Dragonwyck (1946)

The 1940s were a lonely time for horror fans. World War II cast dark shadows over Hollywood, and few studios besides Universal were willing to churn out their monster product with undimmed enthusiasm. The majors instead resorted to literary adaptations of horror tales, seeking to emphasise the psychological and artistic elements of their largely bloodless pictures. Hence we have Spencer Tracy's restrained, makeup-light remake of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde (1941), a garish Phantom of the Opera (1943) boasting more opera than phantom, and The Picture of Dorian Gray (1945) with a discreet velvet curtain drawn over any homosexual subtext. All are good films in their own right, but there's little to compare with the barnstorming melodrama of the 1930s. Dragonwyck falls very much into this category. It's certainly a sumptuous production. Twentieth Century Fox gambled a sizeable budget on the success of Dragonwyck, and every sparkling penny shows on screen. There's the stark monochrome photography. The flowing white gowns, the stylish black frock coats. The doom-laden model shots of the mansion's exterior. These tantalising visual flourishes whet the viewer's appetite for terror, yet remain secondary to the film's success.

The main reason Dragonwyck succeeds is because it's astonishingly bitchy. Essentially a haunted house soap opera, it's altogether more fun to watch the cast whine, moan and grunt about each other than take in the ornate candelabras and stone griffins. In fact, there's not a single likeable character to be found. Walter Huston plays a curmudgeonly Bible basher you'll want to bash with a Bible. Anne Revere is a prudish, fast-talking shrew reminiscent of Miss Gulch in The Wizard of Oz (1939). There are at least two maids to abhor (maybe more, they did overwhelm me a bit): one a glazed-eyed, superstition-mongering busybody, the other a 'loathsome little cripple'. Glenn Langan's doctor, like most romantic leads in this sort of film, alternates between bewildering density and hot-headed stupidity, moving in on the leading lady so quickly that you question his upbringing. Top honours go to Vivienne Osborne as Johanna Von Ryn. All the poor actress seems to do is get very bedridden and scarf down pastries in the mistaken belief that you can 'stuff a cold'. It's a massive relief when Vincent Price zaps her to death with his poison houseplant. The source of Dragonwyck's perennial bitchiness is vague and inscrutable (and perhaps down to its status as a so-called 'women's picture'), but makes it devilishly entertaining.

Dragonwyck's other big draw is, quite naturally, Vincent Price. Suspended in that odd limbo between The House of the Seven Gables (1940) and House of Wax (1953), House on Haunted Hill (1959) and House of Usher (1960), Mr. Price once more emerges comfortably as master of the house, the gaunt, elegant proprietor of Dragonwyck. It's one of his best performances. Price's staccato delivery of the script's pedantic, flowery monologues reminds us what a fine dramatic actor he could be. Price's younger age helps as well - here is surely the definition of a beautiful man. His union with Gene Tierney makes for an almost hatefully pretty couple. And if nothing else, it's fascinating to see Price so perfectly coin his screen image fourteen years before AIP's Poe series. Here we have the chillingly quotable dialogue, drug addiction, brooding at stormy windows and standard fits of madness. What more could a horror fan ask for?