In the year of our Lord, 1964, the horror genre already underwent a metamorphosis. Films like "Psycho" and "Peeping Tom" gave a new meaning to terms like tension and terror, pioneers like Hershel Gordon-Lewis were experimenting with extreme splatter, and across the Atlantic Ocean geniuses, like Mario Bava were savagely butchering fashion models in the first Gialli. Why this little history lecture? Well, because "The Curse of the Living Corpse" was released in the same year, but it still looks and feels - deliberately - like a horror production of the 30s or early 40s.
Okay, admittedly, it's a more Grand Guignol than in the thirties, with severed girls' heads on a plate and close-ups of burned corpses, but "The Curse of the Living Corpse" is basically a standard "old dark house" chiller, and I expected Boris Karloff or Bela Lugosi to pop out from behind the curtain at any given moment. Everything else is there: the death of a rich but tyrannical patriarch, the atmospheric reading of the will, insufferably greedy relatives bickering with each other, eerie family vaults, peek-holes through the eyes of portraits, quicksand puddles, redundant comic relief characters, etc.
All this isn't criticism, you know. I love hammy guff like this, especially when the main characters are as loathsome as the Sinclair brothers, and when the death traps are sadistically linked to the victims' deepest fears. Director Del Tenney maintains a good pacing, the ensemble cast is more than amiable (including the debut performance of none other than Roy Scheider), the women are beautiful, and the end-twist is acceptable.
Okay, admittedly, it's a more Grand Guignol than in the thirties, with severed girls' heads on a plate and close-ups of burned corpses, but "The Curse of the Living Corpse" is basically a standard "old dark house" chiller, and I expected Boris Karloff or Bela Lugosi to pop out from behind the curtain at any given moment. Everything else is there: the death of a rich but tyrannical patriarch, the atmospheric reading of the will, insufferably greedy relatives bickering with each other, eerie family vaults, peek-holes through the eyes of portraits, quicksand puddles, redundant comic relief characters, etc.
All this isn't criticism, you know. I love hammy guff like this, especially when the main characters are as loathsome as the Sinclair brothers, and when the death traps are sadistically linked to the victims' deepest fears. Director Del Tenney maintains a good pacing, the ensemble cast is more than amiable (including the debut performance of none other than Roy Scheider), the women are beautiful, and the end-twist is acceptable.