The Adventures of Robin Hood (1938) – Review

There are movies you respect, and then there are movies you quietly resent for making everything else look lazy. The Adventures of Robin Hood sits in that second category, prancing around in glorious Technicolor like it knows it set the template and nobody’s really topped it since. It’s annoyingly perfect, but at least it has the decency to be fun while showing everyone else up.

England, 1191. King Richard the Lionheart is off getting himself captured after the Crusades, leaving his slimy brother Prince John (Claude Rains) to run the country into the ground with all the subtlety of a tax audit conducted by a cartoon villain. With Sir Guy of Gisbourne (Basil Rathbone) lurking nearby like a well-dressed snake, the Normans crank up taxes “for the king’s ransom,” which is historically questionable but morally consistent with being terrible.

 

“We’ll be fine, unless Errol Flynn shows up.”

Enter Robin of Locksley (Errol Flynn), a Saxon noble who apparently woke up and chose violence, but like, righteous violence. He rescues Much the Miller’s Son (Herbert Mundin) from execution, storms a banquet to call Prince John a traitor to his face, and then escapes certain death because the plot would be very short otherwise. With his lands seized and his name now officially “outlaw,” Robin heads into Sherwood Forest to start what is essentially medieval guerrilla theatre.

 

Guerrilla warfare of unbridled charisma. 

Sherwood fills up fast. Will Scarlet (Patric Knowles), Little John (Alan Hale), and eventually Friar Tuck (Eugene Pallette) join Robin’s merry little insurgency. They rob the rich, help the poor, and somehow maintain a strict code of courtesy while committing organized banditry. Along the way, Robin captures a Norman convoy that includes Lady Marian (Olivia de Havilland), who starts off unimpressed and ends up fully converted after witnessing Norman cruelty firsthand. Nothing like a forced woodland banquet to change your political alignment.

 

Will romance survive Robin’s dining etiquette?

Prince John, clearly tired of being embarrassed, cooks up an archery tournament to trap Robin, which works because Robin cannot resist showing off. He wins, gets arrested, and is promptly scheduled for execution because subtle traps are not this movie’s thing. Marian flips sides completely, helps orchestrate his escape, and then sticks around the castle as a spy, because falling in love apparently comes with a side of espionage.

 

These two had an undeniable screen chemistry.

Things escalate. King Richard (Ian Hunter) returns in disguise, and everyone spends a while not recognizing him because medieval facial recognition is weak, and Marian nearly gets executed for treason. Robin and his men infiltrate the castle dressed as monks, which works disturbingly well, leading to a massive swordfight where Robin finally takes down Gisbourne in a duel that basically defines cinematic swordplay. Richard reclaims the throne, John is exiled, and Robin gets his title, his girl, and the kind of happy ending that feels earned instead of stapled on.

 

A good knight was had by all.

Stray Observations:

• The second time Errol Flynn and Basil Rathbone cross swords, literally, after Captain Blood, and somehow, it’s even better, which feels unfair to every other swordfight in cinema.
• The famous “splitting the arrow” trick gets immortalized here, despite the fact that in reality it would just result in a tie and a lot of confused judges.
• Stunt performers were paid per arrow hit, and we’re talking real arrows here, which sounds motivating until you realize each arrow was fired by a professional who absolutely did not miss.
• The guards at Nottingham Castle have the situational awareness of houseplants. Disguises work on them with alarming consistency.
• Marian switching allegiances after one well-catered forest picnic is narratively efficient, if not exactly gradual.
• Little John and Robin settling their first meeting with a stick fight on a log bridge is peak “men will do literally anything except communicate.”
• Alan Hale not only plays Little John here, but also played the same role in the silent Robin Hood with Douglas Fairbanks, making him the rare actor to get a sequel gig 16 years before sequels were even pretending to be a business model.

 

“You don’t look like Douglas Fairbanks.”

Director Michael Curtiz runs this like a man fully aware he’s building something that’ll outlive him. The pacing moves fast without feeling frantic, juggling action, romance, and intrigue without dropping any of them. His staging is clean and purposeful, so every swordfight and chase is easy to follow, not a blur of chaos. There’s a real sense of scale too, from crowded halls to open forest, and it never buckles under the weight. Most impressively, he balances adventure and humour without letting one sabotage the other, which is rarer than studios like to admit.

