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Universal Monsters

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

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BORIS KARLOFF
ZC Rating 6 of 7: 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…

 

…While our dull yellow eyes may no longer be shocked or horrified by James Whale’s Frankenstein, we are still thrilled by it. Perhaps it is the gothic-expressionism in its scenes alternating between light and dark, or perhaps it is the funereal sounds, the crackling electrical arcs from infernal machines, and the thundering, stormy nights that keep us coming back for more. Then again, it could be the story’s scintillating pace, filled with luridly atmospheric, yet poetic, macabre images, and vivid–now archetypal–characters revealed through Wale’s inquisitively roaming camera. Whatever the reasons may be, one thing is certain: Frankenstein solidified Universal Studios’ unique brand of talking-onscreen horror, which began with Dracula, and threw open theater doors everywhere to let in more monsters, madmen, and mayhem than you could shake a flaming torch at.

Mischief and madness are afoot in the sleepy town of Goldstadt, somewhere in Europe. Or is it Europe? Both locale and time period are unclear. English accents mix with American ones, and architectural styles mingle haphazardly. But one thing is certain, or should we say two? During a late-night funeral service, two odd-looking men wait behind a wrought iron fence, just out of sight. Like little school boys ready to play a nasty prank, they can barely contain their impatience until the last clump of earth is tossed with a heavy thud onto the coffin-lid. As the gravedigger leaves, they rush to the newly turned earth to retrieve the fresh corpse. Under the stony gaze from the Grim Reaper statue wildly tilting behind them, Henry Frankenstein (Colin Clive) and Fritz (Dwight Frye), his hunch-backed, unkempt assistant, gleefully cart their prize away.

But their night’s work is not yet done. Coming across a gibbet at the crossroads, Fritz reluctantly climbs the shaking hangman’s post and cuts the body loose. Henry is disappointed. The neck is broken of course, thus ruining any chance for a useful brain. He sends Fritz off to snatch one from the local Goldstadt medical school.

Dwight Frye played Renfield in Dracula so well he became typecast in the role of the manic, misfit, mad scientist’s–or evil vampire’s–assistant. His kinetic Fritz in Frankenstein sealed his fate, but it remains the performance of a lifetime. With his stubby cane, woefully too short to do much good, his crippling hunchback and skittering walk, and his tremulous speech, he is pitiable and contemptible at the same time; a character whose look and mannerisms will become copied and parodied in countless spookshows and movies.

At the medical school, clumsy Fritz drops a perfectly good brain when he frightens himself. The only other brain conveniently pickled close by is the one from a psychotic killer, conveniently labeled “ABNORMAL”. Oh, well, what’s an illiterate hunch-backed, demented assistant to do?

As Henry toils away the midnight hours blaspheming against God with his body-parts suturing, his fiancee Elizabeth (Mae Clarke) is worried. In one of Whale’s signature close-up compositions, he introduces her and Victor (John Boles), Henry’s rival for her affections, filling ordinarily static dialog with movement and tension, keeping the pace trotting inside and outside the laboratory. Elizabeth insists she and Victor see Dr. Waldman (Edward Van Sloan), Henry’s former professor, to find out why Henry is acting strangely.

In their meeting with Dr. Waldman, the more properly starched doctor tells them about Henry’s unhealthy, heretical habits, like trying to create life out of dead bodies. Dr. Waldman is Henry’s moral and societal conscience, the polar opposite of Henry’s other teacher, the amoral–but fun-loving–Dr. Pretorius in Bride of Frankenstein. Like Dwight Frye, Edward Van Sloan also became typecast. He became the perfectly knowledgeable, morally upright, and strong-willed man of reason and science for any occasion, no matter what his other acting credits said.

