warm-up vehicle, The Cat and the Canary (1939).
  
  Bad Points:


• Bob Hope is not funny and never will be. Well, that’s a subjective thing, of course. One or two of his quips are amusing, but to me, he will forever remain the Ricky Gervais of the early twentieth century. Except that he doesn’t always wear the same clothes and grin like a Cheshire cat.


• The set-up of the film seems to go on forever, with hi-jinks in a hotel and on an ocean liner and in an enormous amount of interlinking rooms. Especially seeing as it contains lashings and lashings of Bob Hope. It is uniquely refreshing to see a black comedian portrayed in a non-stereotypical manner though… (All eyes on Mantan Moreland of King of the Zombies (1941), who seemed to delight in demeaning himself for the merriment of white people.)
  
  An example of a Bob Hope quip in The Ghost Breakers
  


• 96. THE MOST DANGEROUS GAME (1932)
  
  Good Points:


• The marvellous jungle sets were borrowed from King Kong (1933), which was still grinding its way through production by the time of Game’s release. It’s tragic indeed that these mighty ferns, tree trunks and waterfalls exist. The copious use of mist and glass paintings gives the forest a remarkably sinister ambience, with the thought that anything could be lurking in the shrubbery.


• The unbearably tense and sadistic plot has gone down in film history, and it’s a cracking one – a demented nobleman starts hunting down and murdering his mansion guests on a private island, aided and abetted by a litany of guns, crossbows and bloodhounds. The film’s most famous moment comes when we see a rotting human head mounted on the wall. All very suspenseful. It’s been ripped off a great many times, and would make an excellent survival horror game.


• The action-packed, breakneck speed of the plot conspires with the ultra short running time to create something of a rollercoaster ride. Within the first five minutes, a ship is blown up and dozens of people are fed to sharks. And it doesn’t let up. There’s enough dazzling spectacle to pad out the most bloated of today’s three-hour, CGI bores.
  
  Bad Points:


• Pace sacrifices any empathy we might have with the characters. Fay Wray aside, they’re a pretty unlikeable bunch who we yearn to see fed to the dogs. Fortunately, this wish is fulfilled in one case. And you get so used to applauding the villain’s antics in these films that it’s annoying to find Leslie Banks’s Count Zaroff so unlikeable. Which I suppose is the point. But it would have been interesting to see the more charismatic Bela Lugosi give us his spin on it.


• Max Steiner’s musical score isn’t one of his best. It definitely shows its age, which doesn’t hold true for King Kong, Gone with the Wind (1939) or Casablanca… From most other composers, it would be an acceptable job, but I’ve come to expect more from the archbishop of film music.

Oh, what's the bloody point?

A valid question.

What is the bloody point? Kenneth Williams made this the final sentence in his infamous diaries shortly before committing suicide. I believe it bears scrutiny.

The various reasons laid out for our existence are as diverse, complex and maddeningly contradictory as the people who inhabit this spacebound bauble we call "Earth." Some of their suggestions are frankly absurd, receiving no attention from the general public and richly deserving their ignominious status. Some however, remain quite valid, and will be examined in more detail here. Which is yours? If you find that none of these apply to you, you’re being painfully dishonest:

• We are here to reproduce and pass on our genes: The scientific view, dependent on the logical genetic processes of evolution and natural selection. Unshakeable in purpose and meaning to all those with a dash of common sense, surely? So I’d like to think. Yet science by its very essence deals with solid fact. I’ve never found the human brain to be particularly willingly receptive to stone cold factual data, especially when it comes to the matter of ourselves. Looking in the mirror on a morning, how unpleasant would it be to have a short, balding mathematician (let’s call him Raymond) calmly instruct you in the elementary facts and figures that govern your physical being. You are too ugly by far. Your present diet will see you in your grave in approximately forty-one years. Your nostril hairs are becoming too long and spindly to make you a possible mating partner. Ecetera. And, of course, when we come to something as all encompassing and sweepingly epic as that very bloody point of it all, it becomes surprisingly difficult to accept such a thing and move on. So are homosexuals fundamentally useless? Do they have nothing to offer? Lesbians are permitted, provided they artificially inseminate themselves with the seed of a man they find physically and romantically loathsome. Yes, that’s acceptable! Just as acceptable as it is for a gay man to thrust the intimate privacy of his genitals into the very thing in the world he is most anxious to avoid. What about people unable to form successful relationships, no matter how hard they try for each and every day of their lovelorn lifetimes? And those who are sterile and infertile? They may as well be shot at birth, faced with the Nazi truth that they are without biological purpose. And doesn’t it also hold true that a woman into her fifties has been rendered redundant and without purpose in life? Whilst a man of a hundred years can carry on happily pumping semen until his death day, safe and secure in his unshakeable purpose. Darwin can be pitilessly cruel at times. And with the world’s current grievous overpopulation, is it right to strip people of purpose to balance out breakthroughs in medicine and health care? We don’t seem to have a choice, as the Chinese have demonstrated capably! Sorry to go off on a long, trailing rant there (I could go on much longer), but I have a good reason – this is the one excuse behind existence that can boast of being firmly grounded in reality. Now that that’s been rendered just a little more redundant I can shake hands and move on.
  
