Hammer House of Horror
A run through of all 13 episodes in Hammer's televisual horror feast, and a brief look back on just how scary a childhood in 1980s Britain could be.
Produced by Hammer Films in association with ITC Entertainment, Hammer House of Horror was a series of 13 stand-alone episodes, running at 50 minutes each. The tales of witchcraft, lycanthropy, cannibalism, haunted houses, devil worship, and murder were broadcast into British homes over the dark and dismal months of September through to December. Looking back, Hammer and ITC were a marriage made in cult TV and film heaven. Hammer, known for its garishly coloured retellings of classic gothic horror in films like The Hound of the Baskervilles (1959), Dracula: Prince of Darkness (1966) and The Vampire Lovers (1970), had found the perfect partner in ITC, whose television productions included The Avengers, The Saint, Space 1999, and Gerry Anderson's triple headed marionette successes Thunderbirds, Captain Scarlet and the Mysterons, and Stingray.
The brainchild of producers Roy Skeggs and Brian Lawrence, who revitalised Hammer after the company went into receivership in 1979, Hammer House of Horror boasted writing and directing talents like Hammer regular Peter Sasdy, Tom Clegg (director on the same year's McVicar), Jeremy Burnham (co-writer on Children of the Stones in 1977), and Alan Gibson (who also directed multiple episodes of Tales of the Unexpected). The show also featured established actors such as Jon Finch and Peter Cushing (the latter giving his final role for Hammer as a former SS guard in the excellent 'The Silent Scream'), alongside emerging talents like Brian Cox and Pierce Brosnan.
Hammer House of Horror joins other productions that wove a rich tapestry of science fiction, horror and the fantastic in British television, film, literature and even public information films during the 1970s and well into the ’80s. Blurring the lines between grand guignol horror and the reality of being a kid in Britain during this time, television was awash with programmes and reruns of films that touched a nerve with audiences. For every episode of Doctor Who and Beasts, there were reruns of Ken Loach’s Kes (1969) and the TV series Grange Hill, first aired on the BBC in February 1978. The latter two spoke directly to children who knew all too well the pain of attending a comprehensive school. Like some malignant force, the programming schedules seemed to be working in unison with one another. One example: While Grange Hill creator Phil Redmond was tackling heroin addiction in a story that spanned two series between 1986-87, an anti-drugs campaign ran the same year during the advert breaks over on ITV. The adverts had the same unnerving quality of other public information films that warned about the dangers of discarded fridges, ponds and, of all things, boiling a kettle on a boat.
I remember the anti-drugs adverts vividly. They were like mini-horror films, with a talking head being consumed by shadows as they sank further down into the depths of heroin addiction. In the woods close to where I lived, there was a disused air-raid shelter our parents warned us to stay away from in case we got pricked by discarded needles (I suspect that the imposing adverts about the AIDs epidemic had as much bearing on our parents’ finger wagging admonitions as the anti-drugs adverts). There was also a pond that we were warned against, and if we chose not to heed the warnings then we might be dragged down by Ginny Green Teeth, the river witch of lore; working together, ancient folktales and modern day anxieties could be very effective. There was also a local glue-sniffer who made the woods his home, a pathetic figure who, in our fertile minds, resembled a troll beneath a bridge. During this time (I would have been around ten years old), my older brother was knocking around with a lad who would sadly succumb to addiction himself by the time he left school. My brother’s friend also had an older brother, who allowed them to watch a VHS copy of Tobe Hooper’s 1974 shocker The Texas Chainsaw Massacre. By my reckoning, my brother would have been twelve or thirteen at the time, and the film disturbed him so much that he barely spoke for days until our mum finally managed to wrangle out of him the reason why he’d become so withdrawn. Another thing that happened: one Friday night my brother’s friends brought him home. He’d been beaten senseless by a gang and his face and clothes were bloodied. I was probably in bed at the time, but I remember peeking into his room the following morning and seeing him asleep in the dark with swellings covering his face. To me, he looked like something you’d find chained up in a basement in a horror film.
