The Raven (1963) – Review

Few films manage to blend the macabre and the ridiculous with such cheerful abandon as Roger Corman’s The Raven. A Technicolor romp through Gothic castles, candlelit laboratories, and magical duels, it’s part horror, part farce, and all campy charm. With Vincent Price, Peter Lorre, and Boris Karloff hamming it up in the best possible way, The Raven proves that even Edgar Allan Poe can be good for a laugh.

In the year 1506, the melancholic sorcerer Dr. Erasmus Craven (Vincent Price) still mourns the death of his wife Lenore, much to the exasperation of his patient daughter Estelle (Olive Sturgess). His nightly brooding is interrupted when a talking raven appears at his window. The bird, in a nasal and distinctly put-upon tone, claims to be Dr. Adolphus Bedlo (Peter Lorre), another magician who’s been transformed into avian form by the nefarious Dr. Scarabus (Boris Karloff). Craven, ever the gentleman alchemist, agrees to help and brews a potion to restore Bedlo’s rather grumpy human form. He does have a few pointed questions as to how this all happened.

“So, you were drunk while magicking?”

Bedlo explains that Scarabus cursed him after an “unfair” duel of magic and, between complaints about feathers and lack of brandy, urges Craven to join him in confronting the villain. Craven has another reason to go: Bedlo swears he saw Lenore (Hazel Court) alive and well at Scarabus’s castle. Despite a magically possessed coachman’s attempt to stop them, Craven, Bedlo, Estelle, and Bedlo’s ambitious son Rexford (Jack Nicholson, in his early, wild-eyed glory) set off into the misty night. Naturally, Rexford and Estelle fall in love before the horses have cooled their hooves.

“Trust me, I’m going to be big in pictures.”

Once at the castle, the ever-courteous Scarabus greets them with a smile as sinister as a poisoned teacup. Bedlo, trying to show off, attempts a little storm-summoning to prove his mettle and is apparently struck dead for his troubles. But this being Peter Lorre, the “death” is short-lived. Rexford soon discovers Bedlo alive, hiding behind a curtain and sheepishly admitting he struck a deal with Scarabus to lure Craven there. Meanwhile, poor Craven finds his supposedly dead wife alive and well and in league with Scarabus, and not in a “bewitched” way, but to learn the dark arts.

I can certainly see what Scarabus wants out of the deal.

When our heroes try to flee, Scarabus catches them and locks them in a dungeon. Bedlo, terrified of torture, begs to be turned back into a raven and promptly flaps away, leaving his son behind. But in a moment of redemption, he returns to free Rexford and aid Craven. What follows is the pièce de résistance: a magical duel between Craven and Scarabus, complete with levitating chairs, fireballs, lightning bolts, and enough hand gestures to shame a Shakespeare troupe. Scarabus sets his own castle ablaze, but Craven triumphs. Lenore tries to rekindle their relationship (pun intended), but Craven, having learned his lesson, lets the castle — and his faithless wife — burn. In the smouldering aftermath, Bedlo, still a raven, tries to convince Craven to turn him human again. Craven’s deadpan response… 

“Quoth the raven—nevermore.”

Stray Observations:

• There’s no real reason this film is called The Raven except that Corman liked the poem and maybe someone found a fake bird in storage.
• That said, the film opens with Vincent Price reading the Edgar Allan Poe poem, and that alone is worth the price of admission.
• Vincent Price somehow manages to look elegant even while stirring potions in a smoking cauldron the size of a bathtub.
• Boris Karloff, despite the heavy robes, delivers menace through diction alone; every “Craven” he utters could curdle wine.
• Lenore’s plan to fake her death to become Scarabus’s girlfriend feels less “diabolical” and more “poorly thought through.”
• Lenore is also a stepmother to Estelle, which should have been the first clue that she’s a little villainous and not to be trusted.
• The climax ends in a wizard duel like no other; not since the fight between Merlin and Mad Madam Mim in Disney’s The Sword in the Stone has magic been this fun.

Scarabus ends up with egg on his face.

Roger Corman’s The Raven is a testament to the director’s genius for turning scraps into spectacle. Working with his usual modest budget and lightning-fast shooting schedule, Corman crafts a movie that looks richer and livelier than many studio productions of the era. The sets are hand-me-downs from earlier Poe adaptations, but under Corman’s direction and Floyd Crosby’s lush cinematography, they shimmer with candlelight, colour, and cobwebbed grandeur. Crosby, who shot everything from High Noon to House of Usher, gives The Raven a storybook elegance but with a lighter tone; every shot glows like an oil painting dipped in mischief.

A gleeful bit of mischief. 

As an adaptation of Edgar Allan Poe’s immortal poem, The Raven is about as faithful as a cat in a birdcage. Richard Matheson’s script uses Poe’s title, Vincent Price reading from the poem, and a few gothic trimmings as a launchpad for a gleefully absurd fantasy comedy. Instead of psychological torment, we get bumbling wizards, talking birds, and marital infidelity played for laughs. Some Poe purists might shudder at the liberties taken, but honestly, if Poe is rolling in his grave, it’s probably from laughter. Matheson knew that a direct adaptation of the poem would make a five-minute short, not a feature film, so he did the only sensible thing: he made it fun.

“Should I recite the poem again?”

The cast is where The Raven truly soars. Vincent Price is both dignified and delightfully arch, bringing a winking self-awareness to Erasmus Craven’s genteel melancholy. Boris Karloff’s Scarabus is all gravitas and sneering charm, an aged villain whose power is more theatrical than terrifying. Peter Lorre, meanwhile, steals every scene as Bedlo, improvising with reckless abandon and throwing Karloff’s carefully rehearsed lines off course, much to the latter’s irritation. Young Jack Nicholson, as Bedlo’s son, holds his own against the veterans, while Hazel Court brings her usual fiery elegance to the duplicitous Lenore. It’s a pretty stacked ensemble of veterans and newcomers alike — a lineup so good it feels like Corman summoned the horror genre’s Mount Rushmore for one big magical duel.

How can you not love this group?

In conclusion, Corman’s The Raven may not be Edgar Allan Poe’s The Raven, but it’s a rollicking, candlelit romp through Gothic absurdity. Equal parts spooky and silly, it’s a showcase for three of horror’s greatest legends having the time of their lives, directed by a man who could conjure atmosphere from fog machines and leftover sets.