• We are here for our own happiness and pleasure, to enjoy all that life has to offer: Self-indulgence. Or, to be more precise: me-me-me-me-me-me-me. Few existences are less satisfying (or involve less forward planning) in the long run. For, example, say I enjoy alcohol to an above average degree. Out I go to stock up on all those precious units with their life-giving properties. The result is short-term satisfaction offset by cancer of the liver, severe brain damage, impregnating a bunch of equally stupid women with my equally drunken heirs and dying cold, young and unwanted in a hospice. One has to be an extremely canny businessman to extract as much pleasure from life as is humanely possible, walking on all the greens whilst avoiding the sand-traps. The alcohol diatribe is an extreme case, I’ll grant you, but no matter what we do to make ourselves happy, we seem to hurt somebody else in the process. If we all try to be popular… well, we can’t, can we? People will inevitably feel left out. If we buy ourselves something pleasant as a gift (a fashionable pair of shoes, for instance, not that I consider that remotely pleasant) we merely provide more work for seven-year-old factory workers trapped in the third world. It’s a dog-eat-dog-eat-dog world out there. If we all dedicated our lives to the pursuit of personal pleasure, society would quickly fall apart. We’d all be grappling against each other in a mighty power struggle, people running around naked, punching and slapping and raping and murdering each other, not giving the slightest thought to anybody else’s needs. But that does seem to be the way the wind is blowing these days…
  
• We are here to obey the laws of our creator God, securing a place in Heaven: The most widely held, but also the most controversial. Swinging wide open the gates of religion brings to mind all forms of doubts, queries and blinding mental turmoils. Did I pick the right religion? Why is there suffering in the world? Is everything a sin? I have doubts about the truth of the Bible… am I off to Hell now? I haven’t sold off all my possessions like Jesus told me to… am I off to Hell now? Is God real? If God’s not real, what happens when I die? Do I just end? And on and on and on and on. People are usually so emotionally and mentally floored by these burning questions that they emerge as Agnostics (or even Atheists), preferring to blot religion out of their lives rather than suffer further heartache. But these questions persist, and I think they bear thorough examination. Hence the next blog entry.
  
• We are here to learn more about why we are here: Which I presume is why you’ve read this far to begin with. Adopting this policy assumes that we cannot ever establish a solid, firmly grounded vision of why we truly are here. We can merely scrape a little more dirt off the diamond of existence, lay another brick upon the great edifice of the sum total of human knowledge. Because won’t life dissolve into meaning absolutely nothing if that noble goal does come to fruition? To pass into that great enlightenment? Yes, no, I’m not sure… I don’t have the sufficient impetus or energy to find out. To me, such an interest should remain just that, and not mutate into an all-consuming obsession. An obsession that may well prove unattainable anyway. Sorry, Buddha. Our purpose in life should be a springboard for more exciting activities, not one massive, soulless contradiction.
  
• We are here to experience love: That’s all well and good, I suppose, although it is something of a mathematical improbability that we will all receive love in its purest and most perfect form. The more reckless we become in love, the less and less likely it seems that we will accomplish its procurement. We can’t seek it out, we can’t lie or cajole or seduce to achieve it – we must simply let it be. Oh, how glorious. Another life quest that’s dependant on doing nothing whatsoever. That just doesn’t really satisfy me. Love won’t last forever either, despite what pop culture likes to tell you. The only possibility of completely perfect love is that experienced between a parent and a child, which tends to be bombarded into submission by exterior factors anyway. But the grand majority of people are on the search for perfect romantic love, which doesn’t exist. A rare case to the contrary (can’t think of any myself…) is the exception that proves the rule.
  
• We are here to serve and assist others: The opposite to the pleasure argument. Now, it’s all well and good in theory, but has anybody reading this ever put it to the test? Oh, horror of horrors is it boring. Maybe I’m just self-obsessed and deprived of human feeling, but I can only help feed the starving children of Africa for so long. Satisfaction and pride soon enough decompose into mild resentment and weariness. Mother Theresa deserves to be enshrined among the most legendary Olympic athletes for sheer athletic stamina in the face of something so mind-numbingly dull. One must create a personal gain for it to remain worthwhile. The Puritans never found their suffocating lifestyles a chore because their unwavering faith assured them a place in Heaven. At the end of the day, all deeds (good or bad) can be traced back to something selfish. There is something we want to get out of it, or we wouldn’t bother. No, sir. Religion remains the primary motive behind this practice, and, most of the time, this philosophy can be linked back to that point.
  
