Move over, The Mummy—there’s a new ancient undead romantic in town, and he’s slow, dusty, and looks like someone left a clay sculpture in the microwave for too long. This entry tells the thrilling tale of an immortal Roman gladiator encased in volcanic ash, who appears to have been sculpted out of leftover oatmeal and possesses the fashion sense of a dusty throw pillow.
The movie kicks off in Pompeii, Italy—home of Mount Vesuvius, lava, and inconvenient volcanic eruptions. While excavating the ruins, archaeologists unearth a jewel box and a mysterious, ash-covered humanoid figure, solid as granite and wrapped up like a Roman mummy. But here’s the kicker—the body shows signs of life. Yeah, it’s still warm. Oh, and there’s a strange brooch found with the body. It’s got ancient symbols and gives off heavy “cursed object alert” vibes.
“This will make me famous or get a lot of people killed.”
Our hero is Dr. Paul Mallon (Richard Anderson), who is brought in by Dr. Carlo Fiorello (Luis Van Rooten) to take a look at this startling find. Unfortunately, en route to the Museo di Napoli, the body comes to life and kills the driver of the truck that was transporting it. Afterwards, the body, apparently dead again, is found several meters away from the wrecked truck. Without witnesses, no one fully understands what has happened. Both our hero and the authorities are baffled by the “accident,” but when Dr. Emanuel (Felix Locher) shows up with the translation of the Etruscan writing found on a bronze brooch, things become clear. He suspects this may be Quintillus Aurelius, a Roman gladiator who was supposedly buried alive during the eruption of Vesuvius, and that the eruption was caused by a curse this gladiator had placed on the brooch in response to the forbidden love between him and a Roman noblewoman.
This plot is as half-baked as that gladiator.
Enter Tina Enright (Elaine Edwards), a beautiful artist and fiancée to Paul Mallon. Tina begins painting images of ancient Rome and—wait for it—portraits of the very Faceless Man before ever seeing him. Tina insists she’s dreamed of the Faceless Man, and feels some weird, almost magnetic connection to it. She even believes she might have been someone else in another life. Cue the reincarnation subplot! Tina thinks she was a Roman noblewoman, and the Faceless Man was her doomed gladiator lover. Sure enough, Tina turns out to be the reincarnation of Quintillus’s ancient love, a Roman noblewoman who died in Pompeii. Apparently, love really never dies—it just bakes in lava for a couple of thousand years and comes back with a grudge and no face.
“Honey, is that you?”
Paul brushes this off because SCIENCE, but let’s be real—he’s dating someone with psychic visions and hauntingly specific historical recollections. He should probably take that more seriously. Sure enough, spooky stuff starts happening. People around the museum begin to die—strangled to death—with a fine dusting of volcanic ash left behind. It doesn’t take long for the film’s supporting characters (and eventually Paul) to suspect the impossible: the Faceless Man may be alive. Or reanimated. Or possessed. Or all three.
“My money is on the creature having watched The Mummy.”
Apparently, radiation (because it’s the 1950s and that explains everything) has reawakened the creature, and now it’s roaming the streets—silent, slow, and unkillable. It’s basically a prehistoric Terminator with a crush. But he’s not just killing at random. He’s searching for Tina, his long-lost Roman love. His tragic, undead heart still beats… metaphorically. Somewhere inside that stone husk, the gladiator’s soul lives on, guided by sheer will and ancient rage. Tina is torn between fear and fascination. Is she truly connected to this creature? Can she stop it with love alone? Paul’s not buying the “reincarnated girlfriend” angle, but he’s finally on board with “animated lava-man is murdering people.
Can true love defeat an ancient Etruscan curse?
Eventually, the authorities confront the Faceless Man, who predictably shrugs off bullets like raindrops. But love (or at least emotionally charged confrontation) proves to be his undoing. In the film’s startling climax, the Faceless Man captures Tina and carries her down to the ocean. It’s meant to be a tragic, romantic finale: he wants to escape with her, perhaps into the sea, perhaps into oblivion. But Paul and the authorities catch up just in time to watch this tragic figure carrying Tina into the surf, and while their bullets are ineffective, to their amazement, Quintillus simply dissolves in the seawater.
A damp and soggy conclusion.
Stray Observations:
•
The monster is called “Faceless,” but he clearly has a face. It’s just
gooey and looks like a melted candle. Maybe “Curse of the Vaguely
Deformed Man” didn’t test well.
• Anyone caught in the 79 AD eruption
of Mount Vesuvius was instantly killed by superheated gases, not gently
turned to stone. The “stone” figures we have today are actually
plaster, made from the “moulds” left behind by the solidified ash.
•
People in this movie show a startling blasé attitude to seeing a
stone-mummified figure moving. Was this a common thing in the 1950s?
•
The explanation for why Faceless gets up, murders, but then goes back
to playing possum has something to do with being powered by X-rays,
because, sure, why not?
• When Tina is hypnotized and is regressed
back to her past life, she speaks in English, rather than Latin as an
ancient Roman citizen would.
• The supposedly priceless, possibly
alive Roman relic is simply left out in one of the museum’s exhibit
rooms, with no thought to security, just one idiot watchman.
No wonder the monster keeps going for walks.
This 1958 B-movie, directed by Edward L. Cahn (a dependable name in low-budget sci-fi), throws its lot in with the “revived ancient menace” subgenre—think The Mummy, but with fewer bandages and more clay. There’s something unintentionally charming about how seriously the film takes its pseudo-scientific mumbo jumbo, spouting theories about radiation, reincarnation, and psychic memories like they’re hard science. Meanwhile, the titular faceless man lumbers through the movie with all the speed of drying cement.
“Look, they’re eloping!”
The acting is passable, led by Richard Anderson (future Six Million Dollar Man star), who plays a doctor trying to use science to explain away why his fiancée keeps having Pompeii-themed nightmares. While Elaine Edwards, who plays the reincarnated love interest, might as well be wearing a sign that says “Damsel in Distress” around her neck. And the climax? Let’s just say it involves water, clay, and an ending so abrupt it feels like the editor fell asleep on the cut button.
“Shall we visit an ancient Egyptian tomb next?”
Special effects? Oh, they’re special all right. The Faceless Man looks like he was made of Play-Doh left in a sandbox. He punches through a door at one point, but with the grace of a tired grandpa swatting a fly. The action is so slow that I aged like a preserved Roman just watching it, and by the time the climax arrived, involving the monster trudging into the ocean for a dramatic wet sulk — I was rooting for the sea to just end it all, for everyone’s sake. Imagine if The Mummy took a nap, forgot its lines, and was replaced by a guy in a clay Halloween costume—and you’d still have more thrills than Curse of the Faceless Man delivers in its entire 67-minute runtime. Yes, 67 minutes. And it still felt too long.
“Can our thin plot even hold up that long?”
In conclusion, if you like your horror slow, your monsters crusty, and your ancient curses solved by sheer boredom, Curse of the Faceless Man is the bad movie night gift you didn’t ask for. It’s not a film so much as a sleepy shuffle through a haunted museum of missed opportunities.
