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The City of the Dead (1960) / Night of the Eagle (1961)

aka Horror Hotel / aka Burn, Witch, Burn!

Directors: John Llewellyn Moxey / Sidney Hayers
Screenwriters: George Baxt / George Baxt, Charles Beaumont, Richard Matheson

By Roderick Heath

The City of the Dead and Night of the Eagle present two small gems of horror cinema, closely connected by the moment of their making and their basic genre film business. Both are products of the flourishing horror cinema in Britain inspired by the success of the Hammer Horror films. Each was directed by an interesting filmmaker well-known to genre fans but few others. The City of the Dead was written by the mystery writer George Baxt, who went on to co-author the script of Night of the Eagle with Richard Matheson and Charles Beaumont. Both films offer horror narratives set firmly in the present day and involving witchcraft. Both are partly set in academia, hardly the usual location for horror apart from the reaction of the odd flunked student. Both are evidently influenced by other, recent great and popular films but have their own specific charm. Both were awkwardly retitled for American release. But the two films are quite distinct in other ways, exemplifying how movies can be both very similar in their basics and yet divergent in approach: The City of the Dead is a lesson in making the most of a miniscule budget to weave a classical brand of atmospheric dread, whilst Night of the Eagle is a study in psychological tension and metaphorical power.


The City of the Dead represented an early foray into producing British genre cinema by the entrepreneurial American producers Milton Subotsky and Max J. Rosenberg, about to become two of the more consequential figures in that rarefied realm. The duo first collaborated in the US on the rock’n’roll craze-exploiting film Rock, Rock, Rock (1956) and a handful of other B-movies. The duo reached out to Hammer Films honcho Michael Carreras, trying to entice his involvement with a new version of Frankenstein Subotsky had written. Carreras became interested but eventually cut out Subotsky and Rosenberg, and his The Curse of Frankenstein, upon release in 1957, proved an earthquake that permanently revived horror cinema as well as, in the short term, making the UK the epicentre. Subotsky and Rosenberg moved to avenge themselves by moving to Britain and forming the production entity Vulcan Films, which would eventually be reorganised into the better-known Amicus Films, which tried thereafter to be a rival to Hammer. Amicus would produce an enjoyable if interchangeable series of anthology horror movies like Dr. Terror’s House of Horrors (1964), The House That Dripped Blood (1970), and Tales From The Crypt (1972), and sci-fi flicks like Dr. Who and the Daleks (1965) and Kevin Connor’s Edgar Rice Burroughs trilogy. Baxt had originally written the script as the intended pilot of a TV series to star Boris Karloff, and when Subotsky took it over he performed rewrites, adding a subplot and giving himself story credit, whilst the film’s stringent £45,000 budget was partly obtained from Nottingham Football Club.

For a director, Subotsky hired John Llewellyn Moxey, who at 35 had recently become a TV director. Moxey’s knowledge of how to conjure a convincing drama out of the most stringent needs definitely helped with The City of the Dead. The film kicks off with a prologue that’s intriguingly similar to the beginning of the same year’s La Maschera del Demonio, and anticipates the like of Witchfinder General (1969) and The Devils (1971) in evoking the bleak history of witch hunts and executions as a gruelling and gruesome social phenomenon. Moxey opens with the townsfolk of the small Massachusetts village of Whitewood in 1692 dragging Elizabeth Selwyn (Patricia Jessel) to be burned at the stake as a witch. Selwyn screams out for help to one of the men in the crowd, Jethrow Keane (Valentine Dyall), but when asked by the town elder supervising the execution (Fred Johnson), if he consorts with her Jethrow denies it. When Selwyn is tied to the stake and set on fire, she and Jethrow both make appeal to Satan to help her, and Selwyn begins to laugh with pleasure as thunder rings out as if answering her prayer, whilst the baying crowd chant, “Burn witch, burn!”

Moxey cuts to history professor Alan Driscoll (Christopher Lee) enthusiastically repeating the same chant as he instructs his students on the event in contemporary times, to the rapt fascination of prize pupil Nan Barlow (Venetia Stephenson), and the wry lack of interest of her boyfriend sitting in on the lecture, Bill Maitland (Tom Naylor), whose quips infuriate the teacher. Nan’s brother Richard Barlow (Dennis Lotis), who is himself a teacher at the college, quickly gets into an argument with Driscoll, as his own hard-headed lack of credulity and interest in the historical events clashes with Driscoll’s preoccupation, as Driscoll notes the historical record suggests the lingering influence of malefic forces in Whitewood, which also happens to be his home town. Nan is despite Bill and Richard’s scorn so interested in the seemingly irrational subject that she tells them and Driscoll she wants to travel through New England during the term break and collect independent research on the topic, including a visit to Whitewood. Driscoll gives her directions and the name of a hotel in the town to stay at, and Nan heads off after promising to meet them at a cousin’s house in two weeks. On the rough and misty road to the town, Nan picks up a hitchhiker, a tall, plummy, sardonic man heading to Whitewood and who just happens to look just like the long-ago Jethrow Keane.

Nan is briefly perplexed when, upon arrival in Whitewood, Jethrow seems to slip out of the car without her noticing, but she soon books into the hotel, The Raven’s Inn, run by Mrs Newless, who also happens to look rather like Elizabeth Selwyn. The hotel has a plaque announcing it stands on the spot where Selwyn was burned. The town of Whitewood is a quiet, fog-shrouded place with a neglected church, a blind and ominously advising pastor, Russell (Norman MacOwan), and silent, glaring citizenry. Nan does encounter the blessedly normal Pat Russell (Betta St. John), the granddaughter of the pastor, who’s just recently returned to the town and opened an antique store. Pat digs out a book from her collection entitled A Treatise on Devil Worship in New England in trying to satisfy Nan’s researching needs, and Nan arranges to borrow it for the duration of her stay in town. Back in the hotel, however, Nan begins noticing strange incidents, as bracelet she likes to where vanishes, a dead bird skewered with a pin turns up in a drawer, and a sprig of woodbine appears on her door, all details that happen to recur in the historical documents recounting the human sacrifices Selwyn and her coven liked to perform. And there’s also the little matter of some eerie singing emanating up through the floorboards. When she finds the key to the old hatch in the floor of her room dangling from her window, Nan descends into a labyrinth under the church, where she’s suddenly grabbed by some robed and hooded figures and dragged to a ceremonial altar, where she’s laid prostrate and stabbed to death by Mrs Newless, who confirms she is actually Selwyn.

