Horror – The Magnificent 60s

Eight for Silver / The Cursed (2021) ****

Restraint in a horror picture? Nary a scream? Scarcely a close up? More bloodletting in surgery than in the woods? Use of candlelight evocative of Stanley Kubrick? The classical composition of John Ford, long shot beloved of Henry Hathaway, in camera (minus the juddering cuts) treatment favored by Christopher Nolan? Where has this little gem been hiding?

Set in rural France in the nineteenth century, positing a Biblical reimagining of the werewolf legend, every scene so carefully measured by British director Sean Ellis (Anthropoid, 2016) that you would think this is a master sprung to life. Even more tantalizing, given the genre, is the ensemble acting. This isn’t one of those horror efforts where you’re trying to work out (or hope) who’s going to be bumped off next.

*Marketing team do this picture a disservice with this poster which more or less gives the game away, even though this forms a tiny fraction of a classy film.*

And you think – although the participants remain baffled – that you know what’s going on, so you let down your guard, until the feet are swept out beneath you by the late twist, that, too, with Biblical connotation. The first Biblical allusion seems far-fetched, I have to admit, linking Judas Iscariot’s 30 pieces of silver to the silver bullet traditionally used to kill werewolves, vampires and the like. But then it twists into left field, both thematically and intellectually, covering such wider ground as betrayal and confession. The second Biblical reference we are all familiar with – reaping what you sow.

Technically, the narrative revolves around a gypsy curse. Nothing unusual in that you might think. Gypsies – and teenagers for that matter – are known for handing out curses for any minor breach or discrepancy. In this case, you wonder how the curse was set, given every single gypsy within the vicinity has been slaughtered, buried alive or, hands and feet chopped off, turned into a human scarecrow.

But the gypsies, suspecting imminent malevolence, have fashioned from their horde of silver coins (maybe thirty, we are not told), a pair of silver false teeth, which are buried, but then found by the local children, directed to them by dream/nightmare. These aren’t of the distinct vampiric molar kind, but seemingly more akin to those employed by wolves for savaging purposes. It’s the children who are turned into werewolves or, as here, that rarer mythical entity shamans (though not in the strict understanding of the word).

Stuck for another poster – which shows how little of an initial release “Eight for Silver / The Cursed” received – I’ve taken the easy way and added the movie with which Kelly Reilly first attracted attention.

Victims appear chosen at random, and not for illicit sexual behaviour as was once the norm, and gradually a more apparent truth emerges. Eventually pathologist McBride (Boyd Holbrook) takes center stage, but that’s a slow time coming, and mostly what we have is nobody taking center stage, or focus shifting around a variety of characters, landowner Seamus (a traditional French name, don’t you know) Laurent (Alistair Petrie), submissive wife Isabelle (Kelly Reilly), their daughter Charlotte (Amelia Church) and a variety of young teenagers including Timmy (Tommy Rodger) and servants.

But, as I said, restraint is the watchword, and there are three just outstanding scenes. The movie opens – didn’t I mention this – in World War One, a field surgeon extracting bullets from a wounded soldier. The bullets don’t even, as would be the usual cliché, clang when tossed into a metal bowl. The surgeon finds two. The third is unusual. It’s much bigger for a start than your normal machine gun ammunition. And it’s silver.

And here’s the genius. Nobody exclaims, oh my goodness, a silver bullet, whatever can that mean, it just sits there dripping with blood from the operation, and the image filters down into the audience brain. Then we’re into flashback and gypsies making such a nuisance of themselves claiming ancient ownership of land that good old Seamus decides to call in the mercenaries. And that entire scene, of terrible slaughter, people shot and skewered and burned alive, is shown in extreme long shot, the camera never moving.

Third terrific scene. The Laurent’s son Edward is missing. Father, mother and daughter sit at the kind of long table you get in mansions, mother at one end father at the other. Mother is weeping scopiously, father is silently eating his dinner. Long shot again, no cuts, just the measured camera.

Virtually the only color in most scenes is a candle or a torch, and you would have to say a less showy and more effective treatment of light than in Kubrick’s Barry Lyndon (1975). And in audio terms it’s the same, scarcely a raised voice. And when McBride’s family tragedy is revealed, it’s done so visually and discreetly, though for the dumber audience member the ground is covered with dialog later on.

