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Review by Karolina Gruschka

The Shout; what an odd little film. Watching it felt like listening to Pink Floyd: chilled, mystical, heavy, deep, dreamy, trippy, intricate, surreal, sophisticated, powerful, sensual.

It is a story about the intimacy of marriage, about adultery, about power struggles, about subjective realities, about isolation, about madness, about mysticism, about sound. Based on a short story by Robert Graves from 1929, it was adapted for the screen by Michael Austin in 1978. Despite being referred to as a horror film, I am not sure I would call it such. I do not know what I would call it though.

The Shout is set at an asylum in beautiful Devon during a cricket match between inmates, carers and locals. It is difficult to distinguish between who is insane and who is not, as genius and madness often lie close to each other. Crossley (Alan Bates), one of the inmates, is a highly intelligent man who believes he harbours supernatural powers. While the match proceeds, he tells Robert Graves (Tim Curry) a story that involves himself, fellow inmate Anthony (John Hurt) and nurse Rachel (Susannah York). As simple as this point of departure sounds, the situation is already layered in a complex manner. The film is shown from Graves’ point of view; one could call him the narrator. Through his eyes, we see Crossley tell a ‘true’ story which he admits to vary each time to stop it from becoming false. Now, within the story, we get a deep insight into Anthony, things Crossley could not know (or could he?) Not only is the narration multiply layered, but also, considering that all three are patients of the insane asylum, it is unreliable.

Similarly, it was mind-blowing to discover that the director of The Shout is Polish man Jerzy Skolimowski. When I started watching it, I thought that this is a very English sort of film. However, the production is a vision of an outsider looking at English society, hence, possibly why I, as a foreigner myself, might have picked up immediately on the coding of ‘Englishness’ in The Shout. Only a few minutes into the movie and already I am tripping out.

The disappointment of a childless marriage leaves Anthony and Rachel vulnerable to outside influences. While Anthony finds some excitement in coquetting secretly with the Cobbler’s wife (Carol Drinkwater), Crossley feels he has the right to take Rachel.

Crossley is this enigmatic, menacing and sexual force against which fragile Anthony bears no chance. Using Australian aboriginal magic that he learned living in the outback, Crossley traps Rachel’s soul in a shoe-buckle; as a result he can control her by holding on to the object. Throughout the story, the characters behave in an odd way. Rachel and the Cobbler appear to know about Anthony and the Cobbler’s wife, and both Anthony and Rachel let a fairly rude and dangerous stranger into their home, yet nobody is confrontational, keeping up an appearance of politeness. This demeanour gives The Shout an awkward and uneasy vibe, with a lot going on in-between spoken words. In fact, sound (or the lack of sound) plays a very significant part in the movie. Anthony plays the organ in church and likes to experiment with different sounds for his avant-garde music pieces as a hobby. There are lots of wild tracks of nature sounds in The Shout, interwoven at times with the mystical didgeridoo and synthesizer music by two members of Genesis. I think, because of the awkward pauses in-between text and the ‘emptiness’ of rural Devon, the viewer’s hearing sense is heightened, picking up on all the individual elements of the soundscape. It is therefore no surprise that the movie title comprises a sound; The Shout refers to Crossley’s terror shout – a sound that can kill every living being within a certain radius. Let me tell you, his shout is highly effective. The moment we first encounter Crossley’s dangerous ability could have easily slipped into ridiculousness, but the build up to this instant is justified and worth the experience. It is a multifaceted shout that made me feel uneasy, disturbed and actually slightly queasy. Think of the shout in Aphex Twin’s ‘Come to Daddy’, but with more depth and substance to it.

Back at the cricket match, Graves and the audience witness an event that could be seen as final proof for Crossley’s mystical power, however, while he releases the shout lightning strikes; it remains therefore ambiguous as to whether the shout killed those people or whether it was the lightning. Also, even if we believe Crossley’s story to be true, Anthony and Rachel’s weird behaviour might be a result of Crossley’s confident demeanour and suggestive practices. Combined with the fact that there is a degree of unhappiness in their marriage, Crossley being transparent about his use of ‘magic’ on the couple might influence their psyches. Similarly to Crossley, The Shout is a very weird movie that is equally irresistible.

There is a high calibre of British actors in The Shout, which already in itself is pleasurable to watch for nostalgic reasons. The Blu-ray will be released on 15th September by Network, as part of ‘The British Film’ collection. The disc will comprise the feature, an audio commentary with film connoisseurs Kim Newman and Stephen Jones, the original theatrical trailer, an image gallery and, interestingly, some soundless scenes.

The Shout is available on Blu-ray on 15th September 2014, from Network.

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.

Review by Stephanie Scaife

Heli may seem like an unusual choice of film for us to cover here at Brutal as Hell, but although it may not be a genre film, it’s certainly brutal and it falls firmly into the extremely bleak camp of films-I-never-want-to-see-again, along with the likes of Requiem for a Dream and Snowtown. I’m a firm believer that the scariest and most disturbing films are always those that feel real; there’s nothing supernatural or outlandish, just simple human suffering. Directed by Amat Escalante (Los Bastardos), Heli deals with how the complacency of the establishment and the power of the drug cartels can impact everyday life in contemporary Mexico and it doesn’t pull any punches in doing so.