The pleasures of The City of the Dead walk a line that can strike many as campy, with its air of threadbare charm and almost comically oblivious characters. A brief vignette of Stephenson parading about in 1950s bodice and garters is a flash of sexploitation that’s both amusingly obvious as a ploy and dated in that women often wear less on the main street of my town these days. But it’s the kind of movie that’s held together by the conviction everyone involved wields. The ploy of setting up Nan as the apparent heroine of the movie and then killing her off sees The City of the Dead often compared with the looming example of Alfred Hitchcock’s Psycho (1960). Given the filming and release of the two movies it seems unlikely Psycho had direct influence – Moxey’s film started shooting before Hitchcock’s – making The City of the Dead more significant and ballsy in this move. Psycho nonetheless announced a great genre sea-change, auguring in today’s general norm for the horror movie, built around lurking killers dealing out gruesome demises in modern, mundane locales, rather than the classical arsenal of supernatural monsters and stylised historical, foreign, or psychologised settings. The City of the Dead mediates the two ages with its simple but sufficient storyline. Another of the film’s obvious quirks is being a British film set in the US, which had been done before and is chiefly notable in this case for Lee doing a surprisingly good accent. Devil worshipper movies had been relatively uncommon before the late 1950s in Horror cinema except in when safely relegated to exoticised forms like the many misconstruing takes on voodoo, in part because they tended to be stringently censored, testified by the edits The City of the Dead underwent and the controversy sparked by The Devil Rides Out (1967) a few years later. One of the few previous major examples was Edgar G. Ulmer’s The Black Cat (1934).

The City of the Dead avoids playing out as a kind of drive-in take on The Crucible insofar as it makes no bones about the supernatural nature of the events, even as it offers a sliver of sympathy for the devil as the viciousness of the repression of the witches scarcely seems preferable to any evil they can deal out, and the result is perpetually dooming Whitewood to subsist as a canker subsisting into the officially purified modern world. Witchcraft as a subject was a potentially fruitful one for genre filmmakers as it tackled the basic schism between the audience’s scepticism, backed up modern psychological and political understanding, pitted against a chthonic credulity. Despite the American setting, The City of the Dead also gave birth to a stratum of peculiarly British horror films involving heroes stumbling into strange communities where arcane cults and mores rule, a plot pattern that neatly encompasses a very British sense of the tension between communal mores and upsetting outsiders, modernity disturbing the balanced tensions underlying a fantasy vision of a settled, ordered, homey past. On came straight-laced variations like Devils of Darkness (1965) and The Witches (1966), ambitious and wilfully odd variations in The Wicker Man (1973) and Kill List (2011), and lampoons like Bloodbath at the House of Death (1983) and Hot Fuzz (2007).

Moxey had been born in Argentina, one port of call where his family had depots for their coal and steel business. Moxey underwent training at Sandhurst, the famous British military college, and fought in World War II, but left the armed forces after the war already world-weary at 20, and decided to instead realise a childhood ambition to get into show business. Moxey only made a handful of feature films in his long career, but they include several cultish gems of low-budget filmmaking, as he followed The City of the Dead up with the fascinatingly antiheroic World War II spy story A Foxhole in Cairo (1960), the gritty Hands of Orlac variation Hands of a Stranger (1964), and a string of Edgar Wallace-derived thrillers including Circus of Fear (1966), a thriller enlivened by Moxey’s flashes of visual wit, including Klaus Kinski dying with a huge leering mask in his grip, a great opening sequence depicting an armoured car robbery on Tower Bridge, and a general glaze of drizzly, moody British charm. When the low-budget UK movie scene began to dry up, cheating Moxey of any further chance of breaking out into higher-profile movies, he returned to work entirely in television and soon moved to Hollywood, working on shows as varied and beloved as The Saint, The Avengers, Mission: Impossible, Mannix, Hawaii 5-0, Magnum, P.I., Miami Vice, Murder, She Wrote, and the pilot episode of Charlie’s Angels, as well a number of telemovies. His signal success in the latter field was the hugely popular telemovie The Night Stalker (1972), which birthed the cult TV series starring Darren McGavin.

Moxey’s great eye, backed up by Desmond Dickinson’s excellent black-and-white photography, and ability to conjure a powerful atmosphere with minimal elements, are clear right from the opening shot in the Whitewood town square, coals burning in a metal brazier looming in the foreground with sketchy shapes of a bent tree and town buildings just visible through the heavy pall of fog, out of which resolves a mob of period Puritans on the warpath. Moxey then carefully orchestrates the ritual condemnation that follows as Selwyn is first seen, dragged out from the prison with her imperiously sensual and boding gaze cast down upon the momentarily arrested villagers: the camera scans their stricken faces for a moment before settling on one woman who hisses, “Witch!” and earns a gob of spit from Selwyn in the eye, kicking off the baying abuse again. When Selwyn sets eyes on the waiting stake she stares in dread, and Moxey has two more harridans of the village loom in the frame, one pointing to it and crying, “Burn the witch!” Selwyn’s terror, crying out Jethrow’s name, and the puckered rage of the villagers, puts one immediately on the imminent victim’s side, but Selwyn is nonetheless exactly what they think she is, and she makes her pact with Lucifer as the flames lick her flanks (much of her vow was cut out of the film’s American release under the title Horror Hotel). Moxey cranks up the note of murderous hysteria as his camera tilts and swoops up to the variably frantic, blood-lusting, wailing faces of the crowd whilst Selwyn, sensing her plea has been heard, begins to laugh with malefic joy.

The rest of the film’s first half revolves around Nan as the blonde, creamy-skinned co-ed falling under the spell of a mystique of devilry and atavistic forces more powerful and enticing in their dank vividness than the bright lights of the world she knows. The film’s cramped budget, as is often the case, is cleverly employed to help build the drama’s sequestered mood, from the relative normality of Driscoll’s lecture through to Nan’s encounters with the odd citizens of Whitewood, where the signs of lurking threat and oneiric eccentricity seem so overt one could rightly expect any visitor to run away screaming. The undercurrent of weird intensity Driscoll forges in his lecture is lightened by Bill’s jokes (“I’ll bring the matches.”) which feel, in their way, distantly anticipatory of the self-aware tone of something like Scream (1996). The recurring use of Ken Jones’ jazz music for diegetic music is an amusing touch but also one that Moxey uses with a degree of cleverness, managing to seem both drowsily seductive whilst also letting sounds of the ordinary, current world infiltrate Whitewood and its surrounds. Moxey’s glimpses of a number of couples dancing in the cramped lobby of the Raven’s Inn recalls the similarly eerie and stylised glimpses of a stygian dance in Carl Dreyer’s Vampyr (1932) just as the story recalls Dreyer’s Day of Wrath (1943). Moxey makes the dance, to which Nan is invited by Selwyn in her guise as Mrs Newless, seem at once romantically inviting and quietly creepy and unreal, like a show put on Nan’s sake, which it is: when Nan emerges from her room after getting dressed, the crowd is revealed to have suddenly broken up, the music they were dancing to abruptly turned off: Nan’s solitude suddenly feels dangerous. The only potential ally Nan seems to have is the chambermaid Lottie (Ann Beach), who cannot speak but still tries to warn her, only to be foiled because Selwyn keeps a close and threatening watch on her.

