PETER CUSHING: PUBLICITY PORTRAIT

CLASSIC STUDIO PORTRAITE OF PETER CUSHING FROM AN EARLY HAMMER FILM. BUT WHICH ONE?

PETER CUSHING TALKS ON 'CREATING ARTHUR GRIMSDYKE IN AMICUS FILMS 'TALES FROM THE CRYPT'

FOR MORE PHOTOGRAPHS AND BACKGROUND STORIES FROM 'TALES FROM THE CRYPT' TAKE A WANDER THROUGH THE ARCHIVE OF POSTS HERE AND OUR : THE UK PETER CUSHING APPRECIATION SOCIETY FACEBOOK FAN PAGE: CLICK HERE.

PETER CUSHING: 'GRIMSDYKE AND THE VALENTINE CARDS' PETER CUSHING CLASSIC MOMENTS

An interesting detail with the photograph used for this 'Classic Moment' Peter Cushing would often send publicity pressbooks or photographs to the club for use in the journals. A lovely touch was that he would always write on the backs of the photographs, sometimes a message or as in this case, a little note of the film's title..and his name. As ever, Peter being modest and kind. Thought you'd like to see this -Marcus

PETER CUSHING 'LEGEND OF THE WEREWOLF' MONSTER MAG NUMBER THREE VOL:2

MONSETR MAG COVER AND DOUBLE SPREAD ON PETER CUSHING'S 'LEGEND OF TEH WEREWOLF' TYBURN FILMS (1975)

PETER CUSHING: GRAND MOFF TARKIN SLIPPERS ON SET PHOTOGRAPHS 'STAR WARS' (1977)

I've had so many requests and queries about this one over the last few days...so here it is again: Peter Cushing wearing his carpet slippers during the shooting of 'STAR WARS' in 1977. For those who don't know the story behind this... Peter took a size 12 in footwear. On the first day of shooting, Peter discovered the boots were far too small.. as the wardrobe department could not source a larger pair of boots at short notice, Peter wore his carpet slippers in his mid and close up shots. Yes... he blew up Alderaan in his slippers!

PETER CUSHING AND VERONICA CARLSON : 'THE GHOUL' (1975) FULL REVIEW FEATURE AND GALLERY.

CAST:

Peter Cushing (Dr Lawrence), Alexandra Bastedo (Angela), Veronica Carlson (Daphne Wells-Hunter), John Hurt (Tom Rawlings), Gwen Watford (Ayah), Stewart Bevan (Billy), Ian McCulloch (Geoffrey), Don Henderson (The Ghoul)

PRODUCTION:

Director: Freddie Francis. Screenplay: John Elder [Anthony Hinds], Producer:  Kevin Francis. Photography: John Wilcox. Music:  Harry Robinson. Makeup:  Roy Ashton. Art Direction: Jack Shampan. Production Company – Tyburn. (1975) 

The mid seventies were a troubled time for the once mighty British horror movement. By this point in time the glory days of the late fifties and the sixties seemed but a distant memory as the genres once affluent forbearers Hammer had fallen on black days due to their refusal to move with the times. While certain independent faces (most notably director Pete Walker) attempted to valiantly lead British horror in fresh directions, others foolhardily clung to the misguided belief that what had worked before would work again and persisted in recycling the Hammer patented gothic motifs long after they had become passe.

Tyburn Films was a production company established by the enthusiastic and horror film mad Kevin Francis. Himself the son of the great Freddie Francis who had in previous years directed numerous classic British horror pictures for Hammer, their closest rivals Amicus and others. Tyburn’s meagre horror output was characterised by its steadfast dedication to the antiquated stately gothic horror format, which despite capable direction from Freddie Francis (keeping it in the family) was essentially the work of a company foolishly moving towards what everyone else still involved with the flagging British horror genre was astute enough to be moving way from. Both the merits and failings of Tyburn’s output are readily exemplified by their 1975 effort The Ghoul, which remains perhaps the most memorable of the small clutch of chillers that Tyburn would unleash on an unwilling public during the mid seventies.

