So not long ago, I had the pleasure of bumping into this Vincent Price vehicle for the first time. His oeuvre has always been a bit of a blind spot for me, but the idea of this one pulled me in, and I’m glad it did.
Theatre of Blood (1973)
Reportedly Vincent Price’s favorite role, Douglas Hickox and Anthony Greville-Bell’s horror-comedy is a deliciously campy tale of theatrical revenge. Everything about it is fully over the top and entirely tongue in cheek. What it lacks in narrative suspense, it makes up for in magnificent melodrama. It may not offer any scares and the plot may be paper thin, but the Shakespearean murders, the weirdness of its characters, the confidence and style of its filming, and Price making such a meal of the scenery at every turn makes it a vastly enjoyable watch.
At heart, this is a very simple revenge scenario. Shakespearean actor, Edward Lionheart (Vincent Price, obviously having the time of his life), having been spurned by a circle of London critics and denied a coveted award, first dramatically commits suicide (in true theatrical fashion, performing Hamlet’s To be or not to be soliloquy on the parapet outside the critics’ party, as they mock him and carry on drinking within, before jumping into the Thames to drown), is then found and nursed back to health by a band of ‘meths’ (purple tinted denatured alcohol) drinking tramps whom he soon comes to command, and finally, thought dead, sets about murdering each and every one of the critics in a re-creation of a Shakespearean death scene. This is all carried out with the assistance of his ensemble, ‘the meths drinkers,’ and his devoted daughter/supporting actor/makeup and special effects artist, Edwina (Diana Rigg).
One is stabbed to death by a crowd ala Julius Ceaser. The next is speared and dragged behind a horse as in Troilus and Cressida. A wife wakes next to her decapitated husband, which occurs in Cymbeline. The ending of The Merchant of Venice is improved to ensure the gouging of a pound of flesh, in this case, the heart (after shaving off a few ounces that had been taken in error). There’s a drowning in a cask of wine from Richard III. A jealous critic is driven to murder his wife in the style of Othello (it is presumed that, being elderly, he will die in prison). A woman is burned/electrocuted to death in a hair dryer in representation of Joan of Arc in Henry VI, part I. One critic is fed his beloved dogs (whom he refers to as his babies) in a pie as is done to Tamora in Titus Andronicus. Finally, the last one, having survived a duel out of Romeo and Juliet (which partially takes place on trampolines!!!) almost has his eyes gouged out, the fate of Gloucester from King Lear. Unfortunately, he is spared. The horror, the horror.
In the end, The Police interrupt the final murder and Edwina is killed. The theatre burning around him, Edward climbs to the top of the building, carrying his dead daughter, and finally leaps to his death, this time, successfully. The final critic survives to insult more unbalanced theatrical maniacs and the world returns to a semblance of normality.
The above-listed reckoning of murder and mayhem cannot do justice to the infectious joy of this film. From the extravagant characters that Edward and Edwina portray, such as the flaming hairdresser who leaves his client smoking, or the ridiculous faux-French-poodle-pie serving cooking show host, to the utter weirdness embodied by the largely physical performance of the increasingly inebriated and insane ‘meths drinkers’, to the ostentatious staging of each kill, Theatre of Blood delights in excess.
There is, of course, much ado about Edward’s performances. We hear from the various critics how overbaked they were, and from what we see, it’s easy to believe. Before each kill, he recites some appropriate bit of oratory from the referenced play. While there is a nigh sensual pleasure in every syllable, it hardly illuminates the text (reportedly, Vincent Price felt constrained by his career in Horror and had always wanted to play Shakespeare). We also hear from one critic, about to die, that Edward’s productions were always obvious and totally lacking in originality. That, however, is not reflected in what we are shown.
It would appear that Edward, blinded by ego, had been pursuing the wrong career all along. He was not the greatest actor of the London stage and the theatre he was responsible for may indeed have been pedestrian and hackneyed. However, his murdering is exemplary. It is in carnage that his true talent lies. And, towards that noble end, he repurposes all the tools of his previous trade. He orchestrates the action of a cast of players, he undertakes an extensive degree of stagecraft, and he still plays parts, and wrings from each, every last sanguinary drop. At the end, this tragic figure, this creator whose ability could never match his ambition, finally begins to thrive artistically. But in true tragic fashion, having discovered his true strength, his artistic calling, it ultimately leads to his downfall (quite literally, from the roof of a burning theatre).
If there is a weakness here, it is in the fact that the film occasionally wears the face of a crime procedural as the critics and police try to determine who is carrying out these wild crimes. At the same time, this information is never withheld from the audience, and this creates a kind of lack of tension as we are witness to a mystery that isn’t. But by the same token, there is some pleasure in watching them squirm. Also, it is disappointing that the final reviewer escapes with his eyes. I mean, Edward puts so much work into the set up and therefore, as the real pleasure of the movie is watching him carry out his revenge, the escape of this final boy is more a frustration than a relief. But, in this, we underline Edward’s tragedy. He had transitioned into a bold new art form where he was at the height of his craft, but he will only be remembered as a failed actor and a madman.
Credit must also be given to Diana Rigg in the role of Edwina. As does her father, she is constantly in one disguise or another and while he is a well-aged ham, pushing every characterization over the precipice of believability (but with such verve and glory!), she mostly disappears into each role, all the while, helping to lead Scotland Yard on a merry chase. The only character in which she is rather obvious is Edward’s male assistant, a scruffy hippy, leading the denatured alcohol soaked supporting players. It’s a late reveal that it was her all along, but it was also obvious from the first. But it really doesn’t matter. She’s great. He’s great. The kills are absurdly baroque, and the film as a whole feels like an act of exultation.
Neither the writer nor the director did anything else in the genre, and to be fair, the film never really terrifies, disgusts, or horrifies, though it does serve up a degree of blood and gore. But it is genuinely funny and infectious in its enthusiasm for its characters and the actors who play them, the inherent histrionics of the bard, the delight of a well-staged and filmed murder set piece, and the absolute, shameless grandeur of overkill. Bravo.