Whitewood seems a place where the sun never comes up and the fog never lifts, a cute way to mask production shortcomings but also providing a deliciously iconic genre film setting. Whitewood is the essential Horror movie ghost town, a throwback to the purely stylised, set-bound variety of horror movie setting once seen in the Universal Pictures horror movies like The Wolf Man (1941), the kind where ground mist ran like rivers and twisted trees loomed like withered crones doing interpretive dance. Roger Corman seems to have emulated it for his The Haunted Palace (1963), and indeed whilst The City of the Dead isn’t based on H.P. Lovecraft like the Corman film, it is perhaps the first movie to capture a Lovecraftian mood in its vision of a fetid, forgotten corner of New England where strange cabals meet and dark forces hold sway. John Carpenter probably likewise remembered it for his own Lovecraftian riff, In The Mouth of Madness (1994). Moxey’s great images continue, most particularly in a recurring shot where first Nan and then Pat drive along the road to Whitewood in the foggy dark and see Jethrow picked out in their car headlights, standing at a crossroads, filmed from within the car: technically clever, this motif also helps Moxey firm up the urban legend texture he’s chasing, presenting the kind of frisson that’s come over anyone who’s ever driven along a dark country road at night. The shot occurs a third and fourth time when Barlow and then Bill drive to Whitewood, but do not see Jethrow. Bill instead sees the looming supernatural vision of the laughing Selwyn on the stake, so disorienting that he swerves off the road and crashes into a tree.

The build-up to Nan’s sacrifice is particularly good in vignettes like the dance and Nan’s spacy, somnambulant voice as she recognises it’s Candlemas Eve, one of the two favoured nights for witches’ Sabbaths. The noted plot detail that Nan’s stolen broach allows the witches to “call” her at least papers over the question as to why someone as smart and well-versed in this lore as Nan doesn’t flee the moment a clear pattern starts accumulating. Of course, there’s another dimension to this, in Nan’s desire to know, with all its quasi-erotic underpinnings. She falls under the intellectual spell of the charismatic Driscoll, inspiring her to travel to a place that represents the dark reservoir of history’s septic sense of sexual knowledge and falls prey to waiting fiends, amongst whose number Driscoll eventually reveals himself, his face becoming visible under the cowl as he and Selwyn lean over Nan just before killing her. Later Driscoll is depicted performing a minor sacrifice with a caged bird in a sanctum in back of his academic office, a moment to which Lee applies all of his grim-browed conviction. Driscoll delivers a memorably simple epigram in riposte to Barlow’s forceful insistence on rationalism: “The basis of fairy tales is reality. The basis of reality is fairy tales.” One significant common and immediate precursor for The City of the Dead and Night of the Eagle is Jacques Tourneur’s Night of the Demon (1957), with both films mimicking that film’s heavy emphasis on the clash between realist and mystical worldviews, with a particular pertinence to the way Horror as a genre suddenly came roaring back at the time after the craze for science fiction earlier in the decade. In turn, Val Lewton’s films with Tourneur and others in the 1940s hover in the background, and The City of the Dead channels something of a Lewton feel in the moments quiet and subtle strangeness in pockets of detached reality, the dialogue between moments of quiet, even hominess, and pressing threat.

Moxey performs a jagged jump cut from Selwyn bringing the knife down on Nan to her and Barlow’s cousin slicing her birthday cake at a party in her house, where Barlow and Bill wait with increasing unease for Nan. Once it becomes clear she’s late, they set in motion an investigation, and some detectives visit The Raven’s Inn. Selwyn-as-Newless claims Nan left without any notice without paying her bill. Pat reclaims the book she loaned Nan from Selwyn and later travels to Barlow and Driscoll’s college to talk with them, and after Driscoll fails to throw her off her talk with Barlow and Bill convinces them to head to Whitewood and look around for themselves. On the return journey Pat picks up Jethrow, making it clear she’s the anointed sacrifice for the Witches’ Sabbath, a particularly apt victim for the witches as she’s a descendent of the original, cursed villagers. After crashing thanks to the tormenting vision whilst following Barlow to Whitewood, Bill crawls out of his wrecked and burning car and stumbles towards the town, whilst Barlow himself checks into the Raven’s Inn and then encounters Reverend Russell, who explains how the walking dead now control the town, but also recounts the formula for their destruction. Lottie is murdered by Jethrow and Selwyn when they catch her trying to leave a note for Barlow, whilst Bill manages despite his grave injuries to stumble into town just as Barlow finds Pat kidnapped and the Reverend dead.

The climax is suitably breathless and gripping as Moxey brings things home with ingenious cheapjack hype. Barlow searches for Pat, stumbling across Lottie’s corpse hidden in the labyrinth under the hotel, before managing to snatch Pat away from the sacrificial altar. The pair flee up into the cemetery only to be met there by more of the coven: in a deliciously campy-creepy shot, the Satanists lift their clawing hands from under their swathing robes to grab hold of their prey. Forced to wait until “the hour of thirteen,” that is an extra toll of the bell at one a.m., before they can kill Pat and claim another year’s extension on their undead existence, the coven are obliged to stand around just long enough for Bill, obedient to Barlow’s shouted instructions, to pluck out a crucifix from the cemetery ground and wield it as a weapon of faith whilst Barlows pronounces a ritual adjure. Even a notably good bit of knife-throwing from Selwyn, planting her sacrificial dagger in Bill’s back, doesn’t put him down for good, and the coven all erupt in flames screaming as the shadow of the cross falls on them, save Selwyn herself, who flees. Bill finally dies muttering Nan’s name. Barlow and Pat chase Selwyn, only to find her in The Raven’s Inn under the plaque describing her death, where she’s become a burned and blackened corpse.

Despite its many intersecting lines of story and theme, Night of the Eagle takes a very different approach. Night of the Eagle is more obviously made in the mould of Night of the Demon, down to its title (and borrowing that film’s cast member Reginald Beckwith), but it’s actually an adaptation of Fritz Leiber’s 1943 novel Conjure Wife. Leiber’s book, one of the most famous and influential horror novels ever written, had already been adapted once as the Weird Woman (1944), a solid entry in the enjoyable series of B-movies starring Lon Chaney Jr and made under the imprimatur of the radio show Inner Sanctum. Baxt redrafted the script, which had originally been written by the lauded genre writers Richard Matheson and Charles Beaumont as a collaborative project: both men were connected at the time with the TV series The Twilight Zone and Corman’s Edgar Allan Poe film series. Matheson and Beaumont’s love of the novel acknowledged how it presented an ideal model for blending mundane realism and suggestive supernatural menace, and it’s had the same impact on writers since. The movie project was first taken up by Corman’s usual backers at American International Pictures, and farmed out to their regular production partners Anglo-Amalgamated. When the film was released in the US by AIP under the title Burn, Witch, Burn!, it came with an awful opening narration provided by the inimitable Paul Frees and new opening credits that removed Baxt’s name.