Set in 1920’s England, The Ghoul commences at the scene of a swinging, boozy high society get together. With the champagne flowing freely bravado and posturing rear their heads when four of the plucky young revelers agree to participate in a foolhardy motorcar race to Lands End. After pairing off into two couples the inebriated racers speed off southbound and inevitably the occupants of both vehicles soon get hopelessly lost en route to their destination.

One by one the lost racers find themselves at the isolated Cornish manor house of defrocked clergyman Mr Lawrence (played by Peter Cushing) located slap bang in the middle of a treacherous expanse of fog enshrouded marshland. Having spent the majority of his life living in India, Mr Lawrence has now returned to his English home where he is served by brutish gardener Tom (a young(ish) John Hurt) and his stern, sinister housekeeper (played by a blacked up Gwen Watford) whom he bought back from India with him.

As Lawrence’s unwitting guests make their way through the hazardous bogs and up to the manor house itself, they are soon unfortunate enough to discover their hosts terrifying secret. During his time in India it appears that Mr Lawrence incurred the wrath of a diabolical cult devoted to the worship of the goddess Kali. As a result Mr Lawrence is now left with something very nasty in one of his back rooms, something with an insatiable hunger for human flesh!

Had it been released perhaps seven or eight years earlier then the chances are that The Ghoul could have been a modest success story. However, by the time The Ghoul did surface, its cinematic style was unceremoniously out of vogue and considered by both critics and audiences alike to be old hat. By 1975 the momentum, as regards to screen horror, had swung to the other side of the pond where William Friedkin’s box office monster The Exorcist (1973) had shocked audiences worldwide and the surprise success of Tobe Hooper’s The Texas Chain Saw Massacre (1974) had ushered in a new age for the horror genre. Up against such contemporary and wildly popular shockers neither The Ghoul nor Tyburn’s similarly solid yet archaic Legend Of The Werewolf (released the same year) could hope to compete. Critics were almost unanimous in their unimpressed “seen it all before” approximation of these efforts and more importantly neither picture registered little in the way of commercial impact. In fact both actually turned out to be money losers, thus signifying that Britain’s long running love affair with the period gothic chiller was finally over. Incredibly Tyburn would recover and continue to operate well into the nineties, moving onto various television projects following their brief flirtation with horror which had almost bankrupted the company.

However, taken purely on its own merits The Ghoul is a much easier film to enjoy now in retrospect than it probably was back at the time of its original release. While the end results never come close to setting the world on fire, director Freddie Francis is undoubtedly one of the old masters of the Hammer Horror style gothic style and directs with both pace and aplomb resulting in a proficient and atmospheric little chiller. The script written by Francis’ fellow old hand Anthony Hinds (under his familiar John Elder pseudonym) may be mighty familiar stuff, but in Francis' capable hands it unfolds satisfyingly onscreen. In many respects Hinds’ script can be looked upon as a subtle reworking of the one he had penned almost a decade earlier for the excellent Hammer film The Reptile (1966), which served up a similar yarn concerning an oddly sinister middle-aged gentleman forced to cover up the existence and true identity of a man beast spawned as the result of an Eastern curse. This plot, it should be noted, was also blatantly “borrowed” by writer Peter Bryan in his script for Vernon Sewell’s atrociously poor British horror effort The Blood Beast Terror (1968) which, funnily enough, also starred Peter Cushing.

Of course The Ghoul is nothing the British horror fan hasn't seen before as expendable protagonists wade through the murky bogs of Pinewood Studios wherein the prop men have once again overdone it a bit with the trusty old smoke machine. After dodging their way past the slavering ex-soldier turned violent simpleton groundskeeper who lurks in the fog waiting to waylay any passing maidens, our plucky young things finally make it to the old manor house. Once there it soon becomes readily obvious to anyone whose seen a few films of this ilk before to realise that the cordial but evasive Peter Cushing (who could act his way through this sort of stuff in his sleep) is harbouring a dark secret. Meanwhile from the amount of ominous shots of the back room door creaking open you just know something ghastly is behind it waiting to be revealed, but only once every disposable cast member has been gorily killed off in the interim. If that doesn’t give the game away then the very suspect pots of raw, bloodied meat Lawrence’s barmy Indian housekeeper keeps leaving outside the door certainly do.

