No one could quite line ’em up and knock ’em down like an EC Comics story, those gloriously nasty comic book morality tales that hit a glorious high in the 50s before being banned by horrified politicians. Of course, they’re best known these days for providing the basis for the magnificently spiteful HBO series Tales From The Crypt, that immortalised one of its hosts as a cackling, zombie muppet with a penchant for wince inducing puns.
However, long before this show hit the airwaves, Tales From The Crypt had already plastered itself all over the big screen thanks to Hammer Films’ most prominent rival, Amicus Productions, who had already made a name for themselves on the instant karma anthology stage with Dr Terror’s House Of Horrors, Torture Garden and The House That Dripped Blood. While the Crypt Keeper was here played by an incredibly serious Sir Ralph Richardson (no puns here, sorry), the stories still retained that vicious sting in the tail that we all know is going to happen – but just can’t get enough of.
While taking a tour of some catacombs they have no memory of arriving at, five, disparate strangers all become separated from the group and find themselves in some sort of anti-chamber. It’s here that they are greeted by a grave-faced man dressed in a hood and robes who claims to know how each of these people will soon die and proceeds to each tell them their tales of iminent destruction. While common sense dictates that each of these losers should tell this guy to take a fucking hike, they are also very British and so they all sit politely while their fates are each relayed to them.
First up is the beautiful and glamorous Joanne Clayton, who rounds out those attributes by also being a massive bitch and one Christmas Eve night she decides to murder her husband in cold blood in order to collect on the insurance – but an escaped psycho dressed in a Santa costume and her over excited daughter may soon prove to be her undoing. Elsewhere, former family man Carl Maitland decides to callously ditch his wife and kids with the hope of starting new life with his lover; but a sudden nightmare and an out of control car soon sees him stuck in a never ending loop of death. Next up is the priggish and privileged James Elliot who launches a hate campaign against kindly old widower Arthur Grimsdyke to get the shabby old dustman to sell his rundown old house – but when his cruel pranks go to far, revenge reaches out for him from beyond the grave. Second to last is ruthless businessman Ralph Jason who is about to find out that his wife is disastrously shit at making wishes and last, but not least is Major William Rogers who has just scored the gig of being the new director for a home for the blind. But when his strict new regimes incur the wrath of his disgruntled charges, he finds out exactly how loyal a hungry dog really is.
Obviously shocked at these tales of their horrible deaths, this quintet of bastards demand to know what the hell is going on – but the Crypt Keeper has one more twist left to announce.
Anthology movies can be a tough nut to crack as you’re essentially asking an audience to sit patiently while you essentially re-start your movie at least four or five times with entirely new casts and scenarios for each one. On top of that, you have to make sure your hit rate has to be consistent to keep that energy rate high (something modern anthologies such as V/H/S struggle to do) as a duff story can derail the who experience.
Well, thankfully, Amicus rarely had that problem as Tales From The Crypt’s clutch of murderous morality tales are utter bangers one and all and it’s because every tale – plus the wraparound – was helmed with fiendish glee by old pro Freddie Francis who makes sure each adaption of the comic’s story pops each in their own special way. It also helps that he’s got a cast full of impossibly game character actors who are visibly itching to get their just desserts thanks to being the biggest shits they can possibly be.
With Toccata & Fugue in D minor kicking things off just as well as a Danny Elfman theme, we go from Joan Collins’ backstabbing trophy wife to Nigel Patrick’s penny pinching Major in double quick to.a and the only thing more fun than seeing our five “victims” be the most odious people imaginable, is witnessing their expressions change when capricious fate boots their back door in and makes itself at home. Fans of the HBO show will recognize some of the stories with “…And All Through The House” and “Blind Alleys” making memorable appearances here, but while the ’72 versions may be lacking, say, the direction of Robert Zemeckis or the extravagant gore that came with cable, they still manage to pack a punch, even if you can probably guess the twists within the first five minutes and all are strangely moving in their own way.
The most obvious of these is the remarkably mean spirited Poetic Justice and the genuinely tragic tale of Peter Cushing’s Grimsdyke who, at this point in his life was also mourning the real life death of his beloved wife and the image of the zombified old duffer as he takes his gruesome revenge is both simultaneously horrific and heartfelt – with an actual heart.
Even arguably the least of the bunch, the rather simplistic “Reflection Of Death”, still has legitimately jarring moments that linger long after we’ve moved briskly on to the next instalment.
However, probably Tales From The Crypt’s greatest virtue is its magnificent visual streak that delivers a strong stream of macabre visuals that do the original comic stories proud. There may not be a particularly logical reason for Grimsdyke to rise from the grave a year after his tragic demise, but his eyeless skull and rictus grin are stuff of nightmares, as is the sight of the main character from “Wish You Were Here”, writhing his way into eternity, unable to die but partially chopped up with embalming fluid searing his insides. Alongside these high memorable shocks are a Valentine’s day message dotted with an actual heart, a crazed killer Santa suddenly lunging through some windows, a skeletal wraith tearing up the road on a motorbike and a final shot of our group of sinners shuffling off to meet their hellish fate that sees one bloke think to pick up his coat before descending into the fiery nether world- surely the most British reaction to eternal damnation I’ve ever seen.
Fans of more modern horror may find proceedings a bit too campy for their liking, but then, without camp, you can’t even spell Tales From The Crypt (quickly double checks just to be sure… yep, that works) – and are you telling me that there isn’t endless mileage to be gleaned from Amicus hiring a bunch of recognizable English actors to be the biggest arseholes they can be, only to meet their well earned just desserts?
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Classic, to be sure.
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