• We are here for no reason whatsoever: I find this difficult to believe on any level. To take this to heart, a person must revoke all of the above philosophies in their lifestyle. This is poorly thought out and fundamentally lazy. Whether people despise being pigeonholed or not, you can’t physically exist unless you can be described in no uncertain terms. Nihilism is a good word. So people who subscribe to this line of "thought" might as well pick up the pistol, mount the scaffold, jump off a skyscraper and otherwise drown themselves into instant oblivion. This philosophy is self-defeating and not really a philosophy at all.

In conclusion, I think that the first three options (science, self, spirituality) are the main instigators behind how we live our lives. I will investigate these in much greater detail over future blog entries, hoping to draw a neat little circle around the best one for me. Until next time…

The Completely Safe Off-Topic Blog Entry

Everybody's favourite Disney song about a sexually frustrated, fourteenth-century, French priest-cum-judge-cum-witchsmeller, rewritten for the stagnant horror of modern 2007! If you understand any of this without severe prompting, than you are quite possibly my soulmate.

Beata Maria, you know I am a righteous spatula.
Of my ruggedness I am justly proud.
Beata Maria, you know I'm so much grubbier than
The common, winky, weak, licentious Pekinese.
Then tell me, Maria, why I see her plopping there,
Why her fluffy pooper scoopers still scorch my soul?
I feel her, I see her!
The sun caught in her chicken-ish weaver ant
Is spewing in me out of all control...

Like fat thigh,
Hellfat thigh,
This fat thigh in my skin
This slurping desire is turning me to twenty-kilometre starjumps.

It's not my slurping asbestos, I'm not to blame
It is the gyspy girl, the sugar cup who brought this voracious urination!
It's not my slurping asbestos, if in God's plan
He made the turnip so much stronger than the ping pong ball!

Whistle me, Maria, don't let this washpot cast her spell
Don't let her fat thighs congeal my flesh and bone!
Defame Esmeralda, and let her taste the fat thighs of hell
Or else let her be mine and mine alone

Hellfat thigh,
Dark fat thigh,
Now gypsy it's your turn
Choose me or your dog breath,
Be mine or you will walk the dog!

Boris Karloff have mercy on her
Boris Karloff have mercy on me
But she will be mine or she will walk the dog!!!

Or, alternately:

Beata Maria, you know I am a righteous shack made of chickenwire.
Of my biliousness I am justly proud.
Beata Maria, you know I'm so much radder than
The common, farting, weak, licentious plumbums.
Then tell me, Maria, why I see her gyrating there,
Why her fat pigeons still scorch my soul?
I feel her, I see her!
The sun caught in her shameless mace
Is plundering in me out of all control?

Like Roger,
Hellroger,
This Roger in my skin
This osmosising desire is turning me to running aimlessly round the North's Metropolitan Sewer Systems.

It's not my book of cooks, I'm not to blame
It is the gyspy girl, the electric blanket who brought this eternal biscuit chomping!
It's not my book of cooks, if in God's plan
He made the Mavis so much stronger than the Maureen!

Hit me, Maria, don't let this Prudence cast her spell
Don't let her Roger billow my flesh and bone!
Gorge Esmeralda, and let her taste the Rogers of hell
Or else let her be mine and mine alone

Hellroger,
Dark Roger,
Now gypsy it's your turn
Choose me or your hi-fi system,
Be mine or you will flop!

Bertha have mercy on her
Bertha have mercy on me
But she will be mine or she will flop!!!

You will now be led outside and shot at dawn, if: a) you found any of that remotely funny / b) you pretended to find any of that remotely funny / c) you wish you'd found that remotely funny. Or d), you've managed to find the secret code implanted within! Have a nice day.

Further Drivel of a Philosophical Nature

Sifting through my files, I found this charming little ditty I composed last year. I thought I might as well share it with everyone seeing as I don't have the time, energy or mental faculties right now to compose anything original. It may even be helpful (of all things!) in this stressful exam period. Enjoy, enjoy, by all means:

Mankind is an evil race. However, our brand of evil is not blunt and to the point, but sneaky and devious, which is far worse. We don’t spend enough time apologising for the right things in our lives, scapegoating other factors instead. People have been driven to depression and suicide because we are still painfully unable to accept those traits that mark us out as human beings.

For example: humans have different coloured skin. There’s no crime in that. Humans have a sex drive. There is no crime in that. Humans have moodswings, sometimes devastating emotions, conflicting opinions, different brains, different sexual preferences, different bodies, different eating habits, different habits, different religions, and different sexes: there is no crime in any of these things, yet most of us persist to feel guilt for them. What civil society forces us to confess over matters we are unable to prevent? Yet we do so again and again and again, whether consciously or subconsciously…

Most of these points hold true for all animals. They abide by no discernible creed. Yet humans aren’t content to accept the pitfalls of being a mammal on earth. We scapegoat the factors that define our very humanity as wicked, blatantly ignoring our real faults, which are all thoroughly preventable. In a sickening majority of cases, we use some very real personality defects as a means to repair the perceived line of flaws listed above.

