From Zombos Closet

Universal Monsters

Ghost In the House of Frankenstein Part 2
Bride of Frankenstein (1935)

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BORIS KARLOFF frankenstein Zombos Says: Sublime

It took four years, rewritten scripts, and lots of coaxing to get the reluctant James Whale to direct Frankenstein‘s sequel, Bride of Frankenstein. Karloff, who acted in over eighty movies before finally hitting stardom in Frankenstein, in spite of sustaining severe back injuries manhandling Henry in the first movie, was eager to reprise his star role. Dwight Frye, whom Whale liked very much, definitely dead after the first movie, was given a new role—sort of. He plays Karl, the murderous, club-footed assistant to Dr. Pretorius (Earnest
Thesiger).

Once again, Frye takes a meager role and embellishes it to perfection. Colin Clive is back as Henry Frankenstein, more morose and unbalanced than in Frankenstein, and still looking for peace of mind after his near fatal fall from the windmill. Clive broke his leg just before filming began, forcing him to be seated most of the time in his scenes (Tom Weaver, Michael Brunas, Tom Brunas, Universal’s Horrors: The Studios Classic Films, 1931-1946).

It is Ernest Thesiger, however, as the effete, nefarious Dr. Pretorius who does most of the instigation, and a good share of scene stealing, this time around. While Claude Rains and Bela Lugosi may have been considered for the role, Whale preferred Thesiger as the pompous, perverse mentor.

Thesiger’s Pretorius is morally superficial, whimsically condescending, and deeply sinister; a gentleman dabbling in dark alchemical arts. He knows he is naughty and he revels in it. He is a hedonistic Baroque patriarch to his own dark morality and desires, reflecting Whale’s own drive toward self-expression, self-destruction, and discomfort from his commercial directorial success, and his gayness.

To entice Whale back to the laboratory he was practically given carte blanche to direct his way, which he did by greatly loosening
conventionality with his caustic wit tipped off by derision or having to succumb to commercial necessity, and by an unbridled flair for pushing boundaries; all of which combine to produce a less serious and less sedate movie than Frankenstein, but one far grander.

Bride of Frankenstein borders on the outrageous; part parody, part satire, it is a reluctant parable touched with fantasy that periodically
explodes into quintessential horror theatrics, providing Whale with a lucrative vehicle to poke fun at domestic relationships, the budding horror genre he helped foster, and the freedom to allow him to lay bare his inner struggle between his homosexuality and society’s ambivalence toward it. Henry, the Monster, Elizabeth, Pretorius, the townspeople, all represent parts of Whale’s tag team match with his inner demons, yearning for, while frustrated with, a social conventionality he can never attain, but still desires deeply. Bride of Frankenstein celebrates the maverick, the rebel, the outsider, the creative being who dares to counter mainstream culture and its prissy morality, no matter what the personal cost” (Garey J. Svehla, Midnight Marquee Actors Series: Boris Karloff).

Whale’s insistence on having the Monster speak, albeit rudimentarily, did not sit well with Karloff who felt a speaking monster would
lose the audience’s sympathy. Time appears to have settled this point in Whale’s favor. Karloff’s guttural growls and halting speech bring greater depth to the Monster’s soul as he reveals his distrust of the living and his need for companionship. Mentally and emotionally a child in the first movie—inquisitive, innocent, and in need of guidance—he is now more mature and although still inquisitive, has learned caution and guile to satisfy his wants.

Punctuating this arty mix of the fantastic, Franz Waxman’s original music reflects the different moods of scene and character, providing an alternating exuberant melodic and sinister harmonic accompaniment, lighthearted one moment, darkly portentive the next. From the whimsical yet ghoulish bone-tinkle of the dance macabre, heard while Dr. Pretorius is in the crypt, to the Monster’s imposing entrance, Waxman’s notes play across a spectrum of charnel creepiness to mocking crescendo as they resonate cynicism with a grin during the wedding ceremony as Bride and Monster meet for the first time.

A precursor to the now de riguer techniques employed for continuing a commercially viable horror franchise, Bride of Frankenstein begins with a recounting of the first movie’s ending, told through the artifice of saucy drawing room chit-chat between Romantic poets Lord Byron (Gavin Gordon), Percy Shelley (Douglas Walton), and Frankenstein‘s real creator Mary Shelley (Elsa Lanchester), whose ample bosom and double entendres caused much concern with the Production Code censors.

Prompted by Byron (in florid speech filled with rolling ‘R’ puffery) for more of her story, she tells them how the Monster survives the fire. As the flashback takes form, we leave the romantic trio in their drawing room—the past—and return to the windmill—the present—where little Maria’s parents find out why it’s a bad idea to lag behind when everyone else has gone home.

Boris Karloff, now successful in his acting career and able to eat regularly, is heavier in body and face than his first appearance as the Monster. The way in which he reappears, and the hysterics dramatis of Minnie (Una O’Connor) signal Whale’s intent to make Bride of Frankenstein a more fanciful excursion into the macabre than his first movie. Whale had a fondness for O’Connor and allowed her
burlesque-styled antics to overshadow (self-destruct?) more serious scenes.

Universal makeup artist Jack Pierce paid special attention to the Monster’s appearance in this movie. He altered his 1931 design to display the after-effects of the mill fire, adding scars and shortening the Monster’s singed hair.

As the monster prowls the countryside again in search of acceptance, Elizabeth (Valerie Hobson this time around) and Henry are lounging about their incredibly large bedroom (even Donald Trump would be jealous). Elizabeth, always the stronger and more resolute one, though directed toward more melodramatic acting, is distraught as she tells Henry how she senses Death lurking in the dark corners. Henry, ignoring her fear, ponders how his meddling in life and death must be part of some divine plan.

After all the death and heartache caused by his hubris against the natural order, now he seeks divine succor and intervention?

Overcome with worry and Henry’s indifference, Elizabeth swoons as Dr. Pretorius makes his bold entrance, immediately ingratiating himself between her and Henry. The gaunt, arrogantly tousle-haired doctor has been experimenting with creating life also, and insists on showing Henry his accomplishments that very minute. Over her objections, Henry is soon impatiently sitting in the doctor’s apartment.