The Scots-born director Sidney Hayers, who worked as a top-flight film editor in the 1950s, made his directing debut with The White Trap (1959) and quickly forayed in horror with the impressively Sadean Circus of Horrors (1959). Hayers’ directing career ultimately proved disappointing, rarely living up to the remarkable control of Night of the Eagle, although he would later make the striking wilderness drama The Trap (1966), starring Oliver Reed and Rita Tushingham, which would transfer Night of the Eagle’s fascination with marriage as a kind of loving war in depicting a rudely matched couple surviving life on the frontier, and the lurid but effectively disturbing and atmospheric rapist-on-the-loose thriller In The Devil’s Garden, aka Assault (1971), a film that would return to a school setting with a rather darker and more direct approach to the idea of fetid institutional repression and vicious abuse feeding each-other. Hayers had a potent feel for percolating sexual hysteria and agents of monstrous will, both of which inform Night of the Eagle. The film commences with protagonist Norman Taylor (Peter Wyngarde), a professor in a small, unnamed English college, lecturing his psychology students in matters of ritual belief and custom, in the face of which he maintains a ruthless scepticism, writing the phrase “I Do Not Believe” on the blackboard, a missive that will turn significant much later, but is offered here as a kind of reverse magic spell to exorcise all demons of irrationalism. Norman is much enjoyed by his students, most particularly his smitten prize pupil Margaret Abbott (Judith Stott), much to the aggravation of her boyfriend Fred Jennings (Bill Mitchell), a much less enthusiastic student.

Norman’s male colleagues Lindsay Carr (Colin Gordon) and Harvey Sawtelle (Anthony Nicholls) are enormously admiring of their young but brilliant and energetic colleague, and it seems he’s going to land the chair of their department. Harvey’s wife Evelyn (Kathleen Byron) is teeth-grindingly angry about Norman’s seemingly inevitable rise. Her sister Flora (Margaret Johnston) is Lindsay’s wife and also a professor at the college as well as Margaret’s guardian, and also walks with a limp. She seems more sanguine, and likes commenting on it all with teasing, ironic distance. The three couples and the college dean Gunnison (Beckwith) and his wife come to Taylor’s house for a night playing bridge, where the factional tensions register despite the air of genteel entertainment, with Norman’s wife Tansy (Janet Blair) playing the expert hostess but registering a certain jumpiness. Once their visitors leave and Norman goes to bed, Tansy makes excuses to begin a frantic search of the living room. Eventually she finds a tiny fetish figure pinned within a lampshade. She burns this and, relieved, heads off to bed. But Norman begins to find many similar items around the house, these all planted by Tansy herself, including a jar full of dead spiders. When he confronts Tansy about them she tries to dismiss them as keepsakes of a journey they once took to Jamaica to investigate voodoo practices, but Norman is unconvinced. Eventually the fraying and desperate Tansy admits they’re totems she uses to ward off forces of black magic she believes are constantly assaulting them, combating them using methods she was taught by a bokor named Carubias and which she first turned to when Norman almost died in an accident. Norman forces Tansy to burn them all, despite her conviction this will leave them undefended.

The key beauty of Leiber’s novel was the contrast between the insular, seemingly placid, rather dry world of the little academic grove that was its setting and the invocation of vast, powerful, inchoate forces, strongly anticipating some of Shirley Jackson’s fiction, and the clever way this contrast was joined to a story that played witty games with the basic theme expressed by the old saying, “Behind every great man is a good woman.” Leiber took that idea to an extreme in the tale of Tansy warding off the magical attacks by her fellow campus wives in an ongoing contest to fuel success or impose ruination. Night of the Eagle simplifies this aspect to a degree, as here Tansy only has one real foe, although the faculty politics are still drawn with amusing, stinging accuracy, particularly once Norman is exposed to malevolence involving jealousy and misdirected passion which could well manifest normally in any school setting, and the potential professional dangers that can befall a man like Norman Taylor feel all accurate, perhaps even more today than in 1961. Once Norman makes Tansy burn all her protections, including one she keeps in a locket with her photo that results, with particularly ominous import, in the photo being burnt too, nothing seems to change, and Tansy is briefly willing to entertain the possibility she really was being ruled by her anxiety. But soon events begin to rattle Norman’s assurance: he gets a lewd phone call from Margaret, is almost run down by a lorry as he enters the college, and is threatened by Fred. When Margaret, in a volatile state, tells Flora that Norman raped her, Norman confronts her and gets her to retract her statement, and she flees after tearfully telling Norman, “I hate you!” Shortly after, Fred pulls a gun on him. Norman manages to get it away from him, but the swiftly mounting number of sudden calamities starts to make Norman think Tansy had a point after all.

Night of the Eagle offers similar characterisations to The City of the Dead – Margaret and Fred resemble Nan and Bill as your basic Jane and Joe College, if here pushed through the gates of self-combusting neurosis by forces beyond their ken. Norman is a more high-powered and abrasive version of Barlow, similarly dismissive of the supernatural but far more zealous about his self-image as an unshakably lucid mind. Hayers presents him as the acme of a certain ideal of a high modernist intellectual, fascinated by the meaning behind cultural arcana but also dismissive and contemptuous of any belief system contrary to his own, his own neo-puritan project one of ridding the world of its shadows. The crux of the drama is the relationship between Norman and Tansy, as an only slightly intensified study in heterosexual marriage as both a meeting and clash of personalities and ways of seeing and knowing. Norman’s aggressive confrontation of Tansy’s beliefs ape a familiar pattern in horror movies, of the hard-headed man correcting female inanities, reacting to Tansy’s supernatural dabbling as if she were a closet gambler or alcoholic, only to teasingly invert the certainties as Norman becomes increasingly frantic and unmoored. Equally often in horror movies the anxious woman proves correct, and here that turn is given hyperbolic force. The phrase “It got on my nerves” recurs in the movie, and Hayers conveys that feeling of locked-in, up-close, frayed-nerve portent, from the early scene of Tansy searching for the hidden fetish she knows her enemy has brought into her home with increasingly febrile purpose. Cinematographer Reginald Wyer’s zoom lensing keeps pushing closer and collapsing perspective to ratchet up the visual impression of things pressing in, whilst William Alwyn’s score unsubtly but effectively matches with its own agitating force.

The title comes from the imposing eagle sculpture that sits ominously perched above the main entrance to the college, directly outside the window of Flora’s office: for much of the film it seems the emblem of the many raptors eager to peck over Norman’s career bones. The aura of threat becomes more immediate when Norman receives a tape recording of one of his lectures about supernal ritual practice as a psychological phenomenon, and tries to make Tansy listen to it. His professorial words dismissing all irrational forces are undercut by a strange, undulating sound dubbed in underneath it, a sound Tansy recognises as a sorcerous invocation. She switches the tape recorder off, much to Norman’s anger, but the phone rings and the same sound comes through the receiver, and some monstrous form that releases a grotesque shriek thuds against the front door. Tansy manages to yank the phone cord from its connection just as Norman opens the door, and after being buffeted by a blast of the rainy night sees the caller has vanished. Here, as elsewhere in the film, Hayers generates remarkable hysterical energy that builds swiftly from baseline calm, aided by Wyngarde and Blair’s terrific performances, his hawkish features and hatchet-like force of personality colliding with her bright-eyed and vibrant anxiety, and the forceful editing rhythm betraying Hayers’ background.

