X the Unknown (1956)

When Hammer released 1955’s The Quatermass Xperiment, the emphasized X of the title served to proudly display the X certificate it received from the British Board of Film Censors. Limiting the audience to those over 16 would not be an impediment, but a sensational selling point. When the film became a smash hit – launching Hammer horror, albeit in a science fiction vein – it shouldn’t be a surprise that the expedited follow-up was called X the Unknown (1956), in true exploitation fashion. This wasn’t a proper sequel: writer Nigel Kneale wouldn’t grant Hammer the rights to insert his Professor Quatermass creation into their independently developed story. Kneale was still stinging a bit after their casting of Brian Donlevy as Quatermass, which turned the inquisitive, calculating, and distinctly British character into a brash American barking orders at his troops. (Kneale would return to the Hammer fold in 1957 for Quatermass 2 and The Abominable Snowman, when given the opportunity to write those screenplays himself.) Though Donlevy doesn’t appear in X the Unknown, a Hollywood actor was again cast in the lead: Dean Jagger (White Christmas, Twelve O’clock High), brought in, like Donlevy, to secure the film’s distribution in the U.S. Jagger would play Dr. Adam Royston, a nuclear scientist whose experiments become the source of both awe and scorn throughout the film. Like Quatermass, he investigates a fast-developing menace that defies known science; unlike Donlevy, his character’s demeanor is appealingly empathetic. He’s painfully aware of the human cost of his field of study, and recognizes in this new radioactive threat – emerging from beneath the Earth’s crust – a parallel to the nuclear horror unleashed at the close of the last great war.

Face-melting horror.

The Quatermass Xperiment template is followed pretty closely, but screenwriter Jimmy Sangster, about to become a Hammer MVP with the screenplays for The Curse of Frankenstein (1957) and Dracula (1958), cleverly inverts the alien invasion formula by having the threat be entirely native. As British soldiers (including pop star Anthony Newley) practice using a Geiger counter in a muddy field, the level of radiation spikes and the earth splits open, one of the men consumed by an unseen force, another becoming badly burned by radiation. Dr. Royston is enlisted to help, but the case only turns more mysterious when a staffer in a local hospital’s radiation laboratory has his face melted away, in a very impressive and grotesque special effect that is all the more disturbing for a brief shot of his finger swelling to burst. (The X certificate, in this case, is earned.) Royston teams up with the Atomic Energy Commission’s “Mac” McGill, played by the always-welcome Leo McKern. Together they begin to realize that the thing they seek, which has the physical appearance of mud, actually absorbs radiation, seeking it out and consuming it while becoming more and more powerful. The climax essentially turns the film into The Blob, two years ahead of that film’s release, as the mud-creature oozes across the countryside, threatening a village as it seeks larger sources of radioactivity to devour. Incidentally, there’s so much radiation handling, so much Geiger counter static, radiation scars, and lack of radiation suits that this film may actually give you radiation sickness. If you’ve recently watched the miniseries Chernobyl, prepare for this film to give you a lot more anxiety than it originally intended.

A jeep becomes stuck while trying to lure the radioactive menace.

X the Unknown is directed by Leslie Norman, replacing the blacklisted expat Joseph Losey, who left the film reportedly due to pneumonia (but more likely because of McCarthy supporter Jagger). Losey would go on to direct a different radiation-drenched movie for Hammer, The Damned (1963) – which I’ll be visiting shortly for this site. I had only seen X the Unknown once before, on an inferior DVD presentation whose glitches were so distracting that I couldn’t engage with the film. Therefore the new Shout Factory Blu-ray is especially welcome. The black and white photography on display is beautiful, especially in a nighttime scene in which two boys run through a shadowy forest before one meets his unfortunate fate. Part of what makes this film so affecting is that Sangster then follows up with the boy’s fate, in a hospital where he perishes from his radiation exposure, his father angrily confronting Royston as a scapegoat for all atomic scientists. Royston says nothing, but steels himself to his cause, giving his eventual victory a cathartic charge. Of course the number of 50’s movies grappling with the horrific possibilities of nuclear experimentation is endless, but this would make an interesting pairing with, if not The Damned, then Godzilla (1954), the first and most somber of Toho’s series. The brief, startling gore effects clearly mark this as a transitional film into Curse of Frankenstein and Hammer’s bloody gothics to come, but X the Unknown stands apart as a uniquely compelling thriller now that we can view it afresh.