No showboating required from the actors so in that sense it’s the very best type of acting, as if everyone had learned from Anthony Hopkins how little you had to do to be effective. So top marks to Boyd Holbrook (Indiana Jones and the Dial of Destiny, 2023), Kelly Reilly (Yellowstone, 2018-2022) and Alistair Petrie (Rogue One, 2016). Sean Ellis didn’t just write and direct this but he handled the cinematography too. Had this been an arthouse number, Ellis would be praised to the skies.

If you require jump-out-of-your-seat moments and copious gore, then this isn’t one for you, but if you want to appreciate a story superbly told by a director in command of his craft, then seek this out. Strangest of all it’s turned up on Netflix, not known for harvesting little gems, and probably scarcely aware of what it has uncovered.

A marvellous surprise.

Abigail (2024) ** – Seen at the Cinema

Someone hasn’t pointed out to the directors (there’s two of them) – or they’ve decidedly to pointedly ignore – the crazy notion that you need someone to root for in a horror film, even if it’s someone you start out disliking. Nor has anyone seemingly touched upon the grating error of the premise. You’re planning a $50 million kidnap, so you hire a team of top professionals, who turn out not to be able to control their liquor, get drunk or stoned within an hour of a 24-hour shift, and can’t even keep to their own basic rules which include not mentioning each other by name or revealing their faces to the victim.

The twist – that somehow they’re the ones trapped – would have a chance of succeeding if the principals were capable of extracting an ounce of sympathy from the audience. We’ve got an ex-junkie single mom too keen on playing the victim, an ex-cop, a muscle man from the Dumb and Dumber Selection Box, a sociopath, a rich girl looking for kicks and a guy who may be more mainstram but acts dodgy.

The other twists – that the kidnapped girl is actually a vampire and that her dad is some feared villain – don’t count for much unless it’s the girl we’re supposed to be rooting for because (twist number 22) vampires aren’t born that way but need to be bitten and guess who did that indoctrination, yep, the bad dad, so, technically, this counts as child abuse. So, technically, little Abigail would get my sympathy vote except she’s caught up in one awful movie.

What with exploding bodies, decapitated corpses, a lake of dead people, mirrors with miracualous properties and the usual stakes, garlic and crosses failing to work it’s a blood-drenched hotch potch that wears out its welcome very quickly. Not even worth it to see posh Downton Abbey alumni Dan Stevens and Matthew Goode sharpening their fangs.

Saw this on a double-bill with Challengers. This kind of counter-programming has worked in the past. But not here, sadly.

The Curse of the Mummy’s Tomb (1964) ***

Approach with affection and you will be rewarded. This is third tier Hammer, way down the pecking order behind Dracula and Frankenstein and after attracting studio stalwarts Christopher Lee and Peter Cushing for its first venture into this territory (The Mummy, 1959) dumps them for the sequel. And in the absence of the CGI that transformed the Stephen Sommers version in 1999 – and triggered the misguided Universal Monsterverse – struggles these days to prevent audiences laughing at the special effects. The titular beast was little more than a bandaged version of the lurching creature created by Dr Frankenstein so chills were always going to be in short supply, especially minus the plague of scarabs that dominated the later proceedings.

More interesting is the backstory that drives the narrative, warring siblings in ancient Egypt, the death of the rightful monarch and a reincarnation curse that travels down the centuries. Throw in bombastic King Kong-style showman Alexander King (Fred Clark) determined to monetize an archaeological find, shift the story to London, bring in a damsel Annette (Jeanne Roland) infatuated with the villain, and you have the makings of a decent tale. Alternatively, if you’re of a different mind, that could all be to cover up shortcomings in the plot and the wrong reasons for delaying the appearance of said monster.

People tampering with Egyptian graves tend to get their hands chopped off, but that’s as much warning we get of evil afoot although there are hints of malignancy in the flashback that shows the murder of Ra-Antef, son of Rameses VIII. But triumphant returning Egyptologists John Bray (Ronald Howard), Sir Giles Dalrymple (Jack Gwillim) and Annette, daughter of famed Professor Dubois who died in the line of duty, are inclined to take no precautions.