There’s a wonderfully quirky embellishment made by Frye as the trio of Waldman, Elizabeth and Victor knock on the front door to the old watchtower, Henry’s laboratory, at night as rain pours down. Both Fritz and Henry are busy preparing for the storm’s full electrical fury and they can’t be bothered with visitors at such a critical time. Hobbling down the long, steep flight of stairs framed by the tower’s walls, sloping in odd, off-plumb angles high up into shadows, Fritz hurries to the door, dismisses them brusquely, then hurries back up the steps, pausing ever so briefly in his frenzy to pull up a drooping sock while juggling a lantern and his useless cane: a brilliant, toss-away move that belies the childlike in Fritz, caught between his gnarled adult body and ambiguous soul.

Eventually Henry realizes who’s at the front door and comes down to let them in. In another signature use of his dynamic lens, Whale follows Henry, passing the camera’s view across–and seemingly through–the wall separating the lab from the stairway in one fluid motion. Henry invites them in to view the creation of the Monster; and what a creation it is! Kenneth Strickfaden’s awesome electrical apparatus sparks and arcs and crackles with brilliance as the body, stitched together from dead tissue, is raised to the heavens during the height of the storm. In a crescendo of lightning flashes, electrical discharges, crashing thunder, and anxious faces, the body is brought back down. Slowly, the lifeless hand is lifeless no more, and Henry utters the formerly censored words, “Now I know what it feels like to be God!”  Frankenstein’s Monster coming to life proves Henry’s scientific skills, but what follows his triumph really needed more of his parental ones, which he was sorely lacking.

Is the Monster really evil or is he just misunderstood? Henry and Waldman argue this point, and whether to keep the Monster (Boris Karloff) alive. Everything quickly goes wrong when the Monster makes his first onscreen appearance. First you hear clumping footsteps ascending the stairs, then the door slowly opens as he enters, facing backwards. Slowly he turns around, and two zooming close-ups reveal Jack Pierce’s creepy cotton and collodion makeup that surely must have made hearts skip a beat in 1931. Directing the Monster to sit, Henry opens the skylight to let in sunlight. The Monster reaches upward, attracted by the sudden brightness, trying to touch it. When Henry closes the skylight, the mute Monster again expresses want with his hands. Karloff’s pantomime performance is poignant. Perhaps Waldman is wrong and–damn, what’s Fritz doing with that torch?

As the composure of the Monster turns from fear to frustrated rage, so does Henry’s reason begin to shatter and Waldman presses his argument to destroy the blasphemous creature. Like all mad scientists, Henry was only interested in the experiment, not its consequences. Fritz should not have mistreated the poor thing, though. Fire, whips, chains, such abuse is bound to make any monster inordinately angry (and more monstrous).  A long scream of terror later, Fritz is found hanging by his own overly used whip. Making matters worse, Waldman becomes choked up over his work–the Monster throttles him to death–before he can disassemble Henry’s patchwork creation. Henry meanwhile has succumbed to exhaustion, disappointment, and doubt.

The Monster strolls out the front door and goes wandering the countryside looking for understanding, but finds none. Each peaceful moment is ruined by skittish villagers, or his blundering and uncontrollable anger. In one scene previously lost to the censors, but eventually restored, his happy moment of play with little Maria (Marilyn Harris) is cut short when he runs out of flowers to toss on the water’s surface. He innocently tosses her in to see if she will float like the flowers, but not being a water lily, she doesn’t. This, naturally, upsets the villagers.

With Henry back on his feet and ready to marry Elizabeth, their wedding day is marred by little Maria’s death and the Monster’s sudden attack on Elizabeth. Beginning with Maria’s father’s solemn walk through the singing and dancing villagers, carrying her small limp body, followed by the hasty assemblage of torch-wielding mobs to hunt down the Monster, leading to Henry’s confrontation with his now loathed creation, the movie moves to its incendiary climax at the old windmill. Henry and Monster have a dad and son reunion that leaves both apparently dead and theater audiences clamoring for more.

Never say die when boffo box-office receipts are involved.

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

/ Universal Monsters / Leave a Comment

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.