Now entirely convinced that the enemy means to destroy Norman, Tansy gives him a laced drink and makes him recite words that will transfer any curse onto her, as a selfless gesture in her hope to die in his place: such gestures are the flipside to the tension between the couple as each is finally revealed to be willing to go to any length to save the other. When Norman awakens he finds Tansy gone, and figures she’s heading to the seaside cottage they own. He manages to catch up with the bus she’s taken but crashes off the road when forced to swerve out of the way of an oncoming truck. One the lorry drivers is a black West Indian immigrant (Frank Singuineau), and Norman awakens to focus on the totemic necklace around his neck, an odd little touch that obviously harkens back to Tansy’s embrace of magic in Jamaica whilst also suggesting the manifold ocean of belief Norman floats upon in a manner that’s correlated with the reverse colonisation of England, the nascent multicultural state. Norman shrugs off his injuries and continues in a hire car, but is too late to reach the cottage before nightfall.

Hayers keeps the tension mounting as the narrative begins to move with breathless pace, and delivers another great little set-piece here: Norman, realising he might find Tansy in the local churchyard thanks to a note he finds in one of her occult books, dashes along the moonlit beach, unknowingly passing Tansy who sits blank-eyed and motionless behind a boulder. When he reaches the churchyard cemetery, he claws his way through the old and overgrown tombstones and enters into a crypt. There Norman desperately performs a ritual to reclaim Tansy, whilst Hayers cuts to her robotically walking into the ocean as if to drown herself under the evil influence. Finally Norman gives up in a flurry of despair, only to turn and see Tansy standing in the crypt doorway, sodden, rigid, and staring-eyed, still under trance but having obeyed Norman’s ritual call back out of the water. Hayers manages here to deploy classical genre imagery – the craggy coastline and the lonely cottage, the gnarled and ancient graveyard, the creepy sight of the mesmerised Tansy returned – but still not any sign of literalised menace. Reginald Wyer’s grainy-gleaming, chiaroscuro photography and tight lensing enforce the tunnel-visioned reality of the characters as well as heightening the drama whilst also remaining real-feeling.

Indeed, Night of the Eagle manages something that Night of the Demon, thanks to that film’s producer-enforced glimpses of the demon, never quite got to do, in that it occurs in a grey zone of credulity: if the mood of The City of the Dead feels Lewton-like, Night of the Eagle is closer to Lewton’s ideal on a dramatic level in keeping things ambiguous. As dialogue throughout in the film hints, everything we see might be the result of entangled hypnotism, hysteria, and coincidence, even after the spectacular climax, although of course that kind of influence wielded with a malicious design could be scarcely less frightening than the occult. Norman takes Tansy to a doctor (Norman Bird) whilst she’s still under a powerful influence, but she manages to utter a few words, asking him to take her home. There, she wakes up, and everything seems perfectly normal again. But once Norman goes to sleep, Tansy goes into a trance again, leaves bed, goes into the kitchen, selects a big knife, and sets out to stab Norman to death. Norman manages to fight her off and notices that as she’s being compelled she walks with a limp, and he realises that Flora is the sender. After Tansy collapses and Norman puts her to bed, he goes to the college and seeks proof, finding a photo of him and Tansy attached to a fetish.

When Flora enters her office, Norman confronts her and puts on the tape recording of his lecture with the incantation, forcing her to shut it off. Flora then drives Norman to flee by building a deck of cards and affecting to set fire to the Taylors’ house; at that moment their cat sets off a conflagration that begins burning down the house with Tansy in it. Attentive filmgoers might then and now have expected Byron, so specifically associated with her role as the crazed nun in Black Narcissus (1947), to prove the agent of satanic mischief, but her presence proves a red herring. Johnston’s grinning malevolence nonetheless galvanises the climax, the sardonic quality her Flora had in the early scenes now touched with hints of lunacy and sadism as well as proud pleasure as she teases Norman about having his cage rattled by “just a silly woman,” revelling in the puppeteer power she can wield over people and institutions in compensation for her debilitation and general sexism, although of course she has no qualms about making her own ward a plaything for her own ends.

Flora turns the tape recording on and broadcasts it over the school loudspeaker system, and Norman begins to see the eagle statue seeming to relocate itself constantly as he tries to leave the college grounds. The statue soon comes fully to life, a colossal bird of prey swooping from on high with eyes set on ripping him to pieces. Ripping open Norman’s jacket and a chunk from the head of a statute, the beast soon crashes through the college front door when Norman tries to lock it out. Even here, as the film seems to finally indulge special effects and a literal manifestation of the sorcerer’s art, Hayers is judicious and the effects are good with smart use of a real bird and models, apart from one unfortunate shot where the string tied to guide the bird is visible. Wyngarde’s performance, which hints at the edge of hysterical energy in Norman in the first scene and gradates it throughout, reaches its tousled, sweat-caked apogee as Norman is reduced to screaming terror, backing against the blackboard in his classroom as the bird corners him there, his squirming incidentally erasing the word “not” from the slogan he wrote there at the beginning.

Norman is saved from the manifestation by Flora’s husband bemusedly entering her office and complaining about the noise on the loudspeakers: Lindsay switches the audio back to the office, alarming Flora as she plainly fears the curse might rebound, whilst for Norman the eagle and all signs of its visitation suddenly vanish. This again opens up the possibility that the eagle was a hallucination provoked by some mesmeric quality of the tape recording. Norman dashes home and finds the house on fire, but Tansy is safe amongst the onlookers. Meanwhile as Flora and Lindsay leave the college the eagle statue suddenly toppled and crashes down upon her, killing her instantly, the reel of audio tape unspooling across the gravel from her corpse. A nicely ironic blowback comeuppance that still offers the tiniest fig leaf for clinging on to a rational explanation. In any event Night of the Eagle is a superlative little movie, one that could still use more attention, and it both compliments and contrasts The City of the Dead perfectly as a relic of a time when all you really needed to make a good horror movie was a fog machine and a creepy sound effect.

