The Fall of the House of Usher (1960) – Review

Roger Corman’s The Fall of the House of Usher not only kicked off his legendary Poe cycle, but it’s also a Gothic fever dream that set the bar for all candlelit insanity to follow. Mixing high melodrama with low-budget ingenuity, Corman turns Edgar Allan Poe’s short story into a lush Technicolor nightmare about doom, decay, and a brother who really needs to stop gaslighting his sister. It’s a haunted house movie where the house itself seems more alive than most of the people in it. Which, to be fair, is part of the charm.

The film opens with the introduction of Philip Winthrop (Mark Damon), a dashing young man with the kind of arrogance only 19th-century literature majors can muster, arriving at the Usher estate to reunite with his fiancée, Madeline Usher (Myrna Fahey). The mansion, squatting in a swamp like a mouldy wedding cake, immediately screams, “Don’t go in there,” but Philip goes in anyway. Inside, he meets Roderick Usher (Vincent Price), Madeline’s morbidly eloquent brother, who explains that the family is cursed due to its consisting of a long line of criminals. Every Usher has gone insane, and their bad vibes have seeped into the walls, the trees, and possibly the soundtrack. Roderick insists that marriage would only spread the rot, but Philip’s too lovestruck (and genre-blind) to notice that everything around him is shouting leave!

I’d certainly turn back after one glance at this place.

Naturally, things spiral from bad to Poe-level worse. After yet another argument with her brother, Madeline falls into a cataleptic trance. This is a medical condition known in Gothic cinema as “plot convenience.” Roderick, fully aware she’s not dead, has her entombed in the family crypt faster than you can say “maybe get a second opinion.” Philip mourns briefly before the butler Bristol (Harry Ellerbe) lets it slip that Madeline had a history of catalepsy—oops. Suddenly realizing he’s in a horror story, Philip sprints back to the crypt to undo what 19th-century men do best: make terrible decisions involving women’s bodies.

Things go about as expected.

Yes, Roderick had entombed the poor girl alive, to “spare” her the Usher curse, but Madeline managed to claw her way out of her coffin in a scene that’s equal parts horrifying and metal. She’s gone mad from her ordeal, and who can blame her? Drenched in blood and vengeance, she storms through the burning halls like a bridal banshee, confronting Roderick and strangling him to death in a glorious act of Gothic retribution. As the fire spreads and the house collapses—because no cursed mansion ever has proper fire safety—the Usher bloodline and their ancestral eyeshadow are finally extinguished. Philip alone escapes, watching the flaming ruins sink into the swamp, as Poe’s immortal line whispers doom over the soggy remains.

A right and proper fiery end.

Stray Observations:

• Roderick Usher’s haircut looks like it was styled by a ghostly art student; perfectly symmetrical, faintly judgmental. The choice of extreme blonde, Vincent Price’s.
• Roderick Usher claims he can’t stand anything rougher than angel wings brushing his skin, yet the man’s strutting around in starched collars, brocade vests, and about twelve layers of “unbearable” Gothic couture. Maybe the real curse is his tailor.
• A falling chandelier almost kills Philip, and while this is a horror cliché, it’s also a solid clue that maybe staying here is a bad idea.
• The butler Bristol’s “Oh, she has catalepsy!” line ranks among cinema’s all-time great late-in-the-game confessions.
• This was the first time Vincent Price’s voice achieved full baritone melancholy saturation—a performance setting he’d use for years.
• Poe’s “The Fall of the House of Usher” is all gray gloom and shadow. Corman splashes every Technicolor hue across the screen like he’s trying to outdo a Gothic paint commercial.

Vincent Price and the Art of Horror.

AIP’s House of Usher marks the dawn of Roger Corman’s remarkable collaboration with American International Pictures, a rare marriage of pulp literature and drive-in economics. Corman, who could shoot an entire movie before you finished lunch, approached Poe with an unexpected seriousness. Instead of the rubber monsters and dime-store effects of his earlier work, he leaned into atmosphere: fog, firelight, and psychological decay. Floyd Crosby’s lush, painterly cinematography gives the Technicolor palette a haunting opulence; every crimson curtain and golden candle flicker feels part of the story’s sickness. Together, they turned a limited budget into a visual symphony of dread, proving that Gothic horror could be both intelligent and commercially viable.

