Celluloid Sleuths: The Great Detectives of the 1930s and ‘40s

 

I love mysteries.  From unsolved true crimes, to unexplained phenomena, to a good, old-fashioned whodunit, there’s something in my psyche that needs to solve the puzzle, crack the code, and find the answer.  Even as a young Unimonster, I loved shows like Mannix, and Cannon, and Kojak.  Clue was my favorite board game.  And nearly every weekend would feature at least one old mystery movie on the afternoon matinees.  Any mystery movie would do, but my favorites were the iconic detectives of the ‘30s and ‘40s—The Thin Man movies, featuring William Powell and Myrna Loy as Nick and Nora Charles; the Basil Rathbone Sherlock Holmes movies, with Rathbone as the great consulting detective and Nigel Bruce as his companion and biographer, Dr. John Watson; and Charlie Chan, played for several studios by Warner Oland, Sidney Toler, and Roland Winters.  They were, in the words of a character from Charlie Chan at Treasure Island (1939), “… whodunit celebrities.”

The Murder-Mystery genre of the 1930s was one of the decade’s most popular, with everyone from the biggest of the big studios to the poorest of the Poverty Row producers wanting to get in the game, and they all wanted their own signature detective.  There was Philo Vance, Bulldog Drummond, James Lee Wong, Mr. Moto, Michael Lanyard, and Simon Templar.  All had their adherents, but none matched the popularity of the big three series.

The first, and inarguably the greatest, of the great detectives was Sherlock Holmes, the world’s first private consulting detective.  Created by Sir Arthur Doyle, a London physician with a struggling practice which left him a great deal of free time to write, Holmes made his debut in the novel A Study in Scarlet, first published in Beeton’s Christmas Annual in 1887.  By the time of Doyle’s death in 1930, he had written fifty-six short stories and four novels describing the adventures of his most popular creation.  The character was first adapted for the screen in 1900 (though the film wasn’t registered for copyright purposes until 1903), a mere thirteen years after his debut.  That film, Sherlock Holmes Baffled, was not only the character’s first appearance on the screen but was the first instance of a Detective film.  Only thirty seconds in length, the film dealt with Holmes failed efforts to stop a burglar who can appear and disappear at will, while stealing a sack full of the detective’s belongings.

Though many actors have portrayed Holmes on-screen in the one hundred and twenty-one years since that initial appearance (in fact, Guinness World Records lists Sherlock Holmes as the most portrayed literary human character in film and television history), none save Jeremy Brett have become so intimately connected to the character as has Basil Rathbone.  In fourteen films made between 1939 and 1946, two for 20^th Century Fox in 1939, and the remainder for Universal, Rathbone so perfectly essayed Doyle’s detective that for succeeding generations he was Sherlock Holmes.  Nigel Bruce’s version of Holmes’ friend and companion Dr. John Watson, on the other hand, bore little resemblance to the literary character, but the on-screen chemistry worked so well that it’s hard to fault Bruce’s acting.

The success of Doyle’s literary creation inspired an entire genre of fiction, the Detective story.  While Holmes had many imitators, few enjoyed the popularity of Earl Derr Biggers’ Charlie Chan.  Modeled on Honolulu Police detective Chang Apana, Chan first appeared in the novel The House Without a Key, though he wasn’t a central character in the narrative.  He was featured in five more novels by Biggers, the last being 1932’s Keeper of the Keys.  Beginning in 1926, a series of films were released starring various Asian actors in the role of Charlie Chan.  However, in all these Chan was merely a supporting character, and none of these films were successful, either financially or critically.

Then, in 1931, Charlie Chan Carries On was released by 20^th Century Fox, and marked several milestones in the Chan filmography.  It was the first film in which the Chinese Detective was the central character.  It was the first time that Chan had been portrayed by a white actor, Warner Oland.  And most importantly, it was the first successful film about Charlie Chan.

Oland would portray Chan in sixteen movies for Fox before his death in 1938.   His last film, the unfinished Charlie Chan at the Ringside, was hastily rewritten as Mr. Moto’s Gamble, the third entry in Fox’s Mr. Moto series.  Following Oland’s death, Fox cast Sidney Toler to continue as the inscrutable investigator.  He would play Chan in no fewer than twenty-two movies, with the first being Charlie Chan in Honolulu, released in 1938.  Eleven of these would be for Fox, but when the studio virtually dissolved its B-picture division in 1942, ending its Charlie Chan series after Castle in the Desert, Toler bought the film rights from the Biggers estate, and made eleven more Chan pictures at Monogram.  Monogram Pictures Corporation was one of the more successful of the “Poverty Row” studios, though even the best of these could hardly compete financially with a major studio such as Fox.  Toler’s first appearance as Chan for Monogram was 1944’s Charlie Chan in the Secret Service, produced on a budget of $75,000, roughly half of what Fox’s budgets ran.

Though Monogram’s production values were found lacking in comparison to those of 20^th Century Fox, there was no let-down in entertainment value, and the quality of the productions did gradually increase.  But as the Monogram Chan films improved, Toler’s health rapidly declined.  Twelve films in two years, eleven of them as Charlie Chan, took a heavy toll on Toler.  In addition, his final three movies came after he was diagnosed with intestinal cancer, which affected his ability to perform on screen.  His final appearance, in 1946’s The Trap, had his sidekicks Jimmy Chan and Birmingham Brown (Victor Sen Yung and Mantan Moreland) carrying the bulk of the action.  Toler died of cancer in February 1947.

Following his death, Monogram cast Roland Winters in the role of Charlie Chan, with his first appearance coming in The Chinese Ring, released in December 1947.  He would play the detective in six films, with the last being 1949’s Sky Dragon, bringing to a close a series that spanned nineteen years, three actors, and included an incredible forty-two movies.

At the opposite end of the scale from the B-pictures from Universal, Fox, and Monogram was the entry of Hollywood’s biggest player into the Celebrity Sleuth genre.  M-G-M was the unquestioned king of the Hollywood studio scene, and it made sense that, when they purchased the rights to Dashiell Hammett’s just-published, best-selling mystery novel The Thin Man, that the finished film would be a top-notch production.  With William Powell and Myrna Loy as the husband-and-wife high society sleuths Nick and Nora Charles, M-G-M had a box-office hit, one that would spawn five sequels.  Unlike Universal, or Fox, or Monogram, which put their Detective films out with the efficiency and rapidity of an assembly line, M-G-M spaced the Thin Man films out, with the last, Song of the Thin Man, released in 1947.

