The City of the Dead (1960) – Review

If you’ve ever dreamed of taking a scenic New England vacation filled with Satanic cults, human sacrifices, and enough fog to choke a lighthouse keeper, then The City of the Dead (also known as Horror Hotel) is your dream destination. Directed by John Llewellyn Moxey and starring Christopher Lee in full “professor of malevolence” mode, this atmospheric little gem serves as a blueprint for the British horror boom that would haunt the 1960s. It’s spooky, stylish, and just a bit too pleased with itself—and that’s why it’s wonderful.

In 1692, the residents of Whitewood, Massachusetts, decide they’ve had quite enough of Elizabeth Selwyn (Patricia Jessel), a witch who’s been cozying up with Lucifer and scaring the livestock. They burn her at the stake, which, in fairness, is the go-to colonial remedy for most problems—though in this case, Selwyn doesn’t go quietly. She curses the village and pledges eternal service to Satan, assisted by her right-hand warlock Jethrow Keane (Valentine Dyall). It’s all very cheerful stuff, complete with cackling and a promise to keep feeding the Devil fresh virgins twice a year.

 

“Nothing says ‘justice’ like a torch and some poor judgment.”

Centuries later, smug history professor Alan Driscoll (Christopher Lee) lectures about witchcraft to a class of wide-eyed undergrads. One of them, Nan Barlow (Venetia Stevenson), gets so inspired by Driscoll’s talk that she decides to spend her vacation researching witchcraft in the very real—and very cursed—town of Whitewood. This is roughly equivalent to deciding to visit Camp Crystal Lake to study the local flora. Undeterred, Nan drives into the perpetual fog, checks into The Raven’s Inn, and meets its pleasant but peculiar owner, Mrs. Newless (also Patricia Jessel). Nan also befriends Patricia Russell (Betta St. John), who loans her a book on witchcraft, because nothing says “girls’ night in” like a tome bound in human skin.

 

The Necronomicon for Dummies.

When Candlemas Eve rolls around, Nan discovers that reading about witches is a lot safer than staying in a hotel run by one. Mrs. Newless reveals herself to be Elizabeth Selwyn—because witches apparently get free rebranding as part of their infernal contract—and promptly sacrifices poor Nan on a Satanic altar, fulfilling her annual quota of dead college students. It’s a grim little ritual, complete with ominous chanting and smoke machines that would make a rock band jealous. By the time the candles burn out, Nan’s academic curiosity has been rewarded with a front-row seat to her own sacrifice to Satan. Who could have seen this coming? Oh, everyone, you say?

 

This is what comes from ignoring Red Flags.

Two weeks later, Nan’s brother Richard (Dennis Lotis) and fiancé Bill Maitland (Tom Naylor) realize that something’s fishy when Nan stops answering letters and The Raven’s Inn can’t be found in any phone directory (a red flag even before Yelp). With help from Patricia and her grandfather, Reverend Russell (Norman Macowan), the group uncovers Whitewood’s dark secret. After the usual round of kidnappings, graveyard chases, and coven confrontations, Bill manages to burn Selwyn’s followers with a giant cross, proving that while evil never dies, it does have an allergy to wood. Selwyn’s corpse turns up in the ruins of the inn, looking like a roasted marshmallow of pure evil.

 

This movie has a very metal ending.

Stray Observations:

• How can people not figure out that burning people suspected of witchcraft is never a good idea? Either they’re innocent, and you’ve committed an even worse crime, or they’re actually a witch, and now they’re going to curse you and your descendants.
• Christopher Lee gives his lecture on witchcraft with the same enthusiasm he’d later bring to lecturing Peter Cushing with a sword.
• The amount of fog in this movie is staggering. It billows around every corner, and I bet its creation must have taken up half the film’s budget.
• The “Hour of Thirteen” sounds cool, but no one bothers to explain what time that actually is. 1 a.m.? Or just a spooky “whenever the plot demands”?
• If you hear chanting coming from a hidden trapdoor in the floor of your room, for the love of God, don’t investigate.
• Basically, Nan isn’t too bright. She drives to a mysterious, unlisted town where no one smiles, the innkeeper looks embalmed, and the only directions she gets are from a hitchhiker who literally vanishes. And yet, she stays.

 

Seriously, would you stop for this guy?

