The Hearse (1980) – Review

Some movies slip through the cracks of horror history—not quite cult classics, not quite forgotten relics, but instead hovering in that strange purgatory where genre fans know of them without necessarily having seen them. The Hearse, directed by George Bowers, is exactly that sort of film.

On paper, The Hearse has all the makings of a gothic horror standout: an isolated old house with a tragic history, a small town with suspiciously nosy locals, a mysterious stranger who may or may not be a ghost, and, of course, the titular hearse, gliding down shadowy backroads like a rolling omen. But the actual film we get? Well, let’s just say the coffin lid doesn’t always shut tightly. The story follows Jane Hardy (Trish Van Devere), a recently divorced schoolteacher who retreats to the rural town of Blackford to spend the summer in her late aunt Rebecca’s house. From the start, Jane faces hostility from locals like attorney Walter Pritchard (Joseph Cotten), who claims the house should be his, and unsettling visions of both her aunt’s ghost and a phantom hearse that appears and vanishes without explanation.

 

Not to mention, nightmares that may be more than dreams.

Jane’s attempts to settle in are further complicated by strange nocturnal disturbances, Rebecca’s diary—which reveals her involvement with devil worship—and her budding romance with the enigmatic Tom Sullivan (David Gautreaux), who first appears after rescuing her from a car accident in his vintage black car. Though charming, Tom’s connection to Rebecca and the sinister events in town becomes increasingly suspicious, while Jane finds herself drawn deeper into the house’s dark history. Meanwhile, young handyman Paul Gordon (Perry Lang) develops his own attachment to Jane, only to be caught in the supernatural crossfire.

 

“Miss Hardy, have you ever heard of the term MILF?”

The final act confirms Jane’s worst fears: Rebecca had made a pact with Satan, and Tom is not only linked to her but may in fact be the same man—undead, Immortal, and bound to fulfill the pact through Jane. After the deaths of both Pritchard and Paul, Jane learns the truth and is nearly ensnared in Tom’s bargain before Reverend Winston (Donald Hotton) intervenes with an attempted exorcism. The climax escalates into a desperate chase as Tom pursues Jane in the hearse, ending in fiery destruction when it crashes and explodes off a cliff. Yet even in defeat, the evil lingers—Rebecca’s apparition watching from the darkened house, as though the pact has never truly ended.

 

Don’t worry, there will not be a sequel.

Stray observations:

• If horror films have taught me anything, it’s that visiting your old hometown will lead to nothing but trouble. Just ask Ben Mears about his trip back to Salem’s Lot.
• If on your first night in an old house, a music box plays by itself, and is then not where you left it the following morning, pack your things and get out. That’s just common sense.
• She’s run off the road multiple times, someone breaks into her house, but she never calls the police. And sure, the sheriff’s a creep, but you could at least file a report.
• The film is practically allergic to speed — it takes almost an hour before anything truly happens, making it feel like a gothic horror trapped inside a real-estate dispute.
• Jane Hardy spends more time wandering through her aunt’s house than anyone spends wandering in Scooby-Doo. You start to think the real horror is poor interior lighting.
• The townspeople are weirdly hostile to Jane from the very first scene. Imagine moving to a small town and immediately having everyone tell you to get lost — it’s like The Wicker Man, but with less music and more awkward silences.
• Dennis Quaid shows up uncredited as a telephone repairman, and it had me questioning whether this was a horror film or a porno.

 

“Did someone call for a hook-up?”

The strongest element here is the sense of mood. Bowers leans heavily into gothic trappings—foggy woods, candlelit hallways, a piano that seems to play by itself—and the titular hearse, a black, silent, almost sentient vehicle that stalks Jane at odd moments, works well as a recurring image. There are even flashes of Carnival of Souls in the way the hearse appears: sudden, spectral, inexplicable. When the film embraces its uncanny imagery, it has a kind of dreamy potency, the sense that Jane has stepped into a nightmare that obeys its own strange rules.

 

Safety Tip: Do not approach a hearse in your nightgown at night.

But atmosphere can only take a movie so far, and The Hearse too often mistakes slow-burn pacing for suspense. Scenes that should build tension tend to drag, and Jane spends a lot of the movie wandering, staring, or repeating the same cycle of being spooked, doubted, and dismissed. The “romantic” subplot, with David Gautreaux as the charming yet suspicious Tom Sullivan, and Joseph Cotton’s turn as a shady lawyer, feels like padding rather than a plot. The supposed “mystery” of whether Jane is losing her mind or whether supernatural forces are really at work is handled with such clumsy repetition that by the time the finale arrives, the audience is more exasperated than intrigued.