Yet whilst totally predictable The Ghoul breeds a certain warmth (as opposed to contempt) in its familiarity and is seldom anything short of brisk and richly atmospheric as Francis uses the ominous foggy marshlands and eerie interiors of the Lawrence household to pleasingly creepy effect. Meanwhile, The Ghoul also benefits from a wonderful performance from Peter Cushing as the benevolent yet obviously tortured Mr Lawrence. Fortunately Cushing is on something nearing his best form here and beautifully conveys his character's underlying sense of familial loss and sorrow. Particularly memorable is one moment in which for Cushing his art becomes intermingled with the tragedy of life. With Mr Lawrence relating the death of his wife he picks up a framed photograph of her. The woman in the said photograph is in actual fact Peter Cushing’s own wife who had died just a couple of years earlier and the tears we see shed by the veteran star are actually genuine.

Additionally Cushing receives capable support from a pre-fame John Hurt as Mr Lawrence’s ruffian gardener Tom Rawlins and an effortlessly sinister Gwen Watford as his fanatical Indian housekeeper. Elsewhere regular Hammer starlet Veronica Carlson is as attractive and capable as always in her role as the most headstrong of the films fetching young femmes, but by contrast a young Ian McCulloch seems somewhat awkward as the apparent hero of the hour. As most horror buffs will no doubt be aware, McCulloch would later return to the genre via leading man appearances in a trio of Italian made shockers, namely Lucio Fulci's classic Zombie Flesh Eaters (1979), Mario Girolami's dopey Zombie Holocaust (1980) and Luigi Cozzi's cheap and cheerful Alien knock-off Contamination (also 1980).

While a lesser filmmaker would struggle to milk much mileage out of such an essentially tired, recycled premise, Freddie Francis draws upon his vast experience to generate some well judged and proficiently executed shock moments amidst the scripts seemingly bottomless bag of British horror cliches. The memorable, suspenseful opening scene in which a young party reveler is discovered hanging by a bloodied hook through his neck in a dusty back room, whilst essentially a silly false scare, opens the film in a stylish and suitably macabre fashion. However, by far the films most effective moment comes in the form of the sudden, shock butchering of a female protagonist who, up until that point at least, had been the primary focus of the film and seemed to be its apparent heroine. The parallels between this and the legendary demise of Janet Leigh in Hitchcock’s classic Psycho are obvious and no doubt intentional.


Not quite so effective however, is the final revelation of “The Ghoul” itself, which when unveiled turns out to be a pretty feeble offering it must be said. Up until the conclusion Francis had thus far kept things tight by conveying the monsters presence through creepy shots of the fiends scarred, sandal-clad feet thudding along corridors and down staircases in pursuit of his human prey. So when the viewer is finally greeted by the less than terrifying spectacle of British character actor Don Henderson bald-headed and wearing a loincloth with his face painted a sickly shade of green it is something of an anticlimax to say the least. Therefore, despite Cushing’s suitably tortured lamentations, The Ghoul fizzles out on something of a flat note, which is a bit of a shame I must say.

All in all no one should be under any illusions that The Ghoul is a fully fledged classic by any stretch of the imagination. What The Ghoul certainly is however, is a film that has gained immeasurably from the gift of retrospect. Despite being hideously behind the times back in 1975 and rejected accordingly, viewed now The Ghoul fails to make any real lasting impression but is nonetheless an extremely well made and enjoyable British gothic that holds up just about as well as any other formula British horror effort from the sixties or seventies you might care to mention.

For some The Ghoul might prove an unnecessary trudge down a path walked down more than one too many times already, but if one can look past the blatant over familiarity of the material then The Ghoul, thanks in no small part to a strong, impassionaed starring turn by Cushing and Freddie Francis' expertly atmospheric direction, registers as nothing less than a professional job well done. I'd struggle to see any true blue fan of British horror films not enjoying it.

'The Ghoul' is recommended.

REVIEW: Jack Smith
Original Posting: HERE
IMAGES: Marcus Brooks

PETER CUSHING: THE DAILY WALK...

Peter Cushing looks out to sea from his favourite spot on the harbour at his home town of WHITSTABLE, Kent, England. This was a walk he did most days, come rain or shine.. (circa 1990)

PETER CUSHING: VAN HELSING: THE BEST OF THE BEST?

