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.

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.