*Poetic license – the mummy just ain’t that big in the movie.*

Until the mummy is let loose, much of the tale centres around the ruthless grasping King and a love triangle developing between Annette, her fiancé John and the newcomer Adam (Terence Morgan) she met on the voyage home. While John is kept busy by King arranging for the grand public opening of the tomb, Adam slips in to romance Annette, not letting on of course that he possesses the amulet that can revive the sleeping monster. The setting – sophisticated London rather than remote Transylvania – and the delay of the murderous onslaught ensures that most of the picture survives on intelligent conversation, motivations and characters set out in non-cliché manner, and no squads of villagers set up for a marauding.

The monster is pretty effective when he does deign to appear, bursting through windows, picking up the damsel in a pose that I’m convinced Oliver Stone snaffled for Platoon (1986), and making his way to the nearest sewer, unlikely locale for a climax. There’s a propensity for lopping off hands and when that loses its impact stomping on heads.

But it’s not camp, is well-acted and the storyline makes sense. It probably helps that it’s free of Cushing and Lee because with unfamiliar actors the audience has to work harder. Terence Morgan (The Penthouse, 1967) is the pick of the stars because he carries most of the mystery. But Fred Clark (Move Over, Darling, 1963) steals the show by making a meal out of his outrageously greedy businessman. Top marks to Hammer for making Burmese-born Jeanne Roland (You Only Live Twice, 1965 and Casino Royale, 1967) a professional – she is an archaeologist – rather than a cleavage-ridden damsel in distress. And for those of a nervous disposition you will be pleased to know that the monkey is not present just to nibble poison intended for one of the principals.

However, from the outset it was destined for the lower half of a Hammer horror double bill, so the kind of budget that could do it justice was never in evidence. Studio boss Michael Carreras (Prehistoric Women, 1967) always gave the impression of over-extending himself but here as writer-producer-director he manages to keep the picture on an even keel long enough for the monster to do its worst.

Immaculate (2024) ***

As you know we live in a Big Brother pampered society and even going to the movies comes with a health warning. But, I have to tell you, Dear British Censor, “strong bloody violence” doesn’t cut it. Now, I’m as happy to be scared out of my wits as the next guy, jump-out-of-your-seat shocks are part of the fun of horror pictures. But having to close your eyes to plain sadistic action – tongues cut off, feet branded, bellies of pregant women cut open, babies stoned to death – sorry that’s a bit more than “strong.” Maybe torture porn should have a category of its own.

Which is a shame because this is a clever twist on the old trope of the demonic child as proferred by Rosemary’s Baby (1968) and The Omen (1976) – possibly no coincidence either that’s beaten the Omen remake to the punch. Instead of satanic satanists it’s satanic priests and nuns mainlining on some kind of more scientific genetic Da Vinci Code.

And thanks to the runaway success of last year’s Anybody But You, there’s another element at play here, the breakout star’s follow-up picture to gauge if breakout picture was fluke or welcoming a new star into the firmament. Julia Roberts followed up massive hit Pretty Women (1990) with tepid thriller Sleeping with the Enemy (1991) and the soppy Dying Young (1991) but nobody cared how indifferent the follow-ups were and both turned into big hits and wow a star is born. Sandra Bullock arrives out of nowhere in Speed (1994) and follows up with ropey romance While You Were Sleeping (1995) and tepid thriller The Net (1995) and bingo a star is born.

So this is breakout star Sydney Sweeney’s follow-up – excluding Madame Web of course – and I’m not sure if it will sweep up that many of her newfound followers in its wake. Not because it doesn’t deliver the horror goods because outside of the torture porn it’s pretty creepy and with effective twists and if you want to see a bloodied Sydney creep out of a hole in the ground and give birth and then, as if confounding her newfound bubbly screen personality, beat the baby to death then this one is for you.

Anyway, let’s backtrack. Cecilia (Sydney Sweeney), a young American who had a near-death experience, hives off to an Italian convent filled mostly with the devout, the lost and the broken. It’s not Nun of Monza, and it’s not terribly strict either and even though she couldn’t be bothered learning Italian (don’t these nuns speak English?) there’s always someone on hand to help translate. She makes one friend and one enemy, but, hey, like any boarding school that’d be par for the course.