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The Two Faces of Dr. Jekyll (1960)

One of the chief defining characteristics of Hammer’s initial run of Gothic horrors in the late 50’s and early 60’s is the resistance to produce traditional, straightforward, or even faithful updates to horror’s canon of literary and cinematic monsters. The Curse of Frankenstein (1957) isn’t particularly beholden to either Mary Shelley’s original or James Whale’s 1931 adaptation, presenting a womanizing, murderous Dr. Frankenstein. Dracula (1958), amidst its extreme compression of the novel’s events and characters, serves up a Jonathan Harker who knows Dracula’s true nature from the start, as well as, of course, a vampire just as seductive as he is monstrous. If The Mummy (1959) were more comparable in plotting to Universal’s earlier cycle, it still distinguished itself with Hammer’s dashes of gore and overt sensuality displayed in eye-popping color. By the time audiences received The Two Faces of Dr. Jekyll (aka Jekyll’s Inferno, 1960), perhaps it wasn’t a surprise that Robert Louis Stevenson was not the central attraction. With a literate screenplay by playwright/novelist Wolf Mankowitz and direction by a returning Terence Fisher, the focus turns to sleazy thrills while the central gimmick – the Jekyll/Hyde transformation – is boldly turned upside-down. After taking his special formula, Dr. Jekyll (Canadian actor Paul Massie) doesn’t get buried under makeup like Fredric March, but liberated from it: his beard and middle-aged makeup vanish and he becomes young and handsome.

Hyde (Paul Massie) and Maria (Norma Marla).

It’s not a bad idea on the page, as it places a greater emphasis on how devilish Hyde behaves, rather than how he looks; he becomes a convincing stand-in for handsome, manipulative men on the prowl for women to abuse. But on film, the results are mixed. The beard vanishing shouldn’t be as silly as it is. Of course the story is a fantasy; but for the sole supernatural element to be the erasure or instant regrowth of facial hair is bound to draw a smirk. Massie does look and act quite differently when he transforms from Jekyll into Hyde, and we can suspend disbelief that he isn’t recognized as his alter ego – this much works. But Massie is also the film’s weak link, giving a Hyde performance that can’t exist in March’s shadow because it doesn’t even approach it in terms of intensity. This Hyde is soft-spoken, even a bit fey, interacting with others as though he’s an alien that’s just left his spaceship. It’s a mystery why showgirls would throw themselves at him, unless they think he’s an easy mark. You might argue that Hyde truly is an alien, or at least a newborn, but this approach is at odds with his sadistic nature when it comes to the fore. Massie gives a fantastic leer out of left-field, a Cheshire grin that splits his face in half, and his eyes look truly Wonderland-mad. Then he’s the aloof alien again, as though he wouldn’t know how to strangle a showgirl if he were handed a manual on the subject.

Dr. Jekyll in his laboratory.

Mankowitz’s screenplay spends most of its time in a night club where Hyde meets up with Jekyll’s disloyal friend, a cad named Paul Allen, played marvelously by a cast-against-type Christopher Lee. Paul is an unrepentant gambler with massive debts, leaning constantly on Jekyll’s fortune to bail him out – even while sleeping with Jekyll’s wife Kitty, played just as marvelously by Dawn Addams, who projects a cynicism that’s more effectively shocking than any of the overt horror elements the film offers. Cleverly, Mankowitz establishes right away that Kitty is just as two-faced as her chemically-augmented husband, though she seemingly bears no guilt at stepping out every night with his best friend. Hyde takes a lover in the snake dancer Maria (Norma Marla), but soon targets Paul and Kitty for a scheme of revenge. Mankowitz and Fisher send up Victorian hypocrisy in the traditional manner of past adaptations, but in a taboo-pushing style that’s alternately sophisticated (the blunt depiction of sexual relations) and humorously overwrought (Maria’s dance with her snake climaxes with her plunging the snake’s entire head into her mouth, symbolism that you could almost literally choke on). The night club scenes have an echo in the much later, much superior Hammer film Taste the Blood of Dracula (1970), which contains more satirical bite. But The Two Faces of Dr. Jekyll is so unusual a horror film that it becomes more fascinating on repeated viewings. There’s something to be said for its commitment to the lurid (as much as 1960 British censors would permit, anyway: a can-can dancing scene is one of the more old-fashioned styles of naughty included here). We spend a disproportionate amount of time in Hyde’s world such that Jekyll becomes an afterthought, which perhaps is for the best. As to killings and violence – there’s not much. But Lee and Addams know their irredeemable characters backward and forward. They are sophisticates for sleaze. They are, improbably, far more interesting in their underhanded ways than the film’s own Hyde. (Even Oliver Reed, who pops up in a too-brief role, steals the screen from Massie.) This is not a particularly deep film, but is attuned to the faces we wear in public and in private. Fisher gifts the shock scenes with expressive framing and color, almost enough for you to forgive an improbable killing by a slow-moving snake. It’s far from Hammer’s best, but it’s a reminder that the studio seldom gave you a tired version of the old chestnuts; they were always striving to do something different and inventive, even in sequels and remakes. In fact, this was not their first Jekyll and Hyde and would not be their last. 1959’s The Ugly Duckling, with Bernard Bresslaw, gave a slapstick treatment to the story, beating The Nutty Professor by four years; and Hammer’s smartest twist on the formula came in 1971’s gender-bending slasher Dr. Jekyll and Sister Hyde, written by Brian Clemens with liberal doses of black comedy.

