Brooding Victorians and Moody Costume Dramas

Brooding Victorians and Moody Costume Dramas

by Kristin Battestella

Well, the title pretty much says it all. If you're looking for angst, frocks, pathos, or British accents, settle in for these windswept period pieces and literary flavorings.

Jane Eyre – Lace, candles, bonnets, frills, and waist coasts open this eleven episode 1983 adaptation starring Zelah Clarke (Dombey & Son) and Timothy Dalton (The Living Daylights). The print is flat now and the production values hampered, however the attention to detail accents the gloomy manor house and its cruel family, abusive isolation, and rare comfort in books. Supposed problem child Jane is passed along to a terrible school where the punishment only increases because of her defiance in the face of starvation, illness, fatal friends, and instruments of correction. Often excised scenes are here word for word, and the very British glum and decorum may be boring for some before the warmth and comfort found in the governess position at Thornfield Hall. Kindly housekeepers and friendly chats let Jane express herself, but locked rooms, ghostly echoes, and whispers of the peculiar master build ominous before an enigmatic roadside encounter with a handsome stranger. Aren't all Jane Eyres identified by their Rochesters? Dalton's brooding suave is very much what we think of in a Rochester – smoldering and easily flustered by Jane in debates over tea where dialogue and performance are primary. He's used to having his way but this lowly governess won't buckle despite the unresolved sexual tension before there was even UST. Jane isn't exceptional but won't yield on her convictions, earning a begrudging respect from the melancholy Rochester, who can confide in her about reluctant gentry matches and superiority versus equality. He admires Jane's purity and would seek to reform through her, wearing his heart on his sleeve even as his secrets would corrupt her. Sinister violence and mysterious accidents make happiness too good to be true alongside beds set on fire, fascinating dualities on character and wickedness, and wild versus saintly symbolism. Jealous resentments dampen pleasant outdoor scenes, turning charming one on one banter into angry, looming, and yearning repression. Rochester is not the silent type, and the scene chewing in many ways has to speak for both characters and draw out do gooder Jane. In spite of the deathbed confessions, age differences, be on your guard warnings, and symbolic white veils torn in two – talk about red flags, girl – we're here for it hook, line, and sinker, swept up in the impediments at the altar, scary attic scenes, bitter revelations, and fleeing into the moors to forgo love and be true to oneself. Seriously though, what is St. John's problem anyway? While this is a wonderful story, the finale does rely on sudden relatives and coincidental fortunes, and I for one was always disappointing something more spooky wasn't afoot. Late episodes away from Thornfield drag thanks to odd scenes without first person narrator Jane and this is a little too long to marathon all at once, but this unabashedly takes its time to assure a complete adaptation. I love the 2011 version for its compact, more gothic spirit; however this is delightful for fans of the cast, period piece audiences, classroom comparisons, and Bronte lovers.

The Man Who Invented Christmas – Dan Stevens (Downton Abbey) stars as Charles Dickens alongside Christopher Plummer (Somewhere in Time) and Jonathan Pryce (Hysteria) in this whimsical 2017 account on what really happened during the 1843 writing of A Christmas Carol. Our successful author has toured America to much fanfare, but Dickens is ready to get back to work despite unforthcoming publishers thanks to the poor sales of Barnaby Rudge, negative Martin Chuzzlewit reviews, and gasp – writer's block. It's expensive being a London gentleman when the wife is redecorating, bills are mounting, and everyone wants a donation from the exhausted Dickens, who has no creativity and a deadline to meet. Fancy garb, carriages, quills, candles, and humorous crescendos create charm alongside entertaining children with fairy tales and holiday mentions of veils being lifted as spirits roam between worlds. Grim alleys, dark cemeteries, bitter mourners, snobby friends wishing the poor would die, and humbug revelations inspire Dickens to write about a vile money maker learning the err of his ways thanks to sprites and spiritual intervention. Unfortunately, there wasn't a market for Christmas books back then and no profit in such a minor holiday. Going it alone, Dickens bounces about his bower mimicking voices – because if your find the character's name, he will appear. Similar to Miss Potter, Dickens transcribes Carol quotes from bemusing encounters with the famous characters entering his chamber. Scenes we know and love are acted out before him until an abrupt “That's as far as I've gotten” halt while the players add their opinions on the tale whether he wants them to or not. After starting well, begging for money and mooching relatives slow the spirited possibilities, and we shouldn't leave Dickens' breakthrough once the wonderful frenzy happens. There are hints of darker Dickens aspects, but his debtors fears and realistic problems feel shoehorned in once the fanciful comes to life. It's tough to have the author mirror Scrooge with contrived overnight changes and revelations about Dickens' terrible childhood when we know his life story and anything truly heavy is off limits. Problems are created just for a third act resolution, and one on one confrontations with his father regarding Dickens' lingering shame and brokenness are more powerful. The source here is a non-fiction book, but the film is obviously fiction, and viewers know Dickens had success before and will again. Maybe the real world Victorian issues are meant to parallel the Carol constructs, however the narrative can be uneven, interrupting arguments about killing off characters while they wait about his room or repeating his struggle over what of himself to put on the page before wondering what the point of a story is if there is no hope. After all the forgiveness discourse, a quick postscript with newfangled Christmas trees says everything turned out just fine – although writers today seeing Dickens' need to self publish and inability to get a $300 loan know circumstances haven't really changed amirite? This isn't necessarily a Christmas movie, and the family friendly fantasy may be too much for those seeking a hardcore Dickens biography. Some audiences may be sly to the author within his own story gimmick, too. Fortunately, there's enough charm in the wholesome nuggets and inventive twists on the familiar tale, and I'd also here for Plummer playing Scrooge en masse yes please.

