Review by Ben Bussey
If you’re hoping for a concise, unbiased, even-handed appraisal of the conclusion of Hammer’s Karnstein trilogy, you may as well stop reading now. Twins of Evil is far too big a deal to me. For various reasons – some screamingly obvious, others somewhat less so – this 1971 vampire movie proved a pivotal moment in my personal development as an almost-teenage horror fan, and remains a film I’ve returned to again and again over the years. Indeed, I’ve sung its praises here at Brutal As Hell many times, naming it my favourite vampire movie, listing the Collinson sisters among the sexiest female vampires ever, praising Peter Cushing’s performance in honour of his centenary, and most recently on marking the sad demise of Madeleine Collinson.
All that being said, can I really offer much in the way of further insight into Twins of Evil? Well, I’ll see what I can do – but in the meantime I won’t assume the reader to be as familiar with the film as I am. Though its cult status seems to have blossomed in recent years, Twins of Evil hasn’t always been held up as one of Hammer’s best, often getting lost in the midst of so very many other films of note that the legendary British production house gave us between the 50s and the 70s. Worse yet, there are those who would write Twins of Evil off, along with most if not all of Hammer’s post-1970 output, as one of the last nails in their coffin; a desperate last-ditch effort from a fading institution to win back an audience that was being wowed by more forward-thinking filmmaking elsewhere. It’s certainly true that Hammer were losing their grip, and resorting to fairly crass methods of getting bums on seats; why else would they make a film based around the presence of Playboy’s first ever identical twin centerfold models? But even so, to dismiss Twins of Evil as nothing more than puerile sexploitation is to turn a blind eye to a great deal of value.
Mary and Madeleine Collinson are Maria and Freida, recently orphaned identical twins from Venice who are sent to live with their aunt Katy (Kathleen Byron) and uncle Gustav (Peter Cushing) in the remote village of Karnstein. However, while at a glance Karnstein may seem a sleepy, simple place, when the sun goes down it is revealed as village at war with itself. A Brotherhood of pious, puritanical townsmen, led by Gustav, believe witchcraft and devilry to be rife among the young folk of Karnstein, and so to combat this they swarm the woods by dark, hunting down suspected witches – and, without pausing for anything as trifling as a trial, promptly burning them at the stake. In a rather bold, striking opening scene, an emotionless Cushing bursts into the home of a suspected witch – an attractive young lady, funnily enough – and, ignoring her desperate cries of innocence, promptly condemns her. Throughout the entire opening credits sequence the camera lingers on her screaming face as the flames build around her; a pretty harsh introduction, and notable for its total lack of vampirism, immediately establishing the idea that the men of God may well be the true evil here. As such, we can straight away picture ourselves in Maria and Freida’s shoes (or bodices, if that’s your thing): if you were a pretty young woman who found herself in the midst of this madness, wouldn’t at least a part of you rather side with the Devil…?
Aye, there’s the rub for ol’ Gustav – for, while all his suspected witches protest their innocence to the bitter end, there is at least one among them who openly professes his allegiance to Beelzebub: the lord of the manor himself, Count Karnstein (Damien Thomas). Much as we first meet Gustav on the job, so too does Karnstein first appear attending his most sacred duties – sharing the bed of a peasant girl, his snow-white, snake-hipped torso exposed to the world. Here we have some interesting overtones of class conflict, as whilst Karnstein may loudly and unabashedly declare himself a devil-worshiper (but not, at this point, a vampire), his status within the community – and, in particular, his protection from the powers that be – ensure that he is off-limits from Gustav and the boys, unless they’re willing to sign their own death warrants. Naturally they’re not so eager to die, which might obviously make us question just how strong their faith really is, and whether or not they just like burning young ladies for kinky thrills…
There are of course clear echoes of Witchfinder General here, though being Hammer the material is handled with a somewhat softer hand and more elegant veneer than Michael Reeves’ grim and groundbreaking 1968 film. However, in a curious way Twins of Evil also feels like a forebear to another groundbreaking British horror, 1987’s Hellraiser, as Damien Thomas’ Karnstein is a burnt-out hedonist no longer able to find satisfaction with earthly pleasures – much as would be the case with Frank Cotton 16 years later. While he proudly boasts of coming from a long line of superstar Satanists, we’re given the impression Karnstein has resorted to devil worship out of sheer boredom as much as anything else, and decides to sell his soul simply because he couldn’t find anything to do with it. In common with all the great Hammer villains (and I’ve no doubt Thomas could have reached that level, given greater opportunities beyond this one film), there’s a nice duality at play; as much as he presents a free-thinking, free-loving ideal that the groovy young folk of the time could surely dig, there’s also a selfish, nihilistic abandon about him, with no concerns beyond his own satisfaction. As fine an embodiment as any of the fall-out from flower power, I’d say.