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1970s, Action-Adventure, Scifi, Thriller

The Omega Man (1971)

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The Ωmega Man (on-screen title spelling)

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Director: Boris Sagal
Screenwriters: John William Corrington, Joyce Hooper Corrington

By Roderick Heath

Published in 1954, I Am Legend, Richard Matheson’s classic and influential amalgam of apocalyptic science fiction and horror, has known strange fortune when it comes to filming. The novel surely owes some of its standing to being adapted to the big screen three times, as Sidney Salkow’s The Last Man On Earth (1964), Boris Sagal’s The Omega Man, and Francis Lawrence’s 2007 film under the original title. None of them represents a purely faithful version of the novel, each instead pursuing its own, particular motives and conceptual twists. Salkow’s threadbare if atmospheric take was nominally based on Matheson’s own script, but was so heavily revised by the producer he insisted on a pseudonym, and nudged the material closer to traditional horror. Lawrence’s was a well-made but generic, special effects-laden action vehicle that reduced the enemy from dark antitheses of the hero to marauding CGI critters. Sagal’s film was made to capitalise on Charlton Heston’s new status as a sci-fi star following on from the first two Planet of the Apes films, and like that series enthusiastically uses genre movie garb to tackle flashpoint social and political issues. Soylent Green (1973) would round out an unofficial trilogy for Heston. The Omega Man wasn’t the first post-apocalyptic survival movie released by Hollywood, but it does seem from today’s perspective to be the one that made the subgenre perennially popular, laying down a blueprint by showing how it could function as a both a microcosmic metaphor and a branch of action cinema.

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Husband and wife writing duo Joyce and John Corrington’s script for The Omega Man departed widely from Matheson’s novel in several respects. The novel, set in a time where most of humanity has been wiped out by disease leaving one immune survivor, proposed that that vampirism, revealed through the protagonist’s research as a once-rare and often misdiagnosed disease, has infected all the other survivors of pandemic to a greater or lesser degree, turning some into ravening beasts whilst others remain functioning and civilised, but hate and fear the hero now as the last human. The novel ends with him realising that he is now the stuff of myth and bedtime bogeyman stories to the post-humans, who put him to death. The Omega Man, by contrast, portrays the diseased survivors as the direct product of the pandemic, a manmade virus unleashed during a war between China and the Soviet Union (not that farfetched at the time) supposedly breaking out in 1975, with the bulk of the film set two years later in an empty and decaying Los Angeles. The man who thinks himself the lone true survivor, Colonel Robert Neville (Heston), is a former army scientist who managed, in the raging days of the epidemic, to synthesise a vaccine, but was only able to give it to himself.

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At the film’s outset, Neville roams the vacant streets in a convertible, faking his way through conversations with imagined people, partly to suit his sour sense of humour and also in a ritual trying to keep hold of his sanity. Whilst driving around, scored hilariously by a cassette recording of “A Summer Place,” Neville hefts a submachine gun and sprays bullets at a window he sees a figure flit behind. When he crashes his car and busts a tyre, Neville smashes his way into an auto showroom to prime and take off in another vehicle. He heads to a movie theatre which he’s plainly visited often before to watch the film that was showing there when everything fell apart: Michael Wadleigh’s Woodstock (1970), powering the projectors with emergency generators he knows to bring petrol for. The on-screen record of massed and joyous humanity gives Neville company he otherwise lacks, and he can recite the optimistic speech of one young attendee interviewed word for word. Leaving the theatre, Neville starts hearing telephones going off all over the city, a dazzling din that forces Neville to deny its reality, whereupon the noise ceases. Neville returns to his home as he realises nightfall is coming. As he prepares to enter his garage, black-robed figures with chalk-white faces launch a prepared assault on him, and Neville only narrowly survives with a blend of quick reflexes and brute force.

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These marvellous early scenes skilfully establish Neville’s solitude and situation along with an aesthetic of desolate genre poetry in surveying the desolate city still festooned with all the appealing, empty yardsticks of the modern lifestyle. Neville’s favourite movie doesn’t just ironically underline his loneliness with a teasing vision of mass idealism, but also announces The Omega Man’s key theme, the breakdown of humanity’s remnants into camps representing contentious visions of society and its future, if any. The hidden menace lying in wait for the last man is suggested, but also presented as initially less frightening than the weight of solitude and potential insanity upon him, setting in motion the basic drive and irony of the narrative, that Neville needs his foes and vice versa to give their lives meaning. What that contest is slowly becomes apparent as Neville spends his days wandering the city seeking out the hive of his nemeses. That tribe call themselves The Family, and are led by former TV news anchor Jonathan Matthias (Anthony Zerbe). Grotesquely transformed into albino ghouls who can’t survive in the sunlight, many of them injured psychologically as well as physically, The Family, under Matthias’ fanatical leadership, now want to cleanse the Earth of the hated reminders of the fallen human world and its final arbiter, and fight an extended guerrilla war with Neville.

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Neville’s apartment, which he later explains he clings to out a sense of sheer, obstinate resolve despite being difficult to defend, is filled with retrieved artworks and accoutrements befitting the lifestyle of a well-heeled man of the world. Floodlights affixed to the building exterior keep the intensely light-sensitive Family away and CCTV lets him see everywhere at once. He tries to settle down with a good whisky and get back to the chess match he nominally plays against a bust of Julius Caesar, but his enemies begin congregating in the street and chanting the perpetual demand, “Neville! Come Down!” Neville hurls his glass across the room in reactive anger and triggered desperation. His robed and misshapen enemies roam about the city in packs at night, collecting the fruits of human civilisation from technology to books, and destroy them, staging a Hitlerian bonfire in the plaza outside Neville’s building to taunt him with the sight as well as satisfy their own project. “The whole Family can’t bring him down out of that – that…” Matthias trails off as he smoulders in frustration, so his lieutenant Zachary (Lincoln Kilpatrick), once a black man, suggests the descriptor, “Honky paradise, brother?” When they try assaulting Neville’s apartment with flaming masses fired with a crude ballista, Neville responds with a machine gun.

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Neville drifts into a reverie in the elevator to his apartment, cueing the first of two efficient, visually striking flashbacks to the time of the plague’s coming, unleashed during the war, punctuated by images of flocks of pedestrians struck down in their tracks by the deadly disease. The flashbacks cleverly render Neville and Matthias as opponents long before they encounter each-other’s works in the dead city. Neville, in his old office, listens to Matthias speaking on the television with bleak import: “Is this the end of technological man? Is this the conclusion of all our yesterdays, the boasts of our fabled science?…We were warned of judgement. Well, here it is.” Neville allows no such fatalistic philosophising, still trying to develop his vaccine and save the world. But the pilot of the helicopter taking him to a secure facility with his experimental vaccine keels over as the disease hits him, and Neville is unable to prevent the helicopter crashing. Crawling out of the flaming wreckage, Neville took the desperate shot of injecting himself with the dose, and two years later his success is now also a bitter mockery. Neville resumes his systematic search the following day, exploring the innards of downtown buildings where he still finds desiccated corpses from the time of the plague, including a couple who died in each-other’s arms in bed.