The Turn of the Screw – Downton Abbey alum Michelle Dockery joins Dan Stevens (again) and Nicola Walker (MI-5) in this ninety minute 2009 BBC adaptation of the Henry James askew moving the repressed ambiguity to 1921 institutions with post war doctors analyzing our governess' infatuation with her employer, the topsy turvy male shortage, and of kilter Bly Manor. Fashions, hats, sweet automobiles, fine woodwork, and hefty antiques sell the refreshing setting, however the nonsensical strobe flashes look amateur on top of the time wasting, disjointed doctoring add-ons and unnecessary narration. Visions of dalliances that initially upgrade the Victorian scandalous soon hit the viewer over the head one too many times as the governess imagines her master and his saucy approval. She insists she's not the nervous type, but the dark interiors, maze like staircases, and distorted camera angles add to the strange noises and creepy country manor unease. She's in charge, above housekeepers and maids, but there are too many flighty women doing all the work in this house. Parasols and summer white contrast eerie fog and trains as her boy charge is expelled from school without explanation. The cheeky children whisper about their previous, pretty governess – unbothered by screams, accidents, or dying maids. Melancholy piano music, graveyard echoes, dark figures amid the trees, and faces in the window build on the female isolation, yet all insist there are no ghosts – surely she's just hysterical, overwrought, and obsessed with men. Rumors of suicide and a woman ruined by her lover seem proved by hidden pictures of the master's up to no good valet, and tales of his violence among the unprotected women are better than seeing suspect flashbacks. The prim style degrades to loose hair and nightgowns as our governess jumps to dire conclusions and possessive delirium, but the shouting about it afterward with her doctor interruptions break the tainted picnics and frantic tension. We don't need his sounding board to deduce her fears, just let us see the abusive violence and water perils. Crazy laughter and disembodied voices escalate as the phantoms, repression, and projection possibilities culminate in a one on one battle for the truth. The deviations here are flawed, and while the horror lite is fine for gothic period piece fans, some viewers will expect more than the have it both ways attempt at the ghosts and crazy ambiguity. This isn't the best version but thanks to the cast and unique setting, it can be a good introduction for audiences who haven't seen The Innocents.

A Disappointment

Under Capricorn – Ingrid Bergman (Anastasia) and Joseph Cotten (Hush...Hush, Sweet Charlotte) star in this overlong 1949 mystery from director Alfred Hitchcock (The Birds) with an opening narration filling in the Colonial Australia history and past Ireland secrets before 1831 governors, stiff upper lip politicking, and wooden exposition. Who has money, who's related to whom, who's doing the land deals – it's all clunky and yawn worthy on top of a period setting perhaps obscure for American audiences then and now. Colorful waistcoats, cravats, and frocks alongside muddy frontier streets and carriages attempt an early Victorian meets Wild West tone, but the shrunken heads rolling at their feet is more awkward then shocking. Hitchcock attempts new techniques here in his second Technicolor film – long takes, zooms, and tracking cameras following the players in scene. Unfortunately, the direction is stilted, moving from men talking to other men talking about what the other men just said. The first fifteen minutes of convicts turned businessmen and conversations while bathing in a barrel could have been excised, opening instead with the newly arrived scoundrel eavesdropping on a suspect dinner at the creepy manor house. Iron-fisted housekeepers, beaten staff, and disobedient convicts add to the drinks, whispers, social shunnings, and an intriguingly absent wife – who has some history with the new man in town. So much time is spent talking about the past at the expense of the present, yet people readily drop all their secrets and explain their life stories to folks they've just met. A few sentimental winks and smiles bolster the love story elements, however it's awkward to see Bergman both lighting up the room as well as playing the drunken barefoot and wobbling sickly. Uncharismatic, strong chinned men, swelling crescendos, and fainting women combine for all the things audiences bemoan about period pieces, and the supposedly scandalous love triangles remain undynamic. A stable boy eloping with the master's daughter and killing her brother in the process while the maid secretly poisons the wife would make for an interesting tale, but most of that action is told after the fact rather than shown. The tiara ensemble and divine ball make for the one exceptional, uninterrupted sequence capturing all the guilt and performance lacking in the rest of the film. Despite horse chases, who really shot whom revelations, and deportation threats; the drama never seems to happen before the abrupt happy ending. One can see what Hitchcock is trying to attempt with characters bound to the visual frame as well as their inescapable history. Unfortunately, calling attention to the drama with the camera only shows how thin the story is. Even if viewers leave any Master of Suspense expectations aside and like romantic period yarns, this is really only for the Hitchcock and Bergman completists.

Soylent Green

Soylent Green Remains Delicious

by Kristin Battestella

In 2022, New York City is over populated with forty million people. Unemployment, homelessness, heatwaves, and hunger are rampant – leaving Detective Frank Thorn (Charlton Heston) on riot duty until the murder of a wealthy board member for the Soylent Corporation. Soylent's latest nutritional supplement is made from plankton and called Soylent Green, but quantities are limited and Thorn's aging research partner Solomon Roth (Edward G. Robinson) uncovers a secret, disturbing ingredient. Thorn digs deeper into the case, but politicians want Chief Hatcher (Brock Peters) to close the investigation, placing Thorn's life in danger as he gets closer to revealing the unsavory truth.