Oliver Reed, pre-stardom, makes an early Hammer appearance.

The British label Indicator has released The Two Faces of Dr. Jekyll on region-free Blu-ray in the box set Hammer Volume Four: Faces of Fear, alongside The Revenge of Frankenstein (previously reviewed here), Taste of Fear, and The Damned. I expect to be checking in on the remaining titles – two of my all-time favorite Hammers – in the weeks ahead. A fifth box set, Death & Deceit, has been announced for March 23, featuring the more adventure-oriented titles Visa to Canton, The Pirates of Blood River, The Scarlet Blade, and The Brigand of Kandahar.

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To the Devil a Daughter (1976)

The swan song for Hammer horror (for a few decades, at least), To the Devil a Daughter (1976) is a belated attempt to present harder-edged genre material. Apart from perhaps the underrated psychological thriller Straight on Till Morning (1972), Daughter is the most downbeat and harrowing of Hammer’s many attempts that decade to tweak, update, or altogether abandon their old horror formulas. Let’s be clear: it’s a derivative and shameless movie that fits right in with the Satansploitation product of the era – what a delirious double feature with The Sentinel (1977) this would make. All of its flaws, artifacts of a troubled production, are inescapable, from a script that flirts with incoherence to a climax which is anything but climactic. And yet. And yet! The film has a somber atmosphere and soft-spoken sincerity that stand out more on a second viewing, as they did for this viewer’s. I cringed through the film the first time I saw it, which was quite a while ago. Revisiting the film on Blu-ray (it was released a couple years ago in the UK by StudioCanal, and last month by Scream Factory), having since read fan comments on the film ranging from tentatively positive to glowing, I find I can see past quivering, bloody, frog-eyed homunculus puppet to the ambitiously subversive Devil Rides Out (1968) follow-up it was always intended to be, and very nearly achieves.

Christopher Lee as the evil Satanist Father Michael Rayner.

Though this isn’t a direct sequel to the classic The Devil Rides Out, it forms the third in an informal trilogy of Dennis Wheatley adaptations which that film initiated, quickly followed by 1968’s The Lost Continent (one of these is not like the others). In the 60’s Hammer had optioned a number of Wheatley’s popular novels including The Devil Rides Out, The Lost Continent, The Haunting of Toby Jugg, The Satanist, and To the Devil – a Daughter, but following their two initial releases, the next and last Wheatley wouldn’t start production until 1974, after James Carreras handed a crippled Hammer to his son Michael and as opportunities to get financing and distribution from the U.S. began to dry up. EMI stepped up to finance the majority of Daughter, requesting that Christopher Lee be attached in the role of the sinister Father Michael Rayner. Though Lee was an increasingly reluctant participant in Hammer horror in the impoverished 70’s – and would boast of the luxurious treatment he received on The Man with the Golden Gun (1974) – getting him to sign onto a Wheatley adaptation would not be a problem; he was friends with Wheatley and an enthusiastic participant in The Devil Rides Out, which in turn became one of his very best films. Yet Daughter would put him in the awkward position of watching the script revisions drift further and further away from the original novel, to the frustration of the author. Once the money finally arrived and filming could begin, the production had to contend with the chaos of a disruptive star, Richard Widmark, confusingly constant rewrites, and special effects that were either inadequate (the homunculus puppet) or absent (the climax). Regarding the latter, David Taylor explains in Little Shoppe of Horrors #39 (“The Road…to Hell! The Making of To the Devil…A Daughter,” October 2017) that originally Father Michael was going to be struck by lightning, but after the scene was shot with Lee, it was deemed too similar to the climax of Scars of Dracula (1970): “In the rush to get Lee’s scenes completed before his departure for Canada [to shoot The Keeper], there had been no provision for additional coverage that might have given [director Peter] Sykes and [producer Roy] Skeggs a little more leeway in the editing suite.” So Widmark throws a rock at Lee, who simply vanishes. Not since Lee was killed by a bush in The Satanic Rites of Dracula (1973)…