Heli (Armando Espitia) works the night shift at a local auto plant and he shares a simple life with his frustrated wife Sabrina (Linda González), their newborn baby, his little sister Estela (Andrea Vergara) and their father. Estela seems to think that she has found a way out of her monotonous life in the shape of an older boyfriend, Beto (Juan Eduardo Palacios), a young recruit who is currently undergoing some particularly horrible training to join the police force (being made to roll in his own vomit appears to be the lesser of his punishments). Perhaps without truly realising what she is agreeing to Estela allows Beto to hide some stolen cocaine in the water tank above her house and when Heli discovers what they have done he quickly disposes of the drugs in a scene that left had me yelling “Don’t do it!” at the television screen, because of course by throwing away vast quantities of cocaine things were never going to end well…

No sooner has this happened and the cartel comes looking for the missing drugs with predictably devastating consequences for Heli and his family, including a now infamous torture scene involving flaming genitals. Despite these bursts of incredible violence Heli works more as an observational piece; it’s not a thriller or a drama per se and the narrative is often frustratingly impenetrable, which has been a complaint of some about the film. However I sort of appreciated the ability of Heli to capture the mundanity of violence within this world that it inhabits, which is exemplified in one scene where a man is being tortured by two cartel henchmen and one says, “What did this one do?” to which the other replies, “Who knows”. To these two young men committing heinous acts of violence is just what they do as a job and it appears to have no effect on them whatsoever. If anything this makes the scene even more shocking, the fact that nobody really cares as the brutality is so intrinsic to their day-to-day lives.

The ending is surprisingly somewhat uplifting, but manages to be so in a very subdued way that I found both refreshing yet also a little depressing. The message is essentially that life goes on, despite what this family has been through and as long as the police are corrupt and the cartel holds the power then nothing will change, they should just be grateful to be alive. Heli clearly isn’t for everyone; there is a pervading sense of dread that seeps through every scene and some truly abhorrent scenes of violence. There is a lot to admire though, particularly in the cinematography from Lorenzo Hangerman whose previous work has predominantly been in documentary filmmaking. The film is full of striking shots yet manages to retain a naturalistic feel creating the quite haunting effect of making something grim look so beautiful and real.

I wouldn’t necessarily recommend Heli because it is a very tough watch, however with some excellent performances (from largely non professional actors) and a unique visual aesthetic it’s certainly one of the best and most accomplished films I’ve seen so far this year that is best approached with a strong stomach and a steely reserve.

Heli is out now on DVD and Blu-ray from Network.

Review by Tristan Bishop

Even as a fan of director Jim Jarmusch – his 90s efforts Dead Man (1995) and Ghost Dog (1999) are among my favourite films – I wasn’t exactly jumping up and down in my seat at the prospect of Only Lovers Left Alive. The undoubtedly top-notch cast didn’t gloss over the fact that this was a love story about vampires, and I generally like my vampires to be sexy and animalistic creatures, ready to have you submit to their will and rip out your throat at a moment’s notice, rather than sensitive souls mooching lovelorn in the moonlight, and whilst in recent years TV’s True Blood (alongside Xan Cassavette’s underrated Kiss Of The Damned) has managed to walk a fine line between humanising and demonising vamps, Jarmusch isn’t really known for piling on the sex ‘n’ blood.

Adam and Eve (played by the ever-so-good-looking pairing of Tom Hiddleston and Tilda Swinton) are a couple who have been married for a very long time. Not only are they both vampires, but they also live a long way apart – Eve resides in the hazy, maze-like environs of Tangier (surely a nod to Naked Lunch-era William Burroughs), where anything is available on any street corner (including, it seems, high grade supplies of blood), and Adam prefers to dwell in run-down suburban Detroit – a once-great city of industry and music – where he barricades himself in his home with a collection of out-dated technology and antique guitars, venturing out only to a local hospital to score the red stuff. There’s seemingly no lack of love with the couple, despite the distance between them, but Adam is at a low point; commissioning a bullet made of wood from the ‘rock & roll kid’ who supplies his ancient instruments, he has obviously decided to end it all, and even the music he makes has become ‘funeral music’. Cue a trip from Eve across the Atlantic to see if she can bring Adam around to the joys of life (or, more correctly, un-death).

Let’s get this out of the way first, for those seeking hot bloody vampire action – there is no sex or violence in this film, although there is one (non-sexual) scene with the main characters naked in bed, and one bloody aftermath of a vampire attack, but that’s your lot. What we get instead is a grown-up, low-key film about the ability of love. Starring two incredibly pretty people who happen to be vampires. Of course, there’s a metaphor going on here – the vampires are cultural movers and shakers behind the scenes – with suggestions that they may have been the real talents behind famous musical and written works of the past, feeling isolated from humankind (who they tellingly and ironically refer to as ‘zombies’), struggling to live with addiction (the blood/drug metaphor has been well overdone but thankfully is handled subtly here) and find meaning in a world not made for them. It’s not too much of a stretch that Jarmusch might be doing some veiled autobiography here.

All this might make the film sound like a bit of a pretentious wallow, but it isn’t, due to Jarmusch’s own script sparkling with warmth and ironic wit, delivered perfectly by the leads, who possess a rare chemistry which makes you buy into their relationship completely. Theirs is not the only tangible love affair in the film however: Jarmusch’s famous love of music permeates nearly every scene from the stunningly atmospheric score by the director’s own band SQURL, to a a great scene featuring Lebanese singer Yasmine Hamdan, through to various great old country, blues and soul tunes featured in various scenes. The film’s primary setting of Detroit is a give-away here: a city responsible at least partially – via Motown, garage punk, techno and the blues revival of The White Stripes – for many of America’s most exciting musical movements of the 20th century, now lying uninhabited for vast stretches, the character of Adam makes his home in a living museum of American culture’s golden age.

