Curse of the Crimson Altar

 

Curse of the Crimson Alter

Aka: The Crimson Cult

Director – Vernon Sewell

Screenplay – Mervyn Haisman & Henry Lincoln from a story by Jerry Sohl

Stars – Boris Karloff, Christopher Lee, Mark Eden

 

Starts in rip-roaring fashion with a buxom blonde being whipped on a sacrificial alter by a near-naked amazon whilst a dirty old priest looks on. Having been introduced to our typically staid hero, the Swinging Sixties vibe continues (as much as it censorship allows) with a big house party of wild abandon (e.g. painting breasts, pouring booze on breasts, etc). Much of the debauchery and witchy rituals look like they are auditioning for a salacious slot in such Mondo efforts as ‘Primitive London’. 

 

Manning hangs around and discovers that the atmosphere is sinister with the legend of Lavinia Morley, Black Witch of Greymarsh. Witch burning town festivals, psychedelic nightmares, blood oaths, threatening masked juries, sleepwalking, secret passages relatively easily found all follow. When stabbed in a dream, Manning wakes to find he has been stabbed in real life, but this barely seems a conundrum to him and certainly no inconvenience to shagging his host’s daughter. In fact, the film’s sexual politics are decidedly dated, what with Manning’s somewhat presumptive and aggressive come-ons. And it all ends up underwhelming and a little perfunctory – don’t these things end on the rooftop? Yes, let’s do the rooftop!

 

Based on HP Lovecraft’s ‘A Dream in the Witch House’ (uncredited), antique enthusiast Robert Manning (Mark Eden) goes in pursuit of his missing brother and gate-crashes a party at a stately home, finding himself taken as a welcome guest. “It’s as if Boris Karloff is going to pop up at any moment,” Manning deadpans – and lo! Boris does turn up, in a wheelchair, condescending and full of potent and invitations to see his collection of torture instruments. Of course, it’s Karloff and Christopher Lee that give it class (Lee’s no-nonsense sincerity and Karloff’s uncampy ham), but it’s Michael Gough that steals the show as a batty short-lived servant. Eden is uninteresting and quite bullish, like Connery’s Bond without the charm.  Virginia Wetherall’s natural no-nonsense appeal is squandered and all Barbara Steele has to do is to is look imperiously green.

 

Enjoy by simply stuffing the plot holes and cliches with the lashings of unintentional camp.