Dr. Pretorius disappears into another room and returns carrying a large chest. Dressed in clothes that could be mistaken for those of an alchemist or a cleric, he pulls glass cylinders from the chest. In a display of special effects that are still impressive today, each one is shown to contain a miniature person he’s grown ‘from seed:’ a King, a Queen, an Archbishop, a Devil, a Ballerina, and a Mermaid.

The shooting script called for a seventh figure, a baby——already twice as big as the Queen, and looking as if it might develop into Boris Karloff. It is pulling a flower to pieces. Wisely, Whale dropped both the baby and the script’s self-conscious flippancy. Pretorius is a manipulative God figure who gave these beings life, determined their identities, and controls their actions. He is archly disdainful of them, which is revealing of Pretorius and probably of Whale, who conceived of them in the first place (Paul M. Jensen, The Men Who Made the Monsters).

Over gin (Pretorius says it’s his only vice), the two argue, but Pretorius finally persuades—actually inspires—Henry to make a female because Pretorius’ seed process for growing pocket-sized people lacks Henry’s ability for stitching together the seven-foot tall variety. Given the homosexuality of Thesiger, Clive, and Whale, this tete a tete over procreation is ripe with layers of innuendo, or not, depending on how you are inclined to view it.

In a separate story thread from Pretorius’ and Henry’s pursuits, the Monster, trying to befriend a shepherdess in an idyllic pastoral landscape, causes her to almost drown. She screams as he tries to help her, inciting the exasperated villagers to chase him, again, from this paradise into a forest of starkly barren tree trunks. The villagers eventually overpower him and truss him up in symbolic crucifixion fashion, which Whale captures in an elaborate series of close-ups, midshots, and farshots, then cart him off to the town dungeon, where he is chained to a garroting chair with massive links of iron.

Oddly, although he was overpowered by the villagers initially, he breaks free of the more restraining chains and goes on a murderous rampage, which Whale softens by showing a series of random deaths after the fact. Hungry, the Monster stumbles into a gypsy campsite and, having no quarrel with them, uses his hands to beg for food and a warm seat by their fire. The attempt is a futile one and they
drive him away. Now more tired and hungry, he makes his way through the woods until he hears serene music and follows it to a small cottage. Looking through the window like a curious little boy, he sees an old man playing a violin. He barges into the cottage with a growl, but this time there’s no fear at his appearance. The old man is blind and as much an outcast from society as the Monster. Fortune through a man’s sightless eyes finally brings respite.

In a touching scene that carefully skirts becoming maudlin, both outcasts tearfully rejoice in each other’s company. Rembrandt lighting illuminates the faces of the old  man and the Monster, and flickering light cast by the fireplace frolics across the cabin’s walls in a meticulous composition of shadow and emotional substance, music and motion. In the days (weeks? the duration is not clear)
that follow, the monster learns to speak a few basic words and enjoys wine and a good cigar, though his first energetic puffs on it make him even greener than he usually is. For the first and only time he is happy. It doesn’t last, of course.

Huntsmen spoil his joy with their calamitous entry and the Monster is once again being chased by exasperated, torch-wielding, villagers. After toppling a religious statue in disdain, he finds sanctuary in the crypt where Dr. Pretorius is having a grand old time among the bones. Over wine and a good cigar (Pretorius says smoking is his only vice), they hatch a plan to force Henry to make a female companion.
Karloff has his most introspective lines here. The tortured soul of the Monster is revealed. Between his studied pantomime and simple, carefully spoken words, he makes us forget the killings and elicits our sympathies. Without his spoken words this scene would be greatly weakened.

Following Pretorius’ direction, the Monster kidnaps Elizabeth, forcing Henry to acquiesce. After Karl produces a fresh heart through murder, the kites are once again prepared for the approaching storm to harness the cosmic energy of life. Whale alternates between a series of rapid close-ups and farshots, keeping actions lively between the laboratory and roof-top preparations.

Exhilarating electrical flashes, smoky sparks, and zapping, buzzing noises erupt. Slanted close-ups (Dutch shots as they’re called) showing Henry and Pretorius—their faces lighted from below to create shadows obscuring their faces, intensify the already feverish cranking of levers and twirling of dials while the body is raised to the storm in this highly charged atmosphere of expectation. Karl is suddenly killed by the impatient Monster after he sticks a flaming torch in his face (it seems dying a horrible death was part of Frye’s role requirement).

With much anticipation the body is lowered after absorbing the life-giving energy from the heavens. The cosmic diffuser is raised and her bandages are unraveled. “She’s alive!” cries Henry, Waxman’s music building to his words. Pretorius preens and says “the bride of Frankenstein,” to wedding bells mockingly ringing at his words.

After the delicate balance of humour and horror showcased in The Old Dark House and The Invisible Man, Whale was perfecting in Bride of Frankenstein the then unknown quantity called ‘camp’, and for the most part the results are a delight. But, faced with Pretorius’
miniature creations, one becomes aware of a director who is out of control. Ambivalent about directing the movie in the first place, he condescended to do so only on his own terms—and those terms occasionally included a frank display of contempt for his material (Jonathan Rigby, American Gothic: Sixty Years of Horror Cinema).

Elsa Lanchester’s wildly elongated hairdo (copied by Matt Groening for Marge Simpson) , flowing white gown mimicking a wedding dress, and hissing response to the Monster saying the word “friend” as he moves closer is a hoot on one hand, yet a stark, sad moment of brutal rejection for him on the other. She turns to Henry instead. The Monster presses his intentions, but soon realizes she hates him like
everyone else. Rejected, he falls backward, stumbling upon a lever the size of a baseball bat that can blow up the laboratory when pulled (who the hell puts a lever the size of a baseball bat like that in easy reach?). He tells Henry and Elizabeth—she shows up just in time to be blown up—to go. Pretorius is not so lucky. The Monster pulls the lever and blows himself, Pretorius, and his lamentable bride to atoms, telling them “we belong dead.”

But this horror franchise has only just begun and monsters never truly die in horror movies that show a profit. Praise James Whale or curse him, his demons eventually overwhelmed him; but before they did, his struggle against them produced two fright movies that still remain daring, perplexing, and defiant of convention. Without Whale to helm the next entry in the Frankenstein saga, Karloff becomes a caricature of the Monster, and is upstaged by an actor who, though a Hollywood outcast, is struggling against his own demons, and in
so doing creates an unforgettable fiend more monstrous than Frankenstein’s creation.