As if this wasn’t enough the icing on the cake comes from some stunning, painterly cinematography by Yorick Le Saux and two excellent supporting performances from Mia Wasikowska as Eve’s wild child sister Ava, who arrives at Adam’s home, causing much unrest (in a similar, although far less sultry, role as Roxane Mesquida in Kiss Of The Damned), and the great John Hurt, playing Eve’s Tangier neighbour Christopher Marlowe (yes, that Christopher Marlowe).

Only Lovers Left Alive is that rarest of things – a love story which manages to be convincing, unsentimental, ironic and uplifting. If you’re a cynical horror fan with a secret romantic core then if gets my highest recommendation.

Only Lovers Left Alive is released to DVD and Blu-ray on 15th September, from Soda Pictures.

Review by Matt Harries

In 2014 it is fitting that we focus on Catacombs – a supernatural thriller made way back in 1965, originally released in the States as The Woman Who Wouldn’t Die – for it was earlier this year in January that saw the sad passing of director Gordon Hessler, aged 83. Those of us of a certain vintage will remember Hessler’s work fondly, especially perhaps 1973’s The Golden Voyage of Sinbad (the one with the Harryhausen animated sword-wielding Kali statue). Fans of vintage horror may recall some of his 70’s work in the horror medium, such as The Oblong Box, Scream and Scream Again, and Murders In The Rue Morgue, all based on the works of Poe.

Despite its supernatural billing, Catacombs has much more of a distinctly Hitchcockian lineage behind it. It is unsurprising to note that Hessler cut his teeth under the Master of Suspense himself, on his TV series Alfred Hitchcock Presents (1955) and The Alfred Hitchcock Hour (1962). Sure enough Catacombs, itself a novelette by Jay Bennett, was originally rejected by The Alfred Hitchcock Hour. A few years later it became Hessler’s directorial debut, one in which he displays an almost reverential devotion to the familiar Hitchcockian tropes of murder, betrayal and shocking denouement.

The story focuses on another familiar Hitchcock favourite – the domineering female. In this case it is Ellen Garth (Georgina Cookson), an astute and successful businesswoman who is most definitely the trouser-wearer in her marriage to the rather hapless Raymond (Gary Merrill). Mrs Garth is a striking woman of somewhat aristocratic bearing, but she suffers from debilitating pains which regularly afflict her, requiring the ever-obliging Raymond to carry her to bed and ease her suffering as best he can. Mrs Garth herself possesses an uncanny ability to use a mirror to reflect light into her eyes, thus placing herself into a kind of trance within the depths of which she feels no pain. Despite her ailments she also enjoys a powerful sex-drive, and thus completes her dominance over Raymond, who of course obliges her in bed as he does in general – with an almost stooped and world-weary countenance.

Completing the scene at the Garth residence is Mrs Garth’s secretary Dick Corbett (Neil McCallum) and maid Christine (Rachel Thomas). While Christine dotes upon Mrs Garth and frequently speaks softly to her as she enters her trance states, Corbett has an altogether more reluctant relationship with his employer. In fact he only remains in her employ because she owns evidence of an earlier attempt to defraud her – ensuring he remains bound to her service. So we have two men who are closer to her than perhaps anyone else, but who both harbour a growing resentment, and a mutual desire to free themselves from her service.

Into this scene of dubious domestic bliss enters Alice (Jane Merrow), the niece of Mrs Garth, who much to Raymond’s obvious astonishment has blossomed into a rather comely young woman while studying art in Paris. Poor Raymond – he is helpless in the face of such sweet, young womanhood. Infatuation quickly follows. What is more surprising is that Alice seems to reciprocate Raymond’s lusty advances. Very soon, the tensions bubbling away beneath the powerful influence of Mrs Garth result in whispered plans of betrayal, and of the possible rewards for the inheritors of her substantial wealth. Sure enough, Raymond and Corbett begin to devise a plot to murder her, making it appear as if she has succumbed to a motoring accident while holidaying in Italy. However as Raymond and Dick eventually discover, killing someone is one thing – keeping them dead is quite another.

One of the great joys in watching a film such as Catacombs is the capturing, albeit in cinematic form, of a time and place long since changed beyond all recognition. 1965 was of course a time of great social change in the western world in particular, and in cinema there were only another couple of years before colour became the norm. Catacombs has its foot in both camps, as it were; on one hand it is a delightful anachronism, with Georgina Cookson’s clipped tones and Gary Merrill’s increasingly outdated old school presence; on the other hand we can see the encroachment of a new era of sexual freedom, embodied by the returning Alice – who may or not be as innocent as she at first seems – now finished with her education in Paris and ready to strike it out on her own in London’s artistic society. In cinematic terms it very much looks to the past, albeit the relatively recent; 1955 French thriller Les Diaboliques and Hitchcock in particular.

Despite feeling dated as you’d expect, Catacombs is rather enjoyable nonetheless. Director Gordon Hessler shows that far from being a copyist, he had full understanding of the ideas of tension, suggestion and misdirection as espoused by Hitchcock. Approached with an open mind it is not too obvious which way the serpentine plot will go, right until the ending, which brings another little twist. This is all achieved with a relatively tiny cast of just seven. Of these, Georgina Cookson stood out as Ellen Garth. Ever demanding, rude, and rather highly sexed, she seems to have great fun with the role and as a personality towers above husband Raymond. Gary Merrill is fine as her hen-pecked husband, although admittedly for a long while I couldn’t get my head around the rather cringe-inducing romance between him and Alice. He is easily old enough to be her father, and yet come the ending it all becomes clear that poor Raymond was used, both before and after his wife’s death. Knowing his guilt allows us to rather enjoy the second half of the film, in which he and partner to be Alice are apparently haunted by the vengeful shade of Ellen Garth.

