When I think about the evolution of horror films in the mid-to-late 20th century, I imagine a yawning gulf between the increasingly quaint gothics of Hammer in Britain and the new wave of transgressive terror surging across the Atlantic. But, of course, shifts in artistic trends are rarely abrupt, and this seeming chasm between points on the historical trajectory is bridged by transitional films that combine aspects of both the past and the future–many of which were produced by Hammer’s often overlooked competitor, Amicus. Indeed, while Bray Studios continued to rely on the usual fare of lacy cuffs and bared bosoms, Amicus was releasing innovative anthologies in which old horrors were recontextualized in contemporary settings. A good example of this is Torture Garden (1967), directed by Freddie Francis and written by Robert Bloch. Despite its title, which, to the modern ear, sounds either schlocky (akin to Blood Orgy of the She-Devils) or revolting (like a snuff film), Torture Garden is actually a thoughtful collection with a clever framework that deconstructs itself and an opening segment that anticipates some of the most celebrated American supernatural horror. As with most portmanteau narratives, the quality is uneven, but even the weaker entries have creative ideas, compelling characters, and striking visuals. Now, like the final figure in an Amicus film, I’m breaking the fourth wall to address you directly: Don’t miss this horror gem!
Torture Garden opens with footage of carnival rides that seem far more dangerous than the ones I remember from childhood: The Ferris wheel rotates much too fast, while other luridly lit deathtraps tilt and whirl people in ways that are nauseating to watch. A group of fairgoers, enticed by an old-fashioned carnival barker, enter a dingy exhibit called Dr. Diabolo’s Torture Garden. There, they watch as the eponymous Dr. Diabolo, a shabbily costumed performer, drops the blade on a dummy’s head, stretches a skeleton on a rack, and pulls the switch on a janky electric chair. At the end of the demonstration, everyone is visibly disappointed. When Diabolo offers to show them a private collection of “real” horrors for 5 quid, they skeptically pay the exorbitant fee and are ushered into another room where they discover an incredibly lifelike mechanical oracle. Diabolo introduces the figure as Atropos the Goddess of Destiny and says that she can see the evil in their hearts. If they are brave enough to gaze into her “Shears of Fate,” then she will reveal how their secret sins might manifest in the world. Each person steps up to see their future.
A carnival setting is about as classic as it gets. From The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari (1920) to Todd Browning’s Freaks (1932) to Ray Bradbury’s Something Wicked this Way Comes (1962), the fairground has a long history in the horror genre because it provides the perfect conditions for nightmares to thrive. Under the big top, everything is turned on its head–outsiders rule, social conventions are upended, and fantasy flourishes. Yet, while this chaos is fertile ground for our fears, they tend to be fears of a more manageable kind, occurring in a magical space that is markedly distinct from our own. In a world of make-believe, we expect unbelievable things to happen, but we also know that they’re contained there, separate from the reality we inhabit.
Given it’s vintage backdrop, why do I think that Torture Garden is a step closer to what we now recognize as modern horror filmmaking? Because Bloch gives us the trappings of old-timey carnival horror only to deconstruct them, quickly shedding the pageantry that typically keeps its terrors at a safe distance. Rather than defending his unimpressive show, Dr. Diabolo–who is played with verve by the amazing Burgess Meredith–readily admits that it’s made up of “imaginary horrors,” shoddy depictions of medieval torture rooted too far in the past to have any emotional impact on a modern audience. In contrast, the private demonstration features what he calls “real horrors,” threats that are more immediate and relevant, tied as they are to his guests’ innermost qualities and imminent futures. This transition from the fantastical to the actual finds a physical analogue in his sartorial transformation. While persuading his guests to pony up 5 pounds for the truly terrifying second act, he slowly removes his costume, losing the rubber clawed hands, tattered cape, fake mustachios, and kohl eye make. By the time they’ve gathered around Atrophos the Goddess of Destiny, he’s no longer an outrageously dressed charlatan, but an ordinary man. In his own person, Diabolo foregrounds the carnie aesthetic only to take it apart, and what’s left after the disassembling is a slightly mafioso Rod Sterling who’s there to orchestrate an uncomfortably close encounter with authentic horror.
If the carnival framework is used ironically, the trope of the witch’s familiar in the segment “Enoch” is employed with deadly earnestness; it’s this serious approach to a very old (and potentially silly) idea that makes it absolutely spine-chilling. Ne’er-do-well Colin spends the night in his dead uncle’s cottage searching for a hoard of riches. The existence of such treasure is the only way to explain how his unemployed uncle lived a life of leisure, and Colin suspects that his relative stole it from the cottage’s previous occupant, who was believed to be a witch. In the basement, he unearths a casket, opens the lid, and discovers a headless corpse–as well as a living cat, who begins to communicate with him telepathically. Hearing the fat tortie’s voice clearly in his head, Colin learns that the creature is called Balthazar and that it wants to serve him in the same way that it served his uncle–by financially rewarding him for murder.