These were some of my favorite movies when I was young, back when Saturday afternoon matinees were staples of the television schedule, each series for reasons of its own.  And now, fifty years later, my admiration for them is even deeper.  As a child, it was the spooky atmosphere of the Sherlock Holmes films, or the sarcastic banter of Sidney Toler’s Charlie Chan, or the action and comedy of the Thin Man movies that had me hooked.

But now, as an adult, I see so many layers to these films that too often are derided as B-grade “popcorn” movies—as though that were a bad thing.  Now, I can see the chemistry between Powell and Loy, the easy, comfortable way they interacted, the affection and attraction their characters showed for one another that had audiences convinced they were a couple in real life (they weren’t).  I can appreciate the variations of the actors’ performances in the Charlie Chan role; the gentle wisdom of Warner Oland, the exasperated sarcasm of Sidney Toler, even Roland Winters, the least effective of the three, brought a more energetic, active style to the character.  And I can understand why, to generations of fans, Rathbone is Sherlock Holmes.

These movies are still favorites of mine for the same reason as so many of the movies I love; indeed, so many of the topics upon which I expound in this space.  It’s because of the sense of nostalgia that they inspire within me.  Nostalgia for a better time in my life, a time when my personal happiness was a far simpler objective to achieve.  A time when happiness meant a dollar bill in my pocket, a good movie on the TV, a new comic book to read, and a new model kit to build.

Some things never change.

Before Skull Island: The Early Horror Films of Fay Wray

 

The image is iconic, and the sound is unforgettable: the director, hand-cranking the old motion-picture camera, urging his young starlet to “… scream, Ann … scream for your life!”  That scream, and the actress who produced it, would become part of Horror Film history.  The movie, of course, was 1933’s KING KONG, and the actress was a 26-year old Canadian beauty named Fay Wray.

Born Vina Fay Wray in Cardston, Alberta, Canada, Wray came to Hollywood as a teen-ager, getting bit parts and supporting roles in a variety of pictures.  Her major break came in 1928, in Erich Von Stroheim’s THE WEDDING MARCH.  Her first genre role came in 1932, and her last in 1935, but in those three short years she became the first true Horror queen.  The amazing part of her story is that she owes that status almost entirely to five films released in 1932 and ‘33:  DOCTOR X; THE MOST DANGEROUS GAME; THE VAMPIRE BAT; THE MYSTERY OF THE WAX MUSEUM; and, naturally, KING KONG.

Volumes have been written about KING KONG, analyzing every characteristic of the film, from the technical aspects of Willis O’Brien’s stop-motion animation to the psychosexual subtext of the plot.  Tens, perhaps hundreds, of thousands of words have been devoted to Wray’s performance in that film, and I’ll pass on adding to that total in this article.  I want to examine those four films that preceded KONG, the four little known gems in the crown of Horror’s first Queen.

DOCTOR X—(1932)

Starring Lionel Atwill, Preston Foster, and Wray, and directed by Michael Curtiz, Warner’s DOCTOR X is a very good little film about a cannibalistic “Moon-Killer,” who strikes under the full moon.  Filmed in Two-Strip Technicolor, an early color film process, the restored film has an odd, greenish cast to it that is strangely effective for the subject.  Curtiz, who would later direct what some feel to be the greatest film ever, 1943’s CASABLANCA, kept this film moving at a good pace overall, though there are points where the comedy relief wears thin.  Wray portrays Joan Xavier, the daughter of the titular Dr. Xavier, who is played wonderfully by Lionel Atwill.  As lovely as ever, she plays the role a bit too broadly, and for some reason seems as jittery as the proverbial long-tailed cat.  Still, it’s always easy to enjoy Wray on-screen, and this film is no different.

The true star of this movie, however, is Lionel Atwill, and he shows that he can chew scenery with the best of them.  The best scene in the film involves Joan reenacting one of the murders, playing the role of the young victim.  Her father and those suspected of being the “moon-killer” are strapped into chairs, watching what they believe to be a reenactment of the latest killing, as devices record their reactions.  However, the real killer has taken the place of the reenactor, and to their horror they realize Joan is being murdered in front of them, as they sit helpless.  Curtiz does a masterful job building the suspense as the scene unfolds, especially since the audience is aware that the real murderer is now involved.

As previously mentioned, the de rigueur comic relief wears on the viewer after a comparatively short period, particularly as the actor in question, Lee Tracy as a stereotypical big-city reporter, is also the romantic lead.  While a more competent actor might have pulled the combination off, Tracy fails abysmally in both facets of his role.

Yes, the performances are generally weak and the material is dated, but the overall effect of the film holds up well nonetheless, thanks in large part to the strong showing by Atwill.  One of the more underappreciated Icons of Horror, Atwill’s career as a star may have been short-lived, but his impact on generations of horror fans hasn’t been, and in recent years he’s been getting some of the recognition that’s due him.  DOCTOR X may not be his best work—that must undoubtedly be his performance as Inspector Krogh in SON OF FRANKENSTEIN… but it’s not far from it.

THE MOST DANGEROUS GAME—(1932)

As Merian Cooper and Ernest Shoedsack were putting Robert Armstrong and Fay Wray through their paces by day for KING KONG, Shoedsack and co-director Irving Pichel were working them just as hard at night to produce THE MOST DANGEROUS GAME.  With a script based upon a prize-winning story by Richard Connell, Shoedsack and Pichel constructed a first-rate thriller/adventure yarn, one that has been remade at least three times, and spoofed countless others.

The story centers on Count Zaroff, played by Leslie Banks, a wealthy recluse whose one passion is hunting.  He lives alone on a private island, save for his servants and his pack of hounds… massive, savage brutes, bred to the hunt.  Into this isolated locale comes the lone survivor of a shipwreck:  Rainsford, (Joel McCrea) a fellow hunter and adventurer.  He finds two castaways from a previous shipwreck, Martin Trowbridge, (Robert Armstrong) a dissolute playboy, given to drinking large quantities of the Count’s liquor; and Eve, Martin’s sister, played by Wray.

Though Zaroff seems the perfect host at first, his sinister persona soon manifests itself, and his true intention for his “guests” is revealed.  Zaroff, jaded with hunting even the most ferocious of beasts, indulges his desire for the ultimate challenge, the ultimate hunt—man.

He attempts to draw his fellow adventurer into sharing his hunts, but when Rainsford refuses, he becomes the quarry in a vicious fight for survival:  Elude the Count, and live until dawn—and win his freedom and that of Eve.  Fail and the Count will celebrate his triumph… with the unfortunate girl as his trophy.