Richard Widmark as occult expert John Verney.

And yet. And yet! It may just be the phenomenon of lowered expectations, but once you realize that the climax of the film will be muted, you begin to tune into the eerily muted quality that Sykes (Demons of the Mind) lends the entire film. His film begins with intentionally disorienting cuts between disparate characters – Father Michael and his followers, occultist John Verney, a tormented middle-aged man named Henry Beddows (Denholm Elliott, Raiders of the Lost Ark), and Catherine, a teenage nun (Nastassja Kinski, daughter of Klaus and future star of Tess, Cat People, and Paris, Texas). We get a sense that Father Michael has been excommunicated, thanks to an elliptical prologue set two decades before the film’s events, but he is still surrounded by seemingly Catholic followers. We see Henry Beddows intrude upon Verney at a book reading, but we don’t hear what they’re talking about – the scene is shot from the point of view of Verney’s friends David (Anthony Valentine, Tower of Evil) and Anna (Honor Blackman, Goldfinger). Eventually Verney meets Catherine at the airport, says that he’s a friend of her father, and draws her quickly away from her escort in the manner of an abduction. Only then do we begin to connect the dots. Catherine has been under the influence of a sinister Satanic cult led by Father Michael, though Verney believes that most Satanists are charlatans in it for the sexual thrills; he rarely encounters “the other two percent,” though soon he’ll realize that’s exactly who he’s dealing with now. And Sykes reveals the true nature of Father Michael in a disturbing and protracted childbirth scene, the mother with her legs tied together, a willing participant in a painful ritual that results in a monstrous infant. As Sykes pans across the horrified faces of Michael’s followers, Lee suddenly lurches into the frame with a leering grin as unsettling as anything in his Draculas. He’s in full Wicker Man mode here.

A gibbering Henry Beddows (Denholm Elliott) hides in his magic circle.

Throughout the film’s 92 minutes, Sykes builds suspense with only occasional bouts of sensationalism, which finally lurch into absurdity near the film’s ending, as Kinski lustfully paws the homunculus back into her womb – a dream sequence or hallucination or something that at least delivers on lowbrow outré. You see, Catherine was sold off by her parents at childbirth to become the avatar of the devil incarnation Astaroth. Confusingly, the frog-eyed fetus is apparently to fuse with her body to complete the transformation. Her distraught father, Beddows, has enlisted Verney to save her, but Father Michael uses black magic to threaten the increasingly rattled Beddows (in an effective scene where the phone Beddows is holding becomes a snake wrapped around his arm) and possesses Catherine to murder Anna and return to him to complete the ceremony. Generously, you could view To the Devil a Daughter as a darker answer to The Devil Rides Out. The protective circle of white magic, so famously utilized in the former film, here returns as a pathetic symbol of Beddows’ mental unraveling. Verney’s mounted defense also proves inadequate, as we watch his allies perish; even his final victory may not be one at all, as Sykes, doing the best he can through editing the footage he has, leaves the implication that Verney is too late and Catherine has become Astaroth. Though the film bears the scars of its production history, like many similar rocky productions, the end result is not a disaster. It’s an effectively unsettling little horror film, more original than most in its genre; it’s something that could have been a classic of 70’s horror with a more solid script and, it must be said, the recasting of Widmark, who lacks the charisma needed to pull this over the finish line. To the Devil a Daughter comes close to being a worthy capper to Hammer horror, despite the odds.

 

 

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