My point is, these early memories were just as terrifying as anything that Roald Dahl could scare me with on Tales of the Unexpected, a programme that made me fear everything from bees (the 'Royal Jelly’ episode) to bed and breakfasts (‘The Landlady’). The mentions of Ginny Green Teeth (misheard as Jimmy Green Teeth by myself) alongside videos of chainsaw massacres, drug addiction and violence, not only scared the living shit out of me, they also helped me appreciate the unreal horrors that were conjured up by the likes of John Landis in An American Werewolf in London (1981), Peter Milligan, Alan Moore and Grant Morrison in 2000AD’s Future Shocks, and the strips in the exceptional but short-lived horror comic Scream. In amongst these fantastical discoveries were regularly televised portmanteau horror films from Amicus, such as Tales from the Crypt (1972) and The Vault of Horror (1973), and The Monster Club (1981), which wasn’t an Amicus production, but was produced by Amicus founder Milton Subotsky.
I would have been four years old when Hammer House of Horror was first aired in 1980, but it was repeated on TV a second time in 1986. So, I’m guessing I caught some of these episodes either at home or, more than likely, while staying over at my Nanna’s house, whose little TV always seemed to be showing episodes of Miss Marple, old black and white films, or, yep, creepy British television series like Hammer House of Horror and Tales of the Unexpected. Watching them now, they serve as a kind of time-capsule, with recognisably drab clothes, furniture and shop fronts imbued with a slightly depressing, or, as Mark Gattis put it, “Ford Cortina”-ish quality.
It’s important to note here just how influential this era of television and film was on Gattis, as well as other writers, filmmakers and critics from his generation whose output since has been mainly concerned with the macabre and fantastic. The collective of Edgar Wright, Simon Pegg and Jessica Hynes dropped in references to American movies like Evil Dead 2 (1987) and Star Wars (1977) for their sitcom Spaced (1999-2001), while Romero zombie films, John Woo and Lethal Weapon (1987) informed Wright’s first two films Shaun of the Dead (2004) and Hot Fuzz (2007). They also paid homage to homegrown fantasy like folk horror (in Hot Fuzz, particularly), as well as Nigel Kneale, John Wyndham and Doctor Who in the third of his “Cornetto trilogy” World’s End (2013). But as great as Edgar Wright and his team are, it is Gattis and his own creative team of Steve Pemberton, Reece Shearsmith and Jeremy Dyson who have taken the influences of Kneale, Robin Hardy, Lawrence Gordon Clark and, of course, Hammer Films’ stalwarts like Terence Fisher to heart. The inbred locals of The League of Gentlemen (2002-2017) and the macabre stand-alone plays in Inside No.9 (2014-present) are direct descendants of programmes like Hammer House of Horror. Gattis is also a writer on the reboots of Doctor Who, Sherlock and Dracula for the BBC, and Jeremy Dyson, along with co-creator Andy Nyman, gave us the stage and film versions of their own horror anthology, Ghost Stories in 2010 and 2017, respectively.
So, a brief diversion that I hope draws attention to just how important programmes like Hammer House of Horror were in shaping Britain’s cultural landscape. The episodes are expertly written, directed and performed, and there’s a genuine passion for bringing the horror genre up to date, aligning itself with the more graphic British horror that can be found in the early literary works of James Herbert and Clive Barker.
Here’s a quick trawl through all 13 episodes.