All in all this is a well directed, well acted and at times subtly creepy slice of cinematic history, restored to an excellent standard. A worthy addition to Network’s release of ‘The British Film’ collection.

Catacombs is out now on DVD from Network.

Review by Ben Bussey

There are few things more tedious than a film which takes the seeds of a potentially interesting idea, before promptly getting lazy and churning out something so bland, unimaginative and illogical it almost hurts. When such a middling production manages to procure the services of a genuine cinematic heavyweight like Rutger Hauer, that only sours things that bit more.

See that exhausted, “oh god, what have I done” look on Rutger’s face as he contemplates his own reflection? I’m fairly sure he didn’t need much help finding his motivation for that scene…

RPG – which, in this instance, stands for Real Playing Game (yes, really) – is a textbook case of a straight-to-DVD production that’s so utterly half-baked on every conceivable level that within minutes you’re wondering who the hell it was made for, and what was driving the people making it, as it certainly doesn’t seem to have been a passion for the medium. The core idea – the rich and elderly given the chance to inhabit young, healthy bodies via the wonders of modern technology – isn’t necessarily the most unique starting point ever, but there’s still the potential for something interesting. Let’s face it, if money was no object and the technology was there, the idea of being able to relive your youth if only for a limited time is surely something most of us would consider. But what would you want to do with this young body? Enter some hedonistic paradise perhaps; eat, drink and boink to your heart’s content? Again, I’m sure many of us would consider that. Yet for some reason, the creators of the Real Playing Game think it would be better for all their ‘players’ to have their memories wiped, then for their new young bodies to be dumped in some remote, overgrown abandoned building in Portugal, and be forced to systematically kill one another. And, even more bewilderingly, the old rich dudes willingly sign up for this.

Once again, it’s an utterly lame-brained low budget would-be thriller that thinks it’s a thousand times smarter, wittier, sexier and more suspenseful than it actually is, and cops out at every turn. The plot is idiotic, the characters are utterly detestable without exception, and the mostly young cast (Cian Barry’s passable Hauer impersonation notwithstanding) do themselves no favours whatsoever, not that they ever had a chance to come off well; quite clearly the bulk of them were cast for looking good in skimpy clothing rather than any concerns about giving actual performances. Any hopes that there might be genuine tension and surprises in store goes out the window quickly – but lest you think the filmmakers would have the good sense to up the sensationalism just to give the punters their money’s worth, you’ll be disappointed there too. The action scenes are mild, packing little punch and minimal gore; and while there’s the odd tease of a sex scene, including a few instances of the now near-obligatory girl-on-girl, these too play it painfully safe. (Quite how this has been deemed worthy of an 18 certificate is beyond me.)

I generally prefer not to post reviews quite so brief and dismissive as this, but RPG is one of those films that it really isn’t worth wasting any time or energy on. I feel sorry for the poor actors and filmmakers who wasted their efforts on something so worthless, and can only console myself with the knowledge that by this time next month this film will have almost certainly expunged itself from my memory completely.

RPG is out now on Blu-ray from Kaleidoscope.

Review by Karolina Gruschka

Mirror, Mirror on the Wall, Who’s the Fairest of Them All…
… Ingrid Pitt, that’s for sure!

Not only one of the most attractive film sirens of all times, Ingrid was beautiful on the inside too. She embraced her iconic position in the horror genre and appreciated her supporters and fans. Ingrid’s life reads like a movie script – she survived a Nazi concentration camp, an escape from Communist Germany, and in later years a battle with cancer. Despite multiple blows of fate, she kept fighting and came to be the First Lady of Horror with a great cult following. It may as well be her that Imre, in Countess Dracula (1971), is referring to as the “woman [who] embodies all the virtues”. Unfortunately, Ingrid passed away late 2010 at the age of 73 after collapsing on route to a fan club dinner.

In the Hammer Horror production Countess Dracula Ingrid Pitt plays the Hungarian Countess Elisabeth Nadasdy, a role comparable to that of the vain and ‘godless’ Queen in Grimm’s Snow White. Like in the fairy tale we witness the genesis of a demonical being. Starting off as fairly ruthless towards the common folk, Elisabeth develops to become a monster who is willing to murder the innocent, even her own daughter.

It seems that Elisabeth’s inner self is incongruous with her appearance. She still feels young and has a strong sexually predatory drive, but her demure looks stop her from enticing young men. When she discovers, by accident, a way to reverse the ageing process Elisabeth loses herself immediately in the cult of youth. Blood sacrifices are the only way to retain her youthful skin, therefore she needs to murder more and more girls. All the while, Ilona (Lesley-Anne Down), Elisabeth’s daughter is kept captive in a forest hut by a guy, who strikes a resemblance to the dwarf figures in Snow White. Elisabeth has a thing for her late husband’s young friend Imre (Sandor Eles) and does not wish for her daughter (returning to grieve for her father) to interfere in her game of seduction. Not to cause any suspicion, she pretends to be Ilona whenever she is transformed.

Each time Elisabeth changes into a goddess, the comedown becomes harder. Years ago, a mirror would have contributed to her great content, but now, all it does is drive her to madness. Every scene that sees her become uglier, Elisabeth is looking at a reflective surface, i.e. a mirror or window. According to some ancient beliefs mirrors can reflect one’s true nature; going by the reflection, Elisabeth’s soul must then be terribly tainted. The bigger the loss of beauty, the bigger her hunger for grandiosity. Ultimately, this narcissistic dysfunction leads Elisabeth to her downfall. (For more on the role of mirrors in horror and folklore, see Keri’s recent feature.) Ironically, while Hungary is at war with the Ottoman Empire (Turkey), it is ‘home’ that becomes the main site for destructive and aggressive tendencies. Despite its similarity to Grimm’s fairy tale Snow White, which is also played on in the original trailer, Countess Dracula is based on the historical figure Elisabeth Bathory.

