MacDeath

Theatre of Blood (Douglas Hickox, 1973)

Professional criticism holds so much weight in its assessment of various formats of creative work that it occasionally results in stealing the thunder of whatever they are reviewing. This often results with critics being fallible to their egotistical pomposity. Thus, it all makes for a great premise of delicious revenge from a scorned thespian, Edward Lionheart. After being passed up for a Critics Circle award, it compels Lioneheart to exact gruesome re-enacments from Shakespearean plays on his detractors for ridiculing him.

If ever a film role was tailor made for an actor then genre legend Vincent Price as Lionheart would undoubtedly be a prime example. As great as they are, both Dr. Phibes films feel like rough draft precurssors to what the "Prince of Menace" would deliver in Theatre of Blood. Price relishes the opportunity to flex his acting prowess via providing a colourful array of characters; ranging from Shakespearean creations to other disguises in luring his gullible victims; a personal favourite is the distinctively camp, Bob Ross looking hairdresser, Butch. Always cracks me up seeing Price resorting to miscellaneous disguises and accents to exact his revenge over his enemies. One such example is him hiding in a large wooden chest for who knows how long with his accomplice daughter, Edwina (Diana Rigg), before performing a surgical decapitation on one of his sleeping foes, the hilariously named Horace Sprout (Arthur Lowe). It's a disturbing set-up, aided with a hilarious medical drama style soundtrack in the background, which exhibits the fine balance of getting a horror comedy right.

The supporting cast are a recognisable troupe of British stage and screen and lend plentiful entertainment value even whenever Price isn't sharing a scene with them. Worth adding that Theatre of Blood was where Vince had a real life affair with the actress Coral Browne which resulted in the pair getting hitched the following year. With the exception of Price's Lionheart, Ian Hendry's Peregrin Devlin and Diana Rigg's Edwina Lionheart, most of the characters are portrayed as completely cartoonish imbeciles. This makes it all incredibly delightful viewing for folks like myself who watched this at a young age and seeing such notable actors having fun with their roles. There's also Lionheart's oddly terrifying mob of meths drinkers who succour with his plans. Can't overstate enough just how moronic these critics are when they fail to notice the dishevelled appearances of a drunken collective disguised as distinguished wine connoisseurs, or a professional film crew, along with Lionheart's ridiculous concealments until it's far too late. Special mention to both Diana Dors, Eric Sykes and Meredith Merridew's pooches George and Georgina for being caught in the crossfire of Lionheart's killing spree.

Hickox manages to deliver a plethora of fantastic scenes executed with such comedic perfection from his cast, that you can't help but laugh at even some of the most gruesome moments in the film. The level of thought and wit involved which range from: the intricate enticement and kill scenes which refer to various scenes from the bard, while exploiting the various flaws and quirks of the prospective victim (obvious inspiration for the Saw franchise, in my humble opinion); the forshadowing of various events, e.g, Horace Sprout scratching his neck at George Maxwell's funeral; and the call signs Horatio, Fortinbras and Hamlet, exchanged between Devlin and the police. These details all add up to a ridiculously entertaining viewing experience.

Worth considering that the film was released in the same year as some heavy hitters in horror cinema such as The Wicker Man, Don't Look Now and The Exorcist, which ironically has mostly left it ignored in a similar vein to Edward Lionheart. That's changed somewhat in recent years, since the film recently filled a slot in Time Out's 100 Best British Movies list - albeit a ridiculously low rank, but it's there nonetheless. Will it ever be placed on the same pedestal as those other '73 classics by today's critics? It's doubtful, but that just goes to show you that Edward Lionheart's oeuvre was still a  a work in progress.