So, here she is settling in, becoming a bride of Christ, taking vows of chastity, obedience and poverty when suddenly charming Fr Tedeschi (Alvaro Monte) comes over all nasty, questioning whether she is a vigin or not. Just when that is established to everyone’s content comes the zinger – she’s pregnant by what is known in Catholic Church parlance as immaculate conception. Quite how this occurred is never explained, except the convent has an artefact claimed to be one of the nails that stuck Jesus to the cross and therefore containing remants of blood (we’re going Jurassic Park here) and thus his genetic code.

You won’t be surprised to learn that she’s not the first victim of this kind of conception. Things start to get fairly nasty after this – someone tries to drown here and then we’re in for the tongue-cutting, branding etc – and Cecilia goes from docile to vengeful. She comes up with a clever trick to escape and when that doesn’t work has to find another way out of her dilemma and if that involves strangling someone with rosary beads that seems nicely ironic in the circumstances.

It was certainly a day of mean mothers in my Quadruple Bill on Monday, this being the last of my quartet. It was certainly well done and the concept no more barmy than any of the demonic baby tropes, if a bit more up-to-date medically, and there was enough of the claustrophic creepiness that comes with the convent territory and the throwback barbarity of the Church (Spanish Inquisition, anyone?). Apart from the torture porn, a good entry into the genre but, despite Sweeney’s performance, this would not have put her in the break-out league. So I think this will just be put behind her as she charts a new rom-com course. Incidentally, like Anna Hathaway and Jessica Chastain in Mother’s Instinct, she was the producer.

Worth seeing for Sweeney, though, and the clever plot ploy.

The Cabinet of Caligari (1962) ***

If you’re going to put an English rose through the mill who better than husky-voiced Glynis Johns and except for the giveaway title you might expect from her previous screen ventures that when her car breaks down in a foreign country we’re all set for romance. But you’re probably on the alert anyway after realizing Robert Bloch (Psycho, 1960) wrote the script. The narrative engine runs on twists and the chances would be poor of audiences comprehending the psychiatric devices involved so it’s pretty much a contemporary haunted house mystery with our heroine trapped in an ever-worsening situation and most of the terror emanating from her own mind.

After her tire blowout, and exhausted from trudging along country roads, Jane (Glynis Johns) seeks help from Swede Caligari (Dan O’Herlihy) who owns a large estate in the country. But when she wakes up in the morning, she is unable to leave or telephone for help. There follows a series of disturbing events including (a la Psycho) a peeping tom (bath not shower), being presented with pornographic photographs, interrogated, witnessing torture and being chased by revolving glass. Other images are terrifying, babies baked in ovens, people buried up to their necks, a torture rack. Nothing and nobody are what they seem.

The twist is that she’s in a mental asylum, the car breakdown a fiction to make acceptable to herself her presence there, the other incidents all explained as various versions of psychiatric treatment including electric shock. The central conceit, that she’s trapped, is well-maintained what with other guests dressing in glamorous fashion for dinner and none behaving like inmates. But when Jane tries to make friends with them in order to organize a breakout or escape, she doesn’t know who to trust, and even attempts seduction.

It kind of works and kind of doesn’t. When the camera explains seconds later the reality behind her crazy visions, it ruins the effect. The expressionistic approach helps in presenting the visuals but can’t provide proper insight into her state of mind. The images are odd rather than helping the story. There’s a disjointed feel to the whole thing, as if director and star were on different planets. And there’s a major plot flaw suggesting Jane must be truly out of her mind if she can’t recognize that Caligari and inmate Paul are the same person, give or take a false beard.

It was a bold career choice for Glynis Johns (Dear Brigitte, 1965), generally the sassiest of heroines, to be so out of control. In his only movie, television director Roger Kay makes a bid for the big time with his visuals but too often loses sight of the characters. Of course, it was always going to be a tough ask to match the original German The Cabinet of Dr Caligari (1920) though I doubt many who saw the loose remake would be aware of its existence.

Interesting for the visuals and Glynis Johns losing the rag.