Wray actually has a rather small part in this film, as the conflict between Rainsford and Zaroff is the engine that drives the plot.  The desire of both men for Eve is secondary to their true motivation—to kill the other.  Both are archetypal Alpha males, and the viewer soon realizes that, even absent Zaroff’s psychotic tendencies, conflict between the two would’ve been inevitable.  McCrea does a credible job as Rainsford, but Banks is simply the wrong choice as the uber-hunter Zaroff; in fact, the part would have been perfect for Robert Armstrong.  Banks is too soft, too cultured… too effete.  The supporting cast, including Armstrong, is superfluous; on-screen for far too brief a time to exert much influence over the flow of the film.  The focus is kept on the three main characters, and they drive it along nicely without them.

While not really a Horror Film, THE MOST DANGEROUS GAME certainly contains enough horrific elements to qualify it for this discussion, as does the film’s inherent quality.  What’s more, its impact on popular culture far outstrips its notoriety, as many people have seen spoofs of it without realizing what film was being riffed.  From Gilligan’s Island to Star Trek, this film has provided inspiration and material to television writers for decades—it’s time more people became familiar with the source of that inspiration.

THE VAMPIRE BAT—(1933)

This, the least well known of the four films in this retrospective, once again paired Atwill and Wray, he as the demented scientist, and she as his unwitting assistant.  The movie also features Melvyn Douglas as a police detective investigating a series of reputed “vampire” murders in a small central European village, and Dwight Frye as Herman, the ‘village idiot’ suspected of the killings.

The film opens as the town burghers are gathered in a closed session to discuss a rash of deaths that has recently plagued the German village of Kleinschloss, deaths that have coincided with a sudden infestation of large bats.  Also present is Karl Brettschneider (Douglas), the town’s chief law enforcement officer.  The odd manner of the deaths is the topic of the discussion—all the victims were found drained of blood, with two puncture wounds in their jugular veins.  The superstitious townsfolk are all too eager to seize on vampires as the cause of the deaths, citing records of similar deaths in the 17^th Century.  Karl’s not convinced, believing there must be a human agent behind these murders.  He insists on conducting a proper investigation, not presiding over a modern witch-hunt.

He leaves them to their superstitions, heading to the home of Dr. Otto von Niemann (Atwill), the physician of Kleinschloss.  Karl is involved with the Doctor’s assistant, Ruth Bertin (Wray), a lovely, bright young woman, who resides at the Doctor’s manor house with her hypochondriac aunt, Gussie Schnappmann (Maude Eburn, as the comic relief) and von Niemann’s servants, Emil and Georgiana.  The Doctor has examined each of the victims, and can find no clue as to the identity of the culprit.  At that moment he is at the home of a survivor of a bat attack, Martha Mueller.  As he tries to calm her nerves, her friend Herman (Frye) tries to reassure the Doctor that the bats are harmless; he’s befriended them, and they wouldn’t hurt anyone.

The townsfolk are far less sanguine about the bats, and frankly speaking, about Herman.  Kringen (George E. Stone), the night watchman for the town, reports that Herman wanders the streets at all hours, playing with and talking to the hordes of bats that infest the town.  He raises the suspicion that Herman is the vampire, feasting on the blood of his fellows, though the Doctor advises him to watch that kind of talk, else he start a panic.  That admonition is soon forgotten, however, as the nervous townspeople watch Herman take a bat from a lamppost and tuck it gently into his coat pocket.

Dr. von Niemann returns home, where he finds the detective waiting to discuss the case with him.  The Doctor begs off, stating that he has important work to do, and dismisses the young people to less serious pursuits.  In the town square, the clock tolls midnight.  The window in Frau Mueller’s sick room opens slowly; the woman opens her eyes and screams.  The scene cuts to her lifeless corpse, lying in the morgue as the coroner enters the record of her death.  The cause—the bite of a vampire.

As the burghers gather over Martha’s body to discuss the latest murder, Herman quietly slips into the morgue, and seeing his friend’s body, runs out screaming.  To both Karl and the Doctor, this is plainly evidence that the man lacks the capacity to be the fiend for which they are searching.  The villagers however see it differently.  Kringen convinces them that Herman is the vampire, and that he himself is likely to be the next victim, as he’s trying to warn people about Herman.

The next morning, Ruth is eating breakfast in the garden, as Herman, concealed behind the wall, watches her.  Karl surprises her; he’s there to discuss the murders with von Niemann, but seizes the chance to get some time alone with Ruth.  The opportunity is soon lost however, as Aunt Gussie appears, in the throes of a hypochondriacal crisis.  She has discovered that she is experiencing, “… palpitations of the auricular, ventricular, mitral and tricuspid valves,”—in other words, her heart is beating.  The couple reassures her that she will be fine, then go to find the Doctor.

As they leave, Herman sneaks into the garden, distracting the woman so that he might take some of the food.  She catches him, however, startling him so that he accidentally cuts his finger.  Concerned of course about the possibility of a tetanus infection, Gussie rushes to fetch dressings for the man’s wound.

Inside, von Niemann has been searching his library for information on the lore of vampirism.  He’s reading from an old French text on the subject as Gussie enters.  She ridicules the legends they are discussing while waiting for Emil to bring the first-aid supplies.  As she waits, men from the village enter with news.  Kringen is dead, just as he feared—and Herman is nowhere to be found.  Not even Karl can deny the appearance of guilt this creates, and gives orders that Herman be apprehended—without harm.  The townspeople want to deal with him as one must with a vampire, but Karl forbids it.  Herman will be tried in a court of law, and the law will decide his fate.  But is Herman guilty of the crimes?  Is he in fact a Vampire, an undead creature of the night?  Or is there another answer for the mystery that’s plaguing the peaceful village?

Produced quickly by Majestic Pictures in order to capitalize on the forthcoming MYSTERY OF THE WAX MUSEUM, THE VAMPIRE BAT was filmed at Universal, on sets left over from both FRANKENSTEIN and THE OLD DARK HOUSE.  This was common practice for the “Poverty Row” producers, those low-budget studios that frequently lacked the assets of the major companies.   Often, the smaller of these were without even the rudimentary facilities for motion-picture production.  Renting soundstages, sets, even costumes at a major studio was far more cost-effective in the short term.  One thing that Majestic didn’t scrimp on was the cast.