Anyway, after doing his Faustian bit, Karnstein is lucky enough not to be greeted by a grizzled Mephistopheles, nor the rusty hooks and steely glares of the Cenobites, but by the altogether more comely form of Mircalla, here portrayed by Katya Wyeth. See, here’s where that whole Karnstein Trilogy label comes into play, as this was the third time J. Sheridan Le Fanu’s iconic lesbian vampire appeared in a Hammer movie, following on from Ingrid Pitt’s star-making turn in 1970’s The Vampire Lovers, and Yutte Stensgard’s somewhat less remarkable performance in Lust For A Vampire earlier that same year. Here, frankly, is where I get a bit fuzzy on the chronology, for – while it’s never said outright in the film itself – Twins of Evil has been described as a prequel to those earlier films. Either way, Mircalla is dead when the film begins, yet is brought back as Satan’s emissary to induct Count Karnstein into vampirism in a rather saucy fashion, with slurps and fondles aplenty. Yet she too is a Karnstein, so… erm… is the Count getting it on with his own grandma? If so, fair play, it doesn’t get much freakier than that. However, I rather doubt anyone gave it much thought, and we probably shouldn’t either. In any case it’s not hard to see why Ingrid Pitt declined to come back (if I’ve read correctly, she was busy shooting Countess Dracula when Lust for a Vampire was made, but didn’t like the script anyway), as Mircalla’s appearance here is a mere cameo, and after getting all touchy-feely-bitey with Karnstein she promptly vanishes without any explanation. This means that, in narrative terms, any link to The Vampire Lovers and Lust for a Vampire is tenuous at best – and yet, in its emphasis on the sexual elements of horror and vampire mythology, the films absolutely belong in the same category.
Which, at long last, brings us to the real stars of the show: the twins themselves. Obviously there’s no question whatsoever that the Collinsons were cast first and foremost because of their looks, and – although there’s considerably less nudity than you might anticipate – Twins of Evil absolutely makes the most of this, squeezing the young actresses into a series of eye-catching (not to say eye-popping) outfits. There’s also little question that, when it came to actual acting, perhaps the Collinsons didn’t completely know what they were doing – but once again, to dismiss them as no-talent starlets is to overlook a lot.
I’ve read that Kate O’Mara campaigned to portray both of the twins; this would of course have necessitated a very different film indeed, with neither sister appearing in the same frame as one another. As it is, director John Hough takes full advantage of his actresses being mirror opposites, making a point of showing their faces alongside one another with great regularity. The Collinsons really are the absolute spitting image of one another (which isn’t always the case even with those we would class as identical twins), so we come to distinguish them by their characterisations, with Mary’s Maria remaining coy, timid, and quick to tears, whilst Madeleine’s Freida is bold, flirtatious and aggressive. In a curious way, twins are as much an object of superstition and fantasy as vampires themselves, and the film plays on this, showing the open leers of the local menfolk – something which, as Freida implies, they have had to put up with all their lives (note her reference to men with “funny staring eyes” watching them play as little girls). The film also plays on the old idea of a psychic link existing between twins, with two notable instances of Maria knowing when Freida is in pain. Does Maria have this intuition, where Freida seemingly does not, as she is the good-hearted one? Perhaps so, as the contents of one’s character have a particular bearing on fate here. As we learn in the clip below, those with the devil in their heart will survive a vampire bite and be turned, whilst only the innocent will die; an interesting play on the vampire rules which, as can be seen time and again, Hammer tended to make up as they went along.
Marching in to build some bridges in this crazy good vs. evil/old vs. young/rich vs. poor conflict, we have David Warbeck’s schoolmaster Anton. A well-read, forward-thinking intellectual but also a skilled hunter and tactician, he is the one who finally manages to make Gustav and the Brotherhood see the error of their ways, and find a midway approach: to let the young folk have their fun, and fight the real enemy in the castle on the hill. Was this Hammer’s way of telling the working class audience to rise up and smash the state…? Probably not, in all honesty, but it’s fun to imagine that being the case, isn’t it? Alas, Warbeck’s mostly there for exposition and doesn’t get to play the hero quite so much as we might have liked (hey, there’s always The Beyond), but one gets the feeling that his is the character held up as the real ideal for the young folk in the audience to aspire to – even if Count Karnstein’s considerably more rock’n’roll.
Perhaps the narrative runs out of steam a bit by the final act, but it all builds up to a suitably melodramatic conclusion that packs plenty of punch, with a final death shot that echoes the classic demise of Christopher Lee in the original Horror of Dracula. All things considered, Twins of Evil is to my mind a perfect encapsulation of the rare joys Hammer brought to the horror genre. It looks great, thanks to the beautifully-dressed sets and the cinematography of Dick Bush (heheheh). The score is also great; lucky you if you’re one of the few to get the limited edition vinyl pressing of the soundtrack from Death Waltz Records (at the time of writing there are 6 left!) And when all this intellectual back-and-forth is over and done with – it’s got fangs, blood and corsets in abundance. What’s not to love?
All this being said, I can’t deny being ever so slightly disappointed with this Blu-ray from Network, due to the absence of The Flesh and the Fury: X-posing Twins of Evil, the feature-length documentary released on the 2012 US Blu-ray from Synapse, which I’ve long been curious to see. Still, this is a minor complaint, as the film itself looks better than ever, and – as you might have gathered – remains every bit as great a source of joy to this writer as it has ever been.
Twins of Evil is out now on Blu-ray from Network.