Ghost In the House of Frankenstein
Frankenstein (1931)
Part 1

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BORIS KARLOFF
Zombos Says: A Classic

Shadows were everywhere. Ominously large shadows mingled with mysteriously short ones. As I tripped and groped my way through them, the dank, dust-laden air irritated my nose and throat. Lightning flickered occasionally, revealing the shadows for what they were–only briefly, gone in an instant–leaving a faint mental snapshot behind, confusing me even more.

“Did you find it yet?” squawked a petulant voice in the darkness.

Startled, I dropped the two-way radio and banged my head on the sloping attic roof as I stooped to pick it up. Rubbing my head, I tapped my foot along the floor, hoping to find Zombos’ blasted new toy. I found it. I pressed the talk button.

“No, I’m still looking,” I whispered.

“What? Why are you whispering?” he asked.

Good question. I cleared my throat. “The dust…I’m still looking. The lights are out and I can’t see a damn thing. Are you sure you left it up here?”

“Yes. Of course I am sure. I definitely remember I put it–what? Oh? But I thought–oh. Never mind then, Zimba found it. You can stop looking.” He clicked off his radio.

Lightning flashed through the dormer window as I stood in the darkness, desperately searching for reasons why I should remain valet to the once renowned B-movie horror actor, now known only by a few remaining–and just as decaying–fans. Thunder rumbled in the distance. I sighed and began the arduous journey back through the clutter of shadows towering and tilting across the west attic’s floor.

Suddenly there came a tapping, then a frantic rapping on the dormer window behind me. At first I thought it was a tree branch blowing in the wind but realized no trees were high enough to reach the mansion’s attic. I went to the window. A lightning sprite lit up a large flittering shape outside. Thunder rumbled, shaking the window’s broken latch open. A spray of water blew into my face as a flopping ball of wetness and blackness rolled onto the floor. Startled, I tripped over something in my surprise and fell backwards. The ball unfurled into wings. It was the largest bat I had ever seen.

“Damn, it’s a night only Frankenstein could love,” said the bat, shaking his wet wings. “Hello, might you hand me that please?”

I stood there. My lower lip hung an inch lower than my upper one. I reached into my pocket to see if I had left the two-way radio on. Nope. I then felt my head to see if I was bleeding or had a bump suitable for hallucination. Nope. I still stood there.

“I say, if you would, I’d appreciate it greatly.” The bat pointed the tip of his right wing at my left foot. I looked down and saw a small Al Capone slim cigar sticking out from under it. I lifted my foot and used the tip of my shoe to roll it to him.

“Ah, many thanks,” he said. He folded his wings together and used their tips to pick up the cigar. “You don’t happen to have a light?”

I checked the two-way radio and felt my head again. Still nope.

“I’m Wally,” he said.

“Wally…the bat,” I mouthed the words without a sound. I stood there looking at him. He looked up at me. We looked at each other for about a half-minute. “We don’t allow smoking in the mansion,” I finally said.

“Yes, well, it’s soggy and flat anyway.” He dropped the cigar and flicked his wings, sending droplets of water across my patent leathers. “Sorry about that. I must say, this is the most cluttered attic I’ve ever been in.”

We looked at each other for another half-minute or so.

“Is that an English accent?” I asked. Bat hallucinations speaking with English accents always fascinate me.

“I hadn’t noticed myself. Must have come from my hanging out at Oxford.” He flicked his wings again. “Sorry. Force of habit.” He puckered his lips as if he were whistling. We continued to look at each other in silence.

My mind began to wander. I, understandably, at a loss for words, and Wally the bat looking, forlornly it seemed, at his wet flat cigar. An odd night indeed and one more suited to mad scientists. My thoughts meandered around English accents, lightning storms, undead monsters, their reluctant brides, and other times…

…

Ghost In the House of Frankenstein
Frankenstein (1931)
Part 1Read More »

The Cat and the Canary (1927)

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Annex - Marshall, Tully (Cat and the Canary, The)_01
Zombos Says: Classic

“No, that’s not it,” said Sosumi Jimmy Jango, Zombos’ lawyer. He continued to search his memory while pulling yet another paper from his briefcase.

We were sitting in the library, waiting for Jimmy to shuffle through a few more papers before he read Uncle Hiram’s will. After twenty years gathering dust in Zombos’ Irish tin box, it was time to finally reveal old Hiram’s wishes. He passed away while moose hunting. The annoyed moose helped him on his journey. Seated around the table were Zombos, myself, and Zombos’ furthest relative from Nova Scotia, Clorinda. Billy Bounce Boukowski and Jeremy Singleton, more distant relatives on this side of the pond, were also in attendance. Glenor Glenda served drinks all around.
“Glad to see everyone could make it,” said Jimmy, reaching deeper into his briefcase. “I got it!”
“The will?” asked Zombos with much hope in his voice. He was getting tired of sitting so close to his distant relatives. I never could get him to explain their names or lineage.
“No, the movie this all reminds me of,” said Jimmy. “The Cat and the Canary, the 1927 version. It starts off with an old geezer’s will being read after twenty years, too.”

“I know that one,” I said. “The geezer was Cyrus West, and his relatives are summoned to his old dark mansion, overlooking the Hudson River, by the family lawyer Roger Crosby, twenty years after his death for the reading of his will. He and Uncle Hiram must have been twins.”

“On a dark and stormy night,” added Jimmy, chuckling. “Just like tonight.” We looked at the rain drops splashing against the library’s windows when he said it.

“So, what happens?” asked Billy Bounce. His gruff voice punctuated the Bounce part of his name really well. He tipped his third Jack Daniel’s, daintily held in the baseball glove he had for a hand, over and down in one gulp.

“It is a silent movie directed by Paul Leni, a German Expressionistic director, whose talents included blending humor with his stylish melodramatic horror,” said Zombos.

Billy smiled. “Sounds like an oxymoronic, don’t it? Funny horror?”

“It does,” I replied. “But Leni’s movie provided the creative template–hairy arms reaching through secret panels and around doorways, sliding bookcases leading to secret passages, upright bodies stuffed in closets flopping down when you open the door, sinister housekeepers, spooky mansions–stuff like that was recycled in the old dark house movies that followed, and it provided much comedy fodder for Abbott and Costello, too.”

“Hold That Ghost!” piped up Jeremy. “I love that movie. Keeping the money in the moose’s head. Hilarious.”

