Tag Archives: Oliver Reed

Review: The Devils (dir. by Ken Russell)

Posted on by Arleigh

“I have been a man. I have loved women. I have enjoyed power.” — Father Urbain Grandier

Ken Russell’s The Devils (1971) stands as one of the most provocative and polarizing films in cinema history, a visceral plunge into the hysteria of religious fanaticism and political intrigue set against the backdrop of 17th-century France. Adapted loosely from Aldous Huxley’s historical account The Devils of Loudun and John Whiting’s play The Devils, the film dramatizes the real-life case of Father Urbain Grandier, a charismatic priest accused of witchcraft amid a scandal of supposed demonic possessions at a Loudun convent. Directed with unbridled fervor by Russell, who infuses every frame with operatic excess, the movie challenges viewers to confront the grotesque intersections of faith, sexuality, power, and repression. While its boldness earns admiration for unflinching social commentary, its stylistic indulgences can overwhelm, making it a work that demands both endurance and reflection.

The story unfolds in the walled city of Loudun, a Protestant stronghold under threat from Catholic forces led by the cunning Cardinal Richelieu. Oliver Reed delivers a towering performance as Grandier, portraying him not as a saintly martyr but as a flawed, hedonistic figure—a womanizer who preaches liberty while bedding Madeleine (Gemma Jones), a young Protestant whose quiet devotion contrasts sharply with the surrounding debauchery. Grandier’s defiance of Richelieu’s edict to demolish the city’s walls marks him as a target, but his downfall accelerates through the hysterical claims of Sister Jeanne (Vanessa Redgrave), the hunchbacked prioress of the Ursuline convent. Twisted by unrequited lust for Grandier, Jeanne accuses him of sorcery, sparking a wave of mass possession among the nuns that spirals into public spectacle. Russell draws from historical records to depict these events, emphasizing how personal pathologies fueled institutional corruption.

Visually, The Devils is a tour de force of baroque horror, with production designer Derek Jarman crafting sets that evoke a pristine white monastery defiled by filth and frenzy. Cinematographer David Watkin employs distorted wide-angle lenses and frenetic camera movements to mirror the characters’ unraveling psyches, turning sacred spaces into nightmarish arenas. The infamous “nunsploitation” sequences—where possessed sisters writhe in orgiastic fits, desecrate crucifixes, and simulate blasphemous acts—remain shocking even today, not merely for their explicitness but for their raw psychological intensity. These scenes serve Russell’s thesis: repressed desires, when twisted by authority figures like the witch-hunting Father Barre and Father Mignon, erupt into collective madness. Fairly assessed, these choices underscore Russell’s intent: to expose how power structures weaponize female hysteria, a theme resonant in historical witch hunts and modern reckonings with abuse.

Russell’s direction amplifies this through rhythmic editing and a pounding score by Peter Maxwell Davies, which blends liturgical chants with dissonant percussion to evoke a descent into hell. The film’s opening, with its ritualistic execution of a wise woman amid fireworks and folk rituals, sets a tone of pagan vitality clashing against ecclesiastical oppression. Midway, hallucinatory visions plague Grandier, blurring reality and delusion in a style reminiscent of Russell’s later explorations of ecstatic breakdown. The film unflinchingly depicts torture scenes—a burning at the stake, an afternoon in the rack, headscrews, a douche with boiling water—highlighting its raw confrontation with human cruelty. However, this excess risks tipping into self-parody; moments like the nuns’ simulated levitations or Jeanne’s contortions can strain credulity, prompting questions of balance between provocation and restraint.