Peter Cushing has played VAN HELSING and descendents of VAN HELSING in five of Hammer Film Productions 'DRACULA' films.. Which one is your favourite performance?

HAMMER FILM PRODUCTIONS: IS THIS THE BEST OPENING SCENE FROM A HAMMER FILM?

WHAT DO YOU THINK? WOULD LOVE TO READ YOUR COMMENTS AND THOUGHTS!

PETER CUSHING: 'AND NOW THE SCREAMING STARTS! ..' DVD REVIEW AND LOBBY GALLERY

CAST:

Stephanie Beacham (Catherine Fengriffen), Peter Cushing (Dr Pope), Ian Ogilvy (Charles Fengriffen), Geoffrey Whitehead (Silas), Herbert Lom (Sir Henry Fengriffen), Patrick Magee (Dr Whittle), Rosalie Crutchley (Mrs Luke), Janet Key (Bridget), Guy Rolfe (Lawyer Maitland), Sally Harrison (Sarah)

PRODUCTION:

Director – Roy Ward Baker, Screenplay – Roger Marshall, Based on the Novel Fengriffen by David Case, Producers – Max J. Rosenberg & Milton Subotsky, Photography – Denys Coop, Music – Douglas Gamley, Art Direction – Tony Curtis. Production Company – Harbor Productions Inc/Amicus.

--And Now The Screaming Starts! (1973) is a brooding, not very successful attempt by Amicus Productions to break away from its successful horror anthologies, essentially short stories with contemporary settings, with a feature-length period horror film more along the lines of those commonly made by Hammer. Though interesting in some respects, the final product is like an anemic Rebecca meets The Hound of the Baskervilles, with a second act pilfered from Rosemary's Baby.

In 1795 England, Catherine (Stephanie Beacham) has just married Charles Fengriffen (Ian Ogilvy) and moved onto the family's massive estate. Almost at once however, Catherine has strange, horrifying visions. A bloody arm bursts through a portrait of Charles's grandfather, Henry (Herbert Lom, seen in a brief flashback); a disembodied hand (played by a rubber prop with a motor in it) scurries about the floor; a man with his eyes plucked out repeatedly appears outside various windows; and in bed Catherine is nearly strangled to death by a shadowy figure missing one of his hands.

It quickly becomes clear that Charles is withholding from Catherine a dark family secret, almost literally a skeleton in the Fengriffen closet. With family physician Dr. Whittle (Patrick Magee) stymied from revealing the dark secret (why?), Van Helsing-esque, Sherlock Holmesian Dr. Pope (Peter Cushing) is called to the case.

The biggest problem with --And Now The Screaming Starts! (and yes, that's how the title appears onscreen) is that it's so determined to rush headlong into its scenes of horror that it never takes the time to give its audience any background on who its main characters are or why we should care about them. We know nothing about Catherine and Charles's backstory and, as far as the film is concerned, their short-lived newlywed bliss lasts all of 30 seconds before the horror commences. After that, the two characters aren't even in the same room most of the time. Partly this may have been an effort to dramatize the more formal structure of 18th century married life among the privileged class, but their curious lack of scenes together only comes off like screenwriter Roger Marshall (adapting David Case's novel) was simply trying to put off an inevitable confrontation as long as possible. It's also possible that a more sexually complex adaptation had been conceived but dropped. More on this shortly.

Instead, the film parades one series of strange-goings-on and other horror set pieces after another but without compelling characters to hang them on they just don't make much of an impact (though the bit with the arm bursting through the painting is pretty effective. Conversely, the disembodied hand looks pretty phony; the filmmakers would have been wise to study The Beast with Five Fingers for ways around such technical limitations.)

 

The film also eschews any suggestion that Catherine's horrific visions may be entirely in her mind; it's bluntly clear, certainly after people start dropping dead left and right, that something is going on, but this only serves to deflate the suspense even further. The film had great potential with aspects of Catherine and Charles's sexual relationship hinted at yet never actually explored, such as Charles' odd absence from Catherine's bed on their wedding night. But the film isn't being subtle: it's merely avoiding the obvious, aspects of the story that presumably appeared in the novel but which were deleted for the screenplay.