The house may be falling apart, but it’s still gorgeous. 

As Roderick Usher, Vincent Price delivers a performance that is at once theatrical and devastatingly precise. His Roderick isn’t a madman frothing at the mouth; he’s a delicate, doomed aesthete, haunted by the sound of everything, including his own conscience. Price embodies decadence with such conviction that you start believing the house is alive just to keep him company. Within Corman’s unofficial “stock company,” Price became the soul of these Poe films; his voice, his face, his sheer command of Gothic despair defined the series. No one else could make lines about familial evil sound like tragic poetry instead of melodramatic nonsense.

There’s no melodrama like Poe melodrama.

As a translation from Poe to the screen. Poe’s original short story is a mood piece, a slow descent into rot and madness, with no romance, no dramatic resurrection, and certainly no fistfights in crypts. Corman’s adaptation, scripted by Richard Matheson, turns that eerie atmosphere into a full-blooded melodrama. By giving the narrator a name, a love interest, and a reason to storm the castle, the film trades subtle horror for operatic intensity. Purists may balk, but the film’s spirit is faithful to Poe’s obsession with psychological doom and entrapment. Corman made it cinematic, turning Poe’s quiet despair into screaming Technicolor.

It’s all about despair and screaming.

In conclusion, The Fall of the House of Usher remains a cornerstone of American Gothic cinema, the film that elevated Roger Corman from schlock maestro to serious stylist. It’s grandly overwrought, occasionally silly, and utterly mesmerizing.  A haunted-house movie where you can practically smell the mildew. Corman’s visual bravado, Floyd Crosby’s painterly eye, and Vincent Price’s trembling nobility fuse into something timeless: a story of a house too cursed to stand and a man too proud to leave it.

Beauty and the Beast (1987) – Review

By the 1980s, Beauty and the Beast had already been adapted so many times that the story was basically on autopilot. Naturally, Cannon Films looked at that pile of versions and thought, “Yes, what this needs is a budget that barely covers catering and a dream.” The result is the 1987 entry in their Cannon Movie Tales series, a film that exists somewhere between earnest fairy tale and something you’d accidentally tape over with a hockey game.

We begin with a wealthy merchant living the good life with his sons Oliver (Joseph Bee) and Frederick (Jack Messinger), and his daughters Bettina (Carmela Marner), Isabella (Ruth Harlap), and the ever-patient Beauty (Rebecca De Mornay). Beauty is less a daughter and more a full-time domestic support system, keeping the entire family functioning while they lounge around like decorative furniture. She doesn’t resent it, which either makes her a saint or someone who hasn’t yet discovered the concept of boundaries.

 

“Someday I’ll be a fairy tale princess, and you can all suck it.”

Then fate, or possibly a screenwriter with a checklist, sends the merchant’s fortune into a tailspin after a series of financial calamities. The family relocates to the countryside, where Beauty continues doing literally everything while the others perfect the art of being useless. When word arrives that a ship might have survived, the merchant promises lavish gifts. Beauty, in a rare moment of modesty, asks for a single rose, which turns out to be the most expensive flower in cinema history.

 

“I’ll give you an offer you can’t refuse.”

On his way home empty-handed, the merchant stumbles into a castle that offers free room service with a side of ominous vibes. He helps himself to a rose because, apparently, he learned nothing about consequences, and is promptly confronted by the Beast (John Savage), who demands Beauty in exchange. The merchant agrees with shocking speed, and Beauty is shipped off like a polite hostage, where she discovers that magical conveniences abound and her new roommate mostly communicates through awkward dinner proposals and emotional neediness.

 

“Fair warning, I’m totally into Stockholm Syndrome.”

Life at the castle settles into a routine: dinner, rejection, dream sequences featuring a mystery prince, repeat. Beauty grows fond of the Beast because proximity and narrative necessity are powerful forces. After visiting her family, where she finds that her siblings have gone back to being selfish pricks, she returns late to find the Beast dramatically dying. Realizing she loves him just in time to save the runtime, she accepts his proposal, breaks the curse, and transforms him into the prince from her dreams. Cue fireworks, transformation, magical reunions, and the film sprinting to the finish line before anyone asks too many questions.