The Man Who Haunted Himself (1970) ****

I grant you, not many movies pivot on a broken matchstick. Nor, for that matter, play around with the screen persona of the imperturbable Roger Moore (Vendetta for the Saint, 1968) or call upon him to do more than raise an occasional eyebrow. No doubt I’m committing heresy in comparing this to The Wicker Man (1973) but there’s a certain similarity in the innocent being dragged into deep waters and, as in that picture, instead of our hero triumphing against sinister forces, ending up a victim.

While the main narrative thrust is a doppelganger, the initial plot concerns murky business dealings, boardroom betrayal, and corporate espionage set against the backdrop of high living, upscale car, trophy wife, a spot of fun in a casino. The final film of Basil Dearden (The Assassination Bureau, 1969), who died prematurely aged 60, deals with the shattering of the life of strait-laced Pelham (Roger Moore).

He is fastening his car seat-belt a full decade before that was mandatory in Britain, punctuality his mantra, keeps to the speed limit, an immaculate dresser, and while hard work has taken its toll on his marriage he’s not the kind to have a mistress stashed away. But he crashes his car when, against all odds, he seems possessed by the desire to race along at 100mph, overtaking like crazy. For a moment, in surgery, his body registers two heartbeats.

Then people start reminding him of out-of-character activities, thrashing everyone at the club at snooker (and for money stakes), hitting the casino, receiving a nod-and-wink for under-the-table business dealings, while fashion photographer Julie (Olga Georges-Picot) makes sexual demands.

And outside his house his wife Eve (Hildegard Neil) spies a very swanky sports car and begins to suspect her husband is having an affair. Naturally, the upstanding Pelham tries to track down this imposter who has the habit of marking his territory with a broken matchstick. Some occurrences are downright weird. On meeting colleague Alexander (Anton Rogers) for a drink, he discovers he’s already had a drink. There’s the question of a piece of jewellery for Julie that he doesn’t recall buying. An astonished barber wonders why his client would need his hair cut two days in a row. And is someone stealing his shirts and ties?

This is the kind of picture where the normal resolution would be some kind of gas lighting, or tip into film noir with wife and/or the femme fatale involved in conspiracy, or at least some reasonable explanation for the dodgy goings-on.

Britain was going through a doppelganger mini-epidemic, Doppleganger/ Journey to the Far Side of the Sun appearing the year before, but that was a more straightforward sci-fi, being set in the future. And, of course, sci-fi was going through a new cycle what with 2001: A Space Odyssey (1968), Barbarella (1968) and Planet of the Apes (1968).

But it would be a tough call to place this in the same straightforward sci-fi category. The better fit, as I suggested, is The Wicker Man, the background one of a character upset by a different version of normality rather than inhabiting another world or discovering things have changed in the future. And there’s a psychological twist too, the sense of man losing grip on reality, battling a madness he cannot escape, and while it could have done with dwelling on that aspect a while longer, nonetheless Dearden still achieves his result.

Roger Moore is excellent in twin roles, Hildegard Neil makes an interesting debut and Olga-Georges Picot (Farewell, Friend / Adieu L’Ami, 1968) brings surprising depth to her limited role.

The twisty stuff was written by Michael Relph (The Assassination Bureau) and Dearden based on the bestseller The Strange Case of Mr Pelham by Anthony Armstrong.

The Gorgon (1964) ***

This impressive Hammer conspiracy-of-silence slow-burner, more thriller than horror, features the triumvirate of Christopher Lee (The Devil Ship Pirates, 1964), Peter Cushing (The Sword of Sherwood Forest, 1960) and Barbara Steele (Dracula, Prince of Darkness, 1966) in untypical roles. Lee and Cushing, of course, had locked horns before, namely in Hammer’s reimagining of the classic Dracula, with the former the charismatic fiend and the latter his nemesis.

Dr Namaroff (Peter Cushing) is a doctor in an unnamed European turn-of-the-twentieth-century police state who knows more than he is letting on about seven inexplicable deaths in five years and the possibility of a 2,000-year-old myth coming to life and taking on a human form. And with quite a human side, jealous when his assistant Carla (Barbara Shelley) falls for a younger man, Paul (Richard Pascoe). Professor Karl Meister (Christopher Lee) appears late in the day to investigate.