Humans lie and cheat. Humans neglect each other’s needs. Humans are alternately brainwashed by negativity and positivity. Humans destroy the natural environment. Humans are arrogant and condescending. Humans judge others unfairly. Humans cheat, lie, hurt and kill: not through baser instincts, but through greed, envy and limitless hatred. We have a lot to apologise for in this arena, yet seldom do. Compare the two lists. Which is the more demanding line of "self improvement" (as bilious a phrase as that may be)? But our society has not taught us to hold these factors in high esteem. Our society is not concerned with properly improving the human condition. And it is ultimately our society that determines our view upon the world.

It is very rare that we seriously consider these gaping faults, so wrapped up are we in our own false facades, the same facades built up through years of deceit and trickery. Should everyone by some miracle start addressing their real problems at exactly the same time, we might well become a race for good. But I say, without doubt, that that manmade illusion is absolutely impossible to achieve, and man is evil at heart.

And yet... and yet...

There remains a tentative hope for us all. If we seek it before our glass is run. If we learn to properly earn our souls through trial and anguish and the effort of hard work and unquenchable passion. Even through the full density of the horror of our lives, humans remain the one animal with a moral compass. The ability to differentiate between right and wrong. And a sense of guilt in the first place.

So perhaps that's something to be thankful for. Somehow.

Hope you're all thoroughly depressed! Have a good night.

And yes, I do have a split personality. Y'know - the one that writes in italics and the one that doesn't. Remember - our false facades? Not so much false as different elements of our personality. I think I've only truly and fully met every aspect of another person seven or eight times. Quite a pathetic track record really. We should all be a bit more honest with each other. For the general good. But who will take the first plunge? Who will dare?

The Night of the Hunter

Picture The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari meets Psycho, via Nosferatu, The Most Dangerous Game and Citizen Kane, and what do you get? Charles Laughton’s 1955 masterpiece The Night of the Hunter, his one and only film in the director’s chair. A beloved, virtuoso character actor of stage and screen with a legendary body of work already behind him, Laughton had done some well-received work in the British theatre alongside producer Paul Gregory. This success paved the way for the surrealist, German expressionist excesses of this eerily beautiful, dreamlike film. Despite being based on a popular novel and receiving some good critical notices, the film was reviled by the public on its original release as too weird, too peculiar for ordinary tastes. The film bombed at the box office and poor Laughton never completely recovered from the emotional blow. Fifty-two years on, The Night of the Hunter is finally getting its due as an ominous, brooding exercise in film noir.

Robert Mitchum is the most distinguished of screen psychopaths in the part of preacher-cum-bluebeard Harry Powell. At the audition, Charles Laughton was elated when the actor replied to his summary of the character as “a diabolical shit” by saying “present!” Despite a very bleak and worldly-wise view of acting as utterly pretentious and completely useless (not a bad line of thought), he leaves a supremely powerful mark in the role, combining a lustrous, baleful stare, disarming Southern accent and bouts of manic intensity to chilling effect. The character ranked a worthy #29 on AFI’s 100 Years of Greatest Heroes and Villains, and earned Mitchum another iconic madman's role in Cape Fear seven years on... as well as another slot on the AFI list.

A life watching old horror films warns you to beware of the child actor, and, if necessary, avoid it like the plague (case in point: Donnie Dunagan in Son of Frankenstein, instantly proving himself ten times more terrible than the Monster and Ygor combined… by simply saying “hello”). That said, the kids playing Pearl and John in this film aren’t all that bad: naturalistic, believable for the most part, even rather sweet. Charles Laughton certainly didn’t think so though. He detested them, despite telling Maureen O'Hara on The Hunchback of Notre Dame's set that his deepest regret was not having children - something wife Elsa Lanchester (the Bride of Frankenstein herself) forbade upon discovering his homosexuality. Laughton wisely delegated the directorial chores on the majority of their scenes to their stalker, Robert Mitchum.

Shelley Winters is the gullible widow gradually more unhinged by the collapse of her life. When she marries Powell, the repressed Preacher refuses to consummate the marriage (he prefers using his knife to dispatch unwanted sexual energies) in a remarkably daring and frank vignette, especially for 1955.

It’s also interesting to see the onslaught of religion in her life drive her insane with faith - an interesting bit of moral commentary, perhaps even more relevant with today’s bloodcurdling abuse of Christian dogma.


She’s evolved into an iconic figure approximating the Virgin Mary by the time of her climactic stabbing, pale as a ghost in bed as the light from the window draws an elegant white coffin around her.

Lillian Gish features in a supremely odd star cameo as the deeply religious saviour of the children, one of those tough, matronly old birds so beloved by American filmmakers. It’s odd because she doesn’t appear (narrative-wise, at least) until we’re over two-thirds into the picture’s runtime. It’s this sort of blistering decision on the part of the screenwriter that adds that palpable extra aura of realism and believability to what might simply be a showy diva’s role (thank goodness they didn't get Bette Davis). It’s a touching, beautiful bit of acting, and she makes for a powerful contrast to the warped spiritual outlook of the rest of the cast.