John Llewellyn Moxey’s direction deserves credit for making a modestly budgeted British production feel like a full-bodied Gothic nightmare. This was his feature debut, and he nails the atmosphere— with Desmond Dickinson’s cinematography giving us shadowy graveyards, flickering candlelight, and fog so thick it’s practically a supporting character. The visuals are drenched in atmosphere, giving The City of the Dead an eerie, dreamlike quality that would later influence both Night of the Living Dead and The Fog. Moxey’s pacing is deliberate, his framing tight, and his sense of place—despite shooting entirely on English sets meant to double as Massachusetts—is impressively convincing.

 

Next stop, The Twilight Zone.

The film’s pedigree is fascinating. George Baxt originally wrote the story as a pilot for a proposed Boris Karloff TV series called The Waxworks. When that fell through, it was expanded into this feature, which explains why it has a distinctly anthology feel. The dialogue is crisp but theatrical, the setup feels serialized, and the whole thing hums with that quaint, small-screen earnestness that somehow makes it even creepier. Karloff’s absence is a loss, but Christopher Lee steps in beautifully, turning Professor Driscoll into the world’s most sinister academic, like a man who assigns The Necronomicon for extra credit.

 

Seriously, don’t take travel advice from Christopher Lee.

The cast, though operating in B-movie territory, plays it straight, and that’s exactly what makes it work. Venetia Stevenson is all earnest curiosity and tragic naivety, while Patricia Jessel is pure Gothic gold, playing both the prim innkeeper and the resurrected witch with a delicious sense of menace. Betta St. John adds some much-needed humanity, and Dennis Lotis and Tom Naylor provide the sort of square-jawed, cardigan-clad heroism only 1960 could deliver.

 

“I told her that going to the Malt Shoppe would be safer.”

This film is simply brimming with all the good stuff: a witch’s curse, endless fog, a roadside harbinger, phantom hitchhikers, a creepy innkeeper and secret passageways. It all adds up to a truly terrifying story—one that might teach you not to visit ghostly, fog-shrouded towns populated by the dead. But the film’s real charm lies in how unashamedly old-fashioned it is. The City of the Dead doesn’t rely on blood or jump scares—it’s all about mood, dread, and that creeping sense that something ancient and rotten is festering beneath polite colonial manners. Its themes of faith, guilt, and corruption would echo through countless later horror films, and its twist—killing off the protagonist early—was practically revolutionary for its time.

Fun fact: The film was released before Hitchcock’s Psycho, making this one of the first to kill off its leading lady halfway through. Take that, Janet Leigh.

In conclusion, The City of the Dead is one of those underrated gems that sits quietly in the shadows of Hammer and Amicus productions but deserves far more love. It’s elegant, eerie, and occasionally unintentionally funny, a horror film that feels like an old ghost story told beside a crackling fire on a foggy night. While some of the acting creaks and the logic goes up in smoke, the film’s spell never breaks. Between Moxey’s direction, Baxt’s clever writing, and Christopher Lee’s deliciously menacing performance, this is a witchy delight that still casts a chill six decades later.

The Story of Robin Hood and His Merrie Men (1952) – Review

Walt Disney’s The Story of Robin Hood and His Merrie Men is what happens when a studio famous for singing animals decides to behave like a respectable purveyor of English folklore. The result is earnest, handsomely mounted, and just a little too polite for its own good. It’s Robin Hood scrubbed clean for family viewing, which means fewer moral ambiguities and more men in tights behaving like they’ve read the employee handbook.

In 1190 England, King Richard the Lionheart summons his knights to join him on crusade, because delegating national stability to your sketchy brother has always been a winning strategy. Among those answering the call is the Earl of Huntingdon, who, in a mild panic, discovers his daughter Maid Marian (Joan Rice) is missing, only to find her in a field with Robin Fitzooth (Richard Todd), a master archer who, for all his skill, turns into a completely hopeless, love-struck schoolboy in her presence, the kind who forgets how sentences work and would probably carve her name into a tree if given five unsupervised minutes.

 

“How I love thee, let me count thy ways.”

At court, the Earl entrusts Marian to Queen Eleanor (Martita Hunt), who accepts with the kind of enthusiasm usually reserved for adopting a very well-behaved cat. Richard (Patrick Barr), radiating kingly confidence, instructs his brother Prince John (Hubert Gregg) to rule wisely in his absence, which is roughly equivalent to handing a pyromaniac a box of matches and asking him to water the plants. With a blessing from the Archbishop of Canterbury (Anthony Eustrel), off he goes, leaving England to its inevitable downward spiral.

