Tales of Terror (1962) features Vincent Price at the top of his game: charming, relaxed, delivering his lines with an almost indulgent confidence, but with that little hint of physical corruption that leaves one with the uncomfortable feeling that the stories are not going to end well.
Or is it simply because of Price’s reputation? That can be a problem with actors who identify strongly with a genre or role – the audience comes to expect a certain outcome, and thus the introduction of some surprise element involving the character may not occur – or it may occur, and cause resentment amongst these faux-cognoscenti, that some beacon in this world of chaos has been destroyed.
Tales of Terror consists of adaptations from the Edgar Allan Poe canon, and these adaptations are the constituents beyond Price’s control, and, in this case, they are inferior to the efforts of Price and his supporting cast. Not being overly familiar with Poe’s work, I cannot say if the fault lies with Poe, or with the adaptation; however, my Arts Editor states the problem lies with the adaptations, although this is not to imply incompetence, as Poe’s work does not always translate to the silver screen.
The first is Morella, involving a widower, the daughter from whom he has been long separated, and whose birth caused her mother’s death – and his deceased wife (the mother of his daughter). Upon her arrival at her father’s home, the daughter discovers it has been unmaintained for years, covered in classic cobwebs, and her father wanders it in a drunken haze, still mourning his wife. She stays to care for him, and reveals she is dying of some unnamed malady. Then she discovers that he more than mourns; he keeps his wife’s body in the matrimonial bed. Eventually, the innocent daughter is set upon by the spirit of her mother, angry at her for her own death. She is then possessed by her mother’s vengeful spirit and attacks her father. In a cacophony of tangled plot elements and missing motivational elements, the house collapses in on the cast’s efforts, mercifully obscuring a ruin of missed opportunities from the discerning eye.
The second, The Black Cat, is a weakly named story set vaguely in American Colonial times. It teaches that over-indulgence in alcohol can lead to unfortunate consequences. Peter Lorre, a legendary actor for whom, at least I, have fewer result-expectations than some actors (which is to say, his presence does not predict any particular outcome, and of this I approve), is a drunk, a domestic abuser, and is rapidly becoming destitute, despite the efforts of his mildly attractive wife. Then he stumbles into a meeting of wine merchants holding a tasting, and challenges the city’s expert, played by Price, to a competition. In this Price is delightful, using a stylized procedure for analyzing each wine before proclaiming its winery and vintage; Lorre, in contrast, swills like an expert drunk, and yet keeps up with Price. This leads to the two going home together, where a drunken Lorre lapses into sleep, allowing Price to work his charms upon Lorre’s wife.
Lorre eventually discovers the liaison, and takes his revenge, Amontillado-style: he hides his wife’s body and Price, still alive, behind a brick wall, all the while engaging in witty repartee with his erstwhile opponent. As he’s never cared for his wife’s cat, the feline is also imprisoned, but much to his woe it is the angry howls of the black chat which finally bring the gendarmes to visit justice, and the consequences of drinking, upon Lorre. While predictable and not particularly compelling, Price’s comfort in the role of a wine tasting expert is quite winning, and while we never quite understand why Lorre’s character is perpetually drunk, it is quite true that he is convincing as a fat, short, drunk little man whose foolishness will cost him dear.
The third is The Facts in the Case of M. Valdemar. Price is Valdemar, a terminally ill man who has agreed to an experiment: at the moment of death, he will be mesmerized by Mr. Carmichael, for the purpose of discovering how long that transition from life to death might be prolonged. Carmichael, played by the redoubtable Basil Rathbone, is a presence in this movie, sometimes active, sometimes brooding, but here I shall reference back to the problem with Vincent Price and other actors of a certain reputation, and state that I have heard, if not verified, that Rathbone, with the exception of his Sherlock Holmes efforts, always played the bad guy. This knowledge works against the movie and myself, introducing an unwanted element of wondering when Rathbone will make his move.
The story is, sadly, leaden, despite the efforts of Price and Rathbone. Valdemar’s wife has predictable hysterics over the entire matter, and the attending doctor is drearily certain that this experiment is “dangerous”, to which I could only laugh and ask how the concept of danger applies to a man on the edge of inevitable death? Still, dying under the mesmerist’s spell, Valdemar finds himself in some indescribable place, where he apparently suffers. Mr. Carmichael finally comes out of his metaphorical cover, declaring his desire for the quasi-widow, “body and soul.” The wife reluctantly agrees to his demands if he’ll release Valdemar to his final resting place, but even that is questionable. The doctor attempts to interfere but discovers Mr. Carmichael has covered all his bets…
… Except for Valdemar, who rises from the dead, tracks a ridiculously panicky Carmichael down, and destroys him, before transforming into a slimy puddle of putrescence himself.
Thus the end of the sequence. Composed of individually laudable performances, burdened by scripts of inferior quality, these three tales might be of interest on a lazy January afternoon as the Minnesota winter howls outside your window, hungry for your blood, but otherwise rather for Price fans only.