 

Even fat jokes land with aplomb. 

The Technicolor cinematography by Tony Gaudio, Sol Polito, and W. Howard Greene is pure flexing, but at least it’s justified. The colours are bold and deliberate, with Robin’s green popping against the lavish reds and golds of the Norman court. It’s not just decorative either; colour helps define class and mood without spelling it out. The lighting and compositions are sharp and intentional, giving every frame a sense of care that a lot of modern films somehow skip. It still looks better than plenty of big-budget movies that should know better by now.

 

An epic look for an epic tale.

As for the performances, Errol Flynn is Robin Hood in the same way gravity is a thing. You can argue alternatives, but you’re mostly wasting oxygen. He’s charming without being smug, heroic without being stiff, and has the kind of effortless screen presence that makes you forget acting is supposed to be hard. The fact that James Cagney was originally considered is fascinating, mostly because you can’t quite imagine that version without it turning into a very different, probably louder movie. Producer Hal B. Wallis taking the risk on Flynn was one of those rare studio decisions that didn’t age horribly.

 

There’s a reason he’s the definitive Robin Hood.

Reuniting Flynn with Olivia de Havilland gives the film its romantic backbone. Their chemistry is effortless, the kind that makes you believe they actually enjoy being around each other, which is not something every classic Hollywood pairing managed. De Havilland gives Marian enough intelligence and agency to keep her from being just another decorative love interest. And then there’s Basil Rathbone, who might as well have patented the concept of the elegant villain. His Sir Guy is cold, precise, and completely believable as someone who would absolutely stab you and then critique your posture. He was one of Hollywood’s best swordsmen, and it shows in every movement during that final duel.

 

This film really knew how to swashbuckle.

Before this, you had Douglas Fairbanks bounding around in the silent-era Robin Hood, which set the stage. But this film is the one that locked the image into the public imagination. The green outfit, the swashbuckling tone, the mix of humour and heroism. This is the Robin Hood people think of, even if they’ve never seen it. Every version since is either copying it, reacting to it, or pretending it doesn’t exist while quietly borrowing everything.

 

Everything else pales in comparison.

In conclusion, The Adventures of Robin Hood is one of those films that makes you a little annoyed at how right it gets everything. It’s exciting, funny, visually stunning, and anchored by performances that refuse to age. There are moments that are silly, conveniences that are obvious, and logic that occasionally takes a holiday, but none of it matters because the film knows exactly what it is and executes it with near-perfect confidence. It doesn’t just entertain, it defines what cinematic adventure should feel like, and then dares everything that follows to keep up.

The Oblong Box (1969) – Review

What happens when you mix Edgar Allan Poe, African voodoo, Vincent Price, Christopher Lee, and a British moral panic about imperial guilt? You get The Oblong Box, a gothic fever dream that starts in a coffin and ends in colonial karma. Directed by Gordon Hessler with enough fog and guilt to fill a Hammer vault, this is a movie where everyone either fakes their death, digs someone up, or just wishes they’d stayed in bed.

In 1865 England, Sir Edward Markham (Alister Williamson) is having the worst case of bad skin in Gothic cinema history. Disfigured in an African voodoo ritual after his brother’s questionable conduct abroad, he’s been locked away in the attic like a Victorian family secret. His brother Julian (Vincent Price), wracked with guilt but also apparently fine with imprisoning a relative, keeps him under wraps until Sir Edward decides enough is enough. With help from shady lawyer Samuel Trench (Peter Arne) and the conveniently available witch doctor N’Galo (Harry Baird), Edward fakes his own death using a potion that simulates the afterlife, or at least a really long nap.

 

“Have you, by chance, read Poe’s Premature Burial?”

Unfortunately, Julian is not the kind of man who handles family crises with grace. He finds his “dead” brother and, too embarrassed by the whole facial-melting situation, decides to substitute another corpse for Edward’s wake. Trench and N’Galo oblige by murdering a nearby landlord (because why not?), dumping the body in a river, and letting Julian bury his not-so-dead sibling alive. Once that’s all settled, Julian celebrates by marrying his young fiancée, Elizabeth (Hilary Dwyer), proving that nothing says romance like family homicide.

 

The horror of May-December romances.