Performances anchor the chaos, with Reed’s Grandier embodying defiant charisma undercut by hubris. His courtroom defiance and final quartering—nailed alive to a burning cross—culminate in a crucifixion scene of harrowing power, rivaling traditional passion narratives in emotional weight. Redgrave’s Jeanne is a revelation, her physical deformity symbolizing inner torment; she veers from pitiable to monstrous without caricature. Supporting turns shine too: Dudley Sutton as the impish Baron de Laubardemont, scheming for Richelieu; Max Adrian as the syphilitic priest whose decaying face mirrors moral rot; and Christopher Logue as the predatory Cardinal, whose urbane cruelty chills. The ensemble’s conviction elevates the material, ensuring characters feel flesh-and-blood rather than allegorical pawns.

Thematically, The Devils indicts institutional religion not as anti-faith but as a critique of its perversion by human ambition. Russell draws parallels to scandals where church power intertwines with politics, arguing that true devilry lies in hypocrisy. The film posits sexuality as a battleground: Grandier’s libertinism versus Jeanne’s repression, with the church exploiting both for control. This aligns with Huxley’s original thesis, expanded by Russell into a broader assault on authoritarianism. Politically, it skewers absolutism; Richelieu’s agents manipulate “possessions” for territorial gain, much as witchfinders historically profited from purges. Balanced against this, the film acknowledges Grandier’s flaws—he fathers a child out of wedlock and mocks piety—preventing hagiography. Upon release, it faced cuts in various countries, its controversial rating reflecting discomfort with its uncompromised vision.

Stylistically, Russell risks the “ridiculous” for the sublime. The white-tiled convent, pristine yet prone to vomit and excrement, symbolizes false purity; smashing it in the finale cathartically liberates Loudun from fanaticism. Influences from montage masters appear in crowd scenes, synthesized into a singular fever dream. Pacing falters in the trial’s verbosity, and some anachronistic flourishes—like Louis XIII’s cross-dressing ballet—inject campy levity, diluting gravity at times. Yet these quirks humanize the director’s bombast, reminding us of cinema’s power to provoke laughter amid horror. Compared to Russell’s Women in Love or Tommy, The Devils stands as his most structurally coherent assault on repression.

Historically contextualized, the Loudun possessions of 1634 involved Urbain Grandier, executed for allegedly bewitching Ursuline nuns via a pact with Satan. Huxley documented the hysteria, linking it to political machinations under Richelieu, who sought to crush Huguenot resistance. Russell amplifies the carnality for dramatic effect, prioritizing emotional truth over literalism. Restored versions reveal its full ferocity, influencing not just cinema but broader media, including comics like Argentinian artist Ignacio Noé’s The Convent of Hell, which echoes its themes of convent-based depravity and demonic intrigue in vivid, explicit sequential art.

Ultimately, The Devils endures as a lightning rod: a moral film cloaked in immorality, pro-religion by exposing its distortions. Its ugliness—filth-smeared faces, ruptured bodies—serves illumination, urging viewers toward wisdom. For every viewer repulsed by its excesses, another finds genius in its candor. Russell’s gamble pays off; in risking the absurd, he achieves a sublime confrontation with our shadowed souls. At around 109 minutes in its uncut form, it repays multiple viewings, rewarding the brave with insights into faith’s fragility and power’s perils. Not flawless—its hysteria occasionally exhausts—yet undeniably vital, The Devils remains essential cinema, a shattered lens on humanity’s eternal dance with darkness.

Music Film Review: Tommy (dir by Ken Russell)

Posted on by Lisa Marie Bowman

“Tommy, can you hear me?”

That’s a question that’s asked frequently in the 1975 film, Tommy.  An adaptation of the famous rock opera by the Who (though Pete Townshend apparently felt that the film’s vision was more director Ken Russell’s than anything that he had meant to say), Tommy tells the story of a “deaf, dumb, and blind kid” who grows up to play a mean pinball and then become a cult leader.  Why pinball?  Who knows?  Townshend’s the one who wrote Pinball Wizard but Ken Russell is the one who decided to have Elton John sing it while wearing giant platform shoes.