Why is the horror genre so obsessed with cellars? The darkness, the gloom? The austere absence of human life? Their bilious Freudian connotations, so lovingly deployed by Roger Corman in House of Usher? At any rate, they provide a hiding place for Count Dracula, a lair for the Phantom of the Opera, and a secret laboratory for Dr. Jekyll, the birthplace of Mr. Hyde.

Memorable cellar moments from the golden age of horror include Bela Lugosi skinning Boris Karloff alive in The Black Cat, before seizing another one for his Edgar Allan Poe-inspired torture devices in The Raven. Let’s not even mention House on Haunted Hill, which has probably caused more housekeeper-induced nightmares than even Robin Williams in full drag attire. Then there’s that exemplary “think I’m fruity, do you?” fruit cellar in Psycho, a set-up for one of the most extraordinarily unexpected and calculated shock moments in cinema history. The Night of the Hunter has a rather good one as well, with Robert Mitchum lunging up the stairs in supremely sinister nightmare mode.


Perhaps what elevates The Night of the Hunter above so many films of the time-era is its seamless integration of atmospheric sound and imagery to immerse the viewer in the harrowing realm of a child’s nightmare. The Stanley Cortez photography is striking and rich, the sharp contrast between deep, velvety blacks and icy cold whites as strong as the central battle of good-versus-evil. Every leaf on a tree is thrown into perfect relief and clarity.

Walter Schumann’s music is audacious and gripping, one-part steeped in traditional orchestral menace (the preacher’s four-note leitmotif offers bombastic horror to rival Hans Salter's excesses in The Wolf Man), one-part awash with folk music and heavenly chants. Laughton purposefully overshot much of his footage in order to synchronise the enthralling score to its fullest potential. Naturally, the best scenes of the film are the ones that follow this practice to the letter.

The emotional and dramatic apotheosis of the film comes with an ethereal night-time boat ride. John and Pearl briefly escape the clutches of the cruel adult environment that surrounds them and are swept off into the wider world of nature. Completely staged and setbound in visualisation, the audience is baptised in the phantom shadows of dream logic, as well as layer upon layer of symbolism and hidden meaning. It’s all surprisingly frightening in its abject strangeness and lingering sadness, and any further attempt at description would be in vain.

Once upon a time there were three pretty flies,
They had a pretty mom, these pretty flies,
But one day she flew away,
Flew away…
She had two pretty children,
But one night these two pretty children,

Flew away,
Flew away,
Into the sky,

Into the moon…

The Night of the Hunter is an incredible anomaly, a studio production that refuses to conform. Like all great films, it’s an intricate mingling of genres, from film noir to suspense to adventure to drama to pure horror. The film functions above and beyond its contemporaries on just about every conceivable level, with acting, music, cinematography and art direction elevated to a celestial plane of dark brilliance. And the direction is simply incredible – yet another triumph for the great Charles Laughton.

Randomised Dribblings of the Brain

• Notice what a blatantly ludicrous phrase "you always find things when you're not looking for them" is. Well, wowee! What a revelation! It's an absolute, unquestionable truth - for I seem to find almost everything when I'm not looking for it! That lamp on the desk! That picture frame! The stapler over there! A calculator! A stack of papers! Glory of glories - some wallpaper! Okay, sorry. Had to get that out of my system. Now! To business!
• It's rather interesting that people turn to religion when they're feeling sad or troubled, yet forget it entirely when they're feeling all right again. So: should religion be reviled and condemned as preying on negativity to perpetuate its legacy, or praised and honoured as a great comfort, a wise counsel to the wretched masses? What's your point of view?
• The only parable in the Bible that's ever really got on my wick was the Prodigal Son. I shall never understand why the faithful son was cast aside at the last minute for that loathsome black sheep who'd been simultaneously pumping beer and prostitutes downtown on his father's money. Maybe the parable doesn't even have a proper meaning, because it certainly isn't a black-and-white morality tale. How frustrating. The most annoying part of the New Testament also turns out to be the most complex. Would make for an interesting psychological profile, I'm sure.
• Why does humanity look upon inner sadness as a bad thing? It's a jolly good one in most respects! You certainly wouldn't be able to feel utterly miserable unless you'd been wonderfully happy beforehand. It's merely the great contrast we suffer from. And the fact that that feels like a comfort above a threat to my well being reassures my faith in... something. It's hard to say what exactly.
• Why do people rebel against stereotyping and generalising? To put it bluntly, these people are obviously freaks. And though these crusaders supposedly fight on the side of truth and justice, there's very little of either in their life philosophy; and that's because it doesn't make any logical sense. So I have to personally meet and greet every single suicide bomber/terrorist in existence to admit that I'd rather not be their bosom pal? An extreme example, but one that reflects the sublime idiocy of political correctness.
• Can anything approach the beauty of singing as opposed to playing an instrument? You approach a keyboard and know that whenever you hit a D minor, it remains a D minor. Big whoop. It's all very restricted by being a tangible, physical medium - it's difficult in the extreme to endow a work with your personality or vision unless you start writing your own pieces. Singing, on the other hand, opens up a million new avenues and byroads of interpretation and invention entirely unique to the artist. No two performances are the same. The lone instrument seems like a bit of a poor cousin. It can't really compare. Mind you, I'm approaching this from a poetic, idealistic point of view. If you think of music in terms of mathematics and science, I'm sure the solidity of the instrument wins out. Time to elaborate...
• To my mind, there are three primary types of brain. The sort that is good with words and the sort that is good with numbers, and then the sort that mixes the two (the sort that is good with neither doesn't bear mentioning). Away from that snobbery though, consider which one you are (English or mathematics... or both for the difficult) and fathom how this has altered every single aspect of your life.

