The Parody of Hell House

It’s another depressing night for horror films. Another film, The Legend of Hell House, that positively unhinged me as a child, has not survived to haunt me in adulthood. I saw it tonight more as an artifact of the late 60s and early 70s, when spirituality and violence overwhelmed the rationality and consensus of earlier decades. It doesn’t help that the scientist is an overbearing pedant who sleeps well at night next to a woman with whom he cannot communicate. The two mediums, one with a Christian background, are not believable. The ectoplasm, the electromagnetic radiation, the giant building-qua-battery are all very implausible.

The Legend of Hell House uses reflections and a distorted fish-eyed lens to enhance the uneasy and unreal flavor of the story. Unfortunately, some of the camera work borders on cheesiness. For example, a scene involving a distressed Pamela Franklin begins spinning faster and faster in a fashion reminiscent of the old Batman TV series.

However, the most crucial flaw of the movie is its climax. I am not going to give away anything here, but I will say that the final showdown is so preposterous that it is dangerously close to being silly.

Flaws aside, this is a wonderfully atmospheric movie that uses very little gore or special effects to achieve its eeriness. The acting is strong and the story is intelligently told. Look for a brief cameo by Michael Gough as Emeric Belasco, the deceased, nefarious owner of the house who participated in “drug addiction, alcoholism, sadism, bestiality, mutilation, murder, vampirism, necrophilia, cannibalism, not to mention a gamut of sexual goodies,” which made the house so evil.

Unlike last week, this haunted house didn’t even come near to scaring me. The gothic affectations, the spider webs, the cat, the candelabra, were comical. I wanted the scientist to die, after about ten minutes, and my wife suspected Fisher just because Ann was flirting with him. I can imagine Ann is happier with Fisher now that her husband is dead. Florence Tanner reminded me of Jennifer Love Hewitt in any film she’s done – I really love to gawk until her mawkish characters smother me to the point I’m gasping for breath. I’m not sure Roddy McDowell should be praised or ridiculed for the climactic scene – I guess he did the best he could.

In all, I’m still looking for a scary house to haunt.