“Oh, and Laura La Plante is so marvelous in it.” Glenor spilled a drink as she spoke. “I wish I’d inherit a vast fortune like hers.”

“When you do, let me know so I can send you the dry cleaning bill,” said Zombos dryly, grabbing a napkin to daub off the wet stain on his jacket.

“Whose Laura La Plante?” asked Clorinda.

“She plays Cyrus West’s most distant relative, Annabelle,” answered Jimmy. “Anabelle’s the looker who winds up getting all of West’s inheritance if she can prove she’s sane enough to keep it. Of course, the trick is to make her go loopy during the night so the next in line will get the money. An escaped homicidal lunatic from a nearby asylum–he’s called the Cat– is on the prowl, too, spicing things up.”

“So who’s the guy who saves the dame?” asked Billy. “There’s always some guy around to save rich dames in movies, am I right?”

“Right you are,” I said. “That would be Paul, played by Creighton Hale in glasses and with much chagrin. He’s not much of a hero type. Skittish from his own shadow, really. Being a woman in a 1920’s movie, Annabelle can only be rescued by her potential suitor, of course. I mean, woman weren’t expected to be unmarried with vast fortunes pending and all that. Paul provides the comedy relief, but eventually succeeds in subduing the killer and winning the rich dame’s hand.”

“I’m not sure I’d want to immediately get married if I inherited a fortune,” said Clorinda. “I mean, why spoil the fun of all that solitary spenditure.”

“I don’t know, but so far it doesn’t sound too scary,” said Billy.

“Well, of course in its day I’m sure it had enough fright per frame to make it the box office success it was, but Leni directed it more for black humor.” I took my White Russian from Glenor’s serving tray and took a sip before continuing. “Still, his sharp direction keeps the horror elements moving briskly through the cobwebs and gloom. His eye glides past long hallways filled with billowing curtains in front of opened windows, it plays with each relative’s sinister potential for thwarting Annabelle’s inheritance with its expressive close-ups, and it goes beyond verisimilitude as emotionally charged superimpositions coalesce into dramatic scenes. I would have loved to see his camerawork unleashed in Browning’s Dracula.”

Jeremy, Billy Bounce, Jimmy, and Clorinda looked at me.

“Superimpositions,” interjected Zombos, “are images put on top of other images.”

“Oh, I get it,” said Jimmy. “You mean like the towering medicine bottles that slowly turn into the mansion’s ominous silhouette, or the image of the grandfather clock’s gears striking midnight over the scene of the reading of the will, as everyone is gathered around the table in the library.”

“Right,” I said. The Hermle Grandfather clock in the west hallway starting chiming the twelfth hour.

“Ooh, that gives me goosebumps,” said Glenor shivering.

“Speaking of goosebumps, that creepy housekeeper, Mammy Pleasant–love that name–played intensely by Martha Mattox, provided the role model for sinister butlers and maids in subsequent movies,” I said. “She reminds me of that other creepy housekeeper in Robert Wise’s The Haunting, trying to scare everybody with talk of ghosts and such. Of course, being the only person in the mansion for twenty years, it’s no wonder she’s a bit nipped around the buds.”

“Now this is odd,” said Jimmy, holding up two envelopes. “I only remember one envelope from your Uncle Hiram, not two. That’s funny. This is exactly what happened in the movie. The killer slipped in the second envelope into the wall safe just before the reading of the will. It named the next relative in line for the inheritance should Annabelle not last the night.”

“Killer?” asked Billy Bounce. Glenore had given up on refilling his glass and just left the bottle of Jack Daniels with him. “What killer?”

“Well, in the movie, the lawyer Roger Crosby is murdered. It’s his body that eventually winds up doing a pratfall from Annabelle’s closet. So the movie turns into a whodunit when that happens.” Jimmy cleared his throat. “Umm…well. I’ll figure this out soon enough. Zombos, where’s the checklist I left you? I want to see if I recorded this second envelope twenty years ago.”

“Over in the Irish tin biscuit box, by the bookcase there,” pointed Zombos. Jimmy stood up, stretched, and walked over to the bookcase.

“The intertitles are lots of fun to read, too.” I added. “Nice transitions are used for the text to create a spooky effect here and there. The opening title credits appear as a hand wipes away the cobwebs covering them. For a silent movie it all moves pretty briskly as Leni’s gliding, ever inquisitive camera keeps the mood gloomy and spooky, and us in the middle of the mystery. It’s a testament to the movie’s novelty that it’s been remade five times.”

“Speaking of time, I say, Jimmy, did you find the checklist? Jimmy?” Zombos looked over to the bookcase. We followed his gaze. “Now where the deuce has he gotten to? Did anyone see him leave the room?

“I’ll go check the closets,” I said jokingly. No one laughed.

Picture courtesy of Dr. Macro’s High Quality Movie Scans

The Mummy (1932)
It Comes to Life! Part 3

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Boris Karloff in The MummyConsidering how early it came in the horror cycle, it is surprising how restrained and unsensational The Mummy is. On the other hand it is that very restraint that helps to make it a classic. If one accepts The Bride of Frankenstein for its theatre and The Body Snatcher for its literacy, then one must regard The Mummy as the closest that Hollywood ever came to creating a poem out of horror. — William K. Everson, Classics of the Horror Film

 

When Helen arrives at the closed museum, both Frank and his father, Sir Joseph, are about to drive off. They watch her as she tries to open the front door, and Frank is soon within arm’s reach when she swoons. He sweeps her up in his arms and they take her to their apartment, where Dr. Muller arrives moments later. As Sir Joseph and Dr. Muller discuss the matter, Ardath Bey, still at the museum intoning his spell, is interrupted by a guard and extinguishes the small oil lamp he used to read the scroll. A circle of light from the guard’s flashlight searches the room and finds Bey crouching in a corner. The guard turns on the lights and starts yelling at Bey, who, with complete calm, walks away. Chasing after him, both the guard and Bey go off screen. The guard’s voice drops to a stifled gurgle as he’s murdered, although no sign of harm can be found on his body later. In the tussle, Bey drops the scroll. Leaving Helen and Frank at the apartment, Sir Joseph and Dr. Muller go to the museum after they receive a phone call alerting them to the murder, and discover that the scroll, lost then years ago, is now in their hands. They return to the apartment with it, and, along with Frank, retreat to Sir Joseph’s study to discuss what it all means.