 

“You wouldn’t try and usurp my throne, would you?”

Predictably, the moment Richard exits stage left, John installs the Sheriff of Nottingham (Peter Finch), who immediately sets about taxing peasants into misery and organizing an archery contest that doubles as a recruitment drive for state-sponsored bullying. Robin and his father, Lord Hugh Fitzooth (Richard Tate), show up, win effortlessly, and decline to join the Sheriff’s merry band of extortionists. The Sheriff responds with the subtlety of a brick, ambushing them in Sherwood Forest, murdering Hugh, and forcing Robin into outlaw life after he avenges his father and is declared a traitor.

 

He is now The Fugitive!

Robin, now upgraded to Robin Hood, gathers a band of similarly inconvenienced citizens and starts redistributing wealth with the enthusiasm of someone who has just discovered both injustice and a bow. Along the way, he rescues Stutely (Bill Owen), recruits Little John (James Robertson Justice) via a fight that ends in a dunking, and ropes in Friar Tuck (James Hayter). The Sheriff, meanwhile, continues to demonstrate that cruelty and incompetence are not mutually exclusive.

 

“I’m evil, and I’m fabulous.”

Two years later, Richard is captured and needs a ransom, which John claims he cannot pay because, apparently, all the gold he squeezed out of the peasants evaporated into thin air. Marian, now less interested in polite court life, joins Robin in the forest and helps orchestrate a plan to expose the Sheriff’s hoarded wealth. After a series of disguises, ambushes, and a castle rescue that hinges on the guards being remarkably unobservant, Robin defeats the Sheriff, survives a near-fatal encounter with a drawbridge, and is eventually rewarded when Richard returns, reveals himself dramatically, and makes everything official, including Robin’s promotion and marriage to Marian.

 

“Sorry about the whole Crusades thing, my bad.”

Stray Observations:

• Splitting an arrow in the contest is treated correctly as a tie, not an automatic victory. Somewhere, a thousand other Robin Hood movies quietly pretend they never heard that.
• Prince John’s plan to rule responsibly lasts approximately four minutes. A personal best for him.
• The Sheriff’s strategy for dealing with dissent is to escalate immediately to murder. Conflict resolution workshops were clearly not a thing in medieval England.
• Robin repeatedly disguises himself, and no one notices. Medieval people apparently had the observational skills of goldfish.
• Friar Tuck gets into a full-on brawl with Robin and immediately joins him afterward, because nothing builds trust like attempted assault.
• Shooting on location in Sherwood Forest gives the film real texture, which is nice, because half the characters are operating on pure fairy-tale logic.
• Disney, in a rare moment of restraint, avoids turning this into a musical. One can only imagine the alternate universe where Little John gets a jaunty solo.

 

“Could you imagine me as a singing bear?”

Director Ken Annakin approaches the material with a kind of brisk professionalism that suggests he knows exactly what kind of film he’s making and has no interest in overcomplicating it. The pacing is tight, the action is clear, and there’s a refreshing lack of narrative bloat. More importantly, shooting on location in actual Sherwood Forest lends the film a grounded, almost tactile quality that studio-bound versions often lack. You can practically smell the damp leaves and questionable hygiene, which is more than you can say for most Technicolor adventures of the period. That’s not to say the film doesn’t utilize classic Hollywood trickery to create the world of Robin Hood.

 

“Yonder lies the matte painting of my faddah.”

The cast is a mixed bag, though a generally engaging one. Richard Todd makes for a solid Robin, projecting decency and quiet authority rather than the flamboyant swagger of predecessors like Errol Flynn. He fills out the tights admirably, even if the film occasionally has to resort to apple boxes and creative staging to compensate for his height next to Joan Rice’s Marian. Rice, by most accounts, including Annakin’s own, struggles to bring much life to the role, which is unfortunate given how central Marian is to the story. Meanwhile, Peter Finch delivers a Sheriff of Nottingham who is properly menacing without descending into pantomime, giving the film a villain who feels like an actual threat rather than a theatrical inconvenience.

 

Peter Finch nails true villainy.