Things go awry (as they do when you bury people who aren’t dead). Grave robbers dig up Sir Edward and deliver him—still very much breathing—to the morally flexible Dr. J. Neuhartt (Christopher Lee). Edward wakes up, blackmails the doctor, and covers his Freddy Krueger face with a crimson hood, which somehow makes him even creepier. Now convinced he’s been betrayed, he embarks on a killing spree to find the witch doctor, pausing only for a brief love affair with Neuhartt’s maid Heidi (Uta Levka). Naturally, the relationship doesn’t work out, and the maid ends up changing employers just before her homicidal ex starts turning the countryside into a murder buffet. Including an unwanted stop with a prostitute.

 

“Do you know a Jack the Ripper?”

Julian eventually catches wind that the wrong man was buried, the right man is killing everyone, and the whole situation’s about to implode. Sir Edward tracks down N’Galo, hoping for a cure, but instead learns the ugly truth: Julian—not Edward—committed the crime that led to Edward’s punishment. Voodoo justice, as it turns out, is efficient but not always accurate. After a brutal fight, Edward kills N’Galo, then returns to confront Julian. Cue gunfire, sibling accusations, and the big hood reveal. Edward gets both barrels, but not before biting his brother like a gothic vampire with a taste for irony. The curse passes on, and in the final twist, Julian’s face begins to melt just like Edward’s.

 

Somewhere, Poe is smiling—probably while rolling in his grave.

Stray Observations:

• Christopher Lee is given a “Guest Starring” credit, but as this is a movie, and not a TV show, that doesn’t make much sense. It’s not as if this were the pilot for a new show.
• Edward’s “death” plan involves so many unnecessary steps, including hiring both a lawyer and a witch doctor. A simple note saying “don’t bury me” would’ve done wonders.
• Christopher Lee’s Dr. Neuhartt may be a “doctor,” but his bedside manner suggests he got his degree from the University of Body Snatching.
• The “pro-black” themes were apparently so shocking that the film was banned in Texas, because nothing says “outrage” like a white man facing consequences for colonialism.
• Vincent Price’s Julian somehow remains dignified even while making catastrophic moral decisions. That’s the power of the mustache.
• The witch doctor’s name, N’Galo, sounds like a lost Bond villain, and he’s one of the few Black characters in gothic horror of the time who isn’t treated as a pure stereotype, which is a minor miracle in 1969.

 

He’s quite a stylish witch doctor at that.

Director Gordon Hessler, stepping in after Michael Reeves fell ill, reshaped The Oblong Box into something richer and more subversive than its modest gothic trappings suggest. Where Reeves might have gone for bleak irony, Hessler leans into atmosphere and moral decay. He takes what could’ve been a by-the-numbers Poe adaptation and turns it into a sly critique of colonial exploitation and the lingering stain of empire, a bold move for 1969 horror. Hessler’s pacing is deliberate but never dull, allowing the story’s rot—moral and literal—to seep slowly into the viewer.

 

“I’ll just ponder here, weak and weary.”

The visual style owes much to cinematographer John Coquillon, whose eye for texture and light gives the film its haunting mood. Coquillon bathes everything in the soft, golden decay of a dying empire—sunlight streaming through dust, flickering candles, and the kind of blood-red filters that make you want to check your wallpaper for mildew. He captures England as both idyllic and sickly, a place where repression grows like fungus under the drapes. Later, Coquillon would work with Sam Peckinpah (Straw Dogs), but you can already see the restless energy here. The camera prowls, curious and uneasy, as though the film itself can’t quite decide who deserves sympathy.

 

The Red Hood, later to become a Batman villain?

Screenwriter Lawrence Huntington, with Christopher Wicking adding polish and bite, built a film that steals Poe’s title but writes its own moral. Instead of the Gothic cliché of madness and mistaken identity, they blend in voodoo, revenge, and colonial guilt. It’s an audacious hybrid—half Poe, half post-colonial guilt trip—and somehow it works. The story dares to make its horror not just about curses and coffins but about the violent legacy of imperialism. That subtext—one of retribution and mistaken punishment—was bold enough to get the movie banned in some U.S. states.

 

“They’ll never let this play down South.”