In Hungary 1575, fifteen year young Elisabeth Bathory gets married to Ferenc Nadasdy, the son of a rich Baron. While she hardly gets to see her husband as he is either studying in Vienna or fighting as chief commander against the Ottomans (or dead eventually in 1604), Elisabeth is left to tend to their estates. During that time she tortures and murders supposedly over six hundred girls. Elisabeth Bathory dies in 1614 in a dungeon after four years of imprisonment, and goes down in history as the most prolific female serial killer. Myths soon start circulating around the countess, such as that she liked to bathe in virgin’s blood. Because of the cruel extent of her crimes she gets often compared to Vlad III from the house of Draculesti, hence her title ‘Countess Dracula’. In the film, too, after a few murders, villagers start spreading myths around the Nadasdys, claiming that “their ancestor was a seven headed dragon” and that they are all witches who “sold their souls to the Devil”, Elisabeth being “the worst of them all”.

Despite Countess Dracula being a film based on a serial killer and blood rites, there is not much violence and gore present, compared to other Hammer Horrors. Instead, much more focus is placed on the story and the dialogues, giving it almost the feel of a historical epic movie. The real Elisabeth Bathory had accomplices for her cruelties; in Countess Dracula it is the nanny Julie (Patience Collier) and Captain Dobi (Nigel Green as Elisabeth’s lover) who keep schtum and provide victims for Elisabeth’s blood baths. Dobi genuinely loves Elisabeth but grows increasingly disdainful towards the monster she is becoming. “At least there’s dignity in age” – with youth, Elisabeth starts flaunting herself and mocking Dobi in front of others. Julie is also very loyal towards Elisabeth at first, but the revelation that Ilona (as a nanny, she raised the girl) is supposed to become the next victim, leads to her betrayal. All the same, Julie meets her faith down in the dungeon with Elisabeth – “The Devil Woman”, “Countess Dracula”.

In my opinion, folk tales are fantastic material for horror films. Folklore is always based on truth (at times on famous figures such as Vlad the Impaler, Faust and Bathory; at others on the odd villager) but then, as the stories get passed on, they develop a life of their own. Trying to figure out yourself or hearing/reading/watching other people’s attempts at theorizing what the origins of each tale might be forms a great source of pleasure for me. For instance, there has been some conspiracy theories stating that Elisabeth Bathory might have been framed for crimes she had not committed, because of her wealth, whereas in Countess Dracula Elisabeth murders virgins since their blood has a supernatural healing power. As it has been a long long time ago, we will never know the truth.

The sets and costumes of Countess Dracula are absolutely stunning, adding to the whole historical epic film look. The performances are also brilliant – this is not some cheap sort of exploitation movie (btw nothing wrong with the latter). And of course, one gets to see Ingrid Pitt in all her full bloom!

NETWORK are releasing Countess Dracula on Blu-ray 8th September 2014 as part of ‘The British Film’ collection. The disc includes an audio commentary with Ingrid Pitt and horror aficionandos Kim Newman and Stephen Jones, the original theatrical trailer, an archive interview with Ingrid Pitt, a news feature about 50 years of Hammer, image galleries (production, behind the scenes, portrait, promotional) and an episode each of British TV series ‘Thriller’ (‘Where the Action is’, 1975, with Ingrid Pitt) and ‘Conceptions of Murder’ (‘Peter and Maria’, 1970, with Nigel Green).

(Editor’s note: no, we don’t know why Hammer’s official Youtube channel opted to use a picture from The House That Dripped Blood on the Countess Dracula trailer either.)

Review by Ben Bussey

The end of an era tends not to be the prettiest sight, especially not for those with particularly fond memories of the way things used to be. Not all devotees of the Universal monster movies were best pleased when that cycle reached its lampoonish conclusion in Abbott and Costello Meet Frankenstein; and many of those who recall being awestruck by Hammer’s first forays into lavish technicolor horror were left utterly bewildered by Roy Ward Baker’s madcap Kung Fu crossover Legend of the Seven Golden Vampires. However, while that was the late, great Baker’s last work for Hammer, the director was destined to hammer* one more nail into the coffin of the good ol’ days of horror in the form of The Monster Club, which proved to be his final film (he’d spend the following decade working in TV before retiring).

I’d managed to miss this film until now, and had long heard tell of it being a pretty miserable swansong for the Hammer era (I mean this term as a loose description of British horror from the 1950s onwards – The Monster Club is from Sword and Sorcery Productions, Milton Subotsky’s somewhat less successful follow-up to Amicus). Is it is great a disappointment as I’d been led to believe…? Well, in common with the era-ending films I mentioned earlier, it’s certainly an oddball, often farcical affair. That said, I have a tremendous affection for Abbott and Costello Meet Frankenstein and Legend of the Seven Golden Vampires alike; I often revisit both films, and suspect I always will.

However, I’m struggling to see myself having the same drive to revisit The Monster Club. It’s not that the film tries and fails to update the time honoured British anthology horror format with new wave music and self-referential humour. It’s not that the stars look so old and tired, and ill at ease with the aforementioned attempts at modernisation. Nor is it the sheer silliness of it all. All these aspects would be perfectly acceptable – indeed, possibly even a strength – were it not for how astonishingly dull The Monster Club is.