Tommy opens, like so many British films of the 70s, with the blitz.  With London in ruins, Captain Walker (the almost beatifically handsome Robert Powell) leaves his wife behind as he fights for his country.  When Walker is believed to be dead, Nora (Ann-Margaret) takes Tommy to a holiday camp run by Frank (Oliver Reed).  Oliver Reed might not be the first person you would expect to see in a musical and it is true that he wasn’t much of a singer.  However, it’s also true that he was Oliver Reed and, as such, he was impossible to look away from.  Even his tuneless warbling is somehow charmingly dangerous.  Nora falls for Frank but — uh oh! — Captain Walker’s not dead.  When the scarred captain surprises Frank in bed with Nora, Frank hits him over the head and kills him.  Young Tommy witnesses the crime and is told that he didn’t see anything and he didn’t hear anything and that he’s not going to say anything.

And so, as played by Roger Daltrey, Tommy grows up to be “deaf, dumb, and blind.”  Various cures — from drugs to religion to therapy — are pursued to no avail.  As the Acid Queen, Tina Turner sings and dances as if she’s stealing Tommy’s soul.  As the Therapist, Jack Nicholson is all smarmy charm as he gently croons to Ann-Margaret.  Eric Clapton performs in front of a statue of Marilyn Monroe.  Ann-Margaret dances in a pool of beans and chocolate and rides a phallic shaped pillow. As for Tommy, he eventually becomes the Pinball Wizard and also a new age messiah.  But it turns out that his new followers are just as destructive as the people who exploited him when he was younger.   It’s very much a Ken Russell film, full of imagery that is shocking and occasionally campy but always memorable.

I love Tommy.  It’s just so over-the-top and absurd that there’s no way you can ignore it.  Ann-Margaret sings and dances as if the fate of the world depends upon it while Oliver Reed drinks and glowers with the type of dangerous charisma that makes it clear why he was apparently seriously considered as Sean Connery’s replacement in the roles of James Bond.  As every scene is surreal and every line of dialogue is sung, it’s probably easy to read too much into the film.  It could very well be Ken Russell’s commentary on the New Age movement and the dangers of false messiahs.  It could also just be that Ken Russell enjoyed confusing people and 1975 was a year when directors could still get away with doing that.  With each subsequent viewing of Tommy, I become more convinced that some of the film’s most enigmatic moments are just Russell having a bit of fun.  The scenes of Tommy running underwater are so crudely put together that you can’t help but feel that Russell was having a laugh at the expense of people looking for some sort of deeper meaning in Tommy’s journey.  In the end, Tommy is a true masterpiece of pop art, an explosion of style and mystery.

Tommy may seem like a strange film for me to review in October.  It’s not a horror film, though it does contain elements of the genre, from the scarred face of the returned to Captain Walker to the Acid Queen sequence to a memorable side story that features a singer who looks like a junior Frankenstein.  To me, though, Tommy is a great Halloween film.  Halloween is about costumes and Tommy is ultimately about the costumes that people wear and the personas that they assume as they go through their lives.  Oliver Reed goes from wearing the polo shirt of a holiday camp owner to the monocle of a tycoon to the drab jumpsuits of a communist cult leader.  Ann-Margaret’s wardrobe is literally a character of its own.  Everyone in the film is looking for meaning and identity and the ultimate message (if there is one) appears to be that the search never ends.

 

The Three Musketeers (1973, directed by Richard Lester) and The Four Musketeers (1974, directed by Richard Lester)

Posted on by Jedadiah Leland

In 1973, director Richard Lester and producer Ilya Salkind decided to try to get two for the price of one.