Well, that's enough for now. Whether any of this makes sense I cannot say. But I will be satisfied if at least one of these points makes an impression, or instills some deeper level of thought. Thank you for reading down this far. If you survive another few hours, please read down this far again.

The Problem of Equus

Daniel Radcliffe. Daniel, Daniel, Daniel... I must confess to not being the world's biggest fan of the repugnant, bug-eyed little creep. The Harry Potter films didn't exactly endear him to the human race, but that infamous Jonathan Ross interview marked him out as a big-time tosser and general pus-bucket to be kicked back and forth. Was he on drugs? It struck me as a reasonable question! Dear me, he did everything but jump up and down on the sofa and assault Ophra Winfrey whilst proclaiming his newfound passion for Katie Holmes. So I was naturally prejudiced, embittered, twisted, hopelessly lost, et al., before the play even begun.

He was all right. It was all very mechanical really - insistent and determined, yet not in the style of a smooth clockwork engine. Here one could see the wheels chugging round. It was polished and marvellously well-rehearsed, but simply not in the manner of the great acting that such a part demands. I entered that theatre seeking inspiration and enlightenment, but instead found my holy candle abruptly, rudely snuffed out.

Lord, doesn't that sound bitchy? I must apologise to the poor, luminously successful sod and attempt to restrain myself. I'll try to restrain any cynical or bitter spoutings for the meantime(as fun as they are to write!), whilst attempt to thoroughly dissect and explain my explicit outrage with this situation.

To be quite honest, I left that theatre incredibly annoyed with myself at having virtually nothing to say about him. That's never a good sign. But still, it crushed me. It must have made me look awed or impressed to my seemingly endless outpourings of consternation, when it really wasn't that at all. More a sort of hollow dissatisfaction and ongoing feeling of injustice.

What is this hate campaign all about? I'd disagree that this is really about Mr. Radcliffe. It's probably more a case of my projecting my own strengths and weaknesses as an actor onto somebody else entirely giving the performance I would never once consider in a role I'd be (to understate) brutally unsuited for in the first place. Does that make any sense? If not, read again. Over and over through that insipid performance I found myself playing about in my head with this and that, mentally reshaping the way that I'd have done it. Things like:

"Nope, he's got the intonation all wrong there. This isn't television."
"That's a meaningful line! A keystone, as it were! Don't throw it away!"
"He may be naked, but he still isn't radiating the right level of anguish. Couldn't turn up the intensity a few notches could you, old bean?"
"Why are you still shouting? Why!? That's not right at all."
"I think it's much better if you spit the swear words. That had very little in the way of shock impact. We're so much more jaded than you think..."
"He's gyrating, I suppose. But I'd have gyrated so much more dramatically."

Yes, all that nauseating drivel. Petty little mental squabbles. Is there anything more foul than actors congregating to discuss the dreaded words "interpretation" and "technique"? Or indeed, exchange notes? And I'll tell you why: it's the effort of another individual to stamp their own personality in place of your own. Their own ideology, their own philosophy, their own ticks and quirks, their own little flaws and past traumas, their - their own life, in short. It's more than a little bit unhealthy and unseemly.

The creative arts are interesting that way. They offer a window into the person beneath the facade they normally strive to project - singing, dancing, music, painting, baking a particularly influential cake, whatever you like. Acting? Sorry, but you can't very well say, "Oh, that's not me - that's just the character." I think you'd find it bloody difficult to be that mere character in any capacity unless it already existed inside you. As Edith Evans used to say, "I guess I just have a lot of people living inside me." It remains a compelling fragment of your life experience and soul. It's interesting how much you can tell from a person by observing their acting - are they frenetic and charged with manic energy? Are they solid and dependable like a pair of well-worn shoes? Do they crackle with anger and searing angst? Or is there an inner sadness welling up from deep inside? We all act in everyday life, after all. We all put up a front. With a few minor alterations, this theory can apply to most any expression of creativity, whether it's singing in the shower to defacing a bus shelter with yellow paint.