Led by Lionel Atwill, one of the most underrated stars of the Golden Age of Horror, this was a group that one would’ve expected to see in one of the great Universal Horrors.  With co-stars such as Melvyn Douglas (who had just previously starred in James Whale’s THE OLD DARK HOUSE alongside Boris Karloff and Gloria Stewart), Dwight Frye (veteran of most of the Universal Horrors of the 1930s), and Wray, and filming on Russell Gausman’s spectacular sets, this movie looked far better than it had any right to look.

Directed by Frank R. Strayer, from a script by Edward T. Lowe, Jr., the story may be underwhelming at times; however, the high-quality cast performs superbly with little help from either screenwriter or director.  Strayer, forty-one years old when he directed THE VAMPIRE BAT, had been a director for only seven years and had thirty features to his credit prior to this film—not unusual for those filmmakers who earned their living on Poverty Row.  Best remembered for directing twelve entries in the popular “Blondie” series of movies (based on the venerable comic strip), Strayer had a twenty-five year long, very productive career.  Workmanlike and competent, if not gifted with an abundance of artistic talent, Strayer, and hundreds like him, were the unknown heroes of Hollywood.  They might not have gotten critical acclaim and name recognition, but they earned a living doing what they loved while entertaining millions.

THE MYSTERY OF THE WAX MUSEUM—(1933)

The best of Wray’s Pre-KONG horrors, this was another of Warner’s experimental forays into color films, one that produced much better results than DOCTOR X did the previous year.  Not only was the color photography much improved, but the script, the acting, the direction—all was superior to the earlier film.

For the second time Wray is cast opposite Atwill, though her role is actually a minor one.  Atwill plays Ivan Igor, the curator of a wax museum, crippled years before in a fire his business partner started to collect on the insurance.  As the story shifts from London in the early ‘20’s to New York City’s New Year’s 1933 celebration, morgue attendants are loading a young woman’s body into a waiting hearse.  The body is that of Joan Gale, a woman believed to have committed suicide.  Florence Dempsey (Glenda Farrell), a newspaper reporter for the Express, is allowed to be present for the autopsy of the woman.  Earlier however, a vague figure, wearing a black cloak and hat, stole the body of Joan Gale, lowering it out the window to a waiting truck.  When the morgue attendants are sent to bring in the body of the suicide, they find it’s gone, and havoc ensues.

Police believe the body’s disappearance from the morgue is an effort to conceal evidence of murder, despite the earlier finding of suicide, and suspicion turns to a man named Winton (Gavin Gordon), the son of a wealthy industrialist and former lover of the dead woman.  Florence however, after interviewing Winton in jail, believes otherwise.  The next morning, she accompanies her roommate to her fiancé’s place of business.  Her roommate, Charlotte Duncan, (Wray) is engaged to Igor’s assistant, Ralph (a forgettable Allen Vincent).  Igor, now confined to a wheelchair, has other hangers-on about the place, ne’er-do-wells such as Darcy (Arthur Edmund Carewe), a seedy looking, self-styled “Professor” and drug addict, and a deaf-mute named Hugo (Matthew Betz).

Florence discovers a wax effigy of St. Joan of Arc that bears a striking resemblance to the missing dead woman, and becomes suspicious of the museum.  At the paper’s offices, she examines photos of the Gale woman.  She is convinced that the figure of Joan of Arc is the image of the dead woman, and that the body’s disappearance, perhaps even the woman’s death, is connected to Igor's waxworks.

Florence’s investigation of the waxworks leads her to follow Darcy to Winton’s liquor supplier, a bootlegger named Worth (Edwin Maxwell), who is the man who started the fire that injured Igor twelve years before.  She breaks into the warehouse where Worth stores his illegal liquor, discovering a hideous creature, face twisted and deformed.  It is the same monster who stole the body of Gale from the morgue.  When Darcy is arrested leaving the place, all the police can find are bootleg bottles of whiskey.  However, while searching the man, by now beginning to suffer through withdrawals, a watch belonging to a Judge Ramsey, who disappeared months earlier, is found.  Detectives begin a rigorous interrogation of the junkie, who finally cracks under the strain.  Yes, he killed Judge Ramsey—who died because he resembled Voltaire.  That’s the secret of Igor’s amazingly life-like effigies.  They look so realistic because there’s a dead body concealed in each one.  Joan of Arc wasn’t merely modeled after a dead woman; the woman herself is sealed within the waxen shell.  In addition to supplying victims to Igor, he was tasked to keeping a close tab on Worth while working with him, to aid Igor in exacting his ultimate vengeance against the man who crippled him.

During the interrogation of Darcy, Florence, accompanied by Winton, goes back to the wax museum to search for clues.  Prior to their arrival, however, Charlotte shows up, looking for Ralph.  Igor, obsessed by her resemblance to his lost ‘masterpiece’, his sculpture of Marie Antoinette, tricks her into his basement ‘workshop’, then stands up to reveal that he’s not as infirm as he wants people to believe.  He grabs Charlotte, telling her she will have eternal beauty as his Marie Antoinette.  She struggles against him, striking his face.  In the film’s most iconic scene, it shatters, breaking apart like the wax mask it was, revealing the twisted face of the creature from the warehouse.  Charlotte screams, then passes out.

Florence, Ralph, and Winton, now together in the museum, hear the screams and head downstairs.  After breaking into the concealed workshop, Ralph fights Igor, but is knocked unconscious.  Florence and Winton look on in horror, unsure of how to help Charlotte, herself unconscious and strapped to an operating table, as a vat of boiling wax begins filling a sprinkling system suspended over her.  As they stare at the scene unfolding below them, the police, in response to Darcy’s confession, burst in.  They are forced to shoot Igor, who falls into the massive vat of wax.  Ralph comes to, pulling Charlotte out of harm’s way just as the molten wax starts to rain down.

Florence has her story, and apparently, her man.  Winton has fallen madly in love with her, proposing to her in the midst of their adventure.  She starts to tell her editor, when he also asks her to marry him.  With a quick glance out the window at Winton cooling his heels in his expensive car, she tells her editor yes, and the film ends on a happy note.