Director Terence Fisher, who had shepherded the studio’s Dracula, Frankenstein, the Mummy and Dr Jekyll franchises through the starting gate, builds up the atmosphere with full moons, haunting voices, fog, sudden sounds, drifting leaves and an abandoned castle forever in shadow. The camera is often a weapon of stealth. Shock is kept to a minimum, fleeting ghostly apparitions and a finger falling off a corpse. Given the limitations of special effects in this era, that was a smart move.

Far better to concentrate on fear of impending doom, a man knowing he is turning to stone, a woman living in terror of being taken over by the phantom. The title gives away the story somewhat – even if you didn’t know the Gorgon was a mythical monster with a headful of snakes and the ability to turn people to stone, that is soon explained.

Death remains the trigger for action, the suicide of an artist after he has apparently murdered his pregnant girlfriend bringing his father onto the scene and then his brother accompanied by Lee. But all investigation hits a wall of silence after Inspector Kanof (Patrick Troughton) refuses to instigate detection.

*The Hammer double bill was a common feature in British cinemas. It also meant Hammer didn’t need to share box office receipts with another company.*

At the heart of all the relationships is betrayal. The artist leading his girlfriend on, Namaroff willing to endanger Carla, whom he professes to love, rather than revealing the truth. Even Carla spies on the brother, with whom she is falling in love, in order to gather information for Namaroff.

Forgive the pun, but Shelley steals the picture. An amnesiac, a victim and finally the lure, she remains enigmatic, a whisper of a woman. It is a haunting portrayal far removed from Hammer’s traditional cleavage queens. This is a very human character who nonetheless must stand guard over herself. Shelleye, here a gentle beauty, initially introduced as merely the love interest, becomes central to the story but without sucking up all the available horror oxygen by over-acting.

Cushing embroiders his character with little touches, smoking a cigarette in a holder, for example, but Shelley’s character, her distrust of herself, shows in every move she makes.

You would need a heart of stone to be unmoved.

https://amzn.to/41dZqD3

The Skull (1965) *****

I have no idea why this masterpiece has not been acclaimed. For virtually half the picture, there is no dialogue, the entire focus on camerawork and reaction. Even Stanley Kubrick in The Shining (1980) gave in to grand guignol and The Exorcist (1973) was filled with over-the-top scenes but here the psychological impact of possession remains confined.

Initially, it appears we are in familiar Hammer territory, a grave-robber detaching a skull from a corpse only to meet an untimely end. There is another flashback to the gothic where the presence of the skull drives an order man to murder. But this is an Amicus production and set in contemporary times where Christopher Lee and Peter Cushing are once again in opposition, but this time only in an auction house bidding for demonic artefacts.

Exposition is straightforward. Dealer Marco (Patrick Wymark) sells Maitland (Peter Cushing) a book about De Sade bound in human skin. Marco may be a con man. He claims to possess the skull of the Marquis de Sade but his attitude towards it, kissing its head, plucking its nose socket, and the fact that he willing to halve his asking price, suggest otherwise. Sir Matthew (Christopher Lee), who once owned the skull, warns Cushing against it.

The rest of the film covers Maitland’s possession of the skull and the skull’s possession of him. There is a notable Kafkaesque sequence where Maitland is arrested, taken before a judge and forced three times to play Russian roulette before ending up in the house of the dealer where he steals the skull. What is less often commented upon is that this nigh-on 15-minute sequence including a 90-second taxi ride is conducted in virtual silence, the camera mostly on Maitland’s face, that silence only broken by the feeding of bullets not the barrel of the gun and the barrel being rolled round. It is not long before Maitland commits his first murder.

There is a famous scene in the Last Tycoon (1976) in which Robert De Niro explains to a truculent word-obsessed British writer why dialogue is redundant in the movies. All you need is camera and reaction. That sets up The Skull’s greatest scene, a 17-minute dialogue-free climax, where Maitland is effectively preyed upon and consumed.

The skull itself appears to have a point-of-view, various shots of Maitland through the skull’s eyes. The actual special effects are limited to what is imminently achievable, the skulls glows, it moves through the air. The impact of its presence is shown on Maitland’s face and by his action. It is just hypnotic.