An aged John Carradine, looking as though someone tricked him into walking on the set by telling him there was coffee and cake, has a chance encounter with Vincent Price, also aged but considerably more animated – and, for once, a vampire. After a very feeble biting scene (in which he doesn’t take quite enough blood to turn his prey, apparently), Price invites Carradine to his favourite haunt, the club of the title, populated by monsters of all shapes and sizes; or rather a slew of badly dressed extras, all of whom look at least three decades younger than our leading men. They arrive, witness a rather incongruous display of new wave music, then Price remembers this is a portmanteau and tells a story. And so it goes three times over: story, incongruous new wave, Carradine looking like he’s about to nod off.

I suppose the central recurring theme – sympathy with the monsters – is agreeable enough. The first chapter, which sees a would-be thief enter the employment of a wealthy recluse with a monstrous secret, is a fairly standard EC-esque tale of punishment visited upon the wicked, but with a particular emphasis on making the viewer feel pity for the monster; might have been a tad bit more effective if James Laurenson didn’t just look like a slightly pasty dude with excessive black eye make-up on. The second is by far the most comedic, as Richard Johnson (who, I must admit, I didn’t recognise at first without his signature moustache) gives an extremely over-the-top turn as a happy family man – married to Britt Ekland, no less – who just happens to be an Eastern European Count. When he faces off against vampire hunter Donald Pleasance, the results are less Cushing and Lee, more Little and Large. Attempts are made to go in a creepier direction with the final chapter, in which Stuart Whitman’s movie director ventures into a remote country village in the hopes of finding a location for his new movie, but winds up prisoner of the local ghouls. There seems to be a hint of Italian zombie movie about this section, particularly with its electronic score – but it still winds up a rather predictable and forgettable venture through well-trod territory.

The presence of Pleasance (hey, there’s a biography title if ever I heard one) only serves to underline how out of time The Monster Club is. After all, 1981 was also the year of Halloween II; the new generation of horror had taken over, and Pleasance had been fortunate enough to be carried along with them. The sensibilities of Milton Subotsky and Roy Ward Baker simply didn’t fit anymore, and the attempts to refashion their old style to suit the kids of the 80s: it’s the cinematic equivalent of watching a grandparent trying to dance to modern pop music at wedding. The musical numbers, though inoffensive enough, just stick out like a sore thumb and, astonishingly, manage to date this film far worse than anything that Hammer, Amicus or Tigon had done in the previous decade (yes, that includes Dracula AD 1972). The only particularly memorable moment comes in the painfully screechy song about a stripper (performed by Night – nope, me neither), during which a stripper takes to the stage and naturally goes all the way down to her skeleton.

I suppose it’s nice to see The Monster Club making its way onto Blu-ray; for better or worse, it does represent a turning point in horror history, and for that reason alone it deserves to be remembered. It just would have been nice if – despite Price being as great a joy as ever – the film had wound up a little more fun to watch.

The Monster Club is out now on Blu-Ray from Network.

* No pun intended, honestly.

Review by Svetlana Fedotov

For fans of horror videogames, one of the first games that come to mind is Konami’s Silent Hill franchise. A careful mix of 3rd person action and puzzling solving platforms, this survival horror managed to join the ranks of other breakthrough exploration games such as Resident Evil and Castlevania, while creating its own bizarre and self-contained universe in the form of the creepiest town in America. Also, like its fellow brother games, it has been adapted into many forms of entertainment such as movies, books, and of course, comic books. With every new game addition to the ever-expanding lore of Silent Hill (its tenth installment was recently announced), a comic is sure to follow, and Silent Hill: Downpour is no exception. The eighth game in line, Downpour the comic revisits the tale of Murphy Pendleton, an escaped prisoner who finds himself trapped in Silent Hill, pursued by his correctional officer, Anne Cunningham. This particular tale though is written from Anne’s point of view, facing the horrors she crossed in her hunt for her prey.

Before diving into Downpour, it’s definitely suggested to play the game, but there is a brief introduction in the beginning of the comic that the casual fan can MOSTLY follow along. As stated, the original gameplay revolves around Pendleton, but the comic is focused on the story of Officer Cunningham, who loses Pendleton in the town of Silent Hill after the prison bus they were both on crashes. The game leaves Cunningham as she hangs for her life off the edge of a pit at the beginning of the first level, and she quickly fades into the distance as Pendleton makes a run for it. The illustrated version opens up on that very moment as she is rescued by a strange man in a gas mask. Left on her own, she wanders the odd town, a single flashlight her only friend. Running into monsters and humans alike, she soon learns what everyone learns about Silent Hill: that nothing is like it seems and that no one is safe. Unsure of what is real and what is a head injury, she soon meets some of the permanent residence of the city, starting with the games’ first “monster,” JP Sater, a man who is haunted by the ghost of eight children he killed in a train derailment.

Downpour the comic is a bit of a mixed bag. There is a very heavy video game tie-in with it, especially as you spot some of the similar ghosts and monsters that are only seen in the game. Honestly, it’s a bit hard to get into without the extra homework, but it never made any pretense of being a stand-alone work either; I mean, the name of the game is the title of the comic, clearly they’re meant to be together. That being said, by not playing the game, you do get the extra benefit of meeting all these characters for the first time. The writer, Tom Waltz, made a point of re-introducing all the key players as Cunningham makes her way through the town. It’s got enough of a “what the hell is happening” effect that drives the majority of the franchise without completely expecting you to take on the whole story on your own. The progression is smooth, even if some of the characters seem one dimensional; Cunningham’s dark and dirty past makes her a dark and dirty bitch, but the comic does explore some more of the town’s sordid history, which is always fun.