Working with a script written by novelist George McDonald Fraser, Lester and Salkind had assembled a once-in-a-lifetime cast to star in an epic film adaptation of Alexandre Dumas’s The Three Musketeers.  Michael York was cast as d’Artagnan, the youthful swordman who goes from being a country bumpkin to becoming a King’s Musketeer.  His fellow musketeers were played by Oliver Reed, Richard Chamberlain, and Frank Finlay.  Faye Dunaway and Christopher Lee were cast as the villains, Milady and Rochefort.  Charlton Heston played the oily Cardinal Richelieu.  Geraldine Chaplin played Queen Anne while Simon Ward played the Duke of Buckingham.  Comedic relief was supplied by Roy Kinnear as d’Artagnan’s manservant and Raquel Welch as Constance, d’Artagnan’s klutzy love interest.  The film was a expensive, lushly designed epic that mixed Lester’s love of physical comedy with the international intrigue and the adventure of Dumas’s source material.

The only problem is that the completed film was too long.  At least, that’s what Salkind and Lester claimed when they announced that they would be splitting their epic into two films.  The cast and the crew, who had only been paid for one film, were outraged and the subsequent lawsuits led to the SAG ruling that all future actors’ contracts would include what was known as the Salkind clause, which stipulates that a a single production cannot be split into two or more films without prior contractual agreement.

But what about the films themselves?  Both The Three Musketeers and The Four Musketeers are currently available on Tubi.  I watched them over the weekend and, of the many films that have been made out of Dumas’s Musketeer stories, Richard Lester’s films are the best.  Lester captures the swashbuckling spirit of the books while also turning them into two films that are easily identifiable as Lester’s work.  There’s a lot physical humor to be found in Lester’s adaptation, especially during the first installment.  d’Artagnan runs through the streets of Paris, convinced that he has been insulted by the haughty Rochefort.  d’Artagnan manages to get challenged to three separate duels, all to take place on the same day.  After his first swordfight as a member of the Musketeers, d’Artagnan tries to tell the men that he wounded about an ointment that will help them with their pain.  Raquel Welch also shows a genuine flair for comedy as Constance, which makes her fate in the second film all the more tragic.

For all the controversy that it caused, splitting the story into two films was actually the right decision.  If The Three Musketeers is an enjoyable adventure film, The Four Musketeers is far more serious.  In The Four Musketeers, Oliver Reed’s melancholic Athos steps into the spotlight and his story of his previous marriage to the villainous Milady casts his character in an entirely new light.  In The Four Musketeers, the combat is much more brutal and the humor considerably darker.  Likable characters die.  The Musketeers themselves commit an act of extrajudicial brutality that, while true to Dumas’s novel, would probably be altered if the film were made today.  From being a naive bumpkin in The Three Musketeers, The Four Musketeers finds d’Artgnan transformed into a battle weary soldier.

The cast is fabulous.  This is a case of the all-star label living up to the hype.  Oliver Reed, Frank Finlay, and Richard Chamberlain all seems as if they’ve been riding and fighting together for decades.  Christopher Lee plays Rochefort as being an almost honorable villain while Faye Dunaway is a cunning and sexy Milady.  What truly makes the film work, though, is the direction of Richard Lester.  Lester stay true to the spirit of Dumas while also using the material to comment on the modern world, with the constant threat of war and civil uprising mirroring the era in which the films were made.  Interestingly enough, Richard Lester first became interested in the material when Ilya Salkind reached out to the Beatles to try to convince them to play the Musketeers.  While the Beatles were ultimately more interested in a never-produced adaptation of The Lord of the Rings, Richard Lester was happy to bring Dumas’s characters to life.

Both The Three Musketeers and The Four Musketeers are currently on Tubi, for anyone looking for a truly great adventure epic.

May Noir: The Big Sleep (dir by Michael Winner)

Posted on by Lisa Marie Bowman

Raymond Chandler’s detective classic, The Big Sleep, has twice been adapted for film.

The first version came out in 1946, just seven years after the book’s publication.  That version starred Humphrey Bogart as detective Philip Marlowe and Lauren Bacall as Vivian, the daughter of a man who has hired Marlowe to discover who is trying to blackmail him.  Directed by Howard Hawks and co-written by William Faulkner, this version of The Big Sleep is considered to be a classic noir, one that was cited as being a major influence on director Akira Kurosawa.

