This is drive-in fodder. Cathy O'Donnell, born Ann Steel in Siluria, Alabama, appeared in some impressive movies in the post-war years -- "The Best Years of Our Lives" and "They Live By Night." The role of the girlish, loving figure fitted her. She was always winsome and delicate and had an attenuated but compelling beauty. She'd never have done "Mommie Dearest" or "MacBeth." She looks as youthful as ever here. Any normal man would want to mutter vacuous reassurances in her frightened ear, while cuddling her and biting her neck. Alas, she didn't have much of a life ahead of her and died at 48 of cancer and a stroke.
Unfortunately, her husband here, Gerald Mohr, is only barely normal. You have to stretch the definition. He turns sinister the moment they arrive at the isolated mansion he's rented for them. He delivers his lines as if reading them for a male enhancement product and he has a high forehead. I immediately suspected him of being an illegal alien. All the aliens from outer space in the 50s drive-ins had overdeveloped frontal areas. But, no. I should have known. The aliens always have names like Gort, while his name is just plain Phil. His motives are benign. It's just that he believes in psychoanalytic mumbo-jumbo about repressed memories.
Well, O'Donnell is scared to death of the house. This is not an old haunted mansion with cobwebs all over the place and Victorian tchotchkas on the shelves. It's a pedestrian modern house, only bigger than most. John Qualen has been the day caretaker but all he does is gulp, bug his eyes out, and act half crazy.
The movie was shot in "Psycho-Rama," meaning there are instantaneous inserts of Halloween masks, unreadable subtitles, and other jokes. The 50s were the age of subliminal perception. The unconscious mind can grasp an image that's so brief that the rest of the mind doesn't see it. It seems to work, too, within limits but no one is playing with their stachistoscopes anymore.
I won't get into the plot because it's so twisted I couldn't really follow it and because the entire movie is not worth the effort it would take to paper over the holes. O'Donnell gets to scream four times, I think, and faints once.
It's hard to imagine what the kids were doing in their cars while this cheap and ill-written garbage unfolded on the drive-in screen. Maybe playing canasta.
Unfortunately, her husband here, Gerald Mohr, is only barely normal. You have to stretch the definition. He turns sinister the moment they arrive at the isolated mansion he's rented for them. He delivers his lines as if reading them for a male enhancement product and he has a high forehead. I immediately suspected him of being an illegal alien. All the aliens from outer space in the 50s drive-ins had overdeveloped frontal areas. But, no. I should have known. The aliens always have names like Gort, while his name is just plain Phil. His motives are benign. It's just that he believes in psychoanalytic mumbo-jumbo about repressed memories.
Well, O'Donnell is scared to death of the house. This is not an old haunted mansion with cobwebs all over the place and Victorian tchotchkas on the shelves. It's a pedestrian modern house, only bigger than most. John Qualen has been the day caretaker but all he does is gulp, bug his eyes out, and act half crazy.
The movie was shot in "Psycho-Rama," meaning there are instantaneous inserts of Halloween masks, unreadable subtitles, and other jokes. The 50s were the age of subliminal perception. The unconscious mind can grasp an image that's so brief that the rest of the mind doesn't see it. It seems to work, too, within limits but no one is playing with their stachistoscopes anymore.
I won't get into the plot because it's so twisted I couldn't really follow it and because the entire movie is not worth the effort it would take to paper over the holes. O'Donnell gets to scream four times, I think, and faints once.
It's hard to imagine what the kids were doing in their cars while this cheap and ill-written garbage unfolded on the drive-in screen. Maybe playing canasta.