As a piece of Robin Hood mythology, the film plays it mostly straight, hitting all the expected beats while sanding off the rougher edges. It doesn’t try to reinvent the legend so much as present a clean, accessible version for family audiences. In the grand hierarchy of Robin Hood films, it inevitably lives in the long shadow of The Adventures of Robin Hood, which still sets the gold standard for energy and charisma. Disney would later revisit the legend in animated form with Robin Hood, swapping tights for anthropomorphic foxes and leaning fully into whimsy. This 1952 version sits comfortably in between, more grounded than the cartoon, but never quite as electrifying as Flynn’s swashbuckling classic.

 

Richard Todd does give it the old college try.

In the end, The Story of Robin Hood and His Merrie Men is a film that understands its assignment and completes it with quiet competence. It lacks the electric charm and larger-than-life bravado of the 1938 version, but it compensates with authentic English locations, elegant Technicolor photography, and a straightforward sincerity that makes it easy to enjoy. It’s the kind of movie that doesn’t demand your attention so much as politely request it, and then rewards you with a solid, well-crafted adventure. Not the king of Sherwood, but a respectable deputy who knows how to do the job without setting anything on fire.

The Fearless Vampire Killers (1967) – Review

Roman Polanski’s The Fearless Vampire Killers is a Gothic romp, a parody of Hammer-style horror that plays like a Looney Tunes cartoon trapped inside an old German Expressionist nightmare. It’s silly, stylish, sometimes aimless, and yet oddly charming, like a vampire who insists on wearing a cape to dinner but can’t find his fangs. Uneven though it is, the film manages to be both an affectionate send-up of vampire lore and a surreal comedy of errors that stakes itself somewhere between slapstick and arthouse.

Professor Abronsius (Jack MacGowran), a mothballed vampire scholar, drags his bumbling apprentice Alfred (Roman Polanski) into the snowy heart of Transylvania. At a village inn where the mere mention of vampires sends everyone into fits, Alfred promptly falls for Sarah Shagal (Sharon Tate), the innkeeper’s bath-loving daughter. Unfortunately, Count von Krolock (Ferdy Mayne)—all aristocratic menace and razor cheekbones—whisk her away before Alfred can stammer out a hello.

He just stopped in for a bite.

The innkeeper Shagal (Alfie Bass) charges after her with garlic in hand but winds up frozen and later reborn as an even sleazier vampire, proving undeath can’t fix bad habits. Abronsius and Alfred pursue Sarah to Krolock’s lavish castle, where they meet hunchbacked servant Koukol (Terry Downes) and the Count’s flamboyant son Herbert (Iain Quarrier), who develops an instant crush on Alfred. While Abronsius blunders through escape plans, mostly getting stuck in windows, Alfred finds himself dodging Herbert’s advances as Sarah prepares for the grand vampire ball. Could things get any worse?

“What do you, the viewers, think?”

The hunters sneak into the crypt, fumble the staking, and ultimately crash the undead gala in disguise. But when a mirror reveals their inconvenient reflections, the jig is up. They barely escape with Sarah in a sleigh—only for her to reveal she’s already turned. She sinks her teeth into Alfred, leaving humanity doomed at the hands of cinema’s most inept vampire hunters.

I’ll say this: I think humanity had it coming.

Stray Observations:

• Abronsius is basically Van Helsing if Van Helsing had osteoporosis and asthma. More likely to get stuck in a window than stake a vampire, he wheezes through Transylvania like a relic in need of a relic.
• Shagal proves that death is no obstacle to being a sleazy creep. As a vampire, he doubles down on the lechery—eternity just means more time to chase barmaids.
• Sarah spends half the film in or near a bathtub—truly a pioneer in cinematic hygiene. In a world of cobwebs and mildew, she’s the first horror heroine to lure vampires with bubble bath instead of blood.
• Koukol, the hunchback, seems to moonlight as both servant and snowplow. Coffins, snowdrifts, grunt work—he’s less henchman, more one-man sanitation department.
• The vampire ball is part Eyes Wide Shut, part community theatre dress rehearsal. Cloaks, waltzes, and all the menace of a church raffle—it’s undead glamour on a budget.

It’s safe to say, he’s no Tom Cruise.

Polanski directs The Fearless Vampire Killers like a man torn between making a parody and a genuine Gothic horror film. At times, the film is a meticulous recreation of Hammer Horror aesthetics—snowbound landscapes, candlelit crypts, elaborate cobwebs that could win awards for set dressing. At other moments, it feels like a parody skit stretched to feature length, with slapstick timing that borders on farce. The tonal balance is wobbly, but the sheer oddity of it keeps you glued to the screen.

“See here? This vampire is an ankle biter!”

