By the sixties, the face of horror had changed. Technicolor was the norm and bloodletting was in full force, thanks largely to the contributions of the legendary Hammer Studios. Gone was the atmosphere and poetry of the black and white fables created by the mostly German émigrés. In was the full fury of blood-gorged corpses and heaving bosoms, led by the more realistic acting styles of Peter Cushing and Christopher Lee. Sepia-toned myths set
in crumbling, fog-bound villages had ceased to be.
Or had they? A fledgling company named Amicus jumped feet first into the horror fray with “City of the Dead”, an old-fashioned tale about witchcraft in New England. In the future, Amicus would become Hammer’s biggest rival, although their style tended to be less extreme, while Hammer’s would become increasingly gorier and more graphic. For their maiden voyage, they chose a script by writer George Baxt, screenwriter of “Circus of Horrors” and “Tower of Evil”. Although there have been comparisons to Alfred Hitchcock’s classic “Psycho”, production on “City of the Dead” began a full month before the iconic Hitchcock film. Produced for only 45,000 pounds, it still managed to lure one of Hammer’s biggest stars.
Nan Barlow (Venetia Stevenson) is enthralled by the teacher of the course on witchcraft, Professor Driscoll (Christopher Lee). His tales of ancient witch Elizabeth Selwyn have inspired her to write her thesis about the Massachusetts sorceress. Urged on by Driscoll, she travels to Whitewood, known to be Selwyn’s hometown. Once there, she encounters Mrs. Newless, the proprietor of the local inn. There’s something odd about Newless, but the naïve Nan blithely pushes on, exploring the decrepit town. Discovering a seemingly abandoned church, she’s startled by an old, blind priest who issues dire warnings and pleads with her to leave. Unnerved but undeterred, Nan borrows an ancient book of witchcraft from Patricia (Betta St. John), daughter of the priest and manager of the antique store previously run by her late mother. As the evening progresses, dark forces gather in Whitewood, culminating in the disappearance of Nan. Worried by Nan’s absence, her brother Richard and Nan’s obnoxious boyfriend Bill set out for Whitewood. What follows is more than a race against time; it’s a small-scale battle for the soul of humanity.
In an era of colorful costume epics and Cinemascope, the crisp black and white photography by Desmond Dickinson stands out. The deep focus and mobile camera is evocative of old Universal masters Arthur Edeson and George Robinson, and the downbeat score by Douglas Gamely and Kenneth V. Jones completes the comparisons with Carl Laemmle’s venerable studio’s horror past. Art director John Blezard paints his sets with thick, syrupy waves of fog, virtually drowning the actors in a sea of sinister marshmallow fluff. Dickinson makes good use of chiaroscuro inside of Newless’ inn and the dark tunnels that run below it. In several early scenes with Nan, the darkness threatens to engulf her, dragging her into the inky blackness. Her odyssey down the bleak road to Whitewood features the introduction of one of Newless’ partners in crime, the angular Jethro Keane (Valentine Dyall). His “reveal” is almost magical as he steps forward, engulfed in fog, with an unearthly light framing him in silhouette, giving him the appearance of a satanic priest. The lush lighting continues with the shadows playing on Newless’ face as she plots the protagonist’s doom.
The cast is uniformly strong, with natural performances throughout. Lee lends his usual dignity and menace to his role as a professor with a dark past and a sinister agenda. Venetia Stevenson is strong-willed and headstrong, yet touched by a fatal flaw of naïveté. Her beauty is stunning, and your empathy for her and her plight is palpable. The heroes tend to be rather colorless, although Tom Naylor as Nan’s boyfriend does redeem himself with his last-reel heroics. His character goes through his own arc, growing up during his battle with the forces of darkness.
A special mention must be made of the villains of the piece. As Mrs. Newless, Patricia Jessel is a figure of malevolence and arrogance. Her sneer as our heroes struggle vainly against her evil machinations radiates contempt. Best known for her roles on British television, her smug portrayal here is a masterpiece of controlled ferocity. As she pleads innocence to knowing about any supernatural activity, her eyes look away as if distracted by some trivial task. Her sly smile, on the other hand, tells us that she knows more than she’s telling. Emanating a slinky sexuality, she glides through the film on feet of ice. Her male counterpart, Keane, matches her performance line for malicious line. His sepulchral tones are rich and deep, his every utterance heavy with blackness and death. Best know for his role in Robert Wise’s “The Haunting”, Dyall uses his voice to great effect; when he gets into Nan’s car, his request for a ride chills you to the bone. An actor seemingly born to act in horror films, Dyall towers over the rest of the cast, a macabre scarecrow in a gentleman’s suit. These two create a tag team of supernatural terror, together with their frightened mute servant girl they become a twisted image of the nuclear family.
The terrors of “City of the Dead” lie not in graphic depictions of violence, but in how ordinary people can be swallowed up by ancient demons and the folks who want to unleash them. Although set in the modern world of rock and roll, there’s something eerily natural about the way the haunted hamlet of Whitewood exists within it, lurking under the surface like some festering cancer. One suspects that the town never sees the sun, existing in a perpetual twilight. Perhaps it does exist, waiting to emerge, spreading it’s black and white cocoon, waiting for the world of color to lay down it’s head and dream.
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