 

Is it me, or does the Prince look to be rethinking marriage?

Strays Observations:

• The merchant trades his daughter for a flower and somehow remains the “good parent” in the story. Standards were different, apparently.
• Beauty’s entire family forgets how to function without her, then magically learns independence the second she leaves. Convenient personal growth is the best kind.
• The Beast asks “Will you marry me?” every night like he’s stuck in a very specific loop of emotional torture.
• Beauty falls in love with a guy she barely interacts with outside of dinner and existential dread.
• Time moves differently in the castle, which is less a plot device and more a screenwriter shrugging.
• The magical castle provides anything Beauty wants, yet she still spends most of her time looking vaguely bored.
• The reveal that the Beast is the prince from her dreams lands with all the surprise of a neon sign flashing “PLOT TWIST.” Basically, for this to work, Beauty has to be pretty dim.
• The Beast owns a golden mechanical bird that looks suspiciously like Bubo from Clash of the Titans, if Bubo had been assembled from leftover parts and mild disappointment.

 

“I bet I could get good money for this on eBay.”

This film sits comfortably inside the Cannon Movie Tales experiment, a well-intentioned but financially shaky attempt by Menahem Golan and Yoram Globus to crank out fairy tales for a younger audience. They planned sixteen films, which is adorable optimism considering Cannon’s habit of spending money like it was a myth. The series stopped at nine when their adaptation of Rumpelstiltskin flopped, leaving the rest to quietly slip onto video shelves where they could do less damage.

 

“I walked with you…once upon a dream.”

Director Eugene Marner deserves some credit for trying to wring atmosphere out of what was clearly a limited production, though he’s fighting an uphill battle the entire time. There are moments where the film almost convinces you it has a mood, particularly in the castle scenes, but it never quite escapes the gravitational pull of its budget, and it certainly isn’t helped by a collection of songs so uninspired they feel like contractual obligations rather than storytelling. Cinematographer Avraham Karpick does what he can, which mostly results in visuals that resemble a mid-tier television special.

 

“Tonight, on a very special episode of Punky Brewster.”

The cast is a mixed bag, leaning heavily toward “trying their best under the circumstances.” Rebecca De Mornay brings a gentle sincerity to Beauty, though she also spends a surprising amount of the film looking quietly confused, as if she’s just as unsure about what’s happening as the audience. That sincerity still helps anchor things when everything around her looks like it was assembled over a weekend. John Savage, meanwhile, has the unenviable task of playing the Beast, buried under makeup and forced to oscillate between menace and wounded vulnerability. He gives it effort, but the material doesn’t exactly meet him halfway, leaving him stranded somewhere between tragic figure and confused dinner guest. The only real upside is that the makeup itself is quite impressive.

 

Kudos to makeup designers Deborah Eastwood and John Price.

In the grand lineup of Beauty and the Beast adaptations, this one sits in an odd middle ground, and its timing didn’t do it any favours either. It arrived alongside the television series starring Ron Perlman as the Beast and Linda Hamilton as Beauty, which rather brutally highlighted what a difference resources, writing, and actual atmosphere can make. Needless to say, one of these is still talked about with genuine affection, and the other is… this. Which ends up as a curious footnote, a product of Cannon’s particular brand of ambition-meets-budget-reality. It’s not the worst version, which might be the most backhanded compliment imaginable, but it’s rarely the one anyone remembers first.

 

“Beast, should I sing another insipid love song?”

In conclusion, 1987’s Beauty and the Beast is the kind of film that survives on sheer earnestness. It wants to be magical, and occasionally it almost convinces you, but it’s constantly undermined by its limitations. Still, there’s a strange charm in watching a studio like Cannon attempt something so classical with such modest means. It’s uneven, sometimes unintentionally funny, and often visually underwhelming, yet there’s enough sincerity to keep it from collapsing entirely. Not exactly a fairy tale triumph, but not a complete disaster either, which might be the most honest outcome Cannon could hope for.