A confrontation with a demonic tabby sounds quaint to a modern ear, like an anecdote recounted by a superstitious rustic in a 17th-century witchcraft trial. Long before 1967, the witch’s familiar had been thoroughly declawed and domesticated, transformed from a legitimate moral threat to a kid-friendly Halloween decoration. But Bloch manages to revitalize this creature and its associated horrors by treating it literally and with great sincerity. He really thinks about how such a surreal experience would look and feel, and I think he’s got it right: If an evil entity wanted to establish a transactional relationship with you, this is probably how it would go down. Disoriented by shock and incredulity, Colin at first doubts his sanity (as anyone would), then struggles against the cat’s commands, and finally submits. Michael Bryant plays the role at a suitably high pitch, capturing his character’s psychological spiral perfectly, and his co-starring cat is no slouch. In an amazing duet, he (or she?) ably upholds his side of the scenes, staring back at Colin in each shot/reverse shot with authority and disdain. “Enoch” is a short tour-de-force. Bloch successfully situates Old World Evils–witches and demons–in the 20th century, and while no one would class this segment with modern horror masterpieces like Rosemary’s Baby and The Exorcist, it’s clear that they share genetic material.
While “Enoch” is far and away the best entry in the anthology’s lineup, the other segments have flashes of genius that make them well worth watching. “Terror Over Hollywood,” for instance, is a creative mix of Frankenstein and All About Eve. Aspiring actress Carla Hayes discovers that Hollywood’s top-tier celebrities are seemingly ageless because they are cyborgs, human brains encased in indestructible robot bodies. Ruthless and calculating, she insists that she would do anything for fame, but is she willing to lose her humanity? In “Terror,” Bloch expertly balances an interesting array of visual and thematic influences, both old and new. Dr. Brem, mad scientist to the stars, is a fun throwback to the Universal classic, while the segment’s crazy sets are very much of their moment, evoking the liminality of an aesthetic teetering between 50s conservatism and 60s counterculture. Thus Carla, sporting a pink dress and bouffant, dines at a steak restaurant where two Cher-haired women unselfconsciously chat inside a giant plastic snow globe–a go-go-esque ornament for the guest’s entertainment. With bold color and stunning juxtapositions, the look of this segment is spectacular.
In Mr. Steinway, Bloch tips his hat to the history of haunted instruments, while anticipating the sympathetic power of that most famous animated object, Stephen King’s Christine. It’s the story of a love triangle between a musician, his instrument, and the woman he desires: When Dorothy’s demands threaten Leo’s career as a world-renowned pianist, his cherished Steinway, named Eurterpe, becomes jealous and fights back with deadly consequences. I love Euterpe–she’s remarkably expressive, conveying her emotions through music, movement, and the aggressive hinge action of her fallboard. She’s incredibly agile, seeming to spring from behind doors, and demonstrates a keen sense of humor, cheekily playing a funeral dirge before defenestrating her enemy. Physical objects are not obvious points of identification. But in the same way that I sided with an angry Plymouth Fury over Arnie’s human girlfriend, I’m definitely on team Euterpe, rooting wholeheartedly for her over the awful Dorothy, who is somehow more inert than her wooden rival.
Bringing the anthology to a solid conclusion, “The Man Who Collected Poe,” explores the dangers of obsession and the drive to acquire. Ronald Wyatt, a panting, wild-eyed Poe fanatic, visits Mr. Canning, a renowned expert on the American author, at his Maryland home, where he keeps an extensive collection of texts and memorabilia. So comprehensive is his archive that it even includes Poe himself. According to Canning, his grandfather, an occultist, raised the writer from the dead and imprisoned him in the basement. Wyatt doesn’t believe this macabre tale, but how far will he go to access the house’s hidden chamber, and what will he find inside? The pathological desire to collect has been explored in countless films, often in the context of serial killers who keep body parts as souvenirs. What makes this treatment of obsession so quirky and wonderful is that it pushes the bibliophile’s project of collecting to its logical–if extreme–conclusion, extending the connoisseur’s objectifying impulse to the body of his favorite author! As with the witch’s familiar in “Enoch,” the resurrected Poe could have been unintentionally ridiculous, but Hedger Wallace plays the author with terrifying intensity. He’s eerily still and dusty, speaking with a disembodied voice that immediately dispels all notions of camp or comedy.
Without a doubt, “Enoch” is the highpoint of Torture Garden. It feels like an intentional intervention in contemporary conversations about the direction of horror and, in that sense, it’s more akin to entries from other Amicus anthologies. Still, despite its unevenness, a common problem with the portmanteau format, Torture Garden is a smart and prescient film. The way that the framework deconstructs itself is genius, and each entry breathes new life into an old idea.