THEATER OF BLOOD

Diana Rigg and Vincent Price

THEATER OF BLOOD (1973). Director: Douglas Hickox.

"A mumbling, incoherent boy who can barely grunt his way through a speech" -- Edward Lionheart.

"It's Lionheart all right. Only he wold have the temerity to rewrite Shakespeare." -- Devlin.

Actor Edward Lionheart (Vincent Price) supposedly committed suicide after losing the coveted Critics' Circle Award, but it turns out that he is still alive and killing off those same critics -- with the help of his daughter, Edwina (Diana Rigg) -- in ways related to Shakespeare's plays. Theater of Blood followed Price's Abominable Dr. Phibes and Dr. Phibes Rises Again and is similarly gruesome and playful -- not to mention revenge-motivated --  although perhaps not as much fun as the other pictures. Price is terrific as Lionheart, ably supported by Diana Rigg as his daughter. even if she isn't given much of a character to play. There are more than its share of over-the-top moments in this: a grotesque beheading sequence (from Cymberline) is an example of the blackest of black comedy; and the death of flamboyantly gay Meredith Merridew (Robert Morley), forced to devour his own "babies" (actually, beloved poodles) until he chokes on dog meat, as in Titus Andronicus, is unbelievably sadistic (not to mention rather homophobic). Speaking of gay stereotypes, the closeted Price has fun playing a campy hairdresser named "Butch" who fatally spit- curls critic Chloe Moon, played by Price's then-wife Coral Browne [The Legend of Lylah Clare], in a salon. Ian Hendry, Jack Hawkins [Land of the Pharaohs], Arthur Lowe, Michael Hordern, Robert Coote and Dennis Price [Your Past Is Showing] are all notable as assorted victims, as is Milo O'Shea as the baffled police inspector on the case, and Joan Hickson as the wife who wakes up with a headless corpse in her bed. One has to wonder: was Lionheart really as mediocre an actor as everyone says, or were the critics out to get him for one reason or another?

Verdict: One of the most diabolical and gruesome of revenge thrillers with many darkly amusing moments. *** out of 4.

THE RULING CLASS

Peter O'Toole

THE RULING CLASS (1972). Director: Peter Medak.

When the Earl of Gurnsey (Harry Smith) dies in a grotesque, kinky accident involving a tutu and a hanging, his son Jack (Peter O'Toole) becomes the new Earl. The problem is that Jack has been institutionalized for years and is convinced that he is Jesus and/or God. In spite [or because] of this, his Uncle Charles (William Mervyn) decides to marry him off to Charles' mistress, Grace (Carolyn Seymour) so that they can re-commit him once he's delivered an heir. But Jack, whose persona is definitely becoming darker, has different plans in mind. Coral Browne is Charles' wife, Claire, and the great Alistair Sim (Belles of St. Trinian's) is cast as the befuddled Bishop, "Bertie." The entire cast is splendid, including Michael Bryant as Jack's psychiatrist; Nigel Green [Let's Kill Uncle] as another nutcase; James Villiers as Jack's cousin, Dinsdale; and especially Arthur Lowe, who [along with Sim] nearly steals the picture as the family butler, who has inherited money from the late earl and feels free to tell everybody what he really thinks of them even as he waits on them. The first half of this zany movie, which roasts British class distinctions, religion, conservative values and the like, is very, very funny, with madcap musical numbers, such as "Varsity Drag," interspersed to complete the fun and lunacy. Alas, there's too much of a good thing, the movie goes on way too long, blunting its satiric points, and before long you're just wishing it were over. O'Toole is excellent, but his obnoxious, screeching Jack gives you a headache after a while. Some moments are painfully obvious, such as when Jack addresses the House of Lords and they are depicted in quick cuts as skeletons awash in cobwebs. This was filmed in  Harlaxton Manor, a huge, impressive [but rather ugly] house in Lincolnshire. which is now actually the British campus for the University of Evansville in Indiana.

Verdict: A little too surreal and self-indulgent for its own good. **1/2.