Vintage tintype pictures open director Richard Fleischer (Fantastic Voyage) and writer Stanley Greenberg's (Skyjacked) 1973 Soylent Green adaptation of the Harry Harrison novel with ye olde history before speeding slideshows of industry highs, crisis lows, and superb instrumentals to match. Now it's all community removal announcements, prohibited locales, and advertisements for Soylent Red, Soylent Yellow, and the new Soylent Green. Butter and paper are rare, light bulbs are dimming, and hustling is the only way to obtain goods. Our tough men are both delighted and ashamed of their looting while other people sleep in stairwells or live in cars permanently parked in the streets. Classical music accents meager meals we would take for granted as adults delight over advantageous plastic spoons, never before tasted stew, and a sample of strawberries that cost $150 a jar! Of course, the wealthy live in luxury apartments – privileged with suave ladies called “furniture,” fresh meat, and precious vegetables – and authority figures who should have power are envious of lavishness the affluent don't appreciate such as real beds, lengthy hot showers, and air conditioning. Desperate poor are hired to kill those above with surprising, blunt violence amid the beaded curtains, white furs, and scotch. Bodies are taken to waste disposal centers, but old folks remember when there used to be ceremonies for the dead. Orphans in bunk beds fill the churches instead of pews, and truths told in confession are too much for a priest to bear. 

In Soylent Green, broken people are trying to survive the bleak dystopian atmosphere, numbers instead of names waiting in line for water, food coupons, or death benefits. Long lines of poor and hungry won't stand for short rations, and riots between the haves and have nots escalate alongside disturbingly nonchalant violence in sacred places. Assassination set ups and multi-layered mysteries – when there are one hundred and thirty-seven murders a day, why argue when the higher ups want a case closed? Investigation exposition provides how Soylent came to control frozen food manufacturing, law firms, governors, and sustenance for half the planet. Those in the know are followed and police hands are tied by cryptic conversations about silencing others. Viewers have seen similar Depression angst and more recent meaningless Black Friday mobs, but in Soylent Green, screaming crowds are hauled away, tossed into creepy forklifts, and hoisted into dumpsters. Scenes sans music echo with droning machinery as silencer gunshots narrow the seemingly broad point of view via process of elimination, supply and demand, and two birds with one stone control. There are few options beyond sad euthanasia opportunities – a pleasant twenty minutes with your favorite music, color, and theatrical presentations featuring long lost nature, flowers, animals, oceans, and sunsets. Soylent Green is emotional without saying a word in exceptional one man reveals unknown to the audience thanks to silent mouthings, headphones, and wide-eyed, shocked reactions. Viewers aren't spoon fed in another silent sequence of sanitation trucks, stowaways, and processing plants. We're beside the detective's need to know amid the mechanical hums, buzzing equipment, and disposal center tense as conveyor belts and assembly lines lead to goodbye phone calls, shootouts, and a now famous revelation.

Good Old Post Apocalyptic Chuck strikes again, as Charlton Heston's (The Omega Man) Detective Thorn goes through the motions of his dog eat dog existence. He has a badge, riot gear that's little more than a football helmet, and no protocol – sweaty and unbothered as he pilfers booze and satin pillowcases from his night shift crime scene. Frank turns on the tap just to feel the running water on his face, sniffs the soap, wants a glass filled with rare ice, and treats himself to the puff of a cigarette. He flirts with the ladies as the interrogating man in charge but insists he doesn't have the time to ask them for anything nice. Thorn's envious of what rich men have, angry over how most people aren't angry about their entire situation. He's not afraid to rough up anyone attacking him man or woman but defends abused women and understands when a hungry crowd won't disperse. Frank can't be off work himself for more than two days, fearing for his job and his very livelihood, yet he risks investigating this shelved case despite threats against him. He refuses to see a police doctor, but Thorn's hunched and distraught earnestness is firmly felt. He's wounded and running, still trying to remain upright and take action because he must. At last Thorn experiences all the things he never knew, which lead him to what he doesn't want to know. Soylent Green is the swansong for Edward G. Robinson (The Ten Commandments), and his once revered professor remembers when food was food, water wasn't poison, and soil wasn't toxic. The world was beautiful; meat, eggs, and produce were available everywhere – but people were still just as rotten. Sol's crusty and tired, hanging on only because of Thorn. He's happy when Thorn brings him paper, pencils, and soap – weeping when he sees beef and wondering how men came to this. Sol studies the shocking Soylent reports in a back door meeting with his former contemporaries, emotionally showing both the audience as well as Thorn what is at stake even if he doesn't want to live in such a godless world where Soylent's secret solution makes frightening sense.

Tab Fielding can also read and write – unusual traits for his position in the era of Soylent Green, but Chuck Connors' (The Rifleman) bodyguard only remains loyal so long as his contract is paid. Fielding escorts the ladies to peruse the luxury inventory and has a decent apartment himself – including his own “furniture,” the svelte and strawberry eating Paula Kelly (Night Court). It might have been interesting if Soylent Green had focused more on this cool but ambiguous cucumber instead of other anonymous henchmen, for it's always entertaining to see these two Chucks go mano y mano. Unfortunately, police chief Brock Peters (Deep Space Nine) owns a rare watch that doesn't run – so much then for chastising his late officers. He dislikes when the aptly named Thorn won't listen, but Chief Hatcher knows he's a good cop. He tries to convince Thorn to walk away from this murder case thanks to pressure from the top, however, in this world, his word and trust in his men isn't good enough to assure their survival. Likewise high up but risky and unreliable Joseph Cotten (Hush...Hush, Sweet Charlotte) goes along with the pain when his company says it is necessary. He attends church and treats Leigh Taylor-Young's (Picket Fences) Shirl with respect, letting her shop and not abusing her despite his right to do so. Shirl comes with the apartment, and she'll be there for the next tenant whether she likes him or not, mere entertainment for his guests. While she does get into bed when Chuck tells her to get into bed, their relationship becomes one of freedom rather than force – a rare dalliance amid Soylent Green's patriarchal control.