Vincent Price and Christopher Lee share only one brief scene together in The Oblong Box, but it’s a doozy. When they finally meet, Lee’s Dr. Neuhartt is bleeding out on the floor, delivering his lines with the calm resignation of a man who knows he’s about to exit both the scene and the film. Price’s Julian hovers with that weary aristocratic guilt of his, a man who knows he’s damned but still manages to look stylish about it. Their combined gravitas practically tilts the set; it’s less a horror pairing than a gothic duet, cruelly cut short just as the melody begins. Even in that fleeting moment, it’s like watching two masters duel over who can arch an eyebrow more dramatically.

 

He is king when it comes to handling a death scene.

In conclusion, The Oblong Box may not be pure Poe, but it’s pure Gothic gold. Hessler and Coquillon transform what could’ve been another dusty graveyard tale into a meditation on guilt, class, and the festering sins of empire; delivered with crimson masks, foggy moors, and Vincent Price in peak brooding form. It’s a film of moral rot and literal disfigurement, where revenge rises from the grave and history itself won’t stay buried.

Witchfinder General (1968) – Review

Some horror films entertain. Some horror films scare. Witchfinder General just fixes its gaze on you, mutters “you’re doomed,” and slaps you across the face with raw cruelty. Vincent Price, usually the maestro of gothic camp, here gives one of his coldest and most viciously restrained performances. No cobwebby castles or spooky theatrics; just a grim march through human depravity with Michael Reeves as your merciless guide.

England, 1645. While the country is tearing itself apart in the Civil War, Matthew Hopkins (Vincent Price) spots a career opportunity. Forget soldiering, this sharp-eyed opportunist decides he’ll make more money (and gain more power) by “hunting witches.” Armed with nothing but a sneer, a fake title, and a creepy assistant/torturer named John Stearne (Robert Russell), Hopkins begins dragging terrified villagers into makeshift trials, torturing confessions out of them, and billing magistrates for the privilege.

 

Early modern capitalism at its finest.

Meanwhile, young Roundhead Richard Marshall (Ian Ogilvy) survives a skirmish, earns a promotion, and promptly gallops home to see his beloved Sara (Hilary Heath). Sara’s uncle, kindly priest John Lowes (Rupert Davies), warns Marshall that storm clouds are coming—translation: “The script says I’ll be dead by act two.” Marshall vows to marry Sara and protect her, but then fate decides to kick him square in the breeches. On his ride back to duty, he encounters Hopkins and Stearne, innocently giving them directions to his own village. Big mistake.

 

Marshall, noble hero, but an unlucky bastard.

Hopkins and Stearne waste no time. Lowes is accused of witchcraft, prodded with needles, and tortured until Sara tries bargaining with Hopkins for her uncle’s life. Unfortunately, Hopkins is called away, leaving Stearne to commit rape because apparently one villain in this movie wasn’t vile enough. Hopkins returns, pretends to be scandalized by Stearne’s “enthusiasm,” then casually signs Lowes’s death warrant anyway. By the time Marshall returns, the priest is hanged, Sara is traumatized, and Marshall is out for blood. Of course, when one is going up against a character played by Vincent Price, there is usually but one outcome.

 

Good or bad, it’s all going to end in tears.

The final act turns into a brutal revenge story. Marshall vows to kill Hopkins and Stearne, tracks them through the countryside, and eventually finds himself captured along with Sara, accused of witchcraft, and subjected to the same tortures. But Roundhead rage is stronger than rope. Marshall breaks free, stomps Stearne’s face, and hacks Hopkins to bits with an axe. Just when you think Hopkins is gone, his agony is ended by a soldier’s bullet. Marshall, however, loses his mind entirely, screaming into the void as Sara descends into madness beside him. The Civil War may rage on outside, but in this dungeon, humanity has already collapsed.

 

“This will definitely hurt you more than me.”

Stray Observations:

• Matthew Hopkins is possibly the most punchable man in history. His resting smug face should be classified as a war crime.
• A “witch” gets the full torch-and-pitchfork send-off by burning… except England never actually used fire for witchcraft executions.
• Marshall, our “hero,” is basically fueled entirely by righteous fury and poor decision-making. Dude, maybe don’t give directions to the guy who looks like Satan’s tax auditor.
• Sara spends half the movie as a symbol of innocence and the other half being horrifically tormented. Hammer heroines had it rough, but this is next-level cruel.
• Historically, Hopkins executed over a hundred supposed witches in East Anglia. The movie’s body count? A bit lower, but no less disturbing.
• The ending is a straight-up historical remix, Inglourious Basterds style. Reality says Hopkins died peacefully in bed. Cinema says, “axe him to bits and shoot him for good measure.” Cinema wins.