The Plague of the Zombies (1966) – Review

Hammer Films wasn’t just about Peter Cushing creating monsters or Christopher Lee hissing over a candelabra. They also dabbled in voodoo, Cornish superstition, and the occasional zombie infestation. 1966’s The Plague of the Zombies is one such detour; a gothic, fog-drenched curiosity that manages to be creepy, silly, and weirdly influential all at once.

Sir James Forbes (André Morell), the sort of doctor who thinks “holiday” means “poke around in other people’s corpses,” is summoned by his old student, Dr. Peter Thompson (Brook Williams). Peter is drowning in patients, but not in cures; his Cornish village is racking up mysterious deaths like it’s running a “buy one, get one free” deal on coffins. Naturally, Sir James shows up with his daughter Sylvia (Diane Clare) in tow, because Hammer films always require a wholesome blonde to imperil.

 

“What does one wear to a plague, father?”

Things escalate quickly: Peter’s wife Alice (Jacqueline Pearce) is acting like she wandered in from a goth music video, wasting away under an unnamed illness and muttering ominous things. Soon enough, Alice dies, then doesn’t stay dead. Sir James digs her up and finds her body missing, which is never a good sign unless you’re in a farce. Even worse, the graveyard has more traffic than Piccadilly Circus at rush hour, with corpses sneaking out for late-night walks. I think this would be considered a tad odd in most places, but to be fair, in Cornwall, that might not even be a red flag.

 

“Does this mean we have to bury everyone twice?”

The culprit is revealed to be the suavely sinister Squire Clive Hamilton (John Carson), who has graduated from the standard aristocratic villainy of fox hunting and tenant-cheating to full-on zombie farming. Using a bit of voodoo picked up on his Caribbean holidays (way more hands-on than bringing home a straw hat), Hamilton has turned the local peasants into undead labourers for his tin mine. Hammer really leaned into the “what’s scarier than a union-busting aristocrat?” angle here. Hamilton casually steals some of Sylvia’s blood after a wine glass “accident.” Sylvia is soon entranced and lured to the mine by a small zombie parade, and the Squire prepares her for zombification-lite.

 

I hope that mine is OSHA-compliant.

Naturally, Sir James isn’t about to let zombie capitalism go unchecked. After some grave robbing, secret passage exploring, and a lot of men in frock coats falling into pits, he unmasks Hamilton’s operation. Luckily, Sir James uncovers Hamilton’s voodoo dolls, accidentally sets the mansion on fire, and discovers that zombies really don’t handle flames well. While the mine becomes a writhing, burning chaos, Sir James and Peter rescue Sylvia, leaving Hamilton to scream his last amid the inferno. Cornwall is saved, though the property values are probably shot.

 

“Well, that was a shit show.”

Stray Observations:

• Apparently, Cornish police don’t bother with forensics: “Oh, you were drunk near the body? You must have done it.” Case closed.
• Men refuse to work in an unsafe mine, so the mine is closed. Solution: Rich asshat uses voodoo to turn miners into zombies to work the mine. Yeah, that checks out.
• Hamilton’s voodoo involves breaking wine glasses and collecting blood in the least subtle way possible. No one thinks this is weird?
• Burning tiny voodoo dolls causes zombies to freak out and combust in perfect sync. It’s convenient, but raises real questions about quality control.
• We have a spooky manor house, a villainous scheme to make money with zombies, and there’s a Great Dane. A few more elements and we’d have a Scooby-Doo movie.

“And I would have gotten away with it, too, if it weren’t for that meddling doctor.”

Director John Gilling delivers The Plague of the Zombies with the gothic moodiness Hammer was known for, but adds a surprising dose of grit. The opening voodoo sequence, with its pounding drums and eerie ritual, immediately sets this apart from the studio’s usual vampire-goth template. Gilling keeps the action brisk and the suspense simmering, though his biggest triumph is how he balances moments of genuine creepiness (the zombies rising from their graves, Sylvia entranced in the moonlight) with the unintentionally goofy (tin mines and blood-stealing wine tricks).

 

I do wonder where Hamilton got his voodoo drummers? Did he place an ad?

Arthur Grant’s cinematography is a major reason the film still works today. His fog-drenched Cornish landscapes, shadowy graveyards, and claustrophobic mine shafts give the film an oppressive atmosphere that papered over some of the sillier story beats. The iconic scene of zombies clawing their way out of the earth is still haunting, thanks to Grant’s lighting and framing. It’s one of Hammer’s most enduring images, and you can see why George Romero might have taken notes.