…

The Mummy (1932)
It Comes to Life! Part 3Read More »

The Mummy (1932)
Part 2

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THE_MUMMY-18 The Mummy was golden at the box office, attracting not only genre fans, spiritualists and believers in reincarnation, but any number of viewers who were drawn both by the grandeur of the love tale and by the novelty of a “horror picture” without explicit violence. — John T. Soister, Of Gods and Monsters: A Critical Guide to Universal Studios’ Science Fiction, Horror and Mystery Films, 1929-1939

With scenes of confrontation between good and evil similar to Dracula, and the romance of undying love and reincarnation gleaned from H. Rider Haggard’s She, Balderston crystallized his story of The Mummy. The unsensational and restrained visual tone was added by director Karl Freund, who’s moody cinematography captured the supernatural demeanor and timelessness of Bela Lugosi’s centuries-old vampire count in Dracula. Although using more camera movement here than in Dracula, Freund deliberately lingers on somber scenes to evoke a mystical aura, tinted with sadness, over the proceedings and Egyptian antiquities. His use of stimmung–a mood-building pause seen in German Expressionist Cinema of the 1920s–especially during Im-ho-tep’s resurrection, shows carefully measured glimpses of Jack Pierce’s elaborate makeup, leaving us in horror for what is not shown.

…

The Mummy (1932)
Part 2Read More »

The Mummy (1932)
Part 1

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The_mummy_1932 THE MUMMY was another awful make-up job. For the sequence where the dead mummy comes to life, it was between eight and nine hours to get ready for it. You really had to get to the studio the day before. Thank God that sequence only took about a week to shoot! –Cinefantastique: quoting from a Canadian radio interview with Boris Karloff

Zombos Says: Classic

Can you smell it? Fresh pumpkin innards, candy corn, Ben Cooper Mummy costume rustling as you free it from its cardboard box. October air gliding furtively above pavement and walkway, baring boughs, making wooden porch steps creak, kicking empty porch swings back and forth to rattle their chains, suddenly jumping deeply into russet leaves piled high, scattering them like sands swirling around the charnel tombs of Egypt. Its time has come.

Of all the classic Universal Monsters immortalized in Halloween’s polyester and plastic, the least colorful one, the Mummy, remains a top favorite of fright. Perhaps it is the way he walks–certainly not how he talks–or perhaps it is the range, from easy to hard, through which you can become the Mummy, wrapping yourself in either toilet tissue or ACE bandages. Whichever it may be, it all started with Karl Freund’s The Mummy, brought to vivid life by Boris Karloff, the only actor who could portray the buried-alive-for-love Im-ho-tep, painstakingly mummified by monster maker Jack Pierce in a long process few would care to endure.

…

The Mummy (1932)
Part 1Read More »

Remembering the Beloved Gill Man

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By Scott Essman

Yes, there was Ricou Browning for the underwater scenes and suit performers on land who followed, notably Tom Hennesy and Don Magowan, but for millions of “creature feature” fans, Benjamin F. Chapman, Jr. was the “reel” Gill Man from the original 1954 classic, CREATURE FROM THE BLACK LAGOON.  On February 21, he sadly passed away in Hawaii at the age of 79.

Certainly, the Bay Area native had the advantage of being a player on the Universal lot in the early 1950s and his 6’5” size and relative youth – in his late 20s – made him ideal for the part of the creature who stalks North American invaders of his native Amazonian lagoon in the beloved film, originally filmed in 3D.  But Chapman brought a grace and several nuances to the performance of the first Gill Man, which made him one of the great icons in the Universal Studios canon of classic monsters.

In preparations for the creation of the titular character, Universal’s makeup department, headed by Bud Westmore, cast Chapman’s and Browning’s various body parts to fabricate the Gill Man costume, which was realized in foam rubber. Different sections such as torso, arms and legs, were taken off of impressions of Chapman’s body, then the team, including stalwarts such as Tom Case and Jack Kevan, created individual sections. The memorable Gill Man face was designed by artist Milicent Patrick and sculpted by Chris Mueller. Chapman was suited up on a daily basis by Bob Dawn for his exterior scenes, filmed on Universal’s backlot. Footage of Browning in a duplicate suit was achieved on location in Florida.

Though Chapman never played the Gill Man in the sequels, he did reprise the creature for the Colgate Comedy Hour’s TV episode with Abbott and Costello, a program in which they comedy duo first encounters Glenn Strange as the Frankenstein Monster, then reveals the Gill Man to the public for the first time anywhere. Though only three films all in, the CREATURE FROM THE BLACK LAGOON series rates with any of Universal’s monsters from the 1930s and 1940s for sheer fan adulation.

Chapman had long been retired from acting but made regular personal appearances at conventions and autograph signings over the years. He maintained a website, The-Reelgillman.com, and was the focus of fans’ love since magazines such as Famous Monsters of Filmland made the character popular again for new generations of fans in the 1960s and 1970s. Always good natured and happy to talk about his 1953-1954 Gill Man performances, Chapman will be fondly remembered by fans of the original film and all who had met him since.

Special thanks to Dan Roebuck plus Sam Borowski & Matthew Crick, creators of the documentary CREATURE FEATURE: 50 YEARS OF THE GILL MAN

Night Monster (1942)

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Night monster
Zombos Says: Very Good

“Do you hear that?” asked Zombos.

“Hear what? It’s quiet,” I said, puzzled by his question.

“That is my point: the quiet. The cicadas have gone quiet.” He looked over his shoulder.

“By George, you’re right. I wonder what…” I looked over my shoulder, though I wasn’t sure why.

We had been walking the beach close to the mansion, enjoying the West Egg summer night’s mix of sticky humidity and soft breeze coming off the water. With the sudden quiet, we had stopped and were now intently looking at the dense woods a few feet away on our left.

“I’m sure it’s nothing,” I reassured him. “Come to think of it, it reminds me of that movie…let me think…the one with that swami guy, Bela, and those croaking frogs that stop croaking in the middle of the night just before a murder happens.”

“Oh, you mean Night Monster,” said Zombos, not taking his eyes off the woods.