Also undermining the horror is the film's flat, even lighting of the elaborate, two-story set used for interiors of the Fengriffen mansion. (Exteriors of the estate were shot on the familiar grounds of Oakley Court, seen in numerous Hammer films.) Apparently the filmmakers opted to build this set for logistical reasons rather than shoot in a real mansion, but this was probably a mistake. Though quite extravagant by Amicus standards, it never looks like anything other than a set, and everyone is so obviously proud of the damn thing that the camera constantly pans and dollies lovingly over every square foot, making sure audiences appreciate how expensive it was.

The film is only fitfully effective. Far more evocative than the mansion interiors is art director Tony Curtis's (not the Hollywood actor) fenced-in, neglected family graveyard, the site of one particularly gruesome bit of horror intact on this DVD but originally cut when the film was first released in America.

Beacham is fine in a difficult role, and though Peter Cushing's part is little more than a variation of two of his best-loved characters (see above), he's still very effective and livens up what might have been an excruciating second act. Though top-billed, Cushing doesn't appear until the film is half over, and second- and third-billed Lom and Magee have small roles. It's really Beacham's film all the way. The good supporting cast includes Mr. Sardonicus himself, Guy Rolfe, and The Haunting's Rosalie Crutchley.

VISUAL AND AUDIO: 

Dark Sky's DVD of --And Now The Screaming Starts! is an excellent 16:9 enhanced, region-free transfer that approximates the original widescreen aspect ratio, here presented at 1.77:1. Originally printed by Technicolor, the hues are accurate and the image sharp and free from much damage or wear. The English mono audio is clean and clear, and optional English subtitles are included.

EXTRA FEATURES:

Supplements include two audio commentaries, the first hosted by Marcus Hearn and featuring director Roy Ward Baker and Stephanie Beacham, together for the first time since the film's postproduction more than 30 years ago. As usual, Hearn asks good, probing questions, keeps the guests on track, and supplements their answers with additional bits of information. An excellent job.

 

A second track, this time hosted by Darren Gross, features actor Ian Ogilvy. It's less focused but still pretty entertaining. One is tempted to say that the two tracks should've been combined into one, but there's enough here to justify separate commentaries.

Also included is a good Photo Gallery of international ad art: posters, lobby cards, etc. There are spoiler-filled trailers for --And Now The Screaming Starts (16:9), Asylum and The Beast Must Die (both 4:3 full frame). All are complete with narration and text, though the one for The Beast Must Die is in poor condition.

 

Finally, brief but useful Biographies with short filmographies are included for Peter Cushing, Roy Ward Baker, Stephanie Beacham, Ian Ogilvy, Herbert Lom, and Max J. Rosenberg and Milton Subotsky.

Christopher Gullo contributes singularly weak liner notes on all three Dark Sky/Amicus releases (the others being Asylum and The Beast Must Die). The notes on this title could've been much longer (there's a page and a third of empty space), and on each Gullo simply offers an unneeded plot synopsis, a paragraph-long, capsule history of Amicus (repeated word-for-word on all three liner notes), and a couple of not very enlightening paragraphs of criticism.

 

PARTING THOUGHTS: 
Horror completests will want to own --And Now The Screaming Starts! but even they will likely be disappointed with the film, though they'll likely feel greatly compensated by Dark Sky's handsome presentation.

Original Review: HERE
Images: Marcus Brooks
Buy reviewed DVD: HERE

PETER CUSHING: PAUL MCNAMEE'S PETER CUSHING MARATHON: LAP SIX: 'LOCO - MOTION PICTURES'

Webmaster and archivist extraordinaire Marcus Brooks, without whom these Cushtravaganzae would not be half as appealing, can take credit for this week’s central conceit but that title is all mine, baby! Following on from last, er, month’s entry (a small case of redundancy threw a wrench in the creative works) I’ve tackled another Amicus production for your rabid appreciation, as well as one of my favourite Cushing/ Lee efforts, the wonderful Horror Express. Both feature our gallant thesp in on-track adventure and as a double bill they work well, not just thematically but as a pair of good films worth watching with your eyes and all that. With that excessive grandiloquence out of the way, let us move onwards as the Movie Marathon cheats a lap and travels in style by rail...

