ISLE OF THE DEAD: Blu-ray (RKO, 1945) Warner Archive
Chronologically, Isle of the Dead (1945) comes
number 6 in the cycle of 9 sublime Val Lewton horror feasts and is, by far his
bleakest cinematic excursion. That is saying a great deal for Lewton, whose
descend into darkness – both professionally and personally – was nearing its fitful
and eerie end. Reportedly, after screening a rough cut of the movie for execs
at RKO, one inquired precisely what ‘message’ was to be derived from such a
nightmarish expedition, to which Lewton dimly replied, “It says, ‘death’ is
good.” In retrospect, one sincerely wonders how Lewton was ever allowed to
get away with making movies like Isle of the Dead. Emerging from the
hellish overruns on Orson Welles’ The Magnificent Ambersons (1942) RKO
had low-balled their expectations for Lewton’s first masterpiece, Cat People
(1942) – perceived as a cut n’ run quota quickie to be plugged into the Saturday
matinee slot for some desperately needed disposable cash. Lewton, alas, was not
into peddling plunk. And thus, Cat People emerged as one of the most
intelligent, bizarre and terrifying psychological horror movies of the decade,
worthy of a sequel and a kickstart to Lewton’s ambitions to make the best
horror movies outside of Universal’s modern-age Transylvania. It certainly
helped his cause that his pictures made money. And so, Lewton continued to receive
his share of crazy, seemingly dim-witted titles, like I Walked with A Zombie
(1943) which he continued to transform from junk into movie magic by
intelligent design, and, even more impressively, on a shoe-string budget, utilizing
all of the studio’s free-standing sets, ever so slightly redressed and impeccably
photographed for maximum chills. Isle
of the Dead is inspired by Swiss symbolist, Arnold Böcklin’s moody
and disturbed painting of the same name, to appear beneath this movie’s main
titles, originally to have read ‘Camilla’.
A moment’s pause here to reconsider the fascinating
history of that preceding work of art. The painting arouses, in part, recollections
of the English Cemetery in Florence, Italy, where the first three versions of
it were actually painted, near Böcklin's studio and, home, and in which the
remains of the artist’s infant daughter, Maria was buried. The epitome of the
tragic artist, Böcklin would lose 8 of his 14 children prematurely, hence his
likely obsession with painting, then re-painting this rocky islet with its
small chapel, encircled by an ominous cypress grove. The first version of Böcklin
Isle of the Dead was completed in 1880, and intended for a wealthy
patron. Alas, Böcklin became so captivated by his own mastery he kept it for
himself. Hanging in his studio, it attracted the attention of widow, Marie
Berna, immediately struck by its dream-like peril. So, Böcklin painted a smaller version on wood and,
at Berna's request, added a coffin and female figure to the original effort. A
third version came about in 1883 for Böcklin's dealer, Fritz Gurlitt, bearing his
initials on one of the rocks, and later, rather fittingly, acquired by Adolf
Hitler. Desperate for money, Böcklin painted
a fourth version in 1884 for art collector, Baron Heinrich Thyssen. For years, this
one hung in the Berliner Bank, but was later destroyed during a bombing raid in
World War II and today, survives only as a black-and-white photograph. A fifth
version emerged in 1886, commissioned by the Museum of Fine Art in Leipzig,
where it remains to this very day.
Finally, in 1888, Böcklin created Die Lebensinsel (‘Isle of Life’),
the antithesis of all his earlier masterpieces, illustrating a tiny atoll
teeming in all manner of joy and prosperity. Today, the first version of the
painting, and this final effort share space inside the Kunstmuseum Basel.
Arguably, Lewton cared nothing for this history,
except to say he could appreciate fine art on its merits and thought Böcklin’s
vision of a terrifically menacing key drearily floating in the middle of
nowhere perfectly suited his ‘then’ present dissatisfaction with having to make
his own virtuosity out of nothing at all. Isle of the Dead marked Lewton’s
second collaboration with Boris Karloff – Universal’s master of terror, and, on
the surface, seemingly a perfect fit for RKO’s sultan of shudders. Karloff had
been kicking around Hollywood since the silent era, but to such undistinguished
effect he had to supplement his income as a ditch digger and construction plasterer.
That all changed when the lanky London-born actor marked his 81st screen
appearance in director, James Whale’s Frankenstein (1931) – the physically
demanding role of a mad scientist’s cursed creation weighing Karloff down with 11
pounds of prosthetics, created by Jack Pierce, but to render his visage
virtually unrecognizable. Even so, this was the true beginning of the Boris Karloff
audiences came to know and embrace – terrorizing audiences with such classics
as The Old Dark House, The Mask of Fu Manchu and The Mummy
(all made and released in 1932), The Ghoul (1933), The Black Cat
(1934), Bride of Frankenstein, and, The Raven (both in 1935).