The lavish apartments with sophisticated sliding doors and anonymous white science fiction infrastructure contrast the overcrowded slums and dark one room hovels cramped with simple cots, rare books, and older technology. Matte paintings are somewhat obvious and certainly the boob tubes are big because this is an old picture, however that back dated design also provides a realistic touch to the futuristic factories. The people at the bottom have no advances or access, and must peddle a broken bicycle to keep a tired generator going. Likewise, the police station looks as seedy and hazy as the downtrodden streets its men patrol. Bodyguards and officers wear khaki clothing and plain hats – subtly hinting at the mass produced, lookalike garments of a totalitarian regime. The classical scoring is so sweet, but the occasional swanky sexy music is corny, detracting from the bright luxuries versus homeless crowds that work well enough on their own. Fortunately, more often Soylent Green knows when silence or diegetic sound is best amid choice blood reds and well done violence be it congested strong men battles or round ups and rioting. The Soylent Green DVD provides commentaries and vintage behind the scenes shorts with Robinson tributes, but I want to have my cake and eat it too with more retrospectives to match the crisp and refreshed 4K viewing experience. Thanks to its iconic ending, it's tough to truly catch a virgin viewer for Soylent Green. However, this bitter pièce de résistance remains disturbingly relevant with its past parallels and eerie predictions providing plenty of food for thought. 


Even knowing the big surprise here, Soylent Green holds up thanks to exceptional performances and well paced storytelling. This is not a horror movie yet has disturbing elements. It's science fiction but not a ninety minute action adventure and too fantastic to be a straight drama. Despite knowing the truth, those in control won't ruffle any feathers while the eating is good. They'll do anything to keep themselves cushy – especially at the expense of others. Soylent Green is a delicious parable blending all its genre elements to give us a taste of our own medicine.

Hush...Hush, Sweet Charlotte

Hush... Hush, Sweet Charlotte a Delicious Gothic Treat

by Kristin Battestella

Director and producer Richard Aldrich capitalized on Whatever Happened to Baby Jane? with the chilling but no less sophisticated Southern Gothic examination of murder, gossip, and madness in 1964's Hush...Hush, Sweet Charlotte.

After Charlotte Hollis' (Bette Davis) father Big Sam (Victor Buono) insists she break off her dalliance with the married John Mayhew (Bruce Dern), Charlotte enters the cotillion covered in blood. Decades later, Charlotte remains an infamous murderess and recluse, living alone save for housekeeper Velma Cruther (Agnes Moorehead). The state of Louisiana plans to tear down the crumbling Hollis House to build a bridge, and with Doctor Drew Bayliss' (Joseph Cotten) help, cousin Miriam Deering (Olivia de Havilland) returns to convince Charlotte she must leave. Unfortunately, ghostly violence terrorizes the women, blurring past crimes, contemporary suspicions, and deadly delusions.

Happening jazz, dancing, and 1927 good times hide the illicit schemes, secret elopements, and vicious murder opening Hush...Hush, Sweet Charlotte. We think we've seen a cold hearted kill thanks to intercut chopping, gruesome slices, and screams, but is this crime all it seems? Wind chimes and silent shocks lead to 1964 cemeteries and youthful rhymes detailing the chop chop legend of headless lovers as boys sneak in the desolate ballroom ruined by passion, scandal, and insanity. Construction vehicles rumble nearby, yet there's a certain gentility to the venomous shouts. Everyone says miss or sir, using full names and regional colloquialisms despite the ten day eviction notice, paranoid conspiracies, suspicious old enemies, and secrets coming back to haunt one and all. Talk of an innocent teen girl having a dirty affair with a married man and calling each other bitches was shocking dialogue at the time, but there are also regrets, tears, and wishful thinking of an inheritance that should have been well spent instead of wasted on the lonely, dilapidated decades. The dramatically paced conversations are layered with talk of the past, current states of mind, double entendres, and shade – creating zingers and story telling comforts before wardrobes that open by themselves, slashed clothing, crank letters, and unforgiving threats quicken the pulse. Creaking doors, cleavers, and severed limbs scare the women – our eponymous character may be a little mad, but others are experiencing the frights, too. Crimes of Passion magazine reporters are excited that now in the sixties they can play up the murder's sex angle, and there's no one to trust amid phantom figures strolling the grounds and ghostly harpsichord playing. Storms, lightning, and winds blowing across the balcony lead to breaking windows and shattered mirrors. Today we have crazy versus ghost horrors, but they are often teen light rather than sophisticated dramas with performances free to carry the murderous motives behind the frights. Hush...Hush, Sweet Charlotte provides superb scenes with heavyweight talent, and revelations in the final act place the viewer within the footsteps, physical bouts, and shocking violence. The southern gentility degrades into cruel intensity as the sense of dread escalates without any need for in your face jump scares. Deaths we've seen happen are said to have happened entirely differently, and the women do what has to be done thanks to the men's messes – be he builder, destroyer, father, doctor, or lover. Beckoning echoes and tormenting serenades are twisted, sad, and delicious all at once thanks to eerie masks, gunshots, headless suitors, and nightmares. Delusions revisit the original crime while chilling visuals, bitch slaps, and dead bodies rolled up in the carpet contribute to the hysteria. These dames won't suffer for the lies, blackmail, and cruelty anymore, but the can't take it with you and what was it all for pain serves up a few more frights before the madness is all said and done.