 

This official certainly got the axe.

Michael Reeves directs Witchfinder General – aka The Conqueror Worm – with a brutal clarity that rips away all gothic frills. There are no haunted castles, no supernatural spooks, just human beings at their worst. Reeves refuses to let you escape into fantasy. The violence is ugly, the countryside eerily calm, and the horror comes not from demons but from authority figures who abuse power for profit and lust. The young director clashed with Vincent Price on set, but that tension bleeds into the film. Hopkins is cold, clinical, and detached; a villain who doesn’t shout or snarl but instead calmly orders torture like he’s selecting wine.

 

You can’t put a Price on talent.

This was also a rare outing for American International Pictures, better known at the time for schlocky drive-in fare. Here, AIP backed a film rooted in grim historical reality, and it stands out precisely because of that grounding. Hopkins was a real figure, a self-appointed “Witchfinder General” who spread fear for personal gain. Reeves uses him as a symbol of corruption and hypocrisy, painting a chilling portrait of what happens when unchecked power collides with mass hysteria.

 

This is not an era I’d ever care to visit.

Vincent Price is, of course, magnificent. Stripped of his usual theatrical flourishes, he plays Hopkins with icy restraint, making him far scarier than any cackling mad scientist or gothic villain he’d done before. This is Price weaponizing subtlety, and it’s arguably one of the finest performances of his career. Ian Ogilvy does solid work as Richard Marshall, though his character is mostly required to look grim, shout a lot, and swing swords with Roundhead enthusiasm. Hilary Dwyer brings a tragic dignity to Sara, though she’s saddled with an almost unendurably grim arc. Robert Russell, meanwhile, goes full scumbag as Stearne. If Hopkins is cold calculation, Stearne is brutish cruelty. Together, they make one of cinema’s most revolting villain duos.

Note: Vincent Price hated the role at first and clashed badly with director Michael Reeves, who wanted a younger actor. Ironically, Price’s subtle, restrained performance ended up being one of the best of his career.

In conclusion, Witchfinder General is not an easy watch, but it’s a necessary one. It strips horror down to its bleakest form, showing us that human evil needs no supernatural justification. Reeves’s direction, Coquillon’s unflinching lens, and Price’s chillingly restrained performance all combine to make this one of the most disturbing films of the 1960s. It’s horror not dressed up in cobwebs and organ music but horror born from real history—and maybe that’s why it lingers.

Douglas Fairbanks in Robin Hood (1922) – Review

1922’s Robin Hood – released as Douglas Fairbanks in Robin Hood – is one of those silent-era spectacles that makes you wonder if early Hollywood briefly lost its collective mind and decided to build an entire medieval city just for fun. Released at the absolute height of the silent swashbuckler craze, the film exists largely as a grand showcase for the unstoppable athletic charisma of Fairbanks. The result is a massive, lavish, occasionally goofy adventure that helped define what we now think of as the classic Robin Hood legend on screen.

The film opens with the dashing Earl of Huntingdon (Douglas Fairbanks) besting his bitter enemy, Sir Guy of Gisbourne (Paul Dickey), in a jousting match, establishing right away that this fellow is the kind of man who wins tournaments before breakfast. Huntingdon then joins King Richard the Lion-Hearted (Wallace Beery), who is heading off to the Crusades and leaves his less-than-trustworthy brother, Prince John (Sam De Grasse), in charge as regent. Naturally, this proves to be about as wise as leaving a fox in charge of the royal henhouse, as Prince John soon reveals himself to be a cruel, scheming tyrant who, encouraged by Sir Guy, decides he quite likes the throne and takes it.

 

A right pair of villains.

Back in the Holy Land, Huntingdon receives a message from Lady Marian Fitzwalter (Enid Bennett), his beloved, explaining that England has gone straight to the dogs under Prince John’s rule. He requests permission from King Richard to return home and help sort things out, but Richard—apparently in no mood for nuance—assumes the Earl is trying to dodge crusading duties and denies the request. When Huntingdon attempts to leave anyway, Sir Guy ambushes him, has him branded a deserter, and tosses him in prison. After escaping captivity, the Earl risks both life and reputation to return to England, only to find that he and his friends have been declared outlaws and that Marian is believed to be dead.