Keeping in the same vein of “it’s alright” type of vibe, the art by Tristan Jones is, uh, alright. Once again, the artwork, like the story, feels less like a comic aimed at comic audiences and more of an extra story for video game fans who are not too particular on the finer points of illustration. It’s a bit of an odd statement because Jones definitely understands the dynamics of comic layout; he works well with depth perception and his human figures are appropriately designed, but somewhere along the way, everything gets all mushed up. The facial features have a strange problem of floating away from each other, the inking is sloppy at best, and man, are those people ugly as sin. The only saving grace is the coloring, which has a subtle palate of grays, black, and browns mixed with splashes of red and the sharp, zooming affect for the horror scenes, which reflect accurately on the video game play. I guess, if you’re a fan of the game, feel free to grab the additional work, but for comic fans, this is more like the extra comic that got packed in for free with the videogame than a proper, standalone story.

Review by Ben Bussey

What a difference eighteen years can make. Widely dismissed on release as little more than a spoke in the 90s erotic thriller cycle (which, by 1996, was rapidly losing momentum in the wake of Showgirls and Striptease), I think it’s fair to say Bound has since become something of a cult classic, and a pivotal film for Hollywood in several respects. A twist on a classic film noir set-up which casts both the femme fatale and the tall, dark and handsome stranger as female, Bound arguably represented a significant breakthrough for representations of lesbianism in mainstream cinema.

Bound is of course also very noteworthy for being the directorial debut of one of the most significant filmmaking duos of the past two decades, the Wachowskis – or, as they were then, the Wachowski Brothers. Naturally, cinephiles may be on the lookout for themes and motifs that would come up again in The Matrix et al, and absolutely their stylistic roots can be identified – but, as I can’t be the first to note, Bound is particularly open to new readings today given that in the intervening years Larry Wachowski has become Lana Wachowski. Back in 1996, it was easy to assume the film was simply the fantasies of a couple of fanboy pervs who liked watching a bit of girl-on-girl; now, it’s hard not to consider whether there might be at least a dash of autobiography in there.

Gina Gershon is Corky, an ex-con hired to do some redecorating in an upmarket Chicago apartment building (in this much, at least, the film is autobiographical: not so much the ex-con bit, but the Wachowskis were reportedly working as house painters when they wrote the script). In a quirky twist of fate, she finds herself working on the apartment next door to Cesar (Joe Pantoliano) and Violet (Jennifer Tilly). While at a glance Violet might appear the textbook gangster’s moll, it quickly becomes clear there’s a little more to her than meets the eye – and it’s even more obvious that she and Corky are hugely attracted to one another. Sparks fly, juices flow, and we can all agree it’s pretty damn beautiful. However, contrary to what some might think, there’s a bit more to Bound than that. Violet wants out of the mob life, to say nothing of the straight life, and sees her opportunity when Cesar comes into possession of a suitcase full of mob money. Putting their heads together (I’m sure I could make an innuendo out of that if I tried a little harder), Corky and Violet hatch a plan to steal the money, frame Cesar, and get away clean. What could possibly go wrong…?

In a sense, I get a similar feeling today watching Bound as I get watching The Terminator or Aliens, Braindead or Heavenly Creatures: the lower-budget, less self-indulgent early work of filmmakers who have since moved on to almost exclusively make expensive large-scale blockbusters. In every instance, these films leave me wishing their directors would try their hand at something on a smaller scale again. With its minimal cast, limited locations and ostensibly simple story, there’s an intimacy to Bound which I don’t think we’ve seen again from the Wachowskis, and a level of tension I don’t think they’ve ever topped. There are no CGI moneyshots or explosions here: every limited resource is used to its fullest, the key special effects being the artistic eye of the directors, and the superlative work of their actors.

It may well be career-best work all around for this cast. Gershon and Tilly both give extraordinary performances, with a tremendous chemistry which utterly sells them as lovers. However, particular praise should also be reserved for the often overlooked Joe Pantoliano. While essentially the villain of the piece, Cesar does become the central protagonist to a certain extent once Corky and Violet’s plot gets underway, and despite the character’s inherent ugliness, it’s hard not to feel some compassion for the bastard as he bit-by-bit loses the plot, missing the truth when it’s right under his nose. It’s a magnificent performance which surely helped Pantoliano land his role in The Sopranos, and it’s a shame it tends to be forgotten about. Indeed, many of us seem to forget just how rich in drama and suspense Bound really is; appraisals of the film tend to focus so heavily on the lesbian sex, even though beyond the first half hour this element pretty much disappears into the background.

This is not to suggest, of course, that the lesbian sex scenes are not a vital part of what makes Bound so very memorable. Hell no. Once again, the chemistry between Gershon and Tilly is remarkable; the early seduction scenes alone, with the underplayed back-and-forth flirtation and lingering looks between Corky and Violet, are pretty hot stuff. Once they actually get down to business – good grief, they blow the roof off. The pivotal single-shot sex scene, with its immaculate lighting, fluid camera movement, and – oh yeah – two smoking hot busty brunettes grinding their naked bodies against one another… I daresay that’s one of the most iconic, unforgettable moments from 90s cinema. The only thing that sours it just a little to my mind is Don Davis’ music; the insistent drum beat and hyperactive strings feel a little too reminscent of the kind of thing that typically played in the background when Sharon Stone got down to some horizontal athletics. Shame, as this is one of the few things that really dates the film to the mid-90s; well, that and the mobile phones which looked so state-of-the-art at the time (another thing Bound has in common with The Matrix). Still, aside from this Davis’ score is terrific, lending a sense of dramatic crime epic which makes the whole enterprise feel so much bigger than it might have otherwise.