Douglas Slocombe’s cinematography is perhaps the film’s secret weapon. The wintry exteriors look genuinely chilling, while the interiors are painted in deep reds and shadows that feel both atmospheric and knowingly over-the-top. Even when the comedy falters, the visuals retain that lush Gothic allure, as though you’re watching a vampire opera directed by Mel Brooks’ serious cousin.

“Is it time to roll credits yet?”

The cast is a patchwork of eccentric performances. Jack MacGowran plays Abronsius like a fragile wind-up toy teetering on the edge of collapse. Polanski, as Alfred, gives himself the role of the perpetual underdog, all nervous stammers and wide-eyed panic. Sharon Tate, in her breakout role, brings both innocence and sly humour to Sarah, making her more than just the stereotypical damsel. Ferdy Mayne’s Count von Krolock is pitch-perfect: aristocratic, sinister, and just amused enough to underline the parody. And of course, Iain Quarrier’s Herbert steals scenes with flamboyant menace, a queer-coded vampire prince decades ahead of his time.

“I’m dead, and fabulous!”

In conclusion, The Fearless Vampire Killers is a peculiar beast: part parody, part homage, and part Gothic dreamscape. It doesn’t always land its jokes, and its pacing occasionally stumbles, but it’s buoyed by striking visuals, eccentric characters, and Polanski’s willingness to embrace absurdity. At once a parody of the vampire genre and a stylish love letter to it, the film lingers as a cult curiosity—flawed, yes, but fearlessly memorable.

The Devil Rides Out (1968) – Review

Hammer Films’ The Devil Rides Out is a strange beast: a heady cocktail of stately drawing-room drama, occult chills, and pure pulp lunacy, all handled with a straight face by people who should have known better but somehow pulled it off magnificently. Directed by Hammer’s maestro Terrence Fisher, the film remains one of the studio’s boldest attempts at mixing gothic tradition with contemporary supernatural dread. It’s serious, scary, sometimes silly, and endlessly entertaining.

Based on the 1934 novel by Dennis Wheatley, our story is set in London, 1929, where the refined Duc de Richleau (Christopher Lee) notices his young protegé Simon Aron (Patrick Mower) has been keeping suspicious company and decorating his house like a Black Mass IKEA showroom—pentagrams, symbols, the whole “Don’t open this book” starter pack. With his old chum Rex Van Ryn (Leon Greene), de Richleau snoops around and discovers Simon is being groomed for devil-worship by a shady cult led by the smooth-talking Mocata (Charles Gray). They also stumble across Tanith Carlisle (Nike Arrighi), another recruit who looks like she wandered in from a Vogue séance spread. The Duc whisks them both away and even gatecrashes a May Day ritual on Salisbury Plain where the Devil himself shows up in full “Goat of Mendes” cosplay.

 

“You were expecting, maybe, Smokey the Bear?”

The escape plan? Hide everyone at the country estate of de Richleau’s niece, Marie (Sarah Lawson) and her husband Richard (Paul Eddington). Safety first! Except de Richleau then leaves, Mocata shows up to be all smug and evil, only to be thwarted by the interruption of their small daughter Peggy (Rosalyn Landor). Sadly, she’s later left upstairs with only the butler as protection while de Richleau draws a protective circle for the grown-ups downstairs. Yes, the same butler who couldn’t stop two initiates from wandering into a cult earlier. Guess who Mocata decides to target?

 

Spoiler: Not the heavily armed adults in the magic circle.

While Mocata’s polite but menacing visit to the Eatons failed – he briefly mind-controlled poor Marie before her daughter’s well-timed entrance saved the day – and he ups the ante by unleashing a barrage of psychic assaults on the household. Cue nightmare visions, sinister apparitions, and finally the summoning of the Angel of Death, who arrives on horseback like the world’s grimmest Uber Eats delivery. De Richleau wards him off, but Tanith pays the price since death apparently runs on a strict “must claim someone” policy.

 

Well, there goes the film’s love interest.

Mocata, annoyed but not deterred, escalates by kidnapping Peggy outright. And I must say, leaving a little girl upstairs in her bedroom, with nothing but the butler for protection, seems like a bit of an oversight when facing the forces of evil. All seems lost until De Richleau calls forth the spirit of Tanith, who possesses Marie and drops some cryptic breadcrumbs. Rex remembers a suspicious house from earlier (convenient!), and the gang rushes in for a final showdown. Mocata looks poised to win, but divine intervention kicks in: Marie channels Tanith to help Peggy recite a spell that basically rewrites history. Time reverses, Tanith and Simon live, and Mocata’s attempt to summon death boomerangs right back at him, condemning him to eternal damnation.