 

“They’re coming to get you, Sir James.”

In terms of zombie history, The Plague of the Zombies is a fascinating bridge. It looks back to White Zombie (1932), with its voodoo origins and Bela Lugosi’s hypnotic control, while also prefiguring Romero’s flesh-eating hordes two years later in Night of the Living Dead (1968). Hammer’s zombies don’t eat brains—they’re more into unpaid labour—but the imagery of shambling corpses and their tragic victims paved the way for the modern zombie genre.

 

“More brains, please!”

As for performances, André Morell brings a welcome gravitas to Sir James, grounding the story even when he’s knee-deep in coffin lids. Diane Clare does her best with the fainting-damsel routine, though Sylvia is often more plot device than character. Jacqueline Pearce is wasted as Alice, but her gaunt features as a zombie are unforgettable. And John Carson? He steals the movie, oozing sinister charm as Hamilton, making the voodoo villain both menacing and oddly classy.

 

He plays “Rich Asshat” with extreme vigour. 

In conclusion, The Plague of the Zombies may not be Hammer’s most famous film, but it’s one of its most distinctive—a gothic horror with a voodoo twist that managed to look backward to Lugosi and forward to Romero. It’s silly, atmospheric, and occasionally profound in its imagery, proving Hammer could do more than just Dracula sequels. If nothing else, it gave us zombies before they were cool, and for that, it deserves a special spot in horror history.

The Gorgon (1964) – Review

Hammer Studios, by 1964, had already wrung Dracula and Frankenstein dry, so why not toss a Greek monster into the misty forests of Mittel-Europe? Thus, The Gorgon was born: a gothic stew of crumbling castles, candlelit laboratories, and one unfortunate mythological import who seems to have taken a wrong turn on her way to Mount Olympus. The result is a strange but hypnotic Hammer horror, elevated by strong performances, lush visuals, and one of cinema’s oddest genre mashups.

Germany, 1910: Vandorf is your classic Hammer village; superstitious peasants, a gloomy castle, and a death rate that should alarm the insurance industry. In just five years, seven locals have turned to stone, and the police have responded with a collective shrug. Things escalate when Sascha Cass (Toni Gilpin), pregnant, with her artist boyfriend Bruno Heitz (Jeremy Longhurst), meets something in the woods so hideous it literally petrifies her. Bruno ends up hanging from a tree, and the authorities conveniently call it a murder-suicide because “Gorgon” doesn’t sound good on the paperwork.

 

“Can we blame it on Dracula?”

Professor Jules Heitz (Michael Goodliffe), Bruno’s skeptical father, isn’t buying the official story. He storms into Vandorf, snoops around the ever-ominous Castle Borski, and winds up staring straight into the eyes of Megeara. Even while mid-transformation into granite, he heroically scribbles a desperate letter to his surviving son, Paul Heitz (Richard Pasco), warning him about the village’s resident Gorgon. Paul arrives to investigate and immediately clashes with Dr. Namaroff (Peter Cushing), the stiff-necked physician who insists on explaining away a rash of “stone-cold” murders rather than face the truth. His nervous assistant Carla (Barbara Shelley) shows more compassion, offering at least a shred of humanity amid the cover-ups. Sadly, she also succumbs to bouts of amnesia. When Paul catches Megeara’s reflection in a pool, he emerges aged and weakened, but instead of running, he doubles down on unravelling the mystery. Because, of course, that’s how Hammer heroes roll.

 

“Carla, do you like older men?”

Enter Professor Karl Meister (Christopher Lee), who cuts through the nonsense and figures out the truth: Carla is the unwilling host for Megeara, cursed to transform during the full moon like a Greco-Gothic werewolf with worse hair problems. Paul, of course, is hopelessly in love with her, because Hammer films require at least one doomed romance to offset all the torch-wielding villagers (whose go-to solution for everything, from mysterious deaths to a shortage of ale, is “form a mob”). Naturally, Meister sees the tragedy coming a mile away, but Paul refuses to believe the obvious, and so the Professor has his time wasted glaring majestically at the fools who surround him.