It’s easy to imagine how Bound could quite easily have been reworked into just another crime story, with Corky rewritten as a man; and who knows, perhaps it would still have been a perfectly good movie that way. However, I don’t think we can write off the lesbian elements as nothing more than a gimmick. Almost two decades on, mainstream movies with central gay characters are still relatively rare (though I’m sure we could list countless gay best friend characters), and Bound deserves to be applauded for this. As to whether this was intended more to titilate the male audience than to promote a progressive stance; I think Bound does a pretty good job of having its cake and eating it too (yes, I said cake). Absolutely it’s titilating, but when all is said and done it is the script, the performances and the direction that makes Bound so compelling, not just the fact that its lead actresses make out a few times. Although, once again, that certainly can’t hurt.

Finally – in what must be one of the most commonly used phrases in our DVD/Blu-ray reviews – it’s another awesome job from Arrow Video. The film looks great, and the extras are also very nice, boasting new interviews with Tilly, Gershon and Pantoliano, plus Christopher Meloni (Cesar’s nemesis Johnny), and a featurette on the technical aspects of the film with composer Don Davis, cinematographer Bill Pope and editor Zach Staenberg, all of whom are quite rightly very proud of their work on the movie. (Fascinating tidbit gleaned from these: can you believe that they weren’t always sure which actress would play which role, and that at one point it might have starred Tilly as Corky and either Rosanna Arquette or Linda Hamilton as Violet?!) No new interview with the Wachowskis, although they do feature on the audio commentary (note: this is from an earlier DVD edition, as evidenced by Lana still being Larry).

Bound is out now on Blu-Ray from Arrow Video.

Review by Tristan Bishop

The Northern European crime thriller, now commonly referred to as the Nordic Noir, has been quite the hot export in recent years. In much the same way as Germany’s pop art-infused krimi films of the 60s and the stylish and savage Italian gialli which dominated the 70s, these Scandinavian murder tales have defined an era. Ploughing a grittier, moodier furrow than their Southern cousins, these books, TV series and films often play with the theme of corruption and death hidden away beneath the apparently tolerant and socially progressive surfaces of their countries of origin.

The eyes of the world first set upon these wintry crime stories back in 1997, with the runaway success of Erik Skjoldbjaerg’s gripping and grim Insomnia – although apparently the roots of the genre stretch as far back as 19th century novels – and since then there scarcely seems to be a week going by without British TV showing a new series riffing on Wallander/The Bridge et al. Even Hollywood has taken notice, with the highest profile result being David Fincher’s English language remake of The Dragon With The Dragon Tattoo. Now director Lasse Hallstrom, more famous for respectable semi-arthouse fare such as Chocolat, The Cider House Rules and What’s Eating Gilbert Grape, has gone back to his Swedish roots for an adaptation of the popular 2009 novel ‘Hypnotisören’ – written by Lars Kepler, incidentally a pseudonym for husband-and-wife writing team Alexander Ahndoril and Alexandra Coelho Ahndoril.

After a stunning aerial shot depicting a huge burning sun blazing down upon a snow-covered landscape, things quickly jump to the bloody stabbing of a teacher in a school gymnasium. Detective Joona Linna (Tobias Zilliacus) is sent to investigate, but whilst driving home he is called to a second murder scene. It transpires that the teacher’s wife and daughter have also been stabbed to death. However, the killer seems to have left the teacher’s son barely alive. With the boy comatose and in hospital, the only possible witness to the crimes, Joona looks for a way to get through to him. Enter Erik Bark (Mikael Persbrandt), the titular Hypnotist. Erik is a man with a failing marriage and possibly a dark past, but he is considered to be the best at what he does, and with some reluctance he agrees to help Joona in his investigation. Unfortunately the killer seems to know what’s going on, and eventually kidnaps Erik’s son to try and stop the investigation. From then on the takes on a race against time to catch the killer and save the son before the medication for his rare blood disorder runs out…

The story, to my mind, started off as a Swedish twist on the old Argento giallo formula: the hidden clue and the race to unlock it, with the killer hot on the tail of the investigators. Unfortunately, whilst old Dario would have (even in his worst films) peppered the journey with hallucinatory set pieces and vicious murders, this isn’t how this one plays out. This is certainly a departure for director Hallstrom, as the warm feeling of his previous hits is replaced by a bleak, methodical approach to direction. There are a few moments of stunning artistry here (notably the aforementioned opening shots) but the film takes a dour, humourless approach. There’s a lot of characterisation in the script by Paolo Vacirca, played to perfection by the actors, but we’re never really allowed to warm to these people; fitting, perhaps, given the cold vistas on show. The pace of the film, especially in the first half, could (if you’ll allow me the stretching of an obvious metaphor) be described as glacial, and what on the page is apparently a twisting, gripping narrative turns into, well, frankly a bit of a bore. Between the opening moments and the closing sequence there is nary a bit of action, and unless you’re a fan of Scandinavians with hidden secrets looking moody and angular then you might well be tempted to skip ahead.

Fortunately, The Hypnotist does actually reward you; in the final twenty minutes or so the film kicks into gear and starts to deliver what you might expect from a dark thriller helmed by a respected director. The climactic sequence in particular is tense and exciting in a way that recalls a small-scale Hitchcock climax. However, the deathly pace and dourness of the preceeding film makes it very difficult to recommend for the casual viewer who isn’t yet in thrall to the charms of the Nordic Noir.

The Hypnotist is released to UK DVD on 15th September, from Studiocanal.