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Sagal blends aspects of gothic horror with a sarcastic sense of derelict consumerism in this scenes, all the high-end shops and hotels filled with dead plants and bodies and copious cobwebs. The stuff of daily life and social ritual betrays the sudden cessation of that life, like a dining table laid out for some banquet now filthy and encrusted, the whole world now resembling a vampire’s castle in a horror movie. Neville also finds dead members of the Family finally consumed by the disease, their physical symptoms being what Neville refers to as “tertiary cases.” Roving about a boutique clothing store, Neville is stricken with erotic fascination by a mannequin, reaching out to touch its smooth plastic belly in tactile arousal now that only a facsimile of a female form is left to him. This flourish of knowing sexual desperation dashed with humour has an immediate consequence, as Neville seems to virtually conjure up a very real female out of the recesses of his mind. When he thinks he hears something moving through the store, he looks to see a mannequin where there wasn’t before, a figure with eyes that slowly pivot to look at him. The woman, Lisa (Rosalind Cash), dashes out of the store and Neville loses track of her outside. Unsure if she was real or just another figment of his imagination, Neville resumes his hunt, only to be ambushed and captured in a well-laid trap by the Family.

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Matthias has Neville tried and convicted for forms of heresy according to The Family’s law as a “user of the wheel,” lacking the stigmata-like proof of faith that is the bleached irises the tertiary cases all have. Matthias wants to destroy all the pretensions of the old civilisation, considering himself the anointed avenger of the Earth, extinguishing the original sin of knowledge so The Family can then build something else. “Build coffins, that’s all you’ll need,” Neville tells him late in the film, knowing as he does The Family will all die out if their disease isn’t treated. Matthias has him wheeled out into the centre of Dodgers Stadium on a tumbril, complete with a dunce’s cap, to be burned alive. But Neville is saved when the stadium lights come on, dazzling The Family. Lisa and another survivor, Dutch (Paul Koslo), move to save him despite Lisa’s take-no-shit attitude towards Neville. Dutch wards off The Family with flash-bombs whilst Neville and Lisa make a zippy getaway on a motorcycle. Lisa directs Neville up to a bunker in the hills above the city where she and Dutch are caring for a small collection of children. All of them have the disease, but so far have resisted either dying or devolving, although all expect one or the other: Lisa’s teenage brother Richie (Eric Laneuville) is in the throes of transitioning, so Neville decides to risk trying to use his blood as a serum to treat his case.

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The Omega Man is a very much a pop film in the early 1970s mode, and it’s often been criticised for this. But this specificity is also the source of much of the film’s pleasure and its special thematic punch, investing it with levels of symbolism and metaphor for a particular moment and sensibility, whilst also still working readily today as a mythically styled action movie. Like a genre-fied, mass-audience friendly remake of Zabriskie Point (1970), it contemplates an impending post-human era where characters are coded as representatives of various cultural sectors, and the radical fringe, embodied by Dutch and Lisa and the children they care for, are poised to be the only possible inheritors of the Earth. They subsist between the poles of Neville with his attachment to the old material world and willingness to defend it with ferocity, and the cult of Matthias and The Family, who take the streak of suspicion for the mainstream, technological society found in the hippie movement to an extreme but also inject it with medievalist religious certainties, as well as Nazi-like contempt for contradictory knowledge. The Omega Man takes off where Jean-Luc Godard’s Week-End (1967) left off in considering the efforts of iconoclasts to smash apart the last signifiers of a fundamentally sick world.

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The Family, with their bleached white faces and hair riddled with bloody buboes and glazed eyes, wrapped in monkish garb and stalking the streets at night with torches, bridge the imagery of classic horror stories, like the hordes of undead devil worshippers in something like The City of the Dead (1960). But they retain dimensions of damaged humanity, as well as fanaticism rooted in the belief they are the lucky ones to be so marked and tasked, as well as susceptibility to suggestion that makes someone like Matthias, who retains his intellect, able to control them. The Family members are scrubbed of racial, gender, and social differentiation, instead blessed with a new homogenised identity. Late in the film, Lisa is suddenly stricken with the disease and unfurls her headscarf, revealing she’s been overtaken by the disease and recognises The Family as her new kind. It’s a sign of the times that the film votes Matthias a great deal of sympathy for his perspective, his passionately righteous hatred for the world men created and then laid waste to, no form of logic or argument more plain and cold than the simple and obvious fact he can point to of apocalypse all about them.

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Matthias is ultimately, in a perverse fashion, presented as a sort of antihero, the one who counsels Zachary, “Forget the old ways, brother, all the old hatreds, all the old pains. Forget, and remember,” and promises Neville they will “cancel history.” Social divides are now reduced now to a much simpler dynamic: us versus him. The very name of The Family suggests a likeness to the Manson Family, all over the news at the time the film was being made. Matthias tells Neville that in the days after the plague’s coming he realised he and the others like him had been spared for the purpose burying what was dead, including the fallen civilisation. “You’re the Angel of Death, Doctor, not us,” Matthias tells Neville in reminding him that even if they are trying to kill him, he’s killed far more of them, after angrily shouting, in response to Neville’s question as to why they haven’t tried finding a cure, “There is none!” Zerbe, a much-employed actor at the time, is terrific as Matthias, expertly countering Heston’s bellicose passion with his own surgically precise enunciations of his sure and unremitting interpretation of their lot.

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Against them stands Neville, ensconced in his fortified bachelor pad. Neville’s lifestyle is offered in part as dry parody of an early ‘70s magazine ideal of masculinity and the action man ethos so common in the period, once ironically associated with all the estimable hip values and yet standing in opposition to many of them. Neville tries to make like Hugh Hefner playing James Bond, the First World incarnate guarding its turf and privilege in stalwart style, treating the remnants of human culture he’s assembled and curated like his collection of guns and booze, steadily ransacking the city for everything that’s useful or eye-catching for him. He’s the swinging bachelor as superman survivor even whilst cursed with awareness of his actual insignificance and paltriness before the vast empty world, at least before the other survivors turn up. Much is made of Neville’s brawny body – Heston’s as shirtless throughout the film as Chris Hemsworth in his average vehicle – and his concomitant physical resilience, whilst his apartment’s art collection sees him in company with Caesar and mad emperor Caracalla, suggesting the poles of authority and brutal power Neville anoints himself heir to. Neville’s intelligence and resolve are likewise admirable, and when fate gives him a genuine function once again he leaps to the task.

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But he’s also, as young Richie states after Neville’s serum cures him, “hostile,” a man who feeds off his war with Matthias and The Family, happy to oppose their campaign of destruction with his efforts to remain an island of the old ways, and uninterested in trying to find some sort of accord even as it becomes clear a cure that can restore The Family is now in their hands. In the finale he even dons once more his military uniform and cap, as if both acknowledging his anachronism whilst committing to a warrior creed he never really aspired to in the first place as a healer with the job of “inventing cures for diseases that didn’t exist yet.” Neville’s idea of civilisation is appealing but also hermetic, immobile, and intolerant. Lisa’s entry into the film injects an amusing edge borrowed from the nascent Blaxploitation mode as she appears swathed in red leather with a ballooning afro, a tough survivor stridently bossing and pistol-whipping Neville even in the process of rescuing him, in part because, as she later tells him, when he warns her to be careful whilst foraging for supplies, “The most dangerous thing I ever met in one of those places was you.”