CAST:

Peter Cushing (Dr Schreck). Werewolf:- Neil McCallum (Jim Dawson), Ursula Howells (Mrs Bidoff), Katy Wild (Valda), Peter Madden (Caleb). Creeping Vine:- Alan Freeman (Bill Rogers), Ann Bell (Ann Rogers), Bernard Lee (Hopkins), Sarah Nichols (Carol Rogers), Jeremy Kemp (Drake). Voodoo:- Roy Castle (Biff Bailey), Kenny Lynch (Sammy). Disembodied Hand:- Christopher Lee (Franklyn Marsh), Michael Gough (Eric Landor). Vampire:- Donald Sutherland (Bob Carroll), Jennifer Jayne (Nicole Carroll), Max Adrian (Dr Blake)

PRODUCTION:

Director – Freddie Francis, Screenplay – Milton Subotsky, Producers – Milton Subotsky & Max J. Rosenberg, Photography – Alan Hume, Music – Elizabeth Lutyens, Music Co-ordinator – Philip Martell, Jazz Music – Tubby Hayes, Songs – Kenny Lynch, Special Effects – Ted Samuels, Makeup – Roy Ashton, Art Direction – Bill Constable. Production Company – Amicus.

I swore aloud as I loaded my good buddy Kirby’s copy of Dr. Terror and spied the German title as it lit my screen (he has a habit of speaking other languages like a great big multicultural jerk) but luckily the disc has English audio and I stopped just short of sending him an angry text (something along the lines of “curse you Kirby, WE CAN’T ALL SPEAK GERMAN”). The credits don't hold any exciting secrets (and in fact I managed to miss one cast member altogether whose later appearance surprised me to no end) but given that Sir Pete plays the titular Terror I could at least look forward to an expanded role compared to the last two Amicus films I "reviewed".

Within the first five minutes I'd developed a sneaking suspicion about how the train on which five hapless sorts are traveling was going to figure into the overall plot. Let's just say that if you've seen a few of the other Amicus anthologies, you're unlikely to be shocked by the last minute revelation. What gets me is how they (ie Milton Subotsky) were so comfortable essentially writing the same film over and over given how pivotal the framing device is, in these movies.

Anyway, on pile the sharply dressed young men. Ooh, look,  one's Christopher Lee. And there's Donald Sutherland. And last among them comes beardy, quietly menacing, overbite-sporting Dr. Terror himself, our man Cush. As the good doctor, he is simply tremendous, nailing a very subtle German accent and intoning "an unfortunate misnomer, for I am the mildest of men". Your words say mildest, Terror, but your very nature screams trouble. He commences doling out tall tales about his companions' futures based on his deck of tarot cards (in a treatment no fortune teller has ever given me) to a mixture of rapt interest and vehement denouncement on Lee's part. Christopher Lee as a stuffy, uptight nerd. Now I've seen everything.

The first of the five stories features a werewolf and a house and some people and things. One lady comments, "the only thing I don’t like about living on this island is that the shops don’t deliver” and I can’t help but think that her perspective is going to change once she realises someone buried a werewolf in her basement (and as excellent as this film’s title is, “Someone Buried A Werewolf In My Basement” is miles better, right?) A ludicrously Scottish man roams about the house, discovers some remains in the basement, is stalked out of shot by a HAIRY HAND (nothing I love more in a horror film that a hairy hand attached to nothing) and finally distracted by a rat, long enough for the werewolf to escape from its coffin (its coffin???) and attack, I dunno, someone. We have a Hammer Scream, those delightful male shrieks of terror, despite this being made by a rival studio. Then the werewolf knocks a door and waits for permission to enter. This is the best werewolf scene in the history of movies. Then there's a twist and we're back on the train for round two.

That surprise I mentioned earlier? BERNARD LEE! M HIMSELF! You know, before M himself was M herself. Surely he is the only man who could deliver the line "a dog, strangled by a vine" with such gravitas. Oh yeah, this story's about a vine that kills people. Basically, if I was to sum it up, it's kinda like the entire plot of The Happening, but condensed into about 20 minutes in a much, much better film. But no less stupid. Plant-based horror just turns me right off. As much as the hand-operated scary branches amused me, I had totally forgotten about this section until reading my notes afterwards, and that's the truth.