Is Bette Davis' (All About Eve) Charlotte a crazy killer, abused, or just misunderstood? She's mad one minute pushing planters off the balcony at construction workers but demure in white, crying, and heartbroken the next. Charlotte's an unreliable old woman dealing with trespassers and losing her home. She doesn't need sympathy or company, just help in saving Hollis House. At times she is very sharp, but she's also caught in the moment of her lover's murder, dressed up and waiting for a dead beau. She knows the townsfolk think she got away with murder, however the audience likes her moxie. We're on her side when the sheriff insists she only acts loony because it's what's expected of her, and we pity Charlotte's sobbing sing a longs to their song. She wakes up in the night, for her fantasies are only real in the dark – Charlotte used to be positive she wasn't crazy, but now she isn't so sure thanks to ghostly visions, medication, and nightly damaged she swears she didn't do. Mad murderess or not, she is certainly scared, and the family pride, fatal disgrace, gossip, and the irony of letting go make for a sad vindication. Olivia de Havilland's (The Heiress) cousin Miriam Deering tries to make it easier for Charlotte to leave, reminiscing and sharing fond memories of sliding down the banister. She makes Charlotte laugh, telling her not to pay any attention to trash rags, old rivals, or nasty letters but come back to reality. Unfortunately, Miriam can't stop the state's eviction, and she's always looking out for herself first. Charlotte says her public relations job “sounds dirty,” and past tattle tales on who was the poor relation or favored daughter make Miriam wish she had never come back. Nonetheless, she increasingly takes over the household, packing and making Charlotte say goodbye to Hollis House whether she is ready or not.

According to Joseph Cotten's (Duel in the Sun) Dr. Drew Bayliss, Charlotte has nothing more than a persecution complex. He insists the state's condemned order is solely about the bridge construction and not Charlotte's infamy – although he has looked into committing her but doesn't have enough evidence. Drew calls himself an old man who missed out, regretting choosing his career and breaking off his past romance with Miriam. She, however, insists he's too quick with his compliments and intentions. He flirts with her as he did in their youth, preying upon her even as he wants to protect her – giving her a handgun in case there are any more trespassers. Unfortunately, only more memories of the past come back, and Drew wonders if Charlotte isn't creating her own company and reliving her debutante days with newly fixed delusions. Surprisingly, only Agnes Moorehead (The Bat) as loyal housekeeper and sassy defender Velma Cruther received hardware for her performance in Hush...Hush, Sweet Charlotte – a shiny Best supporting Actress Golden Globe contrasting her crusty, cranky self. Velma dislikes Miriam, mocking her before sulking behind a column and muttering comebacks between her chores. Although initially humorous, Velma isn't stupid. She tries phoning for help and confronts Miriam outright when told she's being dismissed with the month's wages. Velma only takes her orders from Charlotte, and the imminent tearing down of Hollis House does not mean she won't be needed when the manor's gone. Velma sees through Miriam's high and mighty behavior in several taut confrontations that become scrumptiously physical. Certainly there are a few superfluous characters – utility players dispensing exposition yet detracting from the taught hysteria, but Mary Astor (The Maltese Falcon) makes the most of her brief time as Jewel Mayhew, the widow of Charlotte's mutilated lover. Although Charlotte suspects Jewel is out to get her, she's not afraid to tell Miriam and her vicious tongue off in public. Jewel is gravely ill and ready for the truth to be heard. Victor Buono (King Tut in Batman, people!) mostly appears in the prologue as Charlotte's stern father Big Sam, but his threatening presence lingers throughout the film. He disapproves of some lothario like the married Bruce Dern (The 'burbs) intending to elope with Charlotte and ruin the family legacy he has rebuilt – and his orchestrations ironically cause exactly what he was trying to prevent in memorializing the Hollis name. Unfortunately, George Kennedy (Earthquake) appears too briefly as the foreman ready to bulldoze the manor standing in the way of his bridge project. He's tried being kind to Charlotte and objects to her shooting at his crew. It might have been interesting to have seen him appear more as a physical reminder of the ten day requisitions countdown, for at times the need to vacate for the tear down is almost forgotten in Hush...Hush, Sweet Charlotte's crazy horrors.

Art Direction, Cinematography, and Editing nominations abound for Hush...Hush, Sweet Charlotte thanks to excellent gray scale schemes, symbolic shadows, scary silhouettes, and askew camera angles that remain sharp on 4K screens. Overhead visuals peer into the scene with our point of view in tight for the harsh, angry faces or panning wide to capture the empty, stage-like mansion interiors. Choice zooms, distorted up shots, and foreboding down angles accent the spinning ceiling fans – we feel the congested southern heat despite breezy lace curtains, open windows, wispy willows, and dangling moss. Trees and balconies are high, but Hollis House is dimly lit with few candles at the dinner table and dark strolls on the veranda leaving room for those disturbing severed heads, phantom hands, and great horror effects. The expansive locales mean every scene takes its time, laid back with people made small in the Louisiana inside out lifestyle. There's no rush to walk down the long corridors as mishaps belie the grand staircase and grandfather clocks tick tock. Barking dogs and silent pauses add to the atmosphere alongside the nominated Score with its angry crescendos, sad melodies, and bittersweet lyrics. Hush...Hush, Sweet Charlotte has ye olde big newspapers with thick headlines, flashbulb cameras, and $2.50 for a cab drive after which he's told to keep the change! There's a firmly sixties mood thanks to the big cruising cars, hats, gloves, white suits, and cigarettes – however the grandeur is also trapped in time with tall columns, wallpaper, tea in the garden, chandeliers, telegrams, leather libraries, and looming large family portraits. And bench car seats mean we see some good old fashioned slide across!

Hush...Hush, Sweet Charlotte has always seemed a little less beloved than it's exceptional predecessor Whatever Happened to Baby Jane? and video options remain slightly elusive thanks to unavailability on Netlix and a limited edition blu-ray. Some audiences may find the psycho biddy style too camp – at times there's certainly over the top inducing laughter to the scary. At two hours and fifteen minutes, Hush...Hush, Sweet Charlotte may also be too long and not all out horror enough for viewers accustomed to contemporary, formulaic slashers. For others there may not be full rewatch value once one knows how it ends, but Hush...Hush, Sweet Charlotte is worth repeat viewings for all the graceful clues and nuances amid the Southern Gothic terror – remaining a gripping, can't look away master class of chilling moments and staple performances.

Retro Horror Girl Power!

