Tales From the Crypt

Like most horror anthologies the Amicus production Tales from the Crypt is a patchy and 

uneven affair; at times sublime and highly entertaining, at others rushed, predictable, and unsatisfying. This hasn’t stopped it becoming the most immediately recognised of their numerous portmanteau movies, a situation no doubt aided by the films tremendous commercial success. Peter Duffell clearly impressed Milton Subotsky and Max J. Rosenberg for he was offered the job of directing Tales from the Crypt, but he chose to turn it down. So they turned to Freddie Francis, a safe but dull pair of hands, a man capable of churning out serviceable genre movies, but ones almost entirely lacking in inspiration. Fortunately the decision to turn to the gore soaked pages of EC Comics offset this somewhat. Writers such as Johnny Craig, Al Feldstein, and William M. Gaines excelled at creating short sharp morality plays overflowing with poetic irony, black humour, and disreputable characters. EC Comics still had a whiff of scandal attached to them, and one must credit Subotsky for toning down the savagery, without compromising the overall message of each story.

The film opens to the evocative and resonant strains of Bach’s "Tocatta & Fugue in D Minor," and a series of earthy establishing shots of overgrown tombstones, gnarled tree branches, and desolate but well trod pathways. The location was Highgate Cemetery in London and it is the most effective setting in the film, a space both symbolic and metaphoric, and an early clue to the fate of five unwitting human beings. The crypt itself is a suitably labyrinthine space, but when your tour guide happens to be Geoffrey Bayldon, you might be better off spending your afternoon in the pub. Instead of a quick witted skeleton our crypt keeper on this occasion is the monkish Ralph Richardson, who is resplendent in his habit, and shot all of his scenes in a single day. The prescence of such an esteemed actor helps to elevate the framing narrative, and his sombre delivery of comic book dialogue adds a doom laden gravitas to the proceedings.


The opening story "And All Through the Night" which utilises the fun and revelry of Christmas as a backdrop to murder has justifiably become the most famous segment. The story unfolds over a mere twelve minutes and has virtually no dialogue, yet every facet of this shocker is communicated effectively. Joan Collins’ motivation is money, and her need for it has led her to kill her husband on Christmas Eve (poker to the head) while her daughter excitedly awaits Santa Claus upstairs. Her wishes this Christmas will be fulfilled, though the fact that Santa also happens to be a homicidal maniac who has only recently fled a nearby asylum may temper her joy somewhat! With a constant babble of Christmas Carols accompanying Collins’ attempts to erase the evidence of her misdeed, and the constant threat of a lurking maniacal presence outside desperate to gain entry to the house this effortlessly becomes one of the best stories to feature in an Amicus anthology. Of particular note is the casual cruelty that Collins brings to her character; opening the present her husband intended for her, and snorting with derision at the gift within, before booting his corpse down the cellar steps!

The second story "Reflection of Death" illustrates to perfection the inconsistency that blighted Amicus’ anthology films. After such a fine opening parlay, this effort is pure drudgery. It is lightened somewhat by the ever watchable presence of Ian Hendry, who plays an adulterous husband who leaves his family high and dry to be with his mistress. Naturally he is punished, but the moment that director Francis adopts a POV shot following a car crash, and shows us the disgusted and terrified reactions of not one, but three individuals, we know where this one is going. The cyclical nature of Hendry’s waking nightmare leaves a subtle chill, but a weak story undoes the good work of the first. However Tales from the Crypt offers a surprise with a third story "Poetic Justice" that rivals the first for the mantle of best tale. In this wonderfully cruel and dark story Peter Cushing plays garbage collecting widower Arthur Grimsdyke, a man loved by the local children, but despised by his wealthy neighbours. Cushing brings a tremendous amount of emotional pathos to a role which offered a sombre echo to his own life. The campaign of cruelty and hatred against him is punctuated with moments of heartbreak, such as when his pet dogs are taken away, and when he receives a hatful of valentines cards filled with sick messages. But Grimsdyke’s suicide opens the doorway of retribution, and when he returns a year later, a mouldering and rotting zombie courtesy of Roy Ashton’s excellent makeup, he is able to quench his thirst for vengeance in typical EC Comics fashion.

The pattern of following an excellent story with rubbish is maintained by "Wish You Were Here," which is easily the most insubstantial of the lot. It tries to be clever in its attempt to satirise "The Monkey’s Paw", but ultimately comes across as feeble and half-hearted. Richard Greene and Barbara Murray try their best with pallid and idiotic material as they play a husband and wife punished for their avarice. The final story "Blind Alleys" doesn’t quite reach the heights of "And All Through the House" and "Poetic Justice", but it’s the films longest segment and pits a retired army major played by Nigel Patrick and his well trained Alsatian Shane against blind Patrick Magee and the aged patrons of a home for the visually impaired. This is possibly the most intriguing and thematically interesting story, the nature of blindness is given plenty of screen time, and equal weighting is given to the inhumanity of the military approach. Although the Major is determined to save money and put the home back onto a paying basis, the sight of him decorating his office with expensive paintings and eating hearty meals in front of a roaring log fire, while the inmates eat gruel and freeze to death suggests his sadism goes far beyond anything he might have learned in the army. The punishment meted out to the Major is particularly cruel and inventive and makes the story one of the darkest and bleakest to yet feature in an Amicus anthology. By the standards of the portmanteau format two excellent stories, one good story, and two dreadful stories constitutes a success overall, and Tales from the Crypt emerges as one of the better examples from Amicus’ canon.  (© Shaun Anderson 2012, The Celluloid Highway)