 

“I think it’s time for a career change.”

Refusing to let tyranny ruin everyone’s day, Huntingdon reinvents himself as Robin Hood, the acrobatic champion of the oppressed. From the greenwood of Sherwood Forest, he gathers a merry band: Friar Tuck (Willard Louis), Little John (Alan Hale), Will Scarlet (Bud Geary), and Allan-a-Dale (Lloyd Talman)—and proceeds to make Prince John and the Sheriff of Nottingham’s lives an absolute nightmare through daring raids and cheerful lawbreaking. Robin rescues Marian from Prince John’s clutches, defeats Sir Guy in a climactic clash, and is briefly captured before the timely return of King Richard restores order, reunites Robin with Marian, and reminds Prince John that attempted royal usurpation is generally frowned upon.

 

“I declare a happy ending!”

Stray Observations:

• This is a rare Robin Hood who seems oddly afraid of women. He’ll leap castle walls and fight armies without blinking, but gets strangely awkward whenever Marian appears.
• Little John is first introduced as Huntingdon’s squire, but the fact that he is left behind when Huntingdon goes off to the Crusades is a little odd.
• Huntingdon asks the King for permission to return to England, but without telling him why, for…. reasons? Is this stupidity, or simply to add dramatic tension?
• Sir Guy of Gisbourne uses his own dagger in his failed attempt at regicide. Yeah, not the sharpest knife in the drawer.
• In this version, the famous quarterstaff fight is not between Robin Hood and Friar Tuck, but between Friar Tuck and a disguised King Richard.
• The enormous castle and Nottingham sets were constructed at the Pickford–Fairbanks Studio and were so massive that they became tourist attractions during production.
• Some of the sets were designed by architect Lloyd Wright, son of legendary architect Frank Lloyd Wright, which may make this the only medieval adventure movie with a serious architectural pedigree.
• Alan Hale, who plays Little John here, would go on to reprise the role again in 1938’s The Adventures of Robin Hood, starring Errol Flynn.
• The Sheriff’s guards are hilariously incompetent at catching Robin, which becomes a recurring theme of basically every Robin Hood story ever told.
• Some prints include an early Technicolor sequence during the court pageantry, which must have blown audiences’ minds in 1922.

 

Today, it’s still rather impressive.

One of the most jaw-dropping aspects of Robin Hood is simply how enormous it is. The filmmakers didn’t just build a few backdrops and call it Nottingham; they constructed an entire medieval city on the Pickford-Fairbanks Studio lot in Hollywood, complete with massive stone gates, towers, and streets filled with extras. The castle alone looks large enough to withstand a genuine siege. When hundreds of performers flood through the courtyard, the film briefly resembles a historical epic decades before Hollywood perfected the form. For a 1922 production, the scale borders on the absurd in the best possible way.

 

That scale also came with a staggering price tag. 

The film reportedly cost around $1 million, which in modern terms works out to roughly $19 million—an astronomical budget for the silent era. You can see every dollar on screen: giant sets, elaborate costumes, enormous crowd scenes, and production design that feels far more ambitious than most films of its time. It’s the sort of spectacle that only early Hollywood, drunk on its own newfound power, would attempt. Even beyond the physical scale, the film shows a surprising level of visual sophistication in its use of colour tinting, a common silent-era technique where different scenes were bathed in specific hues. Cool blues suggest night or secrecy, warm ambers evoke torchlit interiors, and other tints help guide the audience through changing locations and moods. The result is that this silent film quietly uses colour with impressive effectiveness, adding atmosphere and emotional texture long before full-colour cinema became the norm.

 

The colour of romance.

As an adaptation of the Robin Hood legends, the film takes a few liberties but captures the spirit of the mythology remarkably well. Instead of starting with Robin already in Sherwood Forest, it gives us a full origin story for the Earl of Huntingdon, turning him into a nobleman who deliberately becomes an outlaw in order to fight tyranny. This adds a sense of heroic sacrifice to the story while still delivering all the classic elements: Sherwood Forest, the merry men, the wicked Prince John, and a whole lot of cheerful rebellion against corrupt authority. In many ways, the movie codifies the version of Robin Hood that later films would follow. The noble outlaw, the merry brotherhood, the romantic bond with Marian, and the climactic return of King Richard all appear here in a form that later adaptations would refine but rarely replace.

