Between 1942 and 1946 the Russian immigrant Val Lewton produced a series of low-budget, B-level horror movies for the almost-bankrupt RKO Studios and turned most of them into near masterpieces.
The grandiose Orson Welles had practically demolished RKO with "Citizen Kane" and "The Magnificent Ambersons" and the studio was in desperate need of money. The studio heads looked towards Universal Studios, raking in the shekels with one monster movie after another -- "Frankenstein," "The Bride of Frankenstein," "The House of Frankenstein," "The Briss of the Son of Frankenstein." They all made hordes of dough. Well, then, why not have Val Lewton, who was working in a story department, produce some imitations?
A good idea. They told Lewton he could hire anyone on the RKO payroll and use standing sets, which saved a great deal in the way of expense. The vast staircase that RKO had built for Welles' "The Magnificent Ambersons" could now be put to use as an inclined plane for some hairy monster. Lewton didn't get to choose his titles though. The studio threw them at him. And look at the hand Lewton was dealt.
The Cat People, The Curse of the Cat People, I Walked With a Zombie, The Leopard Man, Bedlam, The Ghost Ship, The Body Snatcher, The Seventh Victim
Has there ever been a list of titles with less promise?
But Lewton pretty much fooled all of them. While the moguls ignored him, Lewton, the Russian anxiety neurotic, ground out some of the most literate and scary scripts the psychological horror genre has ever known.
There's no space here to go over Lewton's biography, which this documentary treats in just enough detail, nor to limn an aesthetic appreciation of his work, which narrator James Cromwell and a dozen talking heads do satisfactorily.
It's just worth noting that nothing quite like Lewton's films had been done before. In Lewton's movies no human being in a shaggy monster costume ever descended that Amberson staircase. The horror was always in the ominous, noirish shadows and the slight but unsettling sounds that might become a monstrous hiss or screech at any moment.
I don't know that today's kids would find these films particularly likable today, or scary, for that matter. Nobody's head gets wrenched off. Screams are infrequent. Lewton's characters speak in polite tones, logically, quietly, urbanely. He was a perfectionist in this regard and in some others, such as set dressing and source music. He made certain his characters had full lives and were fully fleshed out and were propelled by realistic mixed motives.
People were seen at their jobs, for instance -- a teacher sings along with her kids, a nurse cares for her patient. In his first movie, "The Cat People," Lewton even managed to stage a couple of scenes in the offices of a marine engineer! He always edited and rewrote the final draft of the script, so although he worked with two different directors, the actual "auteur" in his films was Lewton himself.
The movies tended towards fatalism. Lewton was often ill. He died at forty-six. And he was constantly worried that he would be fired. Maybe that influenced his work. He provided "more clouds of gray than any Russian play could guarantee." How often, in a movie of the 1940s, does a heroine, who is being pursued by a band of devil worshipers intent on killing her, finally give up all hope, say "the hell with it," and hang herself, as happens in his most despairing movie, "The Seventh Victim"?
It's a splendidly done appreciation of Lewton, his colleagues, and their work. The subtlety of his films is sadly missed today.
The grandiose Orson Welles had practically demolished RKO with "Citizen Kane" and "The Magnificent Ambersons" and the studio was in desperate need of money. The studio heads looked towards Universal Studios, raking in the shekels with one monster movie after another -- "Frankenstein," "The Bride of Frankenstein," "The House of Frankenstein," "The Briss of the Son of Frankenstein." They all made hordes of dough. Well, then, why not have Val Lewton, who was working in a story department, produce some imitations?
A good idea. They told Lewton he could hire anyone on the RKO payroll and use standing sets, which saved a great deal in the way of expense. The vast staircase that RKO had built for Welles' "The Magnificent Ambersons" could now be put to use as an inclined plane for some hairy monster. Lewton didn't get to choose his titles though. The studio threw them at him. And look at the hand Lewton was dealt.
The Cat People, The Curse of the Cat People, I Walked With a Zombie, The Leopard Man, Bedlam, The Ghost Ship, The Body Snatcher, The Seventh Victim
Has there ever been a list of titles with less promise?
But Lewton pretty much fooled all of them. While the moguls ignored him, Lewton, the Russian anxiety neurotic, ground out some of the most literate and scary scripts the psychological horror genre has ever known.
There's no space here to go over Lewton's biography, which this documentary treats in just enough detail, nor to limn an aesthetic appreciation of his work, which narrator James Cromwell and a dozen talking heads do satisfactorily.
It's just worth noting that nothing quite like Lewton's films had been done before. In Lewton's movies no human being in a shaggy monster costume ever descended that Amberson staircase. The horror was always in the ominous, noirish shadows and the slight but unsettling sounds that might become a monstrous hiss or screech at any moment.
I don't know that today's kids would find these films particularly likable today, or scary, for that matter. Nobody's head gets wrenched off. Screams are infrequent. Lewton's characters speak in polite tones, logically, quietly, urbanely. He was a perfectionist in this regard and in some others, such as set dressing and source music. He made certain his characters had full lives and were fully fleshed out and were propelled by realistic mixed motives.
People were seen at their jobs, for instance -- a teacher sings along with her kids, a nurse cares for her patient. In his first movie, "The Cat People," Lewton even managed to stage a couple of scenes in the offices of a marine engineer! He always edited and rewrote the final draft of the script, so although he worked with two different directors, the actual "auteur" in his films was Lewton himself.
The movies tended towards fatalism. Lewton was often ill. He died at forty-six. And he was constantly worried that he would be fired. Maybe that influenced his work. He provided "more clouds of gray than any Russian play could guarantee." How often, in a movie of the 1940s, does a heroine, who is being pursued by a band of devil worshipers intent on killing her, finally give up all hope, say "the hell with it," and hang herself, as happens in his most despairing movie, "The Seventh Victim"?
It's a splendidly done appreciation of Lewton, his colleagues, and their work. The subtlety of his films is sadly missed today.