Warner Bros. in the 1930s was known for it’s gritty, realistic crime dramas, not Horror films.  However, even by those standards this is an atypical picture.  It is definitely a pre-code film, meaning it was produced before the strict guidelines of the Motion Picture Production Code came into use in 1934.  Had this movie been produced as little as one year later, it would have been a far different film.  Not only would the mention of Winton and Gale having lived together have been banned, but also would the device of Darcy being a junkie, and the background that Joan Gale had been a narcotics user.  A humorous scene between Florence and a cop at the station, in which she snatches a racy magazine out of his hands, while inquiring about his, “… sex life,” would certainly be out, as would other questionable remarks by Farrell’s character.  One need only compare this film to it’s 1953 remake, the Andre de Toth-directed HOUSE OF WAX, to get a sense of what a post-code version would have resembled.  It is fortunate for fans of this film that it was produced in 1933, not 1934, as the 1933 film is far superior to the remake, in large part due to the increased realism and maturity of the material.

Though Wray’s role in this production is minor, it is the one that stands out as the most memorable.  She, after all, is the object of the villain’s obsession, and the image of the beauty that he longs to recreate.  And to her is given the honor of unmasking the evil within Igor, both figuratively and literally, in the film’s spectacular dénouement.

Long thought to be a ‘lost’ film, a complete print was fortunately found in the private archive of Jack Warner, and restored to its full glory in the 1980s.  MYSTERY OF THE WAX MUSEUM remains a glittering diadem from Horror’s Golden Age.

Every era of Horror has had its female icons—more popularly known as “Scream Queens,” whether they were virginal victims or vengeful vixens.  In the ‘40s it was Evelyn Ankers and Simone Simon; in the ‘80s, Sigourney Weaver and Jamie Lee Curtis.  But through all the decades, one name, and one beauty, has reigned over them all—so much so that now, nearly eighty years since her famous scream first thrilled moviegoers she is still a household name.  The role of Ann Darrow may have been the sparkling diamond in Fay Wray’s career—but it was far from the only jewel in the crown of Horror’s first Queen.

The Year Horror Began

Eighty years ago this month, the Horror Film, as we recognize it, was born.  On Valentine’s Day 1931, Universal Pictures premiered Tod Browning’s DRACULA, the first Horror Film produced in the United States that can be described as a “modern” horror—one where the antagonist truly was what it was purported to be.  Dracula wasn’t a lunatic mistaken for a monster, or a master criminal in disguise; he was exactly what he claimed to be—a vampire, an undead creature of the night.

The catalog of the American Horror Film wasn’t extensive by the beginning of the Sound era, and it largely owed it’s existence to the efforts of two men:  director Tod Browning and actor Lon Chaney.  Browning was the quintessential master of the macabre throughout the 1920’s and into the beginning of the 1930’s, and Chaney was his star, the “man of a thousand faces” who was the personification of Horror on the silent screen.

In a string of 10 movies produced between 1919 and 1929, the two defined Horror as a psychological experience, not a supernatural one.  In roles as diverse as Alonzo the Armless in 1927’s THE UNKNOWN, to ‘Dead Legs,’ the evil wheelchair-bound magician who sells his own daughter into white slavery in WEST OF ZANZIBAR, Chaney’s characters were no less monsters for the fact that they were human.  The hatred and darkness in them owed nothing to the paranormal, and everything to the pathological.

Browning wasn’t the only director working in Horror in Hollywood, of course.  Under contract to M-G-M, in 1923 Chaney was borrowed by Universal, for director Wallace Worsley’s THE HUNCHBACK OF NOTRE DAME.  In 1925, Chaney appeared in two Horror Films—one mostly forgotten, and one that is unforgettable.  The lesser of the two efforts was Roland West’s THE MONSTER.  Chaney portrayed a mad scientist who poses as a monster in order to force vehicles to crash, thereby providing him with subjects for experimentation.  Half horror, half comedy, it was an average programmer for the period, with little other than Chaney’s performance to recommend it.  However, that same year, Universal released what is arguably the greatest Silent Horror film to originate in the United States—Rupert Julian’s THE PHANTOM OF THE OPERA.  Based on the novel by Gaston Leroux, the role of Erik (the Phantom) would be acknowledged as Chaney’s defining performance.

Just as Browning wasn’t the only Horror director, Chaney was not the only star who made Horror Films.  In 1920, John Barrymore starred in John S. Robertson’s version of DR. JEKYLL & MR. HYDE.  This adaptation of the Robert Louis Stevenson classic, though eclipsed a decade later by Reuben Mamoulian’s Oscar-winning version, was nonetheless groundbreaking for it’s time.  In 1927, Paul Leni, a German émigré working for Carl Laemmle at Universal, adapted a popular Broadway play into THE CAT AND THE CANARY, the originator of the “Old Dark House” style of Horror Films, starring Laura La Plante, an attractive young contract player, as Annabelle West, heir to the vast fortune left by her ancestor, Cyrus West.  This movie saw an early version of the “scream queen” in American Horror, though her screams could not be heard.  A year later, Conrad Veidt, who was an established star in his native Germany, appeared in Leni’s THE MAN WHO LAUGHS for Universal.

All of these silent American Horrors had one thing in common—the complete lack of the supernatural.  Though supernatural creatures had inhabited silent Horrors from the rest of the world, most notably Germany; in American films they were, for all intents, nonexistent.  In German film, phantoms, vampires, and monsters existed; they were depicted as what they were.  Max Schreck played Count Orlok as a vampire, not a criminal masquerading as a vampire.  American conventions were the opposite.  However unreal or grotesque the antagonist might seem, there was always a logical explanation at the bottom of it.  Like the Scooby-Doo cartoons fifty years later, at the end there would always be an unmasking, as the “monster” was revealed to be anything but.

But as the era of the silents was drawing to a close, that was due for a change.  Universal was planning to go into production on DRACULA, with Tod Browning at the helm[1].  Carl Laemmle had recently ceded control over the studio to his son Carl Jr. (a twenty-first birthday gift), and Junior (who was christened Julius but later changed his name) was fond of the gothic tales of horror such as Stoker’s Dracula and Shelley’s Frankenstein.  “Uncle” Carl Laemmle preferred Westerns and other, “less gruesome” fare, but Junior wanted Horror pictures.

Legend has it that the senior Laemmle demanded that Chaney portray Dracula, or the picture couldn’t be made.  In truth, there’s no record such a demand was made (though Junior was hoping to lure him back to Universal for the picture, one reason he hired Browning to direct), or that Chaney was ever attached to the project (it must be remembered he was still under contract at M-G-M, though Universal often sought reasons to request the loan of one of the Silent Screen’s biggest draws).  In any case, Chaney passed away of throat cancer on 26 August 1930, and conjecture about how “the man of a thousand faces” would portray the Lord of the Undead will forever remain just that:  Conjecture.