The Episodes
'Witching Time' (directed by Don Leaver, written by Anthony Read) — The first episode, aired on 13th September 1980, set the template for Hammer's new direction in television by updating the horror for the present day and eschewing the gothic period setting that the studio had become famous for. It does this by introducing the series with a story about a 17th century witch named Lucinda (Patricia Quinn) who escapes execution by travelling forwards in time to 1980. Arriving at her old home, she meets David (Jon Finch), a composer working on the score for a horror film starring his unfaithful partner, Mary (Prunella Gee). Beginning the episode with a scene from the film that David's working on (a nice touch that reminded me of Brian De Palma trickery), we're led to believe that this is going to fall somewhere between the usual campy Hammer fare and the type of stalk and slasher movie that would go on to dominate 1980s horror cinema. Once Lucinda appears, however, it becomes apparent that 'Witching Time' is going to be neither camp or gory. She at first seduces then torments David, causing jealousies to rear their heads as the three principal characters become caught in a web of destruction.
Finch was a great actor, theatrically trained before appearing in adaptations of Shakespeare for Roman Polanski and on television, and his performance here set the standard for the quality of acting in the episodes to come. He plays David as a man at once tormented by the thought of Mary having an affair, then by his own infidelity, and finally by the witch herself. A good start to a show that demonstrated how Hammer was willing to break free of the shackles that had, up until then, bound it to the past. Fun fact: 'Witching Time' was preceded by a trailer for Stanley Kubrick's The Shining.
'The Thirteenth Reunion' (directed by Peter Sasdy, written by Jeremy Burnham) — For its time, this tackles the very modern concern of slimming to fit an image demanded of women through magazines and advertising. A journalist for a women's magazine infiltrates a health farm where the members (especially women) are shamed into losing weight. If that wasn't sinister enough, she uncovers the real reason behind the organisation's agenda in a concluding scene that has all the grimness of an EC comic denouement. Devoid of any supernatural elements or monsters, the health farm is run by a clique of body obsessed freaks whose own ideas of gourmet cooking are worse than a Jane Fonda workout video. Topical and a mite disturbing, this episode is a killer. Warren Clarke appears in a significant supporting role.
'Rude Awakening' (directed by Peter Sasdy, written by Gerald Savory) — Denholm Elliot is sleazy estate agent Norman Shenley, whose fantasies about having an affair with his secretary manifest in nightmares, from which he awakes to a wife who refuses to grant him a divorce. Urged by a voice that prophesises him murdering his wife on Friday the 13th, his life becomes a waking nightmare. A morality tale that relishes watching Shenley suffer for being such a lecherous git, it features a fine performance by Elliott and assured direction by Peter Sasdy, who also helmed Nigel Kneale's television play The Stone Tape in 1972, and Taste the Blood of Dracula (1969) and Hands of the Ripper (1971) for Hammer.
'Growing Pains' (directed by Francis Megahy, written by Nicholas Palmer) — A spooky kid story this time, with experiments on animals and a touch of casual racism thrown in to let you know we're still in 1980. Gary Bond (of Wake in Fright fame) and Barbara Kellerman (the White Witch from late 80s children's favourite The Chronicles of Narnia) are the husband and wife mourning the loss of their 10 year old son after he comes into contact with a toxin in his father's lab. When they adopt a super weird and unemotional orphan called James, things start to go awry.
A warning to parents not to let work get in the way of family and to make sure your kids are looked after properly. Another winner from this amazing series, and weirdo James joins the pantheon of highly unlikeable and possibly dangerous kids in cinema and television history, taking his rightful place besides Rhoda from The Bad Seed (1956), Damien from The Omen (1976) and Kevin from Home Alone (1990).
'The House that Bled to Death' (directed by Tom Clegg, written by David Lloyd) — A blood soaked haunted house story that owes a lot to the Amityville school of horror that features families not being able to take a hint and GET THE HELL OUT when weird things start to happen. Even Rachel Davies has a passing resemblance to Margot Kidder, and like Kidder in The Amityville Horror (1979), she's the best thing in this as the wife and mother who's pushed to breaking point while her daughter goes through the traumatic ordeal of finding her cat mutilated, discovering a severed hand in the fridge and, best of all, having her birthday party ruined when a pipe sprays fountains of blood over the guests. A real thrill piece that also takes a poke at the alleged hoax devised by Amityville's Lutz family, this is horror in its purest form. Bloody, over the top, and absolutely brilliant. The spectacularly creepy looking Milton Johns plays a good part as the real estate agent who sees an opportunity to make some hard cash out of the situation.
