Broomsticks and All That: Night of the Demon (1957)

One of the many things I love about this late 50s shocker is how unapologetic it is about its belief in demonology and the supernatural. Dr. Holden may not believe in witchcraft, but the film – and all the other characters in it – do. Right from the beginning, a somber voice over tells us, “It has been written since the beginning of time, even unto these ancient stones, that evil supernatural creatures exist in a world of darkness. And it is also said man using the magic power of the ancient runic symbols can call forth these powers of darkness, the demons of Hell.” 

Intrepid psychologist John Holden (the stoic Dana Andrews) travels in England to attend a convention investigating international reports of paranormal psychology, with plans to debunk the Karswell Devil Cult as the product of mass psychosis. Upon his arrival he learns that one of his British compatriots, Professor Harrington, has met a grisly end by being electrocuted when his car crashes into a telephone pole. What the audience knows from the beginning is that Harrington was pursued to his death by a monstrous fire demon, summoned by satanic madman Julian Karswell via a pesky parchment scribed with runic symbols, a parchment that seems to have a mind of its own, bringing terror and death to every hand it touches. Night of the Demon was quite daring in its day, presenting lurid elements of devil worship and demonology to international audiences.

Thanks to outstanding black and white cinematography and the direction of Jacques Tourneur who filmed the Val Lewton classics Cat People and I Walked with a Zombie, Night of the Demon builds suspense through a series of brilliantly staged sequences that thrill simply through the power of suggestion alone – menacing hallways, a trip to misty Stonehenge, drawing room séances and hypnotic trances – and our hero’s pursuit by an unseen force through the forest surrounding Karswell Hall. As if the plot isn’t heady enough with its talk of devil cults, fire demons, “broomsticks and all that”, the soundtrack music is deliciously bombastic 50s horror movie cheese – crank it up loud enough and your neighbors will wonder what kind of devil’s business you’re up to.

Some detractors of the movie say its downfall is the full frontal viewing of the demon itself. It’s a garish, stop-motion puppet not unlike the beasts Ray Harryhausen modeled for the old Sinbad movies. There are varying accounts of whether Tourneur planned to include the demon all along, or if he was forced by the studio against his well. But to those who say its appearance is corny and ruins the film I would like to point out the rubber dummy in The Exorcist that cranks its head around and plays hide and go seek with a crucifix. For my money, the only downfall of the movie is the rather wooden performance of Dana Andrews as John Holden. Andrews’s brand of stoic American hero doesn’t merge well with the outstanding performances of the otherwise all-British cast. But even if someone of Charlton Heston’s caliber had played the role, the incongruous effect would probably have been much the same.

I don’t remember seeing this one when I was a kid, but I picked up a VHS copy in a video bargain bin in the early 80s, one complete with an artist’s full color rendition of the fire demon, thinking I was in for some silly bit of ‘50s schlock. Night of the Demon has been a favorite ever since. It is still readily available on DVD in two versions, the original 95 minute British version, and the slightly cut 82 minute American release print under the title Curse of the Demon. Either way, you’re in for a hell of a good time!

...speaking of Burnt Offerings (spoilers)

I hate this movie.

So why am I reviewing it? Because other people like it, and this blog is all about spreading the love for all things Gothic. One man’s garbage is another man’s treasure, so maybe you’re reading this and you decide to watch it tonight (US readers, it’s on Netflix) and find it’s the next best thing since sliced bread. Right on.

But I’ll tell you why I don’t like it. The story is lame and doesn’t make a whole lot of sense. Yeah, the Chauffeur is scary and all, but other than being a flashback from Ben Rolf’s childhood, what does it have to do with the Allardyce house, and Mother, and all that?

Speaking of Mother, wow she’s pretty scary too. I mean a house that rejuvenates itself on the pain and death of its inhabitants, that’s pretty freaky. Night Gallery freaky, not 115 minutes movie freaky. Which brings me to another gripe. This just isn’t a cinematic film, although it was. It’s a made for TV movie directed by one of the worst TV hacks ever, Dan Curtis. I know, I know. Dark Shadows, blah blah blah. Dark Shadows was a happy accident for which we’ll be forever grateful. But look at some of his other mid 70s output, The Norliss Tapes, and those dreadfully dry remakes of classics Dracula, The Picture of Dorian Gray et all. Do you know Dan Curtis actually claimed in a Fangoria interview that he could have made a better movie out of The Exorcist? Somebody pop that man’s bubble of a bloated ego.