 

Cue the fiery wrath of God.

Stray Observations:

• Charles Gray’s Mocata is the suavest cult leader imaginable. You’d almost join just to hear him narrate your downfall.
• The “protective circle” sequence is great—until you realize the adults are safe while poor Peggy is left upstairs, basically babysat by a tea tray. Parenting level: Victorian horror film logic.
• Tanith’s possession of Marie is handled with utmost seriousness, but it plays like the world’s slowest improv séance
• The Goat of Mendes looks less like the Prince of Darkness and more like the mascot for a rural cheese festival. He’d have been more at home in the Wicker Man remake with Nicolas Cage.
• The Angel of Death arriving on horseback indoors is both terrifying and hilarious, like a Monty Python gag played straight.

 

“None shall pass!”

Terrence Fisher, Hammer’s house genius, directs with his trademark blend of gothic grandeur and stiff-upper-lip seriousness, while none other than Richard Matheson — yes, the legendary mind behind I Am Legend and The Twilight Zone — provides the screenplay. What could have been a campy Dennis Wheatley adaptation full of hokey costumes and silly incantations is instead played utterly straight, and that’s exactly why it works. Fisher stages occult ceremonies with ritualistic weight, treating every chant like it might truly summon something dreadful. Even the quieter dialogue scenes crackle with unease, as if danger lurks just outside the frame. With Matheson’s sharp scripting and Fisher’s refusal to wink at the audience, the supernatural is treated as serious business, giving the film an unsettling edge. That restraint in the face of absurdity is what lifts The Devil Rides Out from pulp curiosity to legitimate horror classic.

 

A supernatural Holmes and Watson, if you will.

Arthur Grant’s cinematography is another triumph, bathing the countryside in golden light that suggests calm, only to plunge interiors into shadow that drips menace. The film has a painterly richness, like an old master’s canvas on which someone scribbled a pentagram. The protective circle sequence is especially striking: tight close-ups, distorted angles, and oppressive lighting make it feel as though evil is pressing in from every side. Even when the effects wobble (and they do), Grant’s careful compositions elevate the material, making the supernatural seem far more powerful than the budget could show. His visual grandeur gives the film a scale Hammer’s modest resources could rarely match, proving that atmosphere can be just as convincing as spectacle.

Note: This film does contain the standard trope of the hero on guard falling asleep at the most inopportune time. Poor Rex; he can’t catch a break.

In the context of 1960s horror, The Devil Rides Out is Hammer pushing boundaries in both bold and daring ways. Gone are the endless Dracula retreads; this time the studio tapped into the rising public fascination with Satanism, black magic, and whispered tales of real covens. The result is eerie and strangely ahead of its time, swapping cobwebbed castles for something that felt alarmingly contemporary. In doing so, it bridges the gothic traditions Hammer had built its empire on with the darker, more experimental horror sensibilities the 1970s would embrace in films like The Exorcist and Rosemary’s Baby. It’s as if Hammer, usually lost in Victorian fog, briefly looked around at swinging London and declared: “The devil is in fashion now—let’s give people what they’re afraid to admit they want.”

 

Hammer knows how to deliver nasty occult action.

As for the performances, Christopher Lee shines as the heroic Duc de Richleau, relishing the chance to be the learned saviour instead of the monster. He brings such authority to his performance that you half believe he really does keep grimoires on his nightstand. Charles Gray, meanwhile, is pure charisma as Mocata: Urbane, hypnotic, and deliciously sinister. He plays evil with such charm that it’s no wonder he later got to stroke a white cat as Blofeld. The supporting cast, from Rex’s square-jawed loyalty to Tanith’s ethereal wavering, all play their parts well, but this is ultimately a duel between Lee and Gray, and what a duel it is.

 

Charles Gray, the epitome of smug evil.

In conclusion, The Devil Rides Out is one of Hammer’s crown jewels: bold, atmospheric, and unapologetically pulpy. It mixes ritual magic, genuine chills, and the occasional head-scratching character decision into a heady brew that has aged surprisingly well. Fisher, Grant, Lee, and Gray elevate the material beyond its hokey roots, creating a film that still rides high in the Hammer canon.

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.