'Charlie Boy' (directed by Robert Young, written by Bernie Cooper & Francis Megahy) — That horror story favourite “Voodoo” takes centre stage in this episode about a lovely young couple called Graham and Sarah (played by the equally likeable Leigh Lawson and Angela Bruce) who inherit an African fetish from a deceased relative. Christening the sculpture Charlie Boy, they soon realise that it carries a curse that enables anyone who sticks knives into it to kill whomever has wronged them. But, nice folk that they are, they don't use it to off those who cross them, which makes their ordeal all the more undeserving. This could have easily been written as a Monkey's Paw type morality tale. Instead, it plays like a tragedy. Directed by Robert Young, who also made the terrifying rabies serial The Mad Death in 1983.
'The Silent Scream' (directed by Alan Gibson, written by Francis Essex) — There's a much darker tone to this story about Chuck, an ex-convict (a young Brian Cox) who comes into contact with Martin Blueck, an elderly pet shop owner (Peter Cushing), who helped secure his release from prison. Fascinated by Blueck's experiments to create cageless zoos by training animals into believing exits are rigged with electricity, Chuck works for Blueck, then plans on robbing him blind. More disturbing and multi-layered than other episodes in the series, Francis Essex's script explores themes of isolation, imprisonment, and captivity. The performances from Cushing, Cox and Elaine Donnelly as Chuck's wife are first class.
'Children of the Full Moon' (directed by Tom Clegg, written by Murray Smith) — A wonderfully creepy fairytale quality (complete with woodcutter) permeates this tale of werewolves in the Dorset countryside. A married couple find themselves stranded at the home of Diana Dors' maternal homebody and her brood of nocturnal children. This started out great, sagged a little in the middle, then delivered a satisfactory and very grisly climax. The simple but effective werewolf makeup also impresses.
'Carpathian Eagle' (directed by Francis Megahy, written by Bernie Cooper & Francis Megahy) — A lesser episode, but considering it’s keeping company with such gems as 'The Silent Scream' and 'The House that Bled to Death,' that doesn't mean it's bad. Actually, it's a pretty good police procedural and mystery with a good central performance by Suzanne Danielle. She plays Natalie, a writer researching the legend of a 300 year old countess who goes about seducing men (including "Randy Andy," sheesh, what a doofus he was), before cutting out their hearts with an eagle claw knife. Her research draws the attention of investigating officer Cliff (Anthony Valentine), and together, they join forces to bring the serial killer to justice. Cliff notwithstanding, the men are all stock sexist stereotypes, and reversing the roles by making a woman the serial killer and having the men chat-up-line themselves all the way to the chopping block makes for a refreshing change. Eyes peeled for Pierce Brosnan as one of the doomed horn dogs.
'Guardian of the Abyss' (directed by Don Sharp, written by David Fisher) — An occult thriller loosely based on Alesteir Crowley's and, latterly, chaos magicians' idolisation of the 16th century demon named Choronzon. It was a bit silly this one, with some fairly poor acting by Ray Lonnen as Michael, an antiques dealer who comes into possession of a mirror that serves as a gateway to another dimension. Rosalyn Landor isn't much better as Allison, the woman who escapes the cult and falls into bed with Robert whilst being under the spell of Randolph, the cult's leader (played by John Carson). The ending was good in its way, and Carson's sinister but not overly charismatic Randolph stood out from a crowd of uninteresting characters, but other than that, this was a disappointing addition to an otherwise excellent series. Clive Exton and Lawrence Gordon Clark's reimagining of M.R. James's 'Casting the Runes,' broadcast the year before on ITV, covered similar ground far more effectively.