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Introduction to Lisa, Dutch, and the children strips from Neville the armour of his solitude and replaces it with responsibility. One of the first serious post-apocalyptic dramas was Ranald MacDougall’s The World, The Flesh, and The Devil (1959), a film that exploited both racial and sexual anxieties hatching out in the waning days of the Ike era as two men, played by Harry Belafonte and Mel Ferrer, battle for the one (white) woman left in an irradiated New York. The Omega Man takes up the same teasing motif of interracial eroticism in end-times as Neville and Lisa become lovers as Lisa negotiates the delights of Neville’s apartment. They try to forget the world outside it even as Neville acknowledges he really is looking at the last girl on Earth. Their tete-a-tete is interrupted when the building’s generator stops from lack of fuel, requiring Neville to shimmy down the elevator cables to the ground floor, whilst Zachary takes the opportunity to climb up the outside of the building to kill the enemy. Neville gets the power working again and arrives back upstairs just in time to gun down Zachary as he springs through the windows. Zachary plunges back off the balcony onto a spiked railing below. As it becomes clear the blood serum works and can reverse the disease mutation, Neville, Lisa, and Dutch resolve to take the children to a new base in the Sierras.

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Heston, who had been fascinated by the book when reading it on a plane flight and didn’t know it had previously been filmed, supposedly had tried to interest Orson Welles in the script. Heston was still trying to leave behind his association with epic films and religious movies, but he was canny not to entirely leave behind the outsized associations he retained: both Planet of the Apes and The Omega Man cleverly twist and pervert Heston’s titan stature. The director he ended up with, Boris Sagal, was mostly a very well-employed TV director, and his feature work only sported a couple of solid westerns and war movies and an Elvis vehicle, Girl Happy (1965). Nonetheless some of his telemovies, like Sherlock Holmes in New York (1976) and his surprisingly good remake of Dial M For Murder (1981), wielded a similarly baroque visual sense matched to a flair for tight drama. The Omega Man is easily his most popular and best-known feature. Personally I love the fleshy, colourful vividness of his work on the film: it’s the sort of thing where a more restrained and refined talent might have burnished off the rough edges but not achieved the same the delirious and suggestive highs as well. Various vignettes, like Neville crawling from the burning helicopter and dosing himself, the revelation of the infected Lisa, and the finale, at once eerie and operatic, have stuck like jagged glass in my mind since childhood.

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Despite its cheesy and modish touches The Omega Man achieves something of an ideal for a movie of its kind, maintaining a fleet and functional pace, dotted with flashes of punchy spectacle, and yet remaining attentive to the bleak and meditative aspect of the drama, the twinned yet contradictory feeling of crushing solitude and being trapped with inimical beings, ironically a less dreadful feeling, neatly articulated. The Omega Man is crucially balanced in a way that eludes a lot of contemporary movies in the same vein. One great plus is Russell Metty’s cinematography. Heston obviously remembered how good Metty was from working with Welles on Touch of Evil (1958), and his work conveys the right pulpy lustre offsetting the pallid and sonorous texture of the deserted cityscape with the primal drama unfolding on the streets, where extremes of mortification and danger are measured in blazing fire, unnaturally white skin, and pocks of red blood. Another aspect of the film I’m inordinately fond of is the score by Ron Grainer, the Australian-born composer who had worked for the BBC where he wrote classic TV themes including those for Doctor Who, The Prisoner, and Steptoe & Son. Grainer’s memorably elegant and evocative main theme comes in variations that truck in flourishes of funk, jazz, and pop, with organ flourishes to lend an appropriately gothic tint in places, even if it gets a bit Mannix-esque in the Dodgers Stadium sequence.

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Coming as it did at the outset of the ‘70s, a decade when sci-fi tinted parables became popular, The Omega Man’s success had a definable impact on the cinematic genre that took a little time to hatch out and infect pop culture. The film’s release coincided with Robert Wise’s more procedural and cool-witted take on Michael Crichton’s novel The Andromeda Strain, and the two works helped codify the subgenre concerned with disease and epidemics as potential apocalyptic agents dubbed bi-fi, quickly taken up by works like George Romero’s The Crazies (1973). The film laid down a template for how a pulpy notion of genre thrills and a more high-minded variety came into fruitful fusion, likewise allowing movies like Crichton’s Westworld (1973) and Jack Smight’s Damnation Alley (1976), and leading on to a host sci-fi-action hybrids with smart propelling ideas in the 1980s: such stalwart hits from Alien (1979) to The Terminator (1984), Predator (1986), and RoboCop (1987) owe it at least that much impetus. The Mad Max series would offer a version of Neville, albeit one that wisely chose mobility but still retained certain traits, as a figure carrying on a sense of duty and legacy into post-apocalyptic battles. Whilst his Night of the Living Dead (1968) predated Sagal’s film, Romero’s Dawn of the Dead (1978) would annex The Omega Man’s driving concepts and oppositions, likewise presenting its heroes as futile warriors living on swathed in a consumerist bubble in trying to ignore collapse and the zombified hordes without.

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True to the credo of the best ‘70s sci-fi films too, The Omega Man isn’t afraid to get seriously dark at points. This is particularly apparent as the plot barrels towards its climactic crisis, as Richie decides to try and reason with Matthias and the family, to convince them to let Neville try and cure them. Matthias listens to him indulgently, only for Neville, when he arrives to save him, to find Richie strung up with his throat cut, the final, perfect goad to Neville and a rejection of all hope. Neville tries to charge back to his building, only to crash through a trap set by The Family. His jeep upturned, Neville fights his way out of the trap and enters his apartment, to find Lisa, now inducted into The Family, has let Matthias and his goons in. Matthias makes Neville watch as his people unleash an orgy of destructive fury on all the remnants of civilisation Neville has collected. Neville manages to break free and drags Lisa away with him, but this causes a fatal delay: as he tries to unjam his gun and call back Lisa as Matthias chants her name to draw her back, Matthias takes the opportunity to hurl a spear at Neville, hitting him in the torso and knocking him into a fountain in the plaza. As the sun rises, Dutch and kids arrive to find Neville bleeding to death, but Neville manages to hand over the last bottle filled with his blood serum, key to curing Lisa and the children. Sagal offers one lovely grace note as one of the young girls plucks Neville’s cap out of the fountain water and places it on the rim as a show of respect and salutary farewell to the last of his kind. The last image, with Neville splayed Christ-like as he dies, is by comparison too insistent, although this certainly presents an appropriately futuristic and ironic twist on Heston’s messianic image and the very idea of the saviour who donates to his followers his blood and flesh for the sake of salvation.

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