“That’s it!” I said, not taking my eyes off the woods, either. “You know, we should retreat to the cinematorium for a showing.” Zombos agreed wholeheartedly and we dashed back to the mansion, looking behind us every so often as we ran. Though I’m not sure why.

 

An old dark mansion, blood stains that keep appearing in the carpeting, and thick fog swirling off the slough; if that’s not creepy enough for you, Night Monster, an unusual Universal B-horror movie energetically directed by Ford Beebe, also has Bela Lugosi, Lionel Atwill, and some thing—scaring the croaking frogs into silence—going around killing people inside the brooding Ingston Towers mansion and outside it.

Of the many B-movies that Universal churned out in the 1940s, Night Monster stands out as a tidy little exercise in country-gothic horror, and, while not truly a mystery, although it plays like one, it retains an eerie atmosphere with its fast-paced tale of grotesque preternatural goings-on, Hindu mysticism, and familial madness at the Ingston Estate nestled deep in the southern woods.

Curiously enough, while Lugosi and Atwill are given top billing in the opening credits, both have only supporting roles: Lugosi plays the persnickety butler, Rolf, and Atwill is Dr. King, whose mortal coil is shuffled off rather early in the movie. They make the best of their limited time onscreen with enough preening and posturing between them to satisfy any fan of the classic horror genre. Perhaps Lugosi was supposed to be the plot’s red herring, but if so, that aspect of his role got lost in the translation from script to screen.

Evil things are afoot at the old Ingston homestead. One look at Torque (Cyril Delevanti), the sour, hunched-over gatekeeper, and Sarah (Doris Lloyd), the starch-collared and tight-lipped housekeeper, is enough to see the household is not doing all that well. Margaret Ingston (Fay Helm) worries she’s got hereditary bats in her belfry, so she invites psychiatrist Dr. Harper (Irene Hervey) to visit and bring a cup of sanity. Kurt Ingston (Ralph Morgan), her crippled brother, stews in his own juices, cynical of the modern medicine that failed him, and hating the three doctors responsible for his disfigurement. Yet he invites them to a little-dinner-and-a-lot-of-vitriol weekend to see a demonstration of something beyond their science, beyond the natural laws of nature, courtesy of his very own yogi master, Agor Singh (Nils Asther).

Surprisingly, the important Hindu mystic role is not played by Lugosi, who did wear a turban as Chandu the Magician in The Return of Chandu, and as psychic, Tarneverro, in The Black Camel. Instead, Asther, an actor born in Denmark, provides the foreign accent and dark features this time around, perhaps necessarily less than Lugosi would have mustered given his iconic gravitas.

It’s when Agor Singh does his after-dinner demonstration for the guests, calling forth a skeleton from an ancient tomb far away to appear out of thin air, with blood dripping from its outstretched bony fingers, that the story takes a welcomed spooky detour from the usually more straightforward B-movie fare. Singh has been teaching Kurt Ingston the ancient art of cosmic substance control. With his mind properly trained, Ingston can replace his amputated legs with new ones created by his mind, enabling him to walk again; or instead, he could kill those incompetent medical bastards one by one with his new, cosmic stuff-filled limbs.

I wonder which way he’ll go? A puddle of blood is found where the skeleton appeared; an odd byproduct of the arcane mind control, comments Singh. A quirky little toss away detail that adds a touch more to the weirdness.

Jack Otterson’s (The Mummy’s Tomb) art direction and Charles Van Enger’s camera build a gothic atmosphere and slick gloss for Beebe’s movie. Enhanced by moody, terror-tense music, some of it previously heard in The Wolf Man, the secluded mansion’s menacing shadows, secret passageways, and flickering, fireplace-lighted gloom, all surrounded by a miasma of swirling fog, show a hypnotic palette of images. Window-frame shadows play across daytime interiors, and ominous shadows cast by furniture give a noir-ish textural depth to ordinary scenes, showing unexpected creativity and artistic preference in this budget production. The sudden quiet of the boisterously croaking frogs, followed by the screech of a door opening in the garden, signals the approach of the monster, a clever gimmick to heighten the suspense. In the 2007 movie Dead Silence a similar technique is used to equal effect.

The air of dread and impending doom is sustained by the mansion’s characters and their questionable intentions: Laurie (Leif Erickson) the chauffeur has nothing but dames and hanky-panky on his mind, but it’s not clear what else he’s involved in. Rolf acts sinister and supercilious until the bodies start showing up, and Sarah secretly has the hots for Kurt Ingston and looks guilty just standing around.

Providing comic relief are Constable Beggs (Robert Homans), who investigates when Millie (Janet Shaw) the maid is found strangled next to a puddle of blood, and Dr. Phipps (Francis Pierlot), the diminutive physician with a penchant for gland research. The more serious romantic roles are handled by Dick Baldwin (Don Porter), a mystery writer invited to the little gathering by Kurt Ingston (okay, why invite a mystery writer?), and Dr. Harper, who’s trying to get to the bottom of Margaret’s fears.

The weird murders happen fast and furious. While Dr. King is strangled off-camera, the discovery of his body is shown through the reactions of others, followed by a close-up of his lifeless clenched hand.  Dr. Timmons is surprised in his room next as a silhouetted figure steps out of his closet, its shadow growing larger on the wall as it lunges toward him. A close-up of his lifeless hand is shown. Then timid Dr. Phipps is attacked when he opens his bedroom door, thinking it is Laurie come to take him away from the mansion. We see him through the killer’s eyes as he recoils in fear, unable to scream as death approaches.

In the climax, Dr. Harper and Baldwin make a dash for it as the frogs stop croaking and the garden door creaks open, while Margaret decides to throw a hissy-fit with Sarah and play with fire. Will the killer be revealed? Will Dr. Harper ever get her blasted foot unstuck from the rotted foot bridge that Dick insisted on fleeing across? Will we ever find out why the, up-till-now, very reserved and strong-willed psychiatrist starts screaming like a B-movie girl instead of concentrating on getting her foot unstuck before Dick gets his ticket punched by the monster?

I’m sure you’ll enjoy finding out.

Special thanks to HHWolfman at the Universal Monster Army. While at the 2007 Monster Bash, I mentioned I wanted to review this neglected film. He soon surprised me with a copy of it, hot off the back of a hearse. Thanks HH. Thanks also to Richard Scrivani, who screened it at the Monster Bash, rekindling my interest in it.