 

“You’ve been a terrible brother.”

The influence of 1922’s Robin Hood on later adventure films is enormous. The movie helped establish the swashbuckler as a major Hollywood genre, laying the groundwork for the sword-fighting spectacles that would dominate the 1930s and 1940s. You can see its DNA in everything from the Errol Flynn Robin Hood films to later adventure heroes like Zorro, pirates, musketeers, and pretty much any cinematic rogue who prefers rooftops and rope swings to walking through doors like a normal person. Its action style—acrobatic, playful, and heavily centred around a charismatic hero—became the template for decades of adventure cinema. Modern action films may rely more on explosions and CGI, but the basic appeal of a fearless hero performing outrageous physical feats started here.

Stunt Note: Despite warnings from his brother and studio executives about the danger, as Fairbanks was both the star and producer, making an injury a huge financial risk, he insisted on performing the climb, where he shimmied up the chains of a rising 40-foot drawbridge.

And of course, none of this works without Douglas Fairbanks himself. Fairbanks wasn’t just the star of the film; he was the engine driving the entire spectacle. His performance is packed with athletic stunts, climbing walls, swinging across beams, and leaping around the giant sets like gravity is merely a suggestion. In many ways, Fairbanks was the prototype for modern action stars. Long before stunt doubles and digital trickery became standard practice, he insisted on doing many of his own stunts, giving the film a physical authenticity that still feels impressive today. If modern audiences look at Tom Cruise dangling off airplanes and skyscrapers, they’re basically watching a tradition that Fairbanks helped invent.

 

Fairbanks, a truly charismatic action hero.

A century later, Robin Hood remains one of the most ambitious productions of the silent era. Its gigantic sets, lavish costumes, and huge crowd scenes feel like a statement piece from a young Hollywood eager to prove it could rival any spectacle in the world. The film may move at a leisurely silent-era pace and occasionally indulge in theatrical melodrama, but its charm, humour, and sheer sense of adventure remain infectious. Most importantly, Douglas Fairbanks’ exuberant performance gives the movie an energy that still leaps off the screen…sometimes literally, usually from the top of a castle wall.

The Living Skeleton (1968) – Review

Japanese horror in the 1960s was a weird, wonderful experiment in atmosphere and existential dread, and The Living Skeleton might be its most gloriously unhinged specimen. Directed by Hiroshi Matsuno for Shochiku Studios, this black-and-white maritime nightmare blends ghost story, revenge thriller, and Catholic guilt trip into a single eerie fever of fog and bones. It’s as if Gothic horror crashed headlong into Scooby-Doo and decided, “Sure, why not?”

We open with a bang, and by bang, I mean pirates with machine guns, so definitely not the Jack Sparrow variety. This gang of cheerful psychopaths commandeer a ship, mow down the crew, and dump the victims’ bodies overboard, chaining them together like some kind of nautical macramé project. Among the dead are newlyweds Yoriko (Kikko Matsuoka) and her husband, Doctor Nishizato (Kô Nishimura), though don’t expect the film to explain how everyone got this far without questioning a ship named The Dragon King crewed by pirates in turtlenecks.

With this kind of villain, you just roll with it.

Enter Saeko (also Kikko Matsuoka), Yoriko’s twin sister, now living under the wing of a suspiciously handsome Catholic priest (Masumi Okada) whose kindness feels about as genuine as a televangelist’s tax receipts. Saeko is still mourning her sister when she goes scuba diving with her boyfriend Mochizuki (Yasunori Irikawa), who’s either an oceanographer or just really into getting her into a wetsuit. Down below, they find something unsettling: a whole crowd of skeletons chained together under the sea, swaying like a particularly bleak synchronized swimming team. Because this is a horror movie, they don’t immediately call the cops, a scientist, or literally anyone, with Mochizuki trying to pass it off as a hallucination or seaweed.

Yeah, skeletal-shaped seaweed, for sure.