Next, cheeky chappy Roy Castle nips off to the West Indies (OF DOOM) with a borderline offensive accent adoption to steal notes from voodoo-fond drummers to use in his jazz band before spooky goings-on turn him off musical plagiarism for life, but it's played for laughs and has no real ramification at all. Plus he runs past a film poster for, you guessed it, "Someone Buried A Werewo"..., sorry, Dr. Terror's House Of Horrors. Skip!

Round 4, and Christopher Lee is given a chance to shine as a particularly spiteful art critic (aren't they ALL?) who comes up against his old Dracula nemesis Michael Gough and runs him over for making him look like a fool with the use of a chimp. There's another Hammer Scream in there (from Gough, surely a dab hand), and a murderous hand that stalks Lee across the country before his ironic comeuppance at the end of the section.

Then Donald Sutherland and crap pajamas and a vampire and a doctor but not a vampire but a vampire AND a doctor.

In case you couldn't tell, I really wanted to get to the ending, which brings revelations about Dr. Terror and his terror train. Sure, you could see it coming from a hundred miles away (with a telescope) but it's so tastefully executed even with the use of a plastic skull (ever notice these horror skulls never have a full set of teeth?). When asked about his true identity, Cushing turns and chills to the marrow with a "have you not guessed?" It's the creepiest moment in any Cushing performance I've ever seen and the best single line to grab from any of films to showcase his talent in a single moment.

CAST:

Christopher Lee (Sir Alexander Saxton), Peter Cushing (Dr Wells), Julio Pena (Inspector Mirov), Albert de Mendoza (Pujardov), Telly Savalas (Captain Kazan), Silvia Tortosa (Irina Petrovski), Alice Reinhart (Miss Jones), Jorge Rigaud (Count Petrovski), Helga Line (Natasha)

PRODUCTION:
Director/Story – Gene Martin [Eugenio Martin], Screenplay – Arnaud D’Usseau & Julian Halervy, Producer – Bernard Gordon, Photography – Alejandro Ulloa, Music – John Cacavas, Special Effects – Pablo Perez, Makeup – Julian Ruiz, Art Direction – Ramiro Gomez Guardiana. Production Company – Grenada/Benmar Productions.  ( AKA Panic On The Trans-Siberian (Panico en el Transiberiano)

Horror Express has a lot going for it. Sir Pete, actual knight Sir Christopher Lee and Telly Savalas are surrounded by an impressive cast including the supremely creepy Alberto De Mendoza as whistling monk Pujardov. Oh, and let’s not forget the hulking man-thing that’s loose aboard the Orient Express treating the passengers as his very own all-you-can-eat brainfeast. My Cinema Club DVD isn’t the best transfer (in fact, it’s that bad that when I heard there was an HD transfer forthcoming I literally didn’t believe it. I actually, truly thought it was some kind of really rubbish joke designed to wind up a small portion of cult horror fans. Go fig) but it suits the low budget cheapness of the film. Some films are best watched in poor quality, argues the horror purist. I mean, any film that opens with a shaky shot of a train whistling by with the shadow of the cameraman in shot would hardly benefit from the clarity HD would bring to such messiness. Seriously, the opening scene where a bodaciously-mustachioed Lee discovers the aforementioned man-thing in a cave looks more like on-set footage from a documentary than an actual establishing scene in a motion picture. Hardly something to get upset over, so let’s move on to the meat of this mother.

It also becomes apparent as the credits roll that this is a Spanish production and you may begin to wonder just how our most English of Englishmen are going to fit into proceedings. As it turns out, the film was shot in silence as a cost-cutting measure and is, entirely, dubbed. It’d take a trained ear to notice, though, and there’s a touch of professionalism that could fool you if that total lack of reverb didn’t stick out like a sore, hairy thumb.