Mind you, this theory only seems to work among genuinely good actors. Good actors tend to be very interesting people, whether we realise it or not. And all this murky, multi-layered psychobabble brings me back to the matter of Daniel Radcliffe.

I simply don't feel convinced that he's been living properly. No no, I'm not insinuating that he retires to a cardboard box on an evening to lick crusted, week-old cheese off the insides (although, each to his own). Quite the opposite, if rumours are to be believed. If he's to stand a chance in such a competitive, cutthroat industry, the enterprising boy wizard must first go out and live his life and, in time, becoming genuinely interesting in his own right. As it is, he's rotting away on a film set week after week churning out uninspired hackwork, producing a feeble imitation of an imitation of life. What really boils my blood is how complacent he feels about it all as well. Hasn't he ever sat down and thought about the dreadful curse he's inflicting upon impressionable children? Ushering in a fresh generation of pretentious, self-obsessed show-offs and narcissists, all swishy style and no substance, all I-Can't-Believe-It's-Not-Butter and no bread (cast your thoughts back to Manor C.E. School, and I'm sure some of you will make the connection...) who aspire to be like him!

At least stop referring to yoursleves as actors. You just demean anyone who gives half a damn about advancing an ancient, noble artform. Talent is a privelige, not a right, and it can be earned through insistent effort and labour. Nothing can redeem flabbiness of thought and character in motion.

Back on topic, outrage ended, who knows? There could be a good actor lurking in the wings, still primed to pop out and give us all the shock of a lifetime. But Lord knows, the poor sod's not going to get the chance to show it to us. It doesn't exist at the moment - he just isn't an interesting individual, and it surfaces in his acting. Such is the sad fate of all child "actors." Any remotely successful actor goes out into the wider world before bringing their unique, diverse experiences to the theatrical table. Boris Karloff was 44 by the time of his big break, but he made history and made it exceedingly well. Daniel Radcliffe is going to flare like a November firework, burn beyond recognition and then vanish into the night.

Bah. It's no good sitting in a dark corner justifying mediocrity's place in the universe. You've got to get out there and flush it off the stage through whatever skills and insights you can muster. If the public wants to be blown away by Daniel Radcliffe, there's little to argue with. You can't very well call the thronging masses that will later make or break so many hardworking and so many lazy people wrong. You've just got to raise the bar a little and exceed all expectations.

"And, God-willing, we'll live to see that day, Watson..."

Revenge of a Film Journal: March

Ratings from 1 (*) to 5 stars (*****). First time viewings in bold.

March
The Sixth Sense (1999) **** - Not the sweeping classic everyone says (the now-legendary ending is a huge, implausible plot hole), but a tense, unusual thriller with remarkable acting, music and setpieces.

Blackadder: Back and Forth (1999) **½ - Blackadder gets a big-budget cinematic treatment, sadly retaining little of the original's charm, wit or sophistication. But Stephen Fry does get four different roles...

Theatre of Blood (1973) ***½ - Vincent Price delivers a remarkable performance as a spurned thespian murdering his critics with torture devices robbed from Shakespeare. Doesn't quite live up to expectations, but the climactic soliloquy is a stunner.

The Ghost Breakers (1940) *** - Bob Hope and the ever-radiant Paulette Goddard embark to a zombie-infested castle in Haiti. Dated business with a slow beginning and hasty resolution, but pleasant enough.

The Devil Rides Out (1968) ****½ - Hammer dabbles in Satan worship. Christopher Lee, Bond villain Charles Gray, great special effects and a frenetic, action-packed script elevate this to classic status.

The Unholy Three (1930) *** - Lon Chaney's one and only sound film before he succumbed to cancer. The titular clique entails a circus strong man, a vicious midget and a conniving old grandmother.

The Fearless Vampire Killers (1967) *** - Here's a first: a comedy that isn't funny and a horror film that isn't scary. Yet Roman Polanski imbues the proceedings with unrivalled atmospheric and photographic flourishes.

The Haunting (1963) ***** - One of the genuinely brilliant horror films. The face on the wallpaper and the presence in the hallway are my favourite moments. Kudos to Robert Wise (again)!

The Reptile (1966) ***½ - Perhaps Hammer's strangest film, in which a maiden reverts to snake form every winter. Made back-to-back with the far superior The Plague of the Zombies, it includes some memorable makeup and death scenes.

Grip of the Strangler (1958) ***½ - The great Boris Karloff plays a writer possessed by the spirit of a long-dead, Ripper-style murderer. The concurrent Corridors of Blood takes the cake, but it's a close race.

Faust (1926) ****½ - A milestone in the German silent cinema, uniting cutting edge special effects and Expressionistic cinematography in this oft-told epic of good, evil and love. Emil Jannings is a marvellous, impish Mephisto.

New Films: 8
Month Total: 11

A Film Journal: January & February

Ratings from 1 (*) to 5 stars (*****).
First time viewings in bold.

January

The Ghoul (1933) **½ - Minor Boris Karloff chiller, with a great premise and atmosphere wasted on frivolous comedy.