Retro Horror Girl Power

by Kristin Battestella

Gather the girlfriends 'round and go back thirty years or more for this batch of foreign and domestic chillers steeped in murderous sisterhood, paranormal dames, and sexist serial killers.

Alice, Sweet Alice – Frantic Hail Marys, church bells, rectories, and crosses in nearly every scene steep this 1976 slasher in layers of iconography alongside matching yellow jackets, similarly named long hair lookalikes, sisterly favoritism, and saint versus sinner parallels. Little Brooke Shields (Suddenly Susan) is fond of her priest, goes to confession, and is gifted with a crucifix necklace while twelve year old Paula Sheppard (Liquid Sky) wears a mask to scare the cook. The ceremonial crown, veil, and white dress feel medieval bridal amid the Latin sanctity and old fashioned Sunday best formality – composed women in hats, gloves, pearls, and Jackie O suits are soon hysterical once murder blasphemes the sacred within its very walls. Creepy hints of the strangling attack, feet dragging beneath the pews, and a charred fate intercut the kneeling at the altar and passing wafer, turning the white confirmation into a black funeral. The uptight roosts point fingers, cast blame, and belittle husbands, but the parents are also too busy to notice the gluttonous downstairs neighbor obsessed with cats promising not to bite Alice if she visits him. Out of wedlock, divorced, and remarried taboos squabble while hidden periods and no long playing with dolls maturity layer the well done shocks and mask scares. Intense lie detector tests, cold yes or no questions, and scary needle movements add atmosphere along with thunderstorms, bugs, and basement hideaways. This murder acerbates a preexisting family strain, and such repressed attitudes would almost rather there be a grief approved death than admit to potential schizophrenia problems. Retro cameras, typewriters, big phone booths, classic cars, old school police, and formal psychiatrist interviews reiterate the mid-century rigid while prank calls, cramped stairs, and penetrating stabs invoke a frenzied response with violent twists. Do some of the victims get what they deserve? Confessions, warped revelations, mother madonna saintly and magdalene whore shaming cloud the case, and the children pay for the sins of the father indeed. This is a taut little thriller with fine scares, mystery, and parables made horror.

The Hearse – Divorced teacher Trish Van Devere (The Changeling) deals with nosy realtor Joseph Cotten (Citizen Kane) not to mention ominous headlights, dark roads, phantom winds, visions in the mirror, and a freaky uniformed chauffeur in this 1980 spooky. There is an initial proto-Lifetime movie feeling and the picturesque Golden Gate Bridge vistas remain just another driving to the horrors montage as our jittery dame heads to the recently bequeathed home of her late aunt for the summer. The Blackford neighbors, however, are unwelcoming gossips, and the minister says any standoffishness must be her imagination. Of course, her shorts are very short and despite a flirtatious sheriff, cat calls while jogging, and compliments about the resemblance to her aunt, all the men must help her roadside and make women driving jokes while doing so. Those trees just jump out into the road! Thanks to whispers of past pacts with Satan, they don't expect her to stick around long, either. The then-edgy music knows when to be quiet, adding to the isolation, crickets, and woman alone creepy. Covered antiques, leftover fashions, period pictures, and attic relics invoke a museum mood – an intrusion by the living justifying the faulty electric, slamming doors, creaking stairs, rattling pipes, and ghostly faces in the window. A music box plays on its own while a mysterious necklace, ironic radio sermons, and the titular highway pursuits escalate along with footsteps, intruders, and shattering glass. The tracking camera pans about the house in an ambiguous move that's both for effect and someone – or something – approaching. Likewise, reading the diary of her devil worshiping aunt alongside a new whirlwind but suspicious romance creates dual suspense – which can certainly be said for that Hearse when it pulls up to the front porch and opens its back door. The black vehicle, white nightgown, and choice reds increase with candles, coffins, and funerary dreams. Pills and long cigarette drags visualize nerves amid bridge accidents, disappearing bodies, rowdy town vandals, and gaslighting decoys. The solo reading aloud and talking to oneself scenes will be slow to some viewers, and at times the car action is hokey. The mystery can be obvious – it feels like we've seen this plot before – yet the story isn't always clear with low, double talk dialogue. However, it's easy to suspect what is real with interesting twists in the final act, and the adult cast is pleasing. Well done clues keep the guessing fun, and several genuine jump moments make for a spirited midnight viewing.

Phenomena – Jennifer Connolly (Labyrinth) and Donald Pleasence (Halloween) star in this 1985 Italian production from director Dario Argento along with Walkmans, a giant computer, overhead projectors, retro school buses, huge headphones, big boob tube TVs, off the shoulder sweatshirts, and crimped hair. The horseshoe phones are so hefty one breaks through the floor when it falls, and top heavy metal names such as Iron Maiden anchor the score. Pretty but bleak Swiss scenery, foreboding roads, suspicious chains, and an isolated cabin speak for themselves with blood, shattered glass, cave perils, scissor attacks, and strangling violence contrasting the rural vistas and scenic waterfalls. The on the move camera tracks the scares, panning with the staircases, chases, and penetrating knives rather than hectic visuals working against the action – leaving heartbeats, ticking clocks, and rage music to pulse the frenetic dreams. Congested tunnels, dark water, and rotting heads build tension alongside sleepwalking shadows, blue lighting schemes, and saintly white symbolism. Insects, monkeys, and bizarre medical tests collide with missing teens, amnesia, and an old school sense of being lost in the foreign unknown. Despite the young protagonist, the horror remains R without being juvenile or nasty. Although necrophilia and rape are implied amid girls in short shirts, dirty old men, and killer penetrations, the innuendo isn't like today's overt teen T-n-A exploitation. Doctors and a strict headmistress suspect epilepsy, schizophrenia, or drugs before the otherworldly but friendly communication with animals – cruel schoolmates and religious extremists view such talents or swarming commands as demonic rather than embracing the literal fly on the wall fantastics. Would you follow bugs to the scene of the crime to see the decomposing victim through their eyes? The notion to be in tune with nature and commune with insects as allies is unique in a genre usually reserving such crawlies for scares, and cool bug eye viewpoints, covered mirrors, freaky dolls, and maggots accent the deceptions, twists, and escalating revelations for some gruesome surprises and a wild finish. And oh my gosh there is a classmate wearing a Bee Gees t-shirt. Want it!!