The 1978 version was directed by Michael Winner, takes place in London in the 1970s, and features Robert Mitchum as Marlowe.  Despite a strong ensemble cast and an excellent lead performance from Mitchum, this version of The Big Sleep still features one of the worst performances ever put on film.

Sarah Miles plays the role of Charlotte Sternwood Regan, the eldest daughter of General Sternwood (James Stewart).  Miles is playing the role that Lauren Bacall played in the first film and, despite the fact that they both earlier co-starred to a certain amount of acclaim in Ryan’s Daughter, Miles and Mitchum do not have a hint of chemistry in this film.  Actually, Miles doesn’t have chemistry with anyone in this film.  She seems detached from the action and her frequent half-smiles come across as being not mysterious but instead somewhat flakey, as if she doesn’t quite understand that she’s in a noir.  Sarah Miles is not a bad actress (as anyone who has seen Hope and Glory can tell you) but her performance here is incredibly dull.  That said, she is not the one who gives the worst performance in the film.

Instead, that honor goes to Candy Clark, playing General Sternwood’s youngest daughter, Camilla.  Camilla is meant to be mentally unstable and potentially dangerous.  Clark plays the role like a giggly teenager, constantly fidgeting and literally hissing in more than a few scenes, as if she’s been possessed by a cat.  Clark overacts to such an extent that you’ll be more likely to laugh at than be disturbed by her antics.  It doesn’t help that she shares nearly all of her scenes with Robert Mitchum, a man who was a master when it came to underacting.  If you’re going to give a bad performance, you don’t want to do it opposite someone who will make you look even worse by comparison.

The mystery of who is blackmailing General Sternwood is twisty and full of disreputable people.  At times, the film feels like a a parade of character actors.  Edward Fox, Joan Collins, Richard Boone, Oliver Reed, Harry Andrews, Richard Todd, and John Mills all show up throughout the film and, as a viewer, I was happy to see most of them.  They all brought their own sense of style to the film, especially the menacing Oliver Reed.  That said, director Michael Winner was never known for being a particularly subtle director and the film gets so mired in its own sordidness that it becomes be a bit of a slog to sit through.  As a filmmaker, Winner was a shameless.  That sometimes worked to a film’s advantage, as with the original Death Wish.  That film needed a director who would dive into its Hellish portrayal of New York City without a moment’s hesitation and that’s what it got with Michael Winner.  With Winner’s adaptation of The Big Sleep, however, the film gets so caught up in trying to shock and titillate that it’s hard not to miss the wit that made the first adaptation so special.

That said, The Big Sleep does feature the truly special opportunity to see Robert Mitchum and James Stewart acting opposite each other.  Both give good and heartfelt performances, with Mitchum plays Marlowe as a cynic with a heart and Stewart capturing the pain of knowing that your children don’t deserve all that you do for them.  Stewart and Mitchum bring a lot of emotion and sincerity to their scenes and, for at least a few minutes, The Big Sleep becomes about something more than just bloody murders and revealing photographs.  It becomes about two aging men trying to find their place in a changing world.  The Big Sleep was one of Stewart’s final feature films and he shows that, even late into his career, he was always one of the best.

 

A Scene That I Love: Jack Nicholson Sings In Tommy

Posted on by Lisa Marie Bowman

Today’s scene that I love comes from 1975’s Tommy.  Based on The Who’s rock opera and directed by Ken Russell, Tommy featured several actors who weren’t necessarily known as singers.  Oliver Reed is the most obvious example.

And then there’s Jack Nicholson!  Jack’s role is pretty small.  He’s the therapist who examines Tommy and who eye flirts with Ann-Margaret.  And, of course, he gets his check.