The Wolf Man (1941)
Movie Review

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Wolfman Zombos Says: Classic

Of the three major Universal Studios monster movies, Dracula, Frankenstein, and The Wolf Man, The Wolf Man did not spring from a notable novel. While many legends of werewolves abound in print, it took the skill of screenwriter Curt Siodmak, the talent of makeup artist Jack Pierce, and the acting of Lon Chaney Jr to tell the story of a man doomed by an eternal curse to kill the ones he loves by the light of the full moon.

The Wolf Man was originally intended as a vehicle for Boris Karloff, but as often happens in Hollywood, intentions change, as well as script ideas. Only the title remained as the movie was eventually assigned to director George Waggner and scriptwriter Curt Siodmak. While Waggner’s uninspired and straightforward direction is adequate, it is Siodmak, first drawing on European Folklore, then creating his own, who weaves a fairytale spun out of Greek tragedy, blooming wolfbane, moonlight, and a sympathetic, doomed hero.

Lon Chaney Jr has the distinction of being the only actor to portray the tragic Larry Talbot, cursed to change into the Wolf Man and kill against his will, in five of Universal’s horror offerings, thus making the role uniquely his own. His sympathetic performance as Lennie in Of Mice and Men typecast him as a hulking, sympathetic type, but that proved a perfect fit for his portrayal of the agonized, guilt-ridden Talbot and his demonic alter-ego.

The-wolfman-pressbook Americanized Larry Talbot returns to his ancestral home in Wales, after eighteen years of estrangement, when his brother dies. His prim and proper father, Sir John Talbot (Claude Rains), hopes that Larry will take over the duties of his family now, and that the two will reconcile their long-standing differences. In the first version of the script, the Mutt and Jeff look—as Tom Weaver describes it in his amusing commentary for the film—of the tall and thick Chaney next to the whispy, more delicate Rains was better explained; Chaney originally played an American engineer visiting Talbot Castle to work on Sir John’s telescope. However, as the relationship changed story-wise, the physiques and family resemblance didn’t.

That trifling incongruency aside, the red, white, and blue Larry, of course, is more focused on the gorgeous woman (Evelyn Ankers) he spies through the lens of the telescope. Seems like Larry’s a bit of wolf before he’s even bitten.

When he visits Gwen’s (Ankers) antique shop in town, he buys a walking stick decorated with the head of a wolf and the symbol of a pentagram in silver, which prompts a discussion of werewolves and the first recitation of Siodmak’s brilliant folklore-sounding poem;

Even a man who is pure in heart and says his prayers by night may become a wolf when the wolfbane blooms and the autumn moon is bright.

Later that night, as fate would have it, Larry is bitten by a werewolf when he tries to save Gwen’s friend from an attack by what he thinks is a wolf. Maleva, the Gypsy crone (the sublime Maria Ouspenskaya) tells him that her son (Bela Lugosi) was a werewolf, and now he, too, is cursed. Lugosi, in his role as Bela the Gypsy, has only seven lines to say, but makes the most of it. Which is kind of ironic when you think that he finally gets a role after Dracula that makes good use of his singular accent. Lugosi originally wanted to play the lead role, but that would have made an even more incongruent relationship between Sir John and Larry, so he was offered the key role of werewolf catalyst instead.

Sure enough, Larry soon succumbs to his curse of lycanthropy, and starts seeing pentagrams—the mark of death—on the hands of those he loves. His father doesn’t believe any of this superstitious nonsense, but people start dying when Larry changes into the Wolf Man and goes on the prowl.

Universal, wanting another memorable monster to add to their A-list, changed the initial ambiguity of the script, which left the audience wondering whether Larry was a real werewolf or just thought he was one, and had Jack Pierce take his previous, more human-like makeup for Henry Hull in Werewolf of London and go hog-wild with it here.

Pierce’s unique stylization makes the werewolf come alive with a feral humanity sorely missing in today’s CGI-generated lycanthropic concoctions. The painstaking lap dissolve process that appears for seconds on screen actually took hours of laborious filming as layers of Yak hair were applied to Chaney’s face and photographed. During the procedure, Chaney had to lie very still and in the same position, and probably would have loved to take a bite out of Pierce during the process. But the ground-breaking end-result is worth it, and the procedure improved in the course of subsequent films.

The mist-enshrouded forest set, designed by Jack Otterson, with its gnarled tree limbs and unnatural, dark landscape, gives The Wolf Man a claustrophobic and surreal tone of brooding isolation, and provides the perfect stage for Larry Talbot as he struggles against his estrangement from the townspeople, his father, and his crumbling peace of mind and normal way of life.

Heightening this feeling of dread and pacing the tension well, the now familiar music—which was subsequently used in many Universal movies including the Sherlock Holmes series—with its ominous, tri-toned opening beat followed by precipitous drum rolls, alarming horns, and emotive strings, is a classy addition to the modest production and enhances the action scenes as well as the quieter moments of impending doom.

Finally meeting his death at the hands of his shocked father, who beats him with the silver headed cane used to kill Bela the Gypsy, the climax of The Wolf Man stands out in its depiction of a man tragically caught in an evil cosmos with no way out. Lon Chaney Jr. reprised his signature role as the Wolf Man in four more Universal films, but The Wolf Man remains his most poignant performance as Larry Talbot, an ordinary man cursed, through no fault of his own, to walk on padded-feet by night, when the moon beckons, with the unquenchable thirst for blood.

Universal’s Legacy Collection of The Wolf Man contains Tom Weaver’s revelatory commentary, as well as the light, but informative documentary entitled Monster by Moonlight, narrated by John Landis, who directed American Werewolf In London.

Weaver sheds light on the love-not-lost relationship between Ankers and Chaney, though they starred in many films together, as well as the differences between the initial script and the final shooting one. He also points out the bloopers, always an enjoyable, “how’d I miss that moment,” and the little behind the scenes tidbits that make for a more informed viewing of this classic horror film.

One thing I was hoping Weaver would touch on but didn’t is the perplexing way the Wolf Man invariably wound up dressed in a neatly pressed dark shirt and pants after every transformation into the hirsute terror. That one always perplexed me. Stylish, but still perplexing.