Tenebre – Onscreen book pages set the deadly state of mind for this 1982 Argento thriller as retro airports, phone booths, jealous dames in furs, and saucy innuendo give way to duty free shoplifting, vagrants, and daytime assaults – building intrigue that is both crime thriller and horror with killer vignettes, gore, and bizarre scenery. Pages shoved in the victim's mouths add warped personality as reporters cry sexism and cheap thrills inspired by the manuscript. Stylish nudity and slasher voyeurism raise tension as the camera peers through windows in search of the next victim while the pulsing electronic score peppers the clashing metaphors – disloyal literary agent John Saxon (Nightmare on Elm Street), male versus female cops, a feminine voice wielding a straight razor male weapon. Subtitles would have helped the low volume and off dubbing, but typewriters, record players, and flash cameras accent breaking glass frights, dark room developments, and pieces of the unseen killer's lair. Although murders in a book made real may be a common plot now, the slightly abstract lack of polish and low budget freaky adds to the American in Rome angst, threatening phone calls, shoe fetishes, and phallic parallels. The stark visuals mirror the cold, harsh detachment – something is hiding in plain sight with white clothes, red symbolism, beach-side sexual aggression, and gender bending encounters as our clues. Are young women flirting with older men asking for violence? The multi-layered life imitating art giallo expectations add commentary on such tropes with dual investigations, puzzling notes, and a detective reading detective novels but unable to solve what's on the page. Breaking and entering violations, symbolic penetrating attacks, and a whiff of Catholicism accent killer dogs, chases, double crossings, repression, and frazzled nerves as the quality deaths escalate into bold violence and visual confirmations. Despite a previous Nasty notoriety, this isn't torture porn for the sake of it and may actually seem tame compared to today's shocks. Fortunately, this remains an intelligent cross genre thriller and taut mystery with red herrings, insider psychosis, and wild film within a film veils. After all, who is the voyeur if not viewer?

Avoid!

Don't Answer the Phone – Sweaty rituals open this 1980 bizzarity before a nurse in white, heavy breathing, strangulation fetishes, and sexual violence. Old radio designs, big headsets, giant switches, tape reels, pay phones, and chalk boards in the precinct add retro pastiche, however, a padding police research montage merely opens file cabinets, passes papers, and sighs over manila folders as our killer strolls along the Walk of Fame before finding the seedy side of town. We know nothing about him save for an army jacket, and the fake Spanish accent used in calling the radio psychologist is pointless. Snippy cops say this serial strangler is good overtime money, and hokey killer workouts/pep talks don't mix with serious patients and therapy sessions recounting abuse. Rather than sticking with the forensic samples, hairs, and bite mark clues or the female doctor who could solve the crime, every strong woman with a breakthrough dies. Such prey rather than empowered gratifies the violence – apparently it's not the killer's fault when he replays the abuse of an incest victim as sexy. Um, no. Prayers, candles, and warped visuals try too hard to be inside the scandalous when the detectives and radio host evidence should be the core. A crime thriller peppered with real world heightened horror moments is fine, but interesting police psychologist theories are ignored for a black pimp more upset at being called dumb than a racial slur – amid a supposedly comical raid where the cops bemoan filling out the forms for shooting said black pimp. o_O This needed either the investigation perspective with his prank calls alone or an unseen following of the killer. Hearing his cues at the photography sessions and luring models are enough fearful suggestion. Instead, all cops are wisecracking assholes one step behind what we've already seen because evidently we're supposed to feel sorry for the crying killer when he's selling his fetish photos of the victims. This is not PTSD from the Vietnam psychopath trope, as the murderer whines about the usual childhood killing of the dog, wetting the bed, and a step-dad who didn't like him, and the attempted gritty defending of this crazy racist vet rapist who's just getting a bad rap seems more like porn or snuff with the hardcore excised. I would say it's dated in this approach, but female exploitation used for manpain excuses is still onscreen today. I'm repulsed by this terrible film, least of all because nobody even noticed the killer never wore gloves.

Mario Bava Horror Special!

Bava Horror, Anyone?

By Kristin Battestella

In my ongoing search for upper crust, classic European Horror, one name consistently tops the charts: Mario Bava. Here’s a small sampling of Italian made treats – and one warning of how not to botch a perfectly good Bava tale. 

Baron Blood – Joseph Cotten (Citizen Kane) and Elke Sommer (more on her in a bit) star in this often unloved 1972 tale of family curses, and the mix of centuries old torture, witches, hidden treasure, and vengeance does indeed need some polish and clarification. Is this about the past cruelty, the raised baron, or the contemporary haunted hotel? Why do these clearly out of their depth people go messing with these past horrors anyway? Despite a bright, swanky, jet setting, and cliché start – an American coming back to his spooky ancestral Austrian castle complete with outfitted dungeon – the titular ghost talk, tolling bells, and incantations build suspense. The accents, poor script, and exposition scenes may be tough, but the dark, murderous actions counter the lack of motivation or room to maneuver from the cast. How is the viewer to like them when the resurrected baron is their fault? Thankfully, the country locales and estates look lovely – the partially restored castle is both dreary as needed or lit with just the right ambiance and fog. Perspective kills, scary zooms, angles, shocks, chases, and kids in peril continue the creepy, and the sickening makeup is burned and nasty effective. The wheelchair bound Cotten does add some slick and twisted layers, however, we don’t see him enough to enjoy his nuances. The picture is off on the wrong foot and hampers itself under a muddled story because it doesn’t focus on the eponymous character. This is rougher around the edges than Bava’s usual style, charisma, and mood, granted, yet the look and players remain just watchable enough thanks to an entertaining finale.

