Cover Art

Credits

Director: Douglas Hickox Starring: Vincent Price, Diana Rigg, Coral Browne, Arthur Lowe, Harry Andrews Screenplay: Anthony Greville-Bell Music: Michael J. Lewis Tagline: It's curtains for his critics! Country: UK AKA: Much Ado About Murder

By and large, Price's movies always stuck to a well-established formula: a low budget mish-mash of black comedy and schlock horror that could turn a movie studio into a cheddar factory. Price himself was aware of just how bad most of these efforts were, and delivered all of his performances with such camp irreverence that anyone with a sense of humour (and a well-developed sense of irony) could withstand a truly dreadful film for the sake of a good laugh, which Price rarely failed to deliver. Perhaps unsurprisingly, Price's films quickly became cult hits that influenced generations of B-movie buffs, from the titan of trash, John Waters, to master of macabre, Tim Burton, who was lucky enough to cast Price in his own suburban-horror caper, Edward Scissorhands. That said, for all their old-school-exploitation anti-glamour and contemporary critical currency, the vast majority of Price's movies were notoriously bad – and not in an 'it's-so-bad-it's-good' kind of way, but genuine, cringe-worthy, 'why, oh, why am I wasting my life watching this piss-poor torrent of filth?' BAD. The renewed interest in Price's career has meant that many of these trashy tomes pollute DVD throw-out bins, and what appears to be an under-loved, over-looked classic is really just another crappy movie that deserves the price it gets. My copy of Theatre of Blood is an ex-Blockbuster rental that cost me $3 – I believe I got my money's worth.

The plot of Theatre of Blood is downright ludicrous: Edward Lionheart (Price), an uber-hammy Shakespearean actor of the Kenneth Branagh variety, supposedly commits suicide after a season of Bard Best-Ofs is critically savaged and he is denied the Critics Circle Award. Sticking to the tried-and-true formula of Vincent Price films, Lionheart is resurrected and embarks on a campaign of revenge, killing off his most severe critics in a variety of Shakespeare-themed deaths. It's not exactly Saw or Seven material, but there's clearly some ironic intention at play so best take the biggest grain of salt you can find and try to bear with me.

Armed with an uncanny memory for monologue, a dizzying array of costume changes, an army of drunken hobos, and some of the cheesiest one-liners rarely seen out of a Connery-era Bond flick, Lionheart's vendetta has such a comical overtone to it, you'd be hard-pressed not to crack a smile during this garbage onslaught. Some of the death scenes are so ridiculous they border on slapstick: one critic is decapitated during a hilarious bedroom surgery scene; another is drowned in a barrel of wine; another is force-fed a pie made of his own poodles until he chokes to death ("Pity, he didn't have the stomach for it"). The best execution by far is that of a particularly haughty, up-tight theatre snob who's electrocuted by her own hair curlers…shocking! (sorry, couldn't resist).

Price is perfectly cast as a murderous ham-actor and clearly relishes the opportunity to display his often over-looked acting chops; taking on multiple personas and costume changes, he transforms at will from King Lear into super-camp hairdresser, 'Butch', resplendent in afro-wig, handlebar moustache and aviator sunglasses. Other amusing Price personas include Shylock, the Jew from the Merchant of Venice, literally extracting a pound of flesh from a hapless victim, and at one point he's decked out in a red velvet pimp suit replete with fedora and cravat (it was a turbulent decade for everybody). The effect is schizophrenic but, to Price's credit, all his Shakespeare monologues are delivered with such ham-fisted gusto and melodrama, it's impossible not to find him compellingly charismatic. It's also cheerfully ironic that the witless critics Lionheart preys upon - who are totally taken in by his character ruses, only finally catching on at the moment of their grisly deaths – are the same stuffy culture vultures that humiliated and belittled him for his 'unconvincing' performances. At one point, Lionheart is so believable as an adulterous masseur that he plays Iago; convincing his victim that his blonde hussy wife has been screwing around. With a cry of "Damned adulterous bitch!" and "Down, strumpet!" the duped critic suffocates his own wife…like I said, it's not Saw or Seven, but it's definitely a laugh.