Song of the Day: Wild Thing by The Troggs, featuring Oliver Reed

Posted on by Lisa Marie Bowman

The late, great British actor Oliver Reed was born 87 years ago in London.  Reed was one of those actors who was so infamous for his often alcohol-fueled exploits off-screen that it was often overlooked that he was also a very talented man whose ability to create intriguing characters was appreciated by directors Ken Russell and whose powerful screen presence went far beyond his famously scarred face.  Oliver Reed was one of the actors considered for the role of James Bond after Sean Connery left the part.  With his physicality and his dangerous smile, Reed would have offered an intriguing take on the character.

A British cultural icon, Oliver Reed was someone who tended to show up in the least expected places.  In 1992, The Troggs rerecorded and rereleased their best-known song, Wild Thing.  Accompanying them in the recording was none other than Oliver Reed.  In honor of an actor who could do it all, here is today’s song of the day!

Wild thing, you make my heart sing
You make everything groovy, wild thing
Wild thing, I think I love you
But I wanna know for sure
Come on and hold me tight
I love you

Wild thing, you make my heart sing
You make everything groovy
Wild thing

Wild thing, I think you move me
But I wanna know for sure
Come on and hold me tight
You move me

Wild thing, you make my heart sing
You make everything groovy, wild thing
C’mon, c’mon, wild thing
Check it, check it, wild thing

Songwriters: Matt Dike / Marvin Young / Anthony Terrell Smith

Horror Film Review: The Pit and the Pendulum (dir by Stuart Gordon)

Posted on by Lisa Marie Bowman

AGCK!

That was my reaction when I watched the 1991 film, The Pit and the Pendulum.  Based very narrowly on several Edgar Allan Poe short stories, The Pit and the Pendulum takes place at the height of the Spanish inquisition.  Despite the objections of the Pope, Grand Inquisitor Torquemada (Lance Henriksen) is leading a reign of terror though 15th Century Spain.  In his torture chambers, Torquemada forces confessions from accused witches and other criminals.  The dirty prison cells are full of starving and beaten partners.  Witches are burned at the stake and explode while the crazed citizenry calls for blood and Torquemada tests out new torture devices.

Torquemada presents himself as being a grim and emotionless man, someone who is above all sin and who is allowed to sit in judgment of the people who are brought before him.  However, Torquemada is hardly the sinless figure that he portrays himself as being.  His actions are fueled by his repressed lust and his anger.  Maria (Rona De Ricci) has been brought before him, accused of being a witch and Torquemada is determined to get her to confess.  Maria’s refusal to be broken by Torquemada only increases Toquemada’s anger but, at the same time, Torquemada has also decided that he’s in love with Maria.  While Maria waits in the prison and takes advice from the witch Esmerelda (Frances Bay), Maria’s husband, Antonio (Jonathan Fuller), attempts to break Maria out of prison.  When Antonio is captured, Torquemada decides to try out his latest device, a swinging and sharpened pendulum that hangs in a pit….

The Pit and the Pendulum is not always an easy movie to watch.  I have to admit that I spent the majority of the movie with my hands over my eyes, not wanting to watch the extremely graphic torture scenes.  Like many of director Stuart Gordon’s film, The Pit and the Pendulum is gripped by an atmosphere of pervasive corruption and the movie captures the feeling of not being able to escape from the worst place on Earth.  Poor Maria spends a good deal of the movie naked and chained to various devices but Rona De Ricci gives such a strong and such a committed performance as Maria that, instead of being offended by the obvious exploitation element of the scenes, you instead find yourself admiring Maria and her strength.

It’s probably not a coincidence that Oliver Reed shows up in the film as a Cardinal because The Pit and the Pendulum, with its portrayal of blood frenzy and hypocrisy, is definitely influenced by Ken Russell’s The Devils.  The imagery is graphic and often disturbing but the most memorable thing about the film is Lance Henriksen’s intense performance as the evil Torquemada.  Henriksen plays Torquemada as being a hateful and self-loathing figure, a man who deals with his own demons by bringing his fury down on the innocent.  It’s a truly frightening villainous performance, one that carries shades of Vincent Price’s excellent performance in The Witchfinder General.