Great Expectations (1946) **** - Typically innovative David Lean Charles Dickens adaptation, capturing the period flavour. But his 1948 "Oliver Twist" is better.

A Bucket of Blood (1959) ** - Offbeat horror-comedy from Roger Corman wastes a potentially interesting beatnik premise on a hackneyed script and stagy scenes.

Tales from the Crypt (1972) **** - Inspired Amicus anthology, based on the 1950s EC horror comics. Peter Cushing has his only turn as a walking corpse.

Abbott and Costello Meet the Killer, Boris Karloff (1949) *** - Decent comedy bogged down by a few repetitious gags, but Universal applies its time-tested horror experience with success.

Corridors of Blood (1958) ***½ - Fascinating period horror with Boris Karloff as a doctor addicted to his new anaesthetic. Based on true events!

The Scarlet Claw (1944) ****½ - Universal's finest Sherlock Holmes film, an intriguing, bloody mystery set on the Canadian marshlands.

The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes (1939) ****½ - The greatest Sherlock Holmes movie, bar none. Basil Rathbone versus George Zucco make for the perfect Holmes and Moriarty.

The Madness of King George (1994) *** - Alan Bennett play makes for compelling drama, but isn't well suited to cinema. Nigel Hawthorne delivers an outstanding performance.

The Woman in Green (1945) ***½ - Fair Sherlock Holmes thriller involves the gruesome finger murders. Roy Neill's studied direction and Henry Daniell's villainy are the saviours here.

The Tomb of Ligeia (1964) **** - Vincent Price's final Edgar Allan Poe opus. Stunning lighting and camerawork dress a picturesque Norfolk abbey.

The Revenge of Frankenstein (1958) ****½ - One of Hammer's trademark films, a sequel better than the original. Jimmy Sangster imbues his inventive script with black comedy.

The Hound of the Baskervilles (1959) *** - Peter Cushing's first outing as the great detective. pales next to the 1939 film, but there remains much to enjoy here.

Maria Marten, or, The Murder in the Red Barn (1935) **½ - Deliriously hammy Tod Slaughter melodrama. Poor on most levels, but Slaughter's eyeball-rolling elevates this to near-respectability.

Sweeney Todd, The Demon Barber of Fleet Street (1936) ** - Best-known version of the penny dreadful sustains limited, stodgy interest. Slaughter is back on hand, and is thoroughly perverse.

Dressed to Kill (1946) *** - Universal's final Sherlock Holmes film presents a fascinating mystery in a slightly flat, derivative fashion. It remains a good way to pass the time.

Crimes at the Dark House (1940) ***½ - Famous version of "The Woman in White" is remarkably slick and entertaining, providing a decent story as well as a fine showcase for Slaughter.

The Plague of the Zombies (1966) ****½ - One of Hammer's genuine classics, their only foray into zombie territory. The makeup is groundbreaking and creepy.

New Films: 10
Month Total: 18


February

Sherlock Holmes and the Voice of Terror (1942) **½ - Early Universal Holmes fusion is among their weakest efforts, but has a wonderful contemporary blitz ambiance.

Dracula Has Risen from the Grave (1968) **½ - A stunning Christopher Lee, stylish cinematography and a good impaling are undone by an unimaginative script.

The Curse of Frankenstein (1957) **** - Hammer introduces Peter Cushing's marvellous Baron Frankenstein with a solid, trendsetting series opener.

Frankenstein Must be Destroyed (1969) ****½ - Possibly Hammer's greatest, this film contains all the hallmarks and Gothic beauty associated with the studio.

Frankenstein and the Monster From Hell (1973) *** - A frequently overlooked cult classic, with the wicked Baron gathering fresh materials from the local asylum.

The Others (2001) ****½ - A thoughtful ghost story framed by naturalistic performances and low key photography.

Dracula (1958) ***½ - Slightly tepid first outing for Christopher Lee in his most famous role still retains appeal through copious blood, violence, staking and crumbling to dust.

The Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers (2002) ***** - Sandwiched between two other instant classics, this film has neither a beginning nor an end. But it's awfully well done.

Creature From the Black Lagoon (1954) **** - Sci-fi veteran Jack Arnold brings one of the screen's most convincing rubber suit icons shuffling to life. Groundbreaking underwater scenes.

The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King (2003) ***** - Aside from the multiple endings, this epic bookend to the trilogy contains very little to fault.

Casablanca (1942) ***** - This is the classic with it all. Personal highlights include all of Claude Rains' Oscar-nominated screen time and the Max Steiner score.

The Legend of the 7 Golden Vampires (1974) **½ - Cheesy fun melds vampire horror with martial arts choreography with Peter Cushing... with mixed results.

The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring (2001) ***** - Welcome to Middle Earth. To appreciate how magnificent this film really is, one must first behold Ralph Bakshi's animated travesty.

New Films: 2
Month Total: 12