With the question of who wouldn’t be playing the role of Dracula at least partially answered, in Chaney’s part by his unfortunate death, there remained a veritable who’s who of actors who were being considered for the job.  Names such as Paul Muni, John Wray, and Conrad Veidt were discussed for the part.  Even Chester Morris, an actor who specialized in ‘tough-guy’ roles (and had been nominated for the second Best Actor Oscar for 1929’s ALIBI), was mentioned—more by virtue of already being contracted to Universal than due to any intrinsic qualities he possessed.

The one to whom Laemmle was adamantly opposed was a 48-year-old Hungarian actor who had successfully played the role on Broadway.  In fact, he sent the production team a telegram stating, “… no interest in [this actor] for Dracula.[2]”  “This actor” was Bela Lugosi, and though the studio professed no interest in him, he definitely had an interest in the part of the Transylvanian Count, campaigning actively for it.  Despite whatever misgivings the Laemmles had about Lugosi as Dracula, he finally won the role, clinching the deal with his willingness to take the job at roughly a quarter of the salary he could’ve gotten.  Even Lugosi, not known for his sense of humor, couldn’t resist a jab at “Uncle” Carl’s legendary nepotism, telling reporters that he was cast simply because the senior Laemmle didn’t have a relative who could play the part.

Supporting Lugosi would be a cast of Universal regulars.  Helen Chandler would be the female lead, in the role of Mina, the main focus of the Count’s lustful attentions.  David Manners would portray John Harker, her love interest.  Dwight Frye would play the lunatic Renfield, slave to Dracula’s control.  And Edward Van Sloan would portray Dracula’s nemesis, Van Helsing.

Principal photography began on 29 September 1930, and would continue until mid-November.  Production went smoothly, though Browning was at best disinterested in the project.  According to film historian Michael Mallory, “The fact that Browning seemed to lose interest in Dracula during the filming, at times turning the direction over to cinematographer Karl Freund, has been interpreted as possible depression over Chaney's untimely death.[3]”  Whatever the reason, there’s little doubt that Browning’s work on this films suffers in comparison to his earlier films, and indeed, in comparison to that of George Melford, who directed the Spanish-language version of DRACULA, filmed at night using the same sets, props, and in some cases, costumes.  Melford’s version is far more complete, a full 30 minutes longer than Browning’s, and is a far more cinematic work.  Browning’s version has been criticized, and rightfully so, as being far too literal a translation of the play upon which it was based.  Everything about the movie gives the impression that one is watching a stage play, from the dialogue, to the occasionally awkward transitions, to the static cinematography.

Melford’s version, on the other hand, just flows so much more smoothly.  George Robinson’s photography has a fluidity and grace that is completely lacking from Freund’s camera work.  In every way but one, Melford’s DRACULA is superior in execution to Browning’s.  That one factor, the factor that makes one a legendary film and the other an interesting side-note, is Bela Lugosi.  Lugosi transforms this film into something that hadn’t existed prior to it’s release—a modern American Horror Film.  This one performance so perfectly captured Dracula in the minds of moviegoers that his version of the bloodthirsty Count has become the archetype for the character.  For the past eighty years, every actor who has played Dracula has had to measure his performance against Lugosi’s yardstick—and has generally been found wanting.

In February of 1931, a new genre appeared on the screen—not a mystery, not a melodrama, not a thriller—but a Horror Film.  Nine months later, in November of 1931, another film in this new genre would debut, the greatest Horror Film of all.  These two films, DRACULA and, of course, James Whale’s FRANKENSTEIN, would launch Horror’s Golden Age, transform their stars into Icons who would spend the majority of their lives competing with one another for the crown that had belonged to Chaney, and make Universal Studios the original “House that Horror Built.”

This February, eighty years after these films first frightened and captivated audiences, moviegoers, fans, and classic film buffs will have the opportunity to view these movies on the big screen once again.  Thanks to the efforts of long-time friend of the Crypt Scott Essman, head of Visionary media and the man who has led the efforts to secure a Star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame to honor Jack P. Pierce, on the afternoon of 20 February 2011, these movies will once more flicker to life.  On that day, at the Pomona Fox Theater, (301 S. Garey Ave.) in Pomona, California[4], the audience will be magically transported back to 1931—back to the year Horror began.

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[1] The primary reference for this article is the superb book Universal Studios Monsters: A Legacy of Horror, by Michael Mallory.  It is a spectacular volume, and I cannot recommend it highly enough.

[2] The Documentary Universal Horrors, released in 1998.

[3] Mallory 49

[4] www.pomonafox.org

Aurora’s Monster Models

As many devoted Horror fans also enjoy building model kits of their favorite monsters, most are well aware that Modeling is not an inexpensive hobby.  At a bare minimum, a decent resin kit from a reputable company will run 50-60 dollars, and the average would be well over $100.  Add in tools, paints, and time, and we could easily spend thousands on this hobby we love.

But that wasn’t always the case.  When I started building models, resin and vinyl kits were virtually non-existent.  Airbrushes and moto-tools were unimagined luxuries, glue came in red and white tubes and paints came in little square bottles with “Testor’s” on the cap.  My first kit was ancient even in 1972…  Monogram’s 1/72 scale Curtiss P-36 Hawk.  I doubt that I paid more than 75¢ for it, and the finished product was hardly worth bragging about.  But I was instantly hooked on a hobby that I still enjoy 38 years later.

In those days I built everything and anything… from the crappy Hawk box-scale airplanes, to Monogram TBF Avengers with a torpedo that actually dropped from the bomb bay, to Aurora’s Russian Golf-class Missile Submarine.  I even tried my hand at the Visible Eye… and wound up with something not even Lasik could save.  But given my natural affinity for the monsters, it was only a matter of time before I found the fantastic Monster kits from Aurora.

Anyone who was a regular reader of Famous Monsters in the ‘60’s and ‘70’s will remember the ads for these kits…  Dracula and Frankenstein, the Wolf-Man and the Mummy, the skeletal Prisoner chained to the section of dungeon wall, even a scraggly-toothed, wart-nosed witch, hard at work stirring a bubbling cauldron.  Famous Monsters #59, November 1969, lists several of the monster kits in the Glow-in-the-Dark style for the princely sum of $1.49… quite a bit of money when you consider that you could get a perfectly good airplane or car kit for half that.