Dan Curtis decided to shoot the movie through fog filters and with low camera angles. If any film students know what effect that was supposed to have on the viewer, please let me know. On the commentary track to the DVD, Curtis claims the novel was incomprensible, and that in adapting the book with William F. Nolan, they were able to make the story make more sense. Not much. I get the fact that it’s some sort of variation on the All Devouring Dark Mother Goddess, but couldn’t you have infused the screenplay with a few “real” scary scenes? Daddy trying to drown the kid in the pool just doesn’t make me squirm in my seat. I remember reading the book when I was fourteen (published in 1973) when publishers were still coasting on the diabolic fumes of Rosemary’s Baby and The Exorcist. This looks like an old ladies’ garden party by comparison.

And speaking of old ladies, even Bette Davis doesn’t have enough to do to liven up the proceedings. She does do a good death scene, though. It goes on for twenty some minutes, which must be some kind of record for eye bulging and bed writhing.

Davis, along with Oliver Reed and Karen Black, were a good draw to bring people out to the cinemas in 1976, but aside from the fact that Reed can do the most terrified looks of any adult male every committed to film (see his camera mugging in 1963’s Paranoiac) neither he nor Black are given anything to sink their teeth into. This sort of subtle Gothic thriller requires characters with deeper psychological scars beyond a recurring nightmare from their childhood. The Rolfs are a normal American family, which I am sure was Curtis’ point… but it’s boring.

So what’s good about this movie? The soundtrack. And for people of a certain age (i.e: younger than me who saw Burnt Offerings on TV at an impressionable age) the Chauffeur. And I have to admit, he has a creepy grin. And creepy is good.

Psychosexual Uber Gothic: Turn of the Screw (BBC 2009)

Not sure about that title? Neither am I, but I’ll give it a shot.

In 1999, I went to my first opera, Benjamin Britten’s 1954 version of The Turn of the Screw. Even though the opera was sung in English, I couldn’t understand a word of it. I know the story of The Turn of the Screw like the back of my hand, but as I quickly came to understand, with opera it’s not so much the words, but everything else… the sets, the costume, and the direction.

I remember very little of the opera except that the stage production was jaw dropping. Ghosts appeared from inside the walls of the grand mansion and descended to the stage on a lift, Quint writhed on top of the piano while the Governess sang her aria… and the whole thing was infused with a hyper-sexuality that left no room for misinterpretation. There was nothing subtle about the opera.

There’s nothing subtle about the BBC’s 2009 reinterpretation of the perennial classic, either. This version is beautifully photographed at Somerset’s Brympton d’evercy, the production drips with Gothic imagery at every turn, and the performances by the cast are all first rate (Sue Johnston as Mrs. Gross was particularly outstanding). All of this, for me anyway, saves what is an otherwise curious mess. I didn’t mind the story being reset in the 1920s. I didn’t mind the script overstating the obvious, that Ann was sexually frustrated and that Peter Quint boffed every woman at Bly. I doubt even Mrs. Gross got off Scott-free.

It starts to get a little bizarre (okay, really bizarre) when there is a quick-cut flashback showing Miles, cocktail glass and cigar in hand, feet propped up, watching Quint and Miss Jessel go at it hot and heavy. There were a number of scenes like this, stripping the story of all its subtlety and driving home the psycho-sexual elements.

The film’s ultimate failing is in later scenes when the children become “possessed” by the spirits of the former governess and the valet. The producers chose to take a cue from The Exorcist and have demonic voices come spewing out of Miles’ and Flora’s mouths. It was a bit much. No, it was way too much. First I laughed, and then I groaned. Such a cheap gimmick threw the entire affair into the rubbish bin.

So it’s probably with good reason that the film has not yet made it to American audiences. If you know where to look, like I do, you can acquire a copy by nefarious means. You can even watch it in multiple parts on YouTube.

Or you can be smart, and leave well enough alone. 

An Appreciation of Barbara Michaels Part II – Prince of Darkness

“Black Masses, pacts with the devil,” proclaims the hero in Prince of Darkness, Barbara Michaels’ second foray into the occult, “that’s the thing nowadays.”

And how right he was. First published in 1969, Prince of Darkness came out as America’s love affair with the Occult reached its zenith, fueled in part by the runaway success of Ira Levin’s novel and Roman Polanski’s brilliant film adaptation of Rosemary’s Baby, as well as a burgeoning use of Tarot cards and renewed interest in Astrology, and ultimately, dabbling in magic, both white and black.

I admit I have a weakness for these kind of books, what I call quasi-satanic hooey, for as much as Michaels tries to lend authenticity to her tale of witchcraft in the idyllic countryside surrounding suburban Washington D.C. by name dropping Margaret Murray’s pioneering witch-cult theory, she still manages to confuse black magic with white. For someone with my tastes, it makes the cheese factor all the more delectable. Thanks to Michaels' consummate storytelling skills, Prince of Darkness never veers into the downright silliness of something like Fred Mustard Stewarts’s The Mephisto Waltz or Peter Lorraine’s nearly incomprehensible plot of Day of the Arrow.