The set also includes the sequel and first Universal Studios ensemble film, Frankenstein Meets the Wolf Man, as well as Werewolf of London and She-Wolf of London. Makes you kind of wonder what’s going on over at London, doesn’t it. Disappointingly enough, they didn’t include 1948’s Bud Abbot Lou Costello Meet Frankenstein, the enjoyable last hurrah for Universal’s era of classic horror.

Documentary: Lugosi
Hollywood’s Dracula (1997)

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Lugosi as DraculaZombos Says: Very Good

In spite of a disheartened director, and a greatly reduced budget, the 1931 film, Dracula, remains a classic for various reasons. For one thing, it was the first speaking horror film, although music was not used except for the opening credits. For another, it had indelible performances by skillful actors.

One performance stands out above the rest, and has left its mark on subsequent impersonations of the aristocrat of the undead, and ushered in an era of monsters that continues to this day.

Perhaps it was the oddly-inflected voice, with the thick accent, that hinted of wolves baying in the moonlight and fear-inducing evils-by-night, living in dark forests; or  maybe it was the slow, determined mannerisms of a person, undead for centuries, for whom the urgencies of mortal time held little meaning; or it could have been those eyes that pierced right through you from under that furrowed brow. For whatever reasons, Bela Lugosi’s performance of Dracula is the image of the vampire count that has stood the test of time.

In Lugosi: Hollywood’s Dracula, writer and director Gary Rhodes explores Lugosi’s amazing career using rare film clips and onscreen interviews with Lugosi’s son, and others that knew Lugosi. What makes this documentary stand above the rest is its use of living history — people — to talk about the man and actor, providing us with an insightful glimpse into this iconic actor’s professional and personal life. Combined with previously unseen footage and stills of Lugosi’s early silent work, this two-disc DVD set clearly shows the broad range of talent and indomitableness of Lugosi as Hollywood ignored him, and squandered his acting in films well beneath his abilities.

Clever additions to the set are some of Lugosi’s Old Time Radio ‘appearances,’ including the creepy, The Thirsty Death from Mystery House, 1944, and an Easter Egg! The funny mockumentary of Gary Rhodes’ quest to sit in Bela Lugosi’s chair can be viewed by going to the last page in the DVD Notes section until “Back” is highlighted, then pressing the Up arrow on your remote (or keyboard, if watching on a PC), followed by pressing “Enter.”

In the Deleted Scenes section, you will find more film footage and discussion on White Zombie (one of his creepiest performances) and Lugosi’s Poverty Row films of the 1930s.  From Murder Legendre in White Zombie, to Ygor in Son of Frankenstein, Lugosi’s performances were always masterful and uniquely different, and created memorable characters in horror cinema.

Director Gary Rhodes steps into the closet for an interview.

 

How did the idea for putting together the documentary come about?

I found the previous Lugosi documentaries [of which there were two of note (Lugosi: Forgotten King, and the A&E Bio)] to be very limited. Knowing that there were quite a few important and interesting people that neither of those films interviewed, such as Hope Lugosi, spurred me to plan the documentary. That was in tandem with the fact that I knew the whereabouts of a good deal of previously unseen footage.

What challenges did you face to bring the documentary to life?

There were a few challenges. That so many people we wanted to interview were already deceased. That some clips were so expensive we couldn’t afford them. Those would be the two biggest challenges.

While watching the documentary, I was happy to see many clips and stills from Lugosi’s silents’ performances, something you rarely see. What challenges did you face in finding them, and why can’t we see more of Lugosi’s work in silent films?

The difficulty with Lugosi’s silent work is that very little exists. We incorporated clips from the only surviving fragments of Lugosi’s Hungarian career, which were thus seen publicly for the very first time. We found and used clips from Dance on the Volcano, which was the first time the clips had ever been seen (and we were thus responsible for its subsequent release through Sinister Cinema). And we used clips from Deerslayer, Silent Command, and Midnight Girl.

The reason more of his silent work can’t be seen is that very few beyond those we drew clips from exist. Daughters Who Pay, from 1926, exists at the Eastman House in a version that must be transferred to safety stock and restored (at a cost of many thousands of dollars) before it can be viewed/released. But most of his work of the time simply doesn’t exist, particularly his Hungarian and German period.

That montage of scenes you orchestrated, without narration, especially caught my attention. At first it didn’t quite register, but when I watched the documentary a second time, I realized it captured much of Lugosi’s acting versatility.

I appreciate your comment about the montage of scenes, as that was what I was driving after.  Some way to encapsulate the larger whole of his work, especially given the time constraints of an hour film (which was still in fact longer than previous docs on BL, which were both hovering around 44mins). Plus, it was a way of working with the previously mentioned challenge of not having enough access to the Universal film clips due to cost.

As a writer and director, do you use a different approach when working on a documentary compared to the way you approach a regular movie?

I’ve been making films professionally since 1991, and my first documentary (Solo Flight: The Genius of Charlie Christian) is still in print from VIEW Video … it raised enough funds to mark the hitherto unmarked grave of the seminal electric guitar player.

But I think in recent years my approach has changed, and that change has happened since/just after finishing the Lugosi doc. From Solo Flight thru Fiddlin Man and Lugosi: HD, I approached things too much as a historian, possibly. Privileging rare clips/interviews with those who hadn’t been/etc., above the concerns of fictional film, which would be things like narrative form, three-act structures, and so forth.

I think doing the mockumentary film Chair (about Lugosi’s Chair, which is a hidden feature/easter egg on the DVD made me begin thinking more about emphasizing the story being told over the tools used to tell it (like, say, rare clips or the like).

This has impacted more recent work of mine, particularly Banned in Oklahoma , Seawood (a just-finished film about alzheimer’s … a case study), and my movement more and more into fictional film (like Wit’s End, a feature comedy). So it has been a transition.

As for Bela, that was probably simultaneously the best and worst topic for me to do… the best because of my love for his work, my lifelong interest in him, and my knowledge of the subject (I had previously written Lugosi: His Life in Films, on Stage, and in the Hearts of Horror Lovers, a 1997 book for McFarland, recently back in print in paperback). But I say it was also the worst choice because I was/am too caught up in minor details, adoring, say, an extremely rare clip when most viewers wouldn’t necessarily know whether it was rare or not.

At any rate, my love for Lugosi continues. I have a book (that Dick Sheffield helped on) called Bela Lugosi, Dreams and Nightmares that is brand new… it is literally due out in print on Feb 20 of this year, in just a few weeks.