But the monsters of Aurora were hard to ignore, and, as soon as I saw one for sale at my neighborhood Pic-n-Save, I had to have it.  It was, luckily, my favorite monster, the Mummy.  But I wouldn’t have cared which monster I wound up with…  I just wanted one of them.  Somehow, I came up with enough money to buy it.  How, I’m not sure; I am sure that it was no mean feat on a dollar a week allowance.  How much I paid for the kit is a mystery; I doubt I could have told you the next morning the price of the model.  I had one, and that was all I cared about.

When I got home with my prize, I rushed to my room and opened the box.  The figure seemed huge compared to the kits I was used to building, though simple to assemble… a definite plus at that stage in my modeling experience.  I can’t recall much detail about the kit, other than the Mummy was undeniably Kharis.  I don’t remember what color plastic it was molded in, or how good the quality was.  I just remember the joy of building it.

I later added other monsters to the collection, as well as some of the MPC Pirates of the Caribbean and AMT/Ertl Star Trek kits.  There was a Tarzan along the way, as well as a Spock, a Batman, and others.  Eventually, Aurora folded, the monster kits went away, and I returned to the B-17G’s, M60A1’s, and Federation Starships that I loved.

Now, some thirty-eight years later, those Aurora monsters are hot collector’s items, going for thirty to fifty dollars, unbuilt.  Companies such as Polar Lights have issued their own versions of those kits, and high-quality resin and vinyl monster kits abound.  These kits, especially the latter, are so far above the old Auroras in terms of quality and accuracy that comparing the two is akin to comparing a ’78 Ford Pinto to a brand-new Mercedes S-class.  I just wish I could afford them.

Yes, the new kits are better in terms of quality, better in terms of accuracy, better in terms of choice of subject matter.  The only thing they don’t do better is inspire joy and wonder in the mind of an eight-year-old boy.

Lost but Found: Peter Jackson’s Recreation of the “Spider-Pit”

Between its initial release and the mid-1950’s, KING KONG underwent several cuts designed either to make the film conform to changing moral standards or to fit artificial time constraints. Most of the cuts came from the 1938 re-release of the film, and were mandated by the Hayes Office. Many of these cuts were restored when an intact print was found in Great Britain in the early ‘70’s.

However, there was one sequence that was cut prior to the film’s general release, and this sequence does appear to be gone forever. This is the famous “Spider Pit” scene, which showed what happened to several of the crew of the Venture after Kong tossed the log into the chasm. There seems to be no doubt that this scene was shot; notes from director Merian C. Cooper state that he removed it himself following poor audience reaction in test screenings. Fans and historians have searched for decades for this missing footage, to no avail. If, as it would seem, the sequence were cut from the negative prior to most of the prints being manufactured, then there simply may not be any footage to find.

However, thanks to the efforts of KING KONG remake director Peter Jackson, we have the next best thing. He and his special effects crew at the WETA Workshop set out to reconstruct this lost scene, and they did it the old-fashioned way, with 1932 cameras identical to the ones Willis “Obie” O’Brien used to shoot the original sequence, and with painstakingly recreated animation models. They not only filmed it, they filmed how they did it, and included it on the original KING KONG Collector’s Edition DVD.

As I stated in my review of the KK33 Collector’s Edition, this was a labor of love on the part of Jackson, a life-long Kongophile. It had to have been; I’m sure that more money was spent on reproducing the few minutes of missing footage than was spent filming the original movie. Certainly, the time spent resurrecting long-forgotten techniques and obsolete equipment represented a significant allocation of resources, even for someone of Jackson’s means. Was it worth it?

As those involved in the project stated, their intention was never to “complete” the original KING KONG. They simply wanted to know what the missing sequence would have looked like, based on what information still survives about the scene. They began with a still that does survive, showing at least two crewmen standing alive in the pit, as a monstrous spider approaches. Using that as a jumping-off point, they used Obie’s sketches for the film, many from Jackson’s own collection, to recreate the various pit monsters.

As this was going on, Jackson and a small group of directors and screenwriters, including Frank Darabont, examined the original movie frame-by-frame, matching the filmed sequences to the shooting script for the film. In doing this, they made a significant discovery.

Many fans have wondered why, when the crew of the Venture began crossing the log-bridge, only to find Kong blocking the route, they didn’t just back up to the other side. Jackson and team found that, along with the pit sequence, footage was removed showing the crew being chased by a Styracosaurus onto the log, to be trapped there and flung to their deaths in the pit below. They decided to recreate this as well, and Jackson had an item in his collection that was particularly helpful in that: The original animation model of the Styracosaurus.

Originally built for use in O’Brien’s planned-but-never-filmed CREATION, it was resurrected for KING KONG, but its scenes were left on the cutting room floor. It did finally get its shot at stardom, however, when it was used in 1933’s SON OF KONG. With its foam rubber body rotting away, it was of course impossible to use for filming the recreation, but the animators were very curious to see how it had been constructed. Unable to see the armature (the model’s poseable skeleton…) underneath the layers of rotting rubber, they did the next best thing: They took it to a local hospital for a full series of X-rays. (In an interesting side note, those of you who have the recent DVD tribute to Forry Ackerman, THE SCI-FI BOYS, look closely at one of the scenes of Forry giving a tour of the Ackermansion in the ‘70’s… there, in the background, sitting quietly on the shelf, is our friend the Styracosaurus, rotted rubber and all!)

This level of commitment and dedication was shown throughout the filming of the recreation, from using period photographic equipment to sampling Fay Wray’s unforgettable scream to use for constructing the various creature howls and roars. I may be in danger of redundancy, but you can feel the emotional attachment this group of filmmakers has for this classic movie.

So, after all this effort, was the finished product worth it? Yes, I think so. Is it what Cooper and Obie originally shot? No, but it’s probably close, damn close. And for me, as far as this is concerned, close is close enough.

Uni's Top Tens: SLASHERS & PSYCHOS

One of the regular features of the Crypt, on the left side of your screen, is the Top 10 list, my personal best and brightest of the various genres and sub-genres of Horror, Exploitation, and Science-Fiction Films that we all love and enjoy. Occasionally I’m taken to task concerning my choices for these lists, or asked to explain why one film was chosen over another, more deserving (in the mind of the questioner) movie. My reply is invariably “my list, my rules.” It does occur to me, though, that perhaps I should expand slightly on just why I choose the films I do.

Unless I’m following some specific criteria, such as “most historically significant,” “most bloody,” or “most T&A in a non-X-Rated Feature,” my standards for selecting the movies for these lists are simple—they’re the films in that category that I enjoy the most. No secret formula, no voting… they are the movies that I love, and to which I keep returning.