 

No one glares quite like Christopher Lee.

The finale unfolds at Castle Borski, where Carla/Megeara appears in full scaly glory. Namaroff makes a dramatic sword-swinging attempt at heroism but ends up as lawn décor. Meister, being less sentimental, takes one clean swipe and removes the Gorgon’s head. But tragedy strikes when Paul, already entranced by her gaze, slowly turns to stone, realizing too late that his beloved Carla was also the monster. Nothing says Gothic romance quite like finding out your girlfriend is a part-time snake-headed death machine.

 

Christopher Lee to the rescue.

Stray Observations:

• Vandorf must be the most negligent town in Europe. Seven petrified corpses, and nobody thinks “Hmm, maybe we should investigate.”
• For a film set in Germany, not a single villager seems capable of pronouncing “Megeara” the same way twice.
• Unlike in the Greek mythology, even seeing the reflection of a Gorgon is dangerous, ageing you instead of turning you to stone.
• Dr. Namaroff is both creepy and useless: he hides evidence, gaslights Carla, and gets turned to stone trying to look heroic.
• The Gorgon herself looks… let’s say “unfortunate.” Her rubber snakes wobble like they’ve had one too many at the pub.
• If you live in a village a stone’s throw from some creepy abandoned castle, and some evil creature begins preying on the populace, that’s kind of on you.

 

Do they at least put up warning signs around this place?

The biggest stumbling block for The Gorgon is its mythology. Dropping a Greek monster into the misty forests of 1910 Germany feels like Hammer shuffled its horror deck and pulled the wrong card, then shrugged and said, “Eh, close enough.” To make matters worse, Megeara isn’t even one of the three actual Gorgons—those were Stheno, Euryale, and Medusa. The name also lands awkwardly near “Megara,” Hercules’ wife, who, to my knowledge, never petrified anyone outside of a marital argument. Even if you forgive the liberties, the whole concept feels oddly misplaced in Vandorf, a town that screams for vampires, werewolves, or anyone who owns a cape. And yet, Terence Fisher commits so fully to Hammer’s trademark gothic atmosphere that the absurdity somehow winds up being part of the movie’s strange allure.

 

The hero is stoned, but not in a fun way.

Fisher handles the material with his usual stateliness. Measured pacing, elegant compositions, and lots of solemn dialogue about ancient curses delivered with straight faces. He treats the Gorgon myth with the same reverence he gave Dracula, which is both admirable and unintentionally funny, because the creature effects never quite match the gravitas. The rubbery snakes and stilted makeup are a far cry from the horrors being so earnestly described, and yet Fisher’s conviction keeps the whole affair from collapsing into camp. What he lacks in convincing monster design, he makes up for in mood; wringing dread out of a castle hallway, a creaking staircase, or a windswept forest, creating a film that often looks far scarier than its monster ever appears.

 

Castles and monsters, what’s not to love?

Much of that atmosphere is thanks to Michael Reed’s cinematography. Reed bathes Vandorf in blue mists, shadowy woods, and eerie moonlight, making the village feel like a fever dream stitched together from folklore and Gothic architecture. His camera lingers on ruined walls and cobblestone paths, suggesting a town weighed down by its own cursed history. Even when the Gorgon herself finally stumbles onscreen, Reed’s lighting and framing do their best to shroud the rubber and spotlight the menace. His visuals transform moments that could have been laughable into images that hover somewhere between nightmare and fairy tale, turning a creaky monster movie into something strangely, almost accidentally, haunting.

 

The Gorgon, in all her glory.

As always with Hammer, the actors give the film a gravitas it probably doesn’t deserve. Peter Cushing plays Dr. Namaroff with a simmering mix of menace and melancholy, investing the role with layers of guilt and obsession. Christopher Lee nearly steals the film as Professor Meister, striding in late but commanding every scene with sharp intelligence and just the right amount of theatricality. Richard Pasco makes Paul sympathetic despite his poor decision-making, while Barbara Shelley (always reliable) gives Carla a tragic vulnerability that anchors the film’s melodrama. Together, the cast elevates the hokey premise into something strangely moving.

 

When titans face off.