'Visitor from the Grave' (directed by Peter Sasdy, written by John Elder) — This is more like it. A fun but surprisingly violent episode about a mentally unstable woman (Kathryn Leigh Scott) who receives visitations from a would-be rapist after she blows half of his face off with a shotgun. Simon MacCorkindale (the lead in early 80s crapola Manimal) plays her pompous partner. Dismissing her histrionics as the ravings of a mad woman, he plies her with pills and patronises her without really offering much in the way of comfort. It didn't take much figuring to see the twist ending coming from a mile off, but the getting there was hugely entertaining. The opening few minutes are some of the scariest in the entire series.
'The Two Faces of Evil' (directed by Alan Gibson, written by Ranald Graham) — The Lewis family (dad Martin, son David, and mum Janet) pick up a hitchhiker wearing a yellow oilskin coat ("like fishermen wear"). His face obscured by a hood, the hitcher's hand grabs at Martin's face, revealing a long nail on one of his fingers, causing Martin to crash the car. Recovering at a cottage, Martin is unable to speak, having caught a shard of glass in his throat. Janet, understandably upset, steadily becomes convinced that her husband died in the crash, his body and soul replaced by a double.
So, Hammer House of Horror casts its evil eye over the doppelganger story, with a nod to Philip Kaufman's 1978 remake of Invasion of the Body Snatchers for good measure. Or is it? Writer Ranald Graham (creator of Dempsey and Makepeace) makes it clear from the start that Janet is a worrier who only wants to keep her family safely by her side, and, as the story progresses, she shows all the signs of being a neurotic; are the sideways looks she gets from nurses and doctors in the hospital a figment of her imagination? Is her mutilated husband so unrecognisable to her that she convinces herself he's an imposter?
This is one of my favourite episodes. The usual TV filmic style feels more cinematic here. The camera movements are more fluid, the editing faster, and you get two dolly zooms in quick succession. Anna Calder-Marshall is wholly convincing as a woman trying to keep a brave face in front of her son as she deals with the possibility that her husband is literally no longer the same person. The sense that everything seems a bit off (the whispering between medical staff, the red that colours everything from telephones and crockery to clothes and bandages), makes for an uncertainty that something is going on, but, like Janet, we don't quite understand what that something may be.
'The Mark of Satan' (directed by Don Leaver, written by Don Shaw) — A fine closing episode to the series, this one stars John McEnery (an actor for the Royal Shakespeare Company), who delivers a superb performance as morgue worker Edwyn Bord. When he pricks his finger stitching up a corpse who died after trying to drill a hole into his own head to rid himself of demonic possession, Edwyn becomes convinced that Satan has infected his brain. He believes that the recurrence of the number 9 (a £9 win on a sweepstake, the number of letters in his name, a car's number plate, and, most importantly, the number of stitches he's instructed to sew onto said corpse) lies at the heart of his conviction. Reminiscent of Rosemary's Baby (1968) in that Edwyn, like Rosemary Woodhouse, is a pawn to be used by devil worshippers. But in a subversion of Ira Levin's story, Edwyn is urged to take part in the ritual eating of a baby to appease the Devil.
Thematically heavier than other episodes in the series, Edwyn's certainty that he is unable to escape his fate and that the number 9, like evil, is universal, is pretty disturbing to watch. There were many standout scenes that convinced me that Edwyn was part of a conspiracy, but there was one in particular that made me feel genuine sorrow for the man: when he seeks answers from a priest, he notices the hymn numbers on a board. They read 9, 18, and 36. Steve Pemberton and Reece Sgearsmith must have had this episode in mind when they started writing Inside No.9.
For more Halloween film recommendations, from Mexican horror and Universal Pictures to Tobe Hooper at Cannon Films, check out my Instagram page @filmfolkuk
Man, I used to have this box set on DVD years ago. Must be a rare Out Of Print now surely. Memories of waking up to the sounds of the DVD menu on repeat 😅