A prime example would be the Top Ten category “Giant Bugs / Mutant Bugs.” The 1957 Universal film THE DEADLY MANTIS is by far my top pick, beating TARANTULA, THE BLACK SCORPION, and in fourth place, the 1954 classic THEM. Most objective comparisons of …MANTIS and THEM would agree that the latter is by far a superior film—better writing, better direction, better acting, better effects—better in nearly every category. Even I would concede those points. The one thing it doesn’t do better, however, is entertain me. As much as I love THEM, THE DEADLY MANTIS is simply more fun to watch. As is TARANTULA and THE BLACK SCORPION, for that matter. And that’s what truly matters.

One category that generates more than a few comments is “Slashers & Psychopaths,” those films featuring the bad boys and girls of Horror. The Slasher film is one of the strongest genres of Horror, and has been since the mid-1970s. Vampires and werewolves wax and wane like the lunar cycle; ghosts appear and disappear; alien invaders are here one minute and gone the next. But the Slasher has been with us continually since 1978. While their popularity may fluctuate, they’ve not gone away. It stands to reason that the more popular a genre is, the more variety of opinion there is to be found regarding that genre. Let’s face it, if you’re in a group whose Horror movie passion is giant carnivorous rabbits, the chances are that your pick for greatest movie ever is a unanimous one. But if the topic switches to “greatest Slasher Ever,” you’ll be lucky to find two out of ten who would agree.

So here’s a countdown, from #10 to #1, of my list of Top Ten Slashers & Psychos—no apologies for what made the list and what didn’t, or which film is number one and which is number ten. Just a brief explanation of why I love each.

FRIDAY THE 13^TH, Pt. II—(1981): Not the franchise’s first outing, but the one that transformed it from just another Slasher movie to a Horror Film legend. The addition of Jason Voorhees, the drowned son of the psychotic killer from the first film, electrified the series and propelled it to a string of sequels that would last twenty years.

SE7EN —aka— SEVEN—(1995): David Fincher’s stylish, shocking homage to 1940’s-era film noir is notable for several reasons, especially the stellar performances from Morgan Freeman, as the scarred old veteran detective, just wanting to put in his time until retirement; Brad Pitt, as his eager rookie partner; and Kevin Spacey, as the psychopathic object of their hunt. The ending sells the film, and takes it to a higher level than most of this type.

THE SILENCE OF THE LAMBS—(1991): This film, directed by Jonathan Demme and starring Anthony Hopkins and Jodie Foster, accomplished what few Horror Films have, before or since—it won the Academy Award for Best Picture. It also captured four other Oscars®—Best Adapted Screenplay, Best Director for Demme, Best Actor for Hopkins, and Best Actress for Foster. Not only was the film a critical success, but it was enormously successful at the box-office as well, creating one of the genre’s few bright spots in the Dark Ages of the early 1990’s.

THE HITCHER—(1986): Rutger Hauer may not be the first name that leaps to mind when one tries to think of good actors, but his performance as the mysterious John Ryder, the hitchhiking serial killer who plunges Jim Halsey (C. Thomas Howell) into a nightmare road trip from Hell, is the best of his career. The film is a continuous duel between Ryder and Halsey, and everyone else is simply a distraction that Ryder must eliminate. The tension between the two is palpable, and drags the viewer along for the ride.

TARGETS —aka— BEFORE I DIE—(1968): Based in part on the Charles Whitman case in Austin, Texas, Peter Bogdanovich’s tale of a sniper terrorizing a Drive-In theater in Los Angeles succeeds beautifully, despite having had every chance of failing. Mandated to use existing footage from Roger Corman’s 1963 film THE TERROR, Bogdanovich creatively wove it into a story of a fading icon of Horror films, ready to retire, with one last personal appearance to make. His path to the appearance intersects with the sniper, and each confronts their image of fear. While the script and direction are excellent, it’s the exemplary performance of Boris Karloff as Byron Orlok, the soon-to-be-retired star, which transforms this film into something extraordinary.

FROM HELL—(2001): The Hughes Brothers take on the Jack the Ripper case, based on the Graphic Novel of the same title, is a surreal, visually stunning film, one that suffers only slightly from a less than stringent sense of focus. Johnny Depp turns in a tremendous performance as Inspector Abberline of Scotland Yard, assigned the task of running the Ripper to ground. Though one gets the impression that the filmmakers’ studied at the Oliver Stone School of Conspiracy Theory, or ‘if one explanation is good then ten must be fantastic’, the story’s never slow or boring. While historical accuracy is, sadly, little more than an afterthought to the filmmakers, it’s still easily one of the best “Ripper” films in recent memory.

SHADOW OF A DOUBT—(1943): This taut psychological Horror is one of Sir Alfred Hitchcock’s finest efforts, and in my not-so-humble opinion his finest, with the possible exception of REAR WINDOW (1954). Joseph Cotton is superb as the cold, calculating Uncle Charlie, and Teresa Wright is equally good as his niece and namesake, and the only person who can penetrate his veneer of civility to see the predator within. Hitchcock, here at the mid-point of his career, is the confirmed master of suspense, and the story of young Charlie, being stalked by the uncle that she loves, is the director at his most masterful.

M —aka— M – EINE STADT SUCHT EINEN MÖRDER—(1932): This German film, Fritz Lang’s first sound feature, is the progenitor of every psychological thriller since. The story of a pedophilic child murderer, played convincingly by Peter Lorre, hunted by both the police and the underworld, is one of Lang’s best films, and my personal favorite of his.

PSYCHO—(1960): Ask 100 people to name an Alfred Hitchcock film, and 90 will say “PSYCHO.” This film is universally recognized as the director’s greatest masterpiece, the film that defines his career. What begins as a typically suspenseful Hitchcock crime melodrama is shockingly, jarringly transformed into something else—something so much more. Featuring the most famous sequence of jump cuts in cinema history, PSYCHO revolutionized Horror.

HALLOWEEN—(1978): Before Jason, before Freddy, before the ‘80’s spawned a new Slasher film every other week, there was Haddonfield, Illinois—and the night Michael Myers came home. It’s impossible to overstate the impact this film had on the genre, from the birth of the Slasher craze, to the debut of one of Horror’s greatest directors, to the introduction of the decade’s top Scream Queen, to the film’s evocative and iconic score. Though the franchise would rapidly descend into mediocrity without John Carpenter at the helm, this initial film in that franchise remains the finest, best example of the art of the Slasher film.