In conclusion, The Gorgon may not be Hammer’s finest hour, but it’s one of its most intriguing oddities. A mishmash of Greek mythology and Gothic atmosphere, it somehow works, thanks to Terence Fisher’s steady direction, Michael Reed’s haunting cinematography, and the powerhouse duo of Cushing and Lee. The monster may wobble, the plot may creak, but the film lingers in the mind like a half-remembered nightmare, equal parts ridiculous and haunting.

Beauty and the Beast (1978) – Review

Somewhere along the line, someone in Czechoslovakia looked at Beauty and the Beast and thought, “This needs more dread, more feathers, and significantly less comfort.” This 1978 adaptation, directed by Juraj Herz, answers that call with unnerving enthusiasm. It takes a familiar fairy tale and drags it through a snow-covered nightmare where romance feels like a side effect rather than the goal.

A widowed, financially ruined merchant named Otec (Václav Voska) manages to speedrun bankruptcy in spectacular fashion when he loses the entire cargo meant as dowries for the weddings of his ambitious, envious older daughters Málinka (Zuzana Kocúriková) and Gábinka (Jana Brejchová) to a pair of decadently useless earls. With that particular domestic disaster secured, his only remaining shot at survival is selling the one thing left with any value: a painting of his late wife, the mother of his youngest daughter Julie (Zdena Studenková), the only child in the household who hasn’t fully committed to emotional corrosion. Julie, naturally sweet and inconveniently moral, is the one who asks for nothing, but her father says he will bring a wild rose, which is enough to kick off the kind of chain reaction that fairy tales reserve for people who really should have stayed home.

 

“Oh, and stay out of the Black Wood. It’s haunted”

Needless to say, the father wanders into said enchanted forest and stumbles upon a decaying castle that looks like it’s one strong gust of wind away from collapsing. Inside, there’s magically provided food and drink, which he consumes without hesitation because stranger danger clearly wasn’t a thing in fairy tales. After a cozy nap by the fire, the merchant wakes to find a convenient pile of jewels. Because nothing says “this is fine” like free treasure in a haunted ruin, he pockets the lot and even pauses to thank his invisible host, which is adorable in a doomed sort of way. On his way out, he remembers the rose he promised Julie and picks one from the garden.

 

Yeah, that was a mistake.

This is where the universe finally snaps and introduces him to the Beast (Vlastimil Harapes), a half-man, half-falcon nightmare who looks like he escaped from a particularly aggressive fever dream. The Beast is less than thrilled about the rose theft and immediately sentences the merchant to death. However, in a generous moment, he offers a loophole: one of the merchant’s daughters can take his place. The merchant refuses, opting for a noble death, which is admirable but not particularly practical.

 

This version of the Beast is unsettling, to say the least.

Julie, proving she’s the only one operating with a functioning moral compass, volunteers to save her father. She travels to the castle on a horse sent by the Beast, because even cursed bird-monsters understand the importance of transportation logistics. Upon arrival, she drinks from a conveniently placed glass that is, of course, drugged. She falls into a deep sleep and dreams of a handsome man rescuing her, because even her subconscious is trying to negotiate a better deal. Meanwhile, the Beast wrestles with his violent urges, pacing around like a gothic teenager who just discovered feelings and doesn’t like them. He wants to kill Julie, but also… doesn’t. Love, apparently, is just intrusive thoughts losing a coin toss.

 

This is what you call a conflicted love story.

Julie and the Beast begin their relationship through nightly conversations, because actually seeing each other would be too straightforward. Over time, she starts to fall for the voice, which is either romantic or deeply concerning, depending on how much you trust disembodied flirting. One morning, the Beast reaches out, and Julie’s touch transforms his talons into human hands. This is shocking to him, mainly because he had fully committed to the whole “eternally cursed bird-man” identity. Julie, however, eventually gets homesick and asks to see her family. The Beast, against his better judgment, shows her a magical vision through a door and then, in a moment of questionable decision-making, reveals his true form. Julie reacts like anyone would when confronted with a human-sized falcon: poorly. She flees back home, where her sisters are shocked that she’s still alive, which is not the warmest welcome.

 

Their first thoughts, “Wow, your jewels would look great on me.”

