Narrowly avoiding a mudslide, the party drive on and stop at the first place they find, a large dark mansion with yet some light in the window. They knock at the door. It is answered by a hulking bearded butler with a scarred face who groans incomprehensibly ("not even Welsh ought to sound like that." says Penderel).
Inside the trio are met by Fem, Mr Horace Fem, a nervous and fragile householder whose bitterness is almost spat out like stale tobacco. They are joined by his sister Rebecca, owner of the house, of ancient religion, deaf as a post and unwelcoming. The storm is crashing around them. Morgan the butler, is a drinker and a bad one. Something is going on upstairs. It's going to be a long night
J.B. Priestly's gallows-humoured drawing room horror tale could not have been better served by the circumstances of its production. James Whale brings his committed eye to the world he is building and never passes up an opportunity for a visual gag when it fits. You might see a clip and think it's a ricketty old movie but give it its first act and you will want to be in there with them.
On that, the other great talent Whale possessed was his nurture of performance. Raymond Massey is content to be a called-upon action man but proves why he should be married to the urbane Gloria Stuart. Charles Laughton's golden hearted industrialist oaf has charm enough to make us believe that a grown up before her time chorus girl like Lillian Bond would be partying with him. Earnest Thesiger and Eva Moore as the ancient Fems are nervous and blustering by turns. Melvyn Douglas shows us a physical charm that matches his constant wit and renders it credible. Boris Karloff is relishing the opportunity to create another figure of terror without a word after Frankenstein.
Even when it turns blatantly unsubtle this film's tightrope walk between horror and comedy makes that work. When Rebecca is haranguing Margaret about sin with a tale of her own sister's violent death she is seen in a mirror distorted to monstrosity. A moment later when Margaret catches sight of herself in the same mirror she is suddenly as grotesque. When Morgan answers the trio at the door with an elongated groan, Melvyn Douglas takes a moment to turn to the others to say, "not even Welsh ought to sound like that."
The origins of this film were not a play as was so often the case (even the 1931 Dracula was based on a stage rendition) but a novel. Priestley's own wit and love of horror world building are brought into cinematic life so well we who have read the text might mis-remember a scene from the film being in the book (as I did, no spoilers). Raymond Massey's character of Phillip Waverton seems form fit for the life of a middle class early 20th century man but he also experiences a kind of alienation to the extent that he is surprised when pedals and levers do what they are meant to when he uses them in his car. Massey adds this layer of bewilderment to his performance. It augments his will to action as though it has armed him to expect the unexpected. Lillian Bond might easily have been cast as a bimbo but her energetic intelligence prevents this. She is the perfect foil for the quippy Melvyn Douglas and their scene towards the close of the second act is warmly adult, the point where their wit only adds sweetness to their self-surprising sincerity.
And that's the thing that keeps bringing me back to this durable favourite, it's not a horror comedy that's really just a comedy with campy monsters and winking fourth wall breaks, it's a human comedy that shows the creepy effects of lives lived through poor decisions and the at least hopeful results of ditching the judgement and working with what you find. The sense of this brings the novel forward by this film's insistence on depth. For all the fire and brimstone that take Rebecca to the brink of pantomime queendom we do learn what brought her there. Horace's dialogue that tries to manipulate Phillip to go upstairs without him feels like it happens in a different part of the house, not a new set, and one in which the character has walked quietly.
I'll acknowledge the person who put me on to this movie that I could probably watch weekly as to me the memory is the same as someone recommending music that I've kept close ever since. My friend Warik Lawrance lived in an ex-industrial loft on Flinders Street when you could. It was big and airy so in winter he built a tent around a few couches which became the living room. He showed The Old Dark House to us on what I'm going to imagine was a dark and stormy night (regardless of what it actually was) and all of us who'd normally yap through movies shut up and watched as this gluey image with the sound of an old tv took us in the most fun ambush we could have had then and there. I will always have a copy of it to share.
Viewing notes: I watched my copy of the splendid Cohen Media Blu-Ray transfer with a deep greyscale image and clear audio. Magic. If a 4K comes out I'll get that, too.
*This phrase by Sir Edward George Earle Bulwer-Lytton is often cited as the worst opening sentence in literature but there's nothing wrong with it, being perfectly descriptive and atmospheric. The trouble with it is that it doesn't stop there but continues on for a country kilometre after. That first clause is fine: this is the worst opening sentence in literature:
“It was a dark and stormy night; the rain fell in torrents—except at occasional intervals, when it was checked by a violent gust of wind which swept up the streets (for it is in London that our scene lies), rattling along the housetops, and fiercely agitating the scanty flame of the lamps that struggled against the darkness.”
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