I’ll tell you one thing that really makes this movie is John Cacavas’ score, and despite the name he’s not a member of the Spanish team but a UK veteran who scored – horribly – the last two Cushing/ Lee Dracula pictures, but I’ve dealt with those before and I’ve gotta move on. His central theme pops up both on the score and on characters’ lips as the haunting whistled tune makes its way somewhat metaphysically across the train, spelling doom for all those who encounter it one way or another.

The missing link monster and the abundance of shots of only his hairy arm or face in shadow recall the earlier Cushing vehicle The Abominable Snowman which has too enjoyed the Movie Marathon treatment. I’m sure it’s nothing as obvious as homage but it’s neat picking up similarities anyway. Perhaps what this film is best remembered for is the line “Monster? We’re British, you know?”, another delicious stab of metaphysics given that as far as the reel world was concerned that’s exactly what the British had been known for for close to thirteen years upon its 1972 release.

Early impressions of Lee’s character paint him as a bit of a jerk, and he’s arguably responsible for every single death in the movie when it comes down to it. When Pujardov demonstrates that his monster-containing crate doesn’t allow the tracing of a chalk cross, he dismisses it as “a conjurer's trick” and later hypnosis. Honestly, you think he of all people would know better. Like he’s above hypnotising PYTs to get what he wants. He emerges as something resembling a hero towards the end but for the most part he’s just there for Cushing to play of off. As often, Sir Pete is in gentleman mode, and this is one of his most upbeat performances given the recent death of his wife Helen. Sadly, we’re not treated to a Cushing Ruckus or any real instance of violence but as ever it’s a joy to watch his graceful delivery of dialogue, particularly when requested to perform an autopsy during his dinner. At another point he makes a fairly understandable statement but caps it with the analogy “like chalk erased from a blackboard”, and while its necessity is questionable you can’t help but appreciate him taking the effort. He’s also accused (by way of implication) of sexism early in the film which I honestly don’t think he’s at all capable of, even as a fictional character.

And even though this isn’t the Alberto De Mendoza And Telly Savalas Appreciation Society UK (can we get working on that, Marcus? Call me, we’ll do lunch), these two deserve probably the most praise for their commanding performances. De Mendoza is instantly creepy and almost messianic in appearance (which given the movie’s final reel is chillingly prescient), swaying in general dishevelment and stealing his every scene. Savalas, who’s introduced late in the film spouting disjointed madness in what appears to be a giant wooden sex crib, is movie gold. Not a second wasted, he brings the action wherever he goes and films from Capricorn One to The Muppet Movie have benefited from a Savalas injection.

The monster merits a mention too. For the most part he’s rendered comical, thanks to those shots of his arm fondling about for things his single red eye can’t quite see, but the later revelation that he’s as old as creation and in that grandeur akin to Satan is heady stuff and adds a depth to his prosthetic shenanigans most filmmakers can only dream of. Still, the scene where his memories are viewed through his removed ocular fluid and reveal his palling about with dinosaurs could just as easily be read (by me) that he recently visited an art gallery. M’only sayin’.

The horror of the title is fairly full on, too, with grue to spare and a blacker than black stripe of humour thanks to the monster’s inquisitive opening of skulls, post-autopsy, with a satisfying coconut clap. His murdering technique of bleeding out memories through the eyes, accompanied by a striking and unsettling music cue, is very effective. Top marks. Heck, top of the class, monster.

A few telling shots of the train as a model give away the inevitable explosive ending, but despite certain confirmations that this is another disposable star-powered studio horror laced with wry humour and populated by ladies with nothing to do but look privileged and pretty, there’s a serious heaviness to the film’s implications about the nature of evil and it’s really worth any horror fan’s time. There’s lofty ambition amongst the shlock.

So, another pair down and another step closer to striking ‘consume the complete Peter Cushing catalogue or at least that much of it that I can easily lay my hands on’ off the awkwardly-phrased bucket list. These are two I’d easily recommend. Horror Express is a sleazy little classic and Dr. Terror’s the best of the Amicus films I’ve seen so far, which is to say the best of three slightly numbing experiences that successfully blend entertainment with vague disappointment. At least each is a solid platform for the talents of the one man for whom we’re all here....Peter Cushing.

Call back in a fortnight to catch me on another lap...!


Review: Paul Mcnamee
Images: Marcus Brooks