Various directors have been anointed for the way they move their camera – Antonioni’s 360-degree turn in The Passenger (1975) comes to mind, large chunks of 2001: A Space Odyssey (1968), the long wait for sunrise in Lawrence of Arabia (1962), the lengthy shots of James Stewart driving a car in Vertigo (1958). But I have never seen anything as innovative as the silent sequences in The Skull which would be a waste of innovation were the sequences not so effective, especially on the small screen. Freddie Francis (Nightmare, 1964) directed from a story by Robert Bloch (Psycho, 1960). Equally innovative is the jarring music by avant-garde composer Elizabeth Lutyens.

In the role of his career, Peter Cushing (Dr Who and the Daleks, 1965) turns on the style, his character virtually turning 360-degrees as he becomes enmeshed in diabolic terror.

A must-see.

The Lost Continent (1968) ***

Hammer had struck gold revisiting ancient civilization in One Million Years B.C. (1966) and with its adaptation of Dennis Wheatley’s The Devil Rides Out (1967). The Lost Continent was another Wheatley number (source novel Uncharted Seas) mixing dangerous voyage, hints of the legendary Atlantis, and monsters. While the first half could have been marketed as The Wages of Fear At Sea the second half would come under the heading “The Greatest Oddball Film Ever Made.”

It boasts one of the most intriguing setting-the-scene openings not just of a Hammer picture but of any film – a camera pans along a steamship on whose deck are: people dressed in furs, others in modern clothing and – Conquistadors. Attention is focused on a coffin. How and why they got there is told in flashback. A first half of taut drama, mutiny, sharks, a ferocious octopus, and lost-at-sea a thousand miles from land segues into sci-fi with carnivorous weeds, monsters, and a weird, weird world.

It’s hard to know what’s worse, Captain Lansen (Eric Porter) with a cargo of toxic chemicals made combustible when touched by water or the equally combustible passengers all with murky pasts, so determined to escape their previous lives that they refuse to turn back in the face of a hurricane. Heading the Dodgy Half-Dozen is dictator’s mistress Eva (Hildegarde Knef) with two million dollars in stolen securities and bonds. Dr Webster (Nigel Stock), a back-street abortionist, is at odds with daughter Unity (Suzanna Leigh), who has cornered the market in backless dresses. Harry (Tony Beckley) (The Penthouse, 1967) plays a conman while Ricaldi (Ben Carruthers) is trying to recover the pilfered bonds.

But the arrival of cleavage queen Sarah (Dana Gillespie) as an escapee from the weird world signals a shift to Planet Oddball. The only way to navigate the weeds trapping the ship is with a primitive version of snowshoes with balloons attached to the shoulders. Soon they are trapped in the past, not as prehistoric as One Million Years BC (1966), just a few centuries back to the Spanish Conquistador era. The film steals the idea from the Raquel Welch picture of giant creatures locked in battle but without going to the necessity of hiring Ray Harryhausen.

You couldn’t legislate for the movie’s logic and you shouldn’t even try, just go with the weird flow. It’s on safe enough territory until like The Hangover (20090 it has to explain the bizarre opening sequence. If ever a film has bitten off more than the special effects can chew, it’s this, but it’s still fun watching it try.

The casting relied heavily on actors best known from television or rising stars. Eric Porter was straight from BBC television mini-series mega-hit The Forsyte Saga (1967). Nigel Stock essayed Dr Watson in the BBC Sherlock Holmes series (1964-1968). Falling into the emerging-star category were: Tony Beckley (The Penthouse, 1967), Suzanna Leigh (The Pleasure Girls, 1965) Neil McCallum (Catacombs / The Woman Who Wouldn’t Die, 1965), and Dana Gillespie (Secrets of a Windmill Girl, 1966). Hildegarde Knef (Mozambique, 1964) was just about the most experienced.

In this kind of picture, without being sexist about it, if a woman is required to do more than just scream, it often indicates she has the better part. And so it is here. Leigh and Knef hog the dramatic highlights while Gillespie, courtesy of her outfit and footwear, can’t help but steal the show.