Back at the castle, the Beast handles rejection with the emotional maturity of a storm cloud and starts destroying everything, eventually setting the place on fire. Julie, meanwhile, is haunted by his voice, because nothing says “healthy relationship” like supernatural guilt trips. Realizing he’s dying, she returns to the enchanted forest and finds him among the ruins. In a final act of transformation, the Beast becomes the man from her dreams, neatly resolving the whole “terrifying bird creature” issue just in time for the ending.

 

Well, it had to wrap up somehow.

Stray Observations:

• Finding random jewels in a cursed mansion and deciding to take them is a bold strategy. It works out exactly as badly as expected.
• The Beast’s inner monologue spends a concerning amount of time loudly suggesting he should kill Julie, which is certainly one way to handle romantic tension and a very enthusiastic departure from the usual “grow a rose and learn empathy” version of this story.
• The Beast enforces a strict “don’t look at me” policy and then gets upset when Julie struggles with his appearance. Pick a lane.
• Julie drinks mystery liquid in a creepy castle. At this point, she’s practically asking for magical consequences.
• The Beast decides the best time to reveal his horrifying true form is right before Julie is already emotionally overwhelmed. Timing is not his strength.
• Burning down your own castle because someone rejected you feels a bit excessive, even by fairy tale standards.

 

Though, in this case, it may actually improve its property value.

Juraj Herz doesn’t so much adapt Beauty and the Beast as he dismantles it and rebuilds it into something colder and far more unsettling. Known for his work in horror, Herz leans heavily into the psychological and gothic elements, stripping away the comforting warmth that usually cushions this story. The result is a film where love feels fragile and uncertain, constantly threatened by violence and decay. Working alongside cinematographer Viktor Růžička, Herz creates a visual language that is equal parts dream and nightmare, with stark contrasts, heavy shadows, and an almost suffocating sense of isolation. The castle doesn’t feel magical so much as diseased, a place where time and sanity have both started to rot.

 

This castle is not what you’d call a tourist attraction.

That decision to build the entire castle set in the studio gives the film its claustrophobic intensity. Every corridor, every room feels deliberately constructed to trap both the characters and the audience. It’s an expensive gamble, and apparently so expensive that Herz had to double-dip by shooting The Ninth Heart (1979) on the same set. Efficient, if nothing else. The upside is that the environment feels cohesive and oppressive in a way location shooting rarely achieves. The downside is that you can practically hear the budget groaning under the weight of all that stone and gloom.

 

I bet the Bog of Eternal Stench has a better Yelp rating.

The design of the Beast is where the film fully commits to its strange, haunting identity. Created by makeup artist Jiřina Bissingerová, this is not your typical furry, vaguely cuddly monster. This Beast is sharp, angular, and aggressively bird-like, with a beak and talons that make the idea of romance feel like a risky investment. It’s a bold choice, and it works because it refuses to soften the horror. When Julie recoils, you get it. When the Beast struggles with his own nature, you believe it. This isn’t a creature you’d want to hug. It’s one you’d cautiously observe from a safe distance while reconsidering your life choices.

 

Fans of Furries need not apply. 

Placed within the long history of Beauty and the Beast adaptations, Herz’s version stands as one of the most uncompromising. Earlier versions, like Cocteau’s 1946 film, leaned into poetic fantasy, while later adaptations, especially the more commercial ones, smooth out the darker edges in favour of romance and accessibility. This 1978 film sits in a strange middle ground, refusing both the elegance of the past and the polish of the future. It’s raw, eerie, and often uncomfortable, which makes it less universally appealing but far more memorable.

 

This movie puts the “C” in creepy.

In conclusion, this version of Beauty and the Beast feels like it was dragged through a blizzard and left to fend for itself, emerging as something both beautiful and deeply unsettling. The film’s blend of surreal imagery and grounded emotional tension creates a toxic, dreamlike atmosphere that sticks in your mind whether you want it to or not. Herz doesn’t offer easy answers or comforting resolutions, instead presenting love as something fragile, almost accidental, struggling to survive in a world steeped in fear and isolation. It’s not the kind of fairy tale you watch to feel good, but it’s absolutely the kind you remember, if only because it refuses to let you settle into anything resembling comfort.