The Pit and the Pendulum is not an easy film to watch and I doubt I’ll watch it a second time.  In the end, it’s a disturbing film but one that definitely leaves an impression.

Book Review: Hellraisers: The Life and Inebriated Times of Richard Burton, Richard Harris, Peter O’Toole, and Oliver Reed by Robert Sellers

Posted on by Lisa Marie Bowman

First published in 2009, Hellraisers is a fast-paced look at the life and times of four men, Richard Burton, Richard Harris, Peter O’Toole, and Oliver Reed, and an examination of what they all had in common.

First off, they were all talented actors who were at the height of their careers in the 60s and the 70s.

They all first came to prominence in the UK.  Peter O’Toole and Oliver Reed were English.  Richard Burton was Welsh.  Richard Harris was born in Ireland.

With the exception of Oliver Reed, all of them were multiple Oscar nominees but none of them actually won the award.

All four of them could boast filmographies that included some of the best and some of the worst films of all time.

And, of course, all four of them were infamous for their drinking.  They were all, if I may borrow the book’s title, famous for raising Hell.

Hellraisers is a frequently entertaining look at their careers and their legendary off-screen exploits.  All four of them come across as being very different drinkers.  Richard Burton was a depressing drunk, one who drank because he was aware that he was wasting his talents in mediocre films.  O’Toole was a drunk who alternated between being charming and being dangerous, someone who was capable of coming across as being a bon vivant even at his lowest moments.  Richard Harris was the angry drunk but he was also the one who seemed to have the both the best understanding of why he drank and why, at a certain age, it was necessary for him to cut back.  And, finally, Oliver Reed was the showman, the one who viewed drinking a beer the way that others viewed having a cup of tea and who would rather damage his career than allow anyone else to tell him how to live.  He knew that he had a reputation and he was determined to live up to it, even at the risk of his own health.

Perhaps not surprisingly, it’s Oliver Reed who dominates the book.  There was very little that Reed wouldn’t do while drunk and he was drunk quite a lot of the time.  He was also perhaps the most unpredictable of all of the actors profiled in the book, a raw mountain of energy who kept audiences off-balance.  Personally, I would not have wanted to have been along in a room with a drunk Oliver Reed.  The book has too many stories of Reed dropping his trousers and asking everyone to look at what he called his “mighty mallet,” for the reader to feel totally safe with Reed.  At the same time, anyone who has seen a good Oliver Reed performance knows that he deserved better roles than he was often given.  (Then again, the book is also honest about the fact that a lot of filmmakers would not work with Reed because they had justifiable reasons to be terrified of him and his erratic nature.)  Over the course of the book, Reed comes across as hyperactive, easily bored, and also far more intelligent than most gave him credit for.  In many ways, he was a prisoner of his own reputation.  He was outrageous because he knew that was what was expected of him.  As shocking as some of his behavior seems today, he felt that he was giving the people what they wanted and Hellraisers suggests that he may have been right.

Personally, I don’t drink and I find most heavy drinkers to be tedious company at best.  That said, Hellraisers is an interesting book.  Burton, Harris, O’Toole, and Reed are all fascinating talents and the book takes a look at how their hellraising reputations both hurt and, in some cases, helped their careers.  However, the book is more than just a biography of four actors who drank a lot.  It’s also an examination of a different era, of a time when performers were expected to raise Hell and when one could get away with being a contrarian just for the fun of it.  One can only imagine what the moral scolds of social media would have to say if Oliver Reed were around today!  As a result, this is a book that can be enjoyed by both film lovers and history nerds, like you and me.