 

We get a lot of wandering around in the dark.

Still, there’s something endearing about its old-fashioned earnestness. This was 1980, after all—the year that Friday the 13th and the slasher boom hit big—yet The Hearse looks backward instead of forward, clinging to gothic horror traditions of the ‘60s and ‘70s. In some ways, that makes it an oddity worth revisiting. It’s not interested in gore, not really interested in innovation, and definitely not interested in the new wave of horror excess. Instead, it’s a moody little throwback, caught between ghost story and melodrama, with occasional jolts of supernatural menace. The Hearse’s grill is even more evil-looking than the one from The Car (1977).

 

Sadly, it doesn’t have that one’s cool honking horn.

Does it succeed? Not entirely. The acting wavers, the script is repetitive, and the scares rarely land with much force. And yet, if you’re in the right frame of mind—say, late at night, with the lights down and the volume up—the movie can lull you into its creaky rhythms. The sight of the black hearse, its headlights cutting through mist as it silently appears and disappears, remains a striking image, and that alone almost justifies its minor cult reputation.

 

There’s always room for one more.

In the end, The Hearse is the kind of movie you watch less for thrills and more for vibes. It’s gothic wallpaper, a ghost story whispered half-heartedly, but there’s a certain charm in its refusal to be anything other than what it is: a small, slightly dusty horror curio. Not quite alive, not quite dead—much like the hearse itself, endlessly circling backroads, carrying something you can’t quite see but feel all the same.

Curse of the Faceless Man (1958) – Review

Move over, The Mummy—there’s a new ancient undead romantic in town, and he’s slow, dusty, and looks like someone left a clay sculpture in the microwave for too long. This entry tells the thrilling tale of an immortal Roman gladiator encased in volcanic ash, who appears to have been sculpted out of leftover oatmeal and possesses the fashion sense of a dusty throw pillow.

The movie kicks off in Pompeii, Italy—home of Mount Vesuvius, lava, and inconvenient volcanic eruptions. While excavating the ruins, archaeologists unearth a jewel box and a mysterious, ash-covered humanoid figure, solid as granite and wrapped up like a Roman mummy. But here’s the kicker—the body shows signs of life. Yeah, it’s still warm. Oh, and there’s a strange brooch found with the body. It’s got ancient symbols and gives off heavy “cursed object alert” vibes.

 

“This will make me famous or get a lot of people killed.”

Our hero is Dr. Paul Mallon (Richard Anderson), who is brought in by Dr. Carlo Fiorello (Luis Van Rooten) to take a look at this startling find. Unfortunately, en route to the Museo di Napoli, the body comes to life and kills the driver of the truck that was transporting it. Afterwards, the body, apparently dead again, is found several meters away from the wrecked truck. Without witnesses, no one fully understands what has happened. Both our hero and the authorities are baffled by the “accident,” but when Dr. Emanuel (Felix Locher) shows up with the translation of the Etruscan writing found on a bronze brooch, things become clear. He suspects this may be Quintillus Aurelius, a Roman gladiator who was supposedly buried alive during the eruption of Vesuvius, and that the eruption was caused by a curse this gladiator had placed on the brooch in response to the forbidden love between him and a Roman noblewoman.

 

This plot is as half-baked as that gladiator.

Enter Tina Enright (Elaine Edwards), a beautiful artist and fiancée to Paul Mallon. Tina begins painting images of ancient Rome and—wait for it—portraits of the very Faceless Man before ever seeing him. Tina insists she’s dreamed of the Faceless Man, and feels some weird, almost magnetic connection to it. She even believes she might have been someone else in another life. Cue the reincarnation subplot! Tina thinks she was a Roman noblewoman, and the Faceless Man was her doomed gladiator lover. Sure enough, Tina turns out to be the reincarnation of Quintillus’s ancient love, a Roman noblewoman who died in Pompeii. Apparently, love really never dies—it just bakes in lava for a couple of thousand years and comes back with a grudge and no face. 

 

“Honey, is that you?”

Paul brushes this off because SCIENCE, but let’s be real—he’s dating someone with psychic visions and hauntingly specific historical recollections. He should probably take that more seriously. Sure enough, spooky stuff starts happening. People around the museum begin to die—strangled to death—with a fine dusting of volcanic ash left behind. It doesn’t take long for the film’s supporting characters (and eventually Paul) to suspect the impossible: the Faceless Man may be alive. Or reanimated. Or possessed. Or all three.