On board ship, director Michael Carreras, fresh from Prehistoric Women (1967), does well, the characters are all solidly presented with decent back stories, but once he enters weird world budget deficiencies sabotage the picture. Even so, it’s worth a look just to see what you’re missing. If you’re looking for a genuine freak show, this ticks the boxes.

Mercy Falls (2023)

The long tradition of Scottish-made or Scottish-set movies – from Whisky Galore (1949), Brigadoon (1954), The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie (1969) and The Wicker Man (1973) to Local Hero (1983), Highlander (1986), Braveheart (1995) and Trainspotting (1996) – has fallen fallow in recent years. And while Outlander has done its best to fill the gap, the most we can hope is Glasgow or Edinburgh being called upon as brief locales or as substitute locations in blockbusters such as F9 (2021) or Indiana Jones and the Dial of Destiny (2023).

So, as a native Scot, I approached Mercy Falls out of a sense of duty. Anything more meant setting aside the odd notion that a movie set in the wilderness will carry the same dread in a horror scenario as the more usual claustrophobic setting. Or that short of a drug-fuelled bear, speedy surprise will be in short supply. And there’s a struggle in coming to terms with the MacGuffin, that a young lass and her four companions will set off to find a cabin whose whereabouts are largely a mystery and with nobody who can read a map.

Putting aside such misgivings, it’s a refreshing change from the torture porn / mad robots / occult offerings of the more recent Hollywood horror cycle. And since it’s mercifully not funded by government agency Creative Scotland no slavish need to turn backdrops into tourist promotional material. Not a whiff of tartan in sight, much less majestic peaks, and the grass, far from being a sweeping green, is burned an unattractive summer brown, though mists do appear to appear as if by magic and you will wonder how such an accomplished wee folk band just happened to be playing in a remote Scottish pub.

Our cast of potential corpses includes uptight heiress Rhona (Lauren Lyle) and her theoretical boyfriend Donnie (Joe Rising), sex-mad Heather (Layla Kirk) and her definite current Steady-Eddie boyfriend Scott (James Watterson) and opportunistic one-night-stand Andy (Eoin Sweeney). They are joined by bad-ass hitchhiker Carla (Nicolette McKeown). Tension in the early part is mostly sexual in nature, although you have to wonder if they will ever reach their destination.

As with Shallow Grave (1994) and television series Guilt (2109-2023) accidental death turns the trip into a nightmare. Tell the truth and five people go to jail as culprits or accessories, tell a lie and dump the body under a remote waterfall and everyone gets off scot free. Or that would be the case except ex-soldier Carla has escaped from a mental institution.

Some sequences appear to have escaped from other movies – climbing a cliff-face and crossing a ravine Indiana-Jones-style across a rickety log – but once the gore count rises it’s game on and the meek Rhona channels her interior super-bitch to take on Carla in a winner-takes-all finale.

The men are uniformly useless, the females the sexual or physical predators. And it’s realistic, too. While Carla has honed her killing techniques on the battlefields of Iraq, Rhona has to rely on more basic materials, an axe, knives, and petrol found in the cabin. Rhona, it turns out, is also handy with that Glaswegian thug’s weapon of choice, the bottle, but when she lays out her opponent with it, rather than break open the bottle and slash her opponent’s throat, she scarpers to a convenient cave where she has laid a “trap,” clearly forgetting that with the enemy at your mercy it’s darned foolish to run and give her another chance.

Still, this isn’t the kind of movie where slick characters think straight, otherwise why would the remaining fella, determined to demonstrate his dexterity, just think you could switch on an old-fashioned heavy-duty radio and yell “Mayday! Mayday!” into it and expect to be picked up. Nobody’s going to win an Oscar and the acting is generally at entry-level, eyes steadfastly revealing little of character, but by and large, it’s an acceptable low-budgeter.

Blame or praise Ryan Hendrick (Lost at Christmas, 2020), also co-writer with Melia Grasska in her debut. Nicolette McKeown (Lost at Christmas) is the pick but that’s mostly because she doesn’t have to emote much beyond lust and hatred while Lauren Lyle (Outlander, 2017-2022) is so emotionally drenched she has to occasionally shed a tear.

This will probably quickly end up on a streamer near you so worth a watch for taking a different tack to horror and as a pointer to future Scottish talent.