I’d be curious to learn if Michaels one and only novel of contemporary witchcraft was her own idea or the suggestion of an agent who, like everyone else in the entertainment industry, saw dollar signs when the devil reared his horned head.

As in Ammie, Come Home, Michaels once again attempts to subvert the Gothic Romance genre, this time making the shady male lead into the vulnerable hero. Part of my perennial fascination with Prince of Darkness is its deliberately oblique plot. The opening prologue reads like a set-up for a low key spy novel, and then more than half the book follows our hero’s antics as he stages some elaborate apparitions and hauntings in an attempt to drive the already fragile minded heroine further insane. What our hero doesn’t count on is his efforts being trumped every step of the way by any number of nefarious characters ambling about quaint Middleburg, Maryland. He also doesn’t count on falling in love with the heroine herself (especially as he has already been panting like a dog in heat after the heroine’s little honey of a niece.) But male readers shouldn’t be put off by this mild romantic diversion. As in many of Barbara Michaels’ books the romance takes a back seat to the suspense, the ghosts, the chills and thrills, and in this case, the unmasking of a certain character during the book’s climax which finally makes sense of the novel’s overly long set up.

Prince of Darkness is not regarded as a favorite even among the most die-hard Barbara Michaels fans, but it manages to be, like so many other fictional forays into the occult during the final days of the 1960s prior to William Peter Blatty unleashing The Exorcist on an unsuspecting world, a fascinating time capsule of a specific time and attitude in America.

Harry Bennett's voyeuristic cover for the 1970 Fawcett Crest paperback edition.

An Appreciation of Barbara Michaels Part I: Ammie, Come Home

After finishing my first novel (a lurid, over-the-top occult potboiler) I decided I wanted to try my hand at a more traditional Gothic romance, so I spent a few months rereading a number of old paperbacks from my collection. Of course, I had to start with Barbara Michaels. I had reread her first two books, Master of Black Tower and Sons of the Wolf, about a year before, so I picked up Ammie, Come Home, and was reminded once again what an underrated gem of a ghost story this little book is.

First published in 1968, a full two years before William Peter Blatty’s The Exorcist made this type of old fashioned ghost story all but obsolete, Michaels’ tale of avenging ghosts and spiritual possession pushed the envelope for the Gothic romances of the era. The bona fide supernatural was not a popular theme among Gothic romance purists, and despite her continued popularity forty-odd years later (Michaels’ back catalog has never gone out of print), readers of old school Gothics still have difficulty embracing Michaels as the premier American Gothic novelist of her day. Ammie, Come Home was to be the first in Michaels’ unofficial occult trilogy.

Beginning with Ammie, Come Home and continuing throughout the rest of her career under the name Barbara Michaels (she is better known as Elizabeth Peters of the best-selling Amelia Peabody mystery series), Michaels makes a concentrated effort to subvert and expand the conventions of the Gothic romance genre which was enjoying it’s heyday in the late 60s and early 70s. Here, the protagonist is a middle aged, widowed aunt, and the romantic lead an irascible red-headed anthropology professor in his early fifties, but the romance takes a back seat to the ghostly manifestations.

 Original 1968 hardcover edition by Meredith Press, jacket illustration by Charles Geer

Our heroine, forty-something Ruth Bennett, takes a casual romantic interest in her niece Sara’s anthropology professor, Pat McDougal, and soon Ruth has scheduled a séance in her historic Georgetown home after meeting a famous society medium at a fancy soiree. First mistake. Before you know it, niece Sara is speaking in an otherworldly voice and violently attacking her aunt with no recollection of her actions in the morning. Said anthropology professor plays the devil’s advocate throughout, eager to cart Sara off to an asylum to have her checked out for multiple personality disorder. But Sara’s boyfriend, Bruce, and Aunt (and of course, we readers) know better. It seems Ruth’s home was the scene of a Civil War era domestic drama, and not only Sara, but Bruce, Pat, and Ruth are all players in the necessary reenactment of the crime and its vengeance.

No one will ever mistake Barbara Michaels’ books for being high brow Gothic literature of the Shirley Jackson variety, but Michaels has clearly done her research, managing to tell a rollicking tale of the supernatural judiciously sprinkled with arguments, both pro and con, to support the theory of ghosts and possession.

Whether you have or have not experienced Ammie, Come Home for yourself, late autumn is prime time to snuggle up on the couch with a classic late 60s ghost story while the November winds rattle the windows and icy tendrils snake their way across the floor. And if you listen carefully, you just might hear a voice calling to Ammie in the lonely darkness outside your window. ”Ammie…come home!”

Harry Bennett cover for the 1969 Fawcett Crest paperback edition