Then things get weird(er). A mysterious fog rolls in, and a ghostly ship appears on the horizon—yep, it’s the same death barge from three years ago, now doing its best impression of The Flying Dutchman. Saeko races off into the night to board the deserted ship to investigate, leaving her poor, befuddled boyfriend in her wake. Because when a cursed phantom ship materializes offshore, clearly the best move is to go aboard. Once on the creaking, cobwebbed vessel, Saeko starts hearing voices, seeing skeletons chained to the walls, and realizing she looks exactly like one of the murdered passengers.

Cue the world’s creepiest case of déjà vu.

Unsurprisingly, people start dying, a vengeful spirit stalks the pirates, and twin identities get tangled up in a supernatural vendetta that makes Dark Shadows look like Blue’s Clues. By the time the priest’s dark secret surfaces – along with some well-hidden scars – and the skeletons claw their way out of watery graves, The Living Skeleton shifts gears from eerie ghost story to full-blown bone opera. In the chaos that follows—fog is rolling in, murder is in the offing, candles sputtering, and dudes are melted by acid —the truth comes crashing down: Turns out that Dr. Nishizato had survived the massacre and has been using blood transfusions in an attempt to bring his bride back to life. Because that makes sense. The final act erupts in acid, blood, and divine payback, as innocence and evil blur into one spectral scream of justice, leaving only the sea to wash it all away.

And no, I have no idea what the fuck went down.

Stray Observations:

• Crew and passengers being machine-gunned down by ruthless pirates aboard a ship carrying gold gives off strong vibes of Ghost Ship from 2002.
• Saeko’s reaction to finding chained skeletons underwater is basically, “Huh, that’s odd.” Girl, that’s a crime scene.
• The film trots out the “identical twins have a psychic bond” trope, only here, it works from beyond the grave. Or is it?
• The underwater skeletons are so well preserved that they’d make a museum curator weep. Apparently, the ocean’s great for bone maintenance.
• Bats appear as harbingers of death, making me wonder if these ghosts were related to Dracula.
• The ending is pure gothic melodrama: fire, death, religion, skeletons, and regret. You half expect Vincent Price to wander in and offer everyone a monologue.

I would never have guessed “mad science” was an ingredient.

Hiroshi Matsuno directs The Living Skeleton with a quiet precision that makes its eventual descent into ghostly chaos all the more satisfying. He’s not afraid of long silences, drifting fog, or shots that linger just a little too long on the horizon as if waiting for something dreadful to emerge. It’s a style equal parts Gothic romance and maritime noir, and while the pacing occasionally wobbles like a rowboat in a typhoon, the film’s eerie visual language keeps you hypnotized. Matsuno wrings maximum dread from minimalist settings, using sound design, creaking boards, tolling bells, and murmuring waves to make the ocean itself feel haunted.

Who else had “The Priest was involved” on their bingo card?

Masayuki Katō’s cinematography deserves serious credit. Shot in crisp black and white, the film’s lighting shifts between the luminous (the underwater skeletons shimmering in the dark) and the nightmarish (the ghost ship’s glowing silhouette against black water). Katō manages to make the sea both beautiful and terrifying, a reflective void that swallows light, sound, and reason. The camera moves with a funereal grace, as if haunted by its own subjects. Every frame could double as a ghost story told by moonlight.

A haunting beauty with a taste for revenge.

Then there are the WTF moments. The priest’s sudden heel-turn into demonic insanity. All glorious. Shochiku Studios, known for genteel dramas and sci-fi oddities, went through a brief but glorious phase in the late ’60s where they asked, “What if we made horror… but really weird?” Alongside films like Goké, Body Snatcher from Hell, The Living Skeleton represents the apex of this bizarre experiment: part art film, part grindhouse ghost story. It’s Japanese horror trying to out-Gothic Hammer Films and succeeding in sheer mood, if not coherence.

The sea rarely gives up its dead.

In conclusion, The Living Skeleton is a wild cocktail of ghosts, guilt, and gorgeous gloom. It’s atmospheric, ridiculous, and haunting in equal measure; a movie that makes you laugh at its logic while admiring its audacity. Matsuno crafts a ghost story that feels both deeply Japanese in its sense of moral retribution and playfully Western in its Gothic trappings. For a film about revenge from beyond the grave, it’s remarkably alive, with style, menace, and the eternal question of why anyone thought scuba diving near pirate corpses was a good idea.