International Horror Film Review: The Brood (dir by David Cronenberg)

Posted on by Lisa Marie Bowman

O Canada!
Our home and native land!
True patriot love in all of us command.
With glowing hearts we see thee rise,
The True North strong and free!
From far and wide,
O Canada, we stand on guard for thee.
God keep our land glorious and free!
O Canada, we stand on guard for thee.
O Canada, we stand on guard for thee.

Canada!  It always seems like such a nice country until you watch a David Cronenberg film.  Hailing from Toronto, Cronenberg started his film career with two satirical, black-and-white science fiction shorts and then went on to become one of Canada’s best-known filmmakers.  At a time when most people associated Canada with politeness and maple syrup, Cronenberg made visceral and often-disturbing films, ones that often mixed sexuality with graphic body horror.  At a time when the genre was being dominated by Italian filmmakers, Cronenberg brought a uniquely Canadian sensibility to horror.

Take 1979’s The Brood, for instance.

The Brood tells the story of one very doomed marriage.  Frank (Art Hindle) and Nola (Samantha Eggar) Carveth are fighting for custody of their five year-old daughter, Candice (Cindy Hinds).  (Not coincidentally, Cronenberg was going through his own custody battle when he first came up with the idea for The Brood.)  Nola, who has been emotionally scarred by both her alcoholic parents and her troubled marriage to Frank, is a patient at Somafree Institute.  Her psychotherapist, Dr. Hal Raglan (Oliver Reed), practices a technique called “psychoplasmics.”  Though it’s not easy to describe (and, wisely, Cronenberg doesn’t spend too much time trying to justify the science of it), it basically involves channeling anger and suppressed emotions into body modification.  What you or I might consider to be a hive or a welt is what Dr. Raglan would call a major breakthrough.

Frank is skeptical about Dr. Raglan’s theories but he still takes Candice to visit her mom.  However, when Candice returns from one visit bruised and scratched, Frank is convinced that Nola has been abusing her.  Hoping to both win custody of Candice and prove that Dr. Raglan’s methods are dangerous, Frank starts his own investigation into just what exactly has been happening at the Somafree Institute.

That’s when the children start to show up.  The children are small, with pale skin and light hair and oddly featureless faces.  They never smile.  They never speak.  They show up without any warning and violence always seems to follow them.  They attack both Nola’s mother and father.  When Nola suspects that Frank might be having an affair with Candice’s teacher, two of the children suddenly appear in her classroom.  Candice is scared of the children but still seems to have some sort of connection to them…

Even if you didn’t know this was a Cronenberg film, it would take just one look at the snow-covered landscape to identify The Brood as being a Canadian film.  As was often the case with Cronenberg’s early horror films, the imagery is frequently cold and chilly.  However, The Brood is not a cold film.  With its look at dysfunctional families and its emphasis on Frank’s attempts to protect his daughter, The Brood is actually one of Cronenberg’s most emotional films.  It’s a film about not only anger but also how people deal with that anger.  The killer kids are both literally and metaphorically children of rage.

Even by the standards of Cronenberg, things get grotesque.  Fortunately, the film’s talented cast keeps you interested, even when the bloody visuals might make you want to find a nice comedy to watch instead.  Art Hindle and Cindy Hinds are sympathetic as the father and daughter.  Oliver Reed keeps you guessing as to what exactly Dr. Raglan is actually trying to accomplish.  Nicholas Campbell and Robert A. Silverman, two members of the Cronenberg stock company, both make an impression in smallish roles.  And Samantha Eggar totally throws herself into her role, turning Nola into an absolutely terrifying monster.

Though it never quite reaches the flamboyant heights of either Scanners or Shivers, The Brood is still an effective horror film.  As opposed to some of his other films of the period, Cronenberg actually seems to not only care about the characters in the film but it also comfortable with encouraging us to care about them as well.  As a result, The Brood becomes about more than just trying to shock the audience.  The Brood is a film that sticks with you.

The Brood (1979, dir by David Cronenberg DP: Mark Irwin)