 

“My money is on  the creature having watched The Mummy.”

Apparently, radiation (because it’s the 1950s and that explains everything) has reawakened the creature, and now it’s roaming the streets—silent, slow, and unkillable. It’s basically a prehistoric Terminator with a crush. But he’s not just killing at random. He’s searching for Tina, his long-lost Roman love. His tragic, undead heart still beats… metaphorically. Somewhere inside that stone husk, the gladiator’s soul lives on, guided by sheer will and ancient rage. Tina is torn between fear and fascination. Is she truly connected to this creature? Can she stop it with love alone? Paul’s not buying the “reincarnated girlfriend” angle, but he’s finally on board with “animated lava-man is murdering people.

 

Can true love defeat an ancient Etruscan curse?

Eventually, the authorities confront the Faceless Man, who predictably shrugs off bullets like raindrops. But love (or at least emotionally charged confrontation) proves to be his undoing. In the film’s startling climax, the Faceless Man captures Tina and carries her down to the ocean. It’s meant to be a tragic, romantic finale: he wants to escape with her, perhaps into the sea, perhaps into oblivion. But Paul and the authorities catch up just in time to watch this tragic figure carrying Tina into the surf, and while their bullets are ineffective, to their amazement, Quintillus simply dissolves in the seawater.

 

A damp and soggy conclusion.

Stray Observations:

• The monster is called “Faceless,” but he clearly has a face. It’s just gooey and looks like a melted candle. Maybe “Curse of the Vaguely Deformed Man” didn’t test well.
• Anyone caught in the 79 AD eruption of Mount Vesuvius was instantly killed by superheated gases, not gently turned to stone. The “stone” figures we have today are actually plaster, made from the “moulds” left behind by the solidified ash.
• People in this movie show a startling blasé attitude to seeing a stone-mummified figure moving. Was this a common thing in the 1950s?
• The explanation for why Faceless gets up, murders, but then goes back to playing possum has something to do with being powered by X-rays, because, sure, why not?
• When Tina is hypnotized and is regressed back to her past life, she speaks in English, rather than Latin as an ancient Roman citizen would.
• The supposedly priceless, possibly alive Roman relic is simply left out in one of the museum’s exhibit rooms, with no thought to security, just one idiot watchman. 

 

No wonder the monster keeps going for walks.

This 1958 B-movie, directed by Edward L. Cahn (a dependable name in low-budget sci-fi), throws its lot in with the “revived ancient menace” subgenre—think The Mummy, but with fewer bandages and more clay. There’s something unintentionally charming about how seriously the film takes its pseudo-scientific mumbo jumbo, spouting theories about radiation, reincarnation, and psychic memories like they’re hard science. Meanwhile, the titular faceless man lumbers through the movie with all the speed of drying cement. 

 

“Look, they’re eloping!”

The acting is passable, led by Richard Anderson (future Six Million Dollar Man star), who plays a doctor trying to use science to explain away why his fiancée keeps having Pompeii-themed nightmares. While Elaine Edwards, who plays the reincarnated love interest, might as well be wearing a sign that says “Damsel in Distress” around her neck. And the climax? Let’s just say it involves water, clay, and an ending so abrupt it feels like the editor fell asleep on the cut button.

 

“Shall we visit an ancient Egyptian tomb next?”

Special effects? Oh, they’re special all right. The Faceless Man looks like he was made of Play-Doh left in a sandbox. He punches through a door at one point, but with the grace of a tired grandpa swatting a fly. The action is so slow that I aged like a preserved Roman just watching it, and by the time the climax arrived, involving the monster trudging into the ocean for a dramatic wet sulk — I was rooting for the sea to just end it all, for everyone’s sake. Imagine if The Mummy took a nap, forgot its lines, and was replaced by a guy in a clay Halloween costume—and you’d still have more thrills than Curse of the Faceless Man delivers in its entire 67-minute runtime. Yes, 67 minutes. And it still felt too long.

 

“Can our thin plot even hold up that long?”

In conclusion, if you like your horror slow, your monsters crusty, and your ancient curses solved by sheer boredom, Curse of the Faceless Man is the bad movie night gift you didn’t ask for. It’s not a film so much as a sleepy shuffle through a haunted museum of missed opportunities.