Black Sunday – We’ve seen other anniversary curses and execution revenge pictures beyond this 1960 black and white so-called Bava directing debut, originally edited and released by AIP stateside without its proper Mask of Satan title. Every cliché is here, complete with a coach breaking down in front of a derelict mansion, scholars turned grave robbers, and a few drops of blood releasing a ghoulish mistake, but we’ve never seen such lurid family history, look a like damsels, and undead doctors like this. The stereotypical hysterias, Old World mysticism, Eastern European staples, and Moldavia vibes not only work, but the opening 17^th century fire and brimstone narration is darn effective with excellent wind and thunder to match. Sudden movements add surreal jump scares, but fog, phantom carriages, and creepy forests know when to be still. Artfully, posed scenes are filmed thru branches, shadows, cobwebs, and smoke – almost like a silent movie. Sure, this was probably done to conceal the on the cheap but no less crafty period flair or assorted set flaws, but the design looks damn scary and perfectly atmospheric. I wouldn’t go out alone at night and milk the cow either! Though the English delivery and vocals are very well done, it is unfortunate Barbara Steele (The Pit and the Pendulum) is dubbed. Nonetheless, her dual role as the ingénue princess and the not so well to do witch is ethereal and captivating – the classic lighting and photography captures her stunning beauty as well as the totally creepy corpse effects and ghouly makeup. Of course, the blood necessities, servants dead in the day but alive at night, bodily possessions, and witch or vampire and Satanist terms are all somehow used wrongfully or interchangeably as needed; yet the science versus occult talk is also well thought out, even ahead of its time. Thankfully, the complete 87 minute European version has all the simmering pace and swelling music intact, and one can see why so many other films followed this model. Why did we forget how to make pictures like this? 

Planet of the Vampires –AIP also co-produced this 1965 Bava science fiction horror bizarre, and though old, the space effects look good, even sophisticated for the most part. The thin science and early space flight futuristic lingo is dated, of course, but existential, non-corporeal spins, infrared light, lots of smoke, alien green glows, and more surreal visual designs assure the audience this isn’t the Lost in Space juvenile style of the time. Though the uniforms look like cast offs from the first X-Men movie, the atmosphere doesn’t feel low budget or foreign cheap thanks to Bava’s in-camera tricks and flair. Today’s CGI spoiled viewers may be unaccustomed to the sparse rooms, big buttons, lights, knobs, and sci-fi gizmos, but this nostalgic charm helps make up for some of the who is who confusion and slow start. Sound effects and scoring also accent the very interesting premise, scary disaster mood, and planetary dangers as the straight SF adventure turns bloody and deadly. The quiet exploring and festering creepy tops when the undead astronauts rise, and wise viewers can definitely see the space horror genre influences here – mystery homing beacon, giant calcified ancient skull, ominous massive alien spacecraft and all coughaliencough. Fans of Bava’s gothic horror designs or gory lovers may find this picture an unconventional departure and not even necessarily horror – and it is more in the spirit of a macabre anthology episode – but fans of his style and even straight SF audiences should take a look.

Also See

Lisa and the Devil – The dubbing is off, the spoken volumes low and the music too loud and over the top for this dreamy, stylized, and somewhat confusing 1974 Bava bent. Subtitles are definitely a must to help explain the mysterious men, macabre apparitions, bizarre guests, and Spanish flair. The maze like city streets, weird statues, cluttered Old World feelings and eerie estate, however, are perfectly atmospheric and match the almost elegant filmmaking. Fresh color and blood add to the scandals and up close, erratic violence while reflections, zooms, and angled camerawork anchor the photography and parallel the multi dimensional players and their affairs, secrets, and crimes. This ensemble is aware of their spooky circumstances, even when the script is uneven with superfluous soliloquies and silence. Wispy flashbacks take too much time to explain all the past connections, yet the tale also seems overlong like a 85 minute supersized anthology segment. The nasty implications will be tough to watch, too, but the unique saucy and peculiar sensuality is smartly obscured what we think we see sex and nudity. Telly Savalas (Kojak) is likewise creepy yet charismatic with the svelte ingénue Elke Sommer, and this crisscrossing mix of doppelgangers, demons, and the dead is a bizarrely entertaining, twisted little ride.

But Skip

House of Exorcism – Stay with me now, for this re-edited version of Lisa and the Devil from producer Alfredo Leone adds new possession themes, exorcism footage, and Robert Alda (Rhapsody in Blue) as the titular performing priest in an attempt to mainstream Bava’s Euro-fashioned uncut edition. From different opening titles and the re-christened Mickey Lion aka Leone directing to more blood, violence, and intercut medical scenes, it’s apparent this is not the same film. Sommer’s grunting and demonic scenes are embarrassing and somehow seem more exploitative than her nasty sex scene in Lisa and the Devil. Not that this is a bad performance by Elke, but the crass sex, extra boob shots, and full frontal nudity just seems so classless – sex and priests just don’t feel right then or now. All the exorcism clichés seem trashy, and the language is so unnecessarily foul it’s almost funny: “Where do you come from?” “A cunt, you jerk!” Wtf? “Don’t break my balls, Priest!” Granted, Bava’s tale is confusing, but this Lisa being possessed has nothing to do with the doubly flashback scandals and makes even less sense. Would I have liked to see an exorcism or possession drama from Bava? Sure. Is this it? No. Die-hard fans may like to watch and compare, but otherwise, don’t bother with this rehash.