The installation of Hollywood’s self-governing
production code put a real/reel crimp in this early ‘horror’ cycle and Karloff
once more found his reputation in the movies on the wane. Universal’s spook fests, Son of
Frankenstein, and, The Tower of London (both in 1939) did little to
reinvigorate his career, and Karloff bounced between Columbia and Monogram, making
B-programmers to keep his hand in the game. By the time of Karloff’s first
collaboration with Lewton in 1945’s The Body Snatcher, the actor had
already grown weary of making horror movies. Hence, the Lewton movies proved a
genuine shot in the arm for Karloff who suddenly realized he could terrify an
audience without having to resort to camera tricks and heavy make-up. Indeed,
Karloff would always look upon the 3 made for Val as a ‘high water’ mark in his
own career. By the mid-forties, Karloff departed Universal as the new regime
skewed toward making monster mash-ups that were basically B-movies Karloff
called ‘ridiculous’. “I had a great
admiration for Val,” Karloff would later reason, “He rescued me from the
living dead and restored my passion for the work.”
Isle of the Dead was largely written by Lewton’s
long-time collaborator, Ardel Wray, although Lewton undoubtedly had his hand in
shaping its wickedly perverse story, the second to last collaboration with
director, Mark Robson. The plot eventually came to concern ‘vrykolakas’ –
mythical creatures most closely aligned to Greek folklore and the vampire,
though non-blood-drinking, though nevertheless caused great harm to the living.
Filming began in July 1944 with Rose
Hobart as the female lead. Alas, production was suspended when Karloff, for
years ailing from a chronic condition, required emergency back surgery to alleviate
his pain. By the time Karloff recovered, Hobart was on another project and had
to be replaced with Ellen Drew. And Lewton decided to further postpone
production by casting Karloff in The Body Snatcher instead. Due to the
quick n’ dirty nature of the Lewton unit, long shots already shot with Hobart remained
in the final cut of Isle of the Dead. The production, alas, was troubled
from the outset, and the central female figure was deleted from the story.
As reworked, Isle of the Dead opens with a
forewarning of the superstitious belief in the vorvolaka (the Anglicized
version of ‘vrykolakas’). Set during the Balkan Wars of 1912, we are introduced
to General Pherides (Karloff), burying his dead, and, American reporter, Oliver
Davis (Marc Cramer). Both have come to the isle to pay their respects to the
General's dearly departed wife. Rather disturbingly, the men discover the crypt
desecrated. Only now, they are compelled to follow the faint echoes of a woman
singing on this otherwise desolate island. Eventually, Pherides and Davis come
upon the Swiss archeologist, Dr. Aubrecht (Jason Robards, Sr.), his Greek
housekeeper, Madame Kyra (Helen Thimig), British diplomat, Mr. St. Aubyn (Alan
Napier) his ailing wife, (Katherine Emery), her young Greek companion, Thea
(Ellen Drew), and an English tinsmith, Andrew Robbins (Skelton Knaggs). Aubrecht
apologizes for his part in instigating the locals to grave rob for valuable artifacts.
The superstitious Kyra quietly suggests to Pherides that Thea is really a
vorvolaka in disguise. Pherides
dismisses the claim. But in the morning, Robbins is discovered dead. Performing
a cursory inspection of the body, Dr. Drossos (Ernst Deutsch) determines Robbins
died of a viral septicemic plague and quarantines the island. He also outlines the
cause and transmission of the plague and how it may be eradicated only if the
hot, dry sirocco winds arrive. Aubrecht implies Kyra's explanation – God having
sent the plague to punish them for harboring a vorvolaka – makes just as much
sense as the scientific theory of its cause. When St. Aubyn suddenly dies, Pherides
demands his body be buried at once, a decision to terrify the insentient, Mrs.
St. Aubyn, who is unnaturally fearful of a premature burial.
The death of Dr. Drossos implies modern science is
powerless against an age-old plague. Now, suspicion befalls Thea. Kyra taunts
and threatens the girl. Pherides is incensed, but vows to kill Thea himself if
any evidence comes forth to unequivocally prove she is a vorvolaka. Believing a
queer insanity has overcome the remaining inhabitants, Oliver plots to leave the
island with Thea – a decision thwarted when Pherides destroys their only means
of escape – a small row boat moored at the docks. Now, Mrs. St. Aubyn succumbs
to a trance, leaving everyone to believe she too has died. Everyone - except
Thea. Nevertheless, Mrs. St. Aubyn is entombed. Oliver and Aubrecht accept her
death as another from the plague. But Kyra and Pherides suspect the vorvolaka
is to blame. In grave concern for her life, Oliver advises Thea to avoid
Pherides, who has begun to exhibit the early hallucinatory symptoms of the
plague. Mrs. St. Aubyn stirs, but is driven mad by being buried alive. Escaping
her tomb, Mrs. St. Aubyn murders Kyra and mortally wounds Pherides as he tries
to kill Thea, before leaping to her own death from the cliffside. As Pherides
lies dying, he professes to have witnessed the vorvolaka and forewarns it must
be destroyed. Empathetic to his madness,
Dr. Aubrecht agrees, and, in his eulogy, suggests Pherides was a good man, only
trying to protect them.
Val Lewton’s reach into the murky abyss may have exceeded
his usual grasp on Isle of the Dead. Unlike his previous efforts, this
one barely broke even at the box office, its slim profit of $13,000, a ‘red flag’
to RKO’s management. Perhaps the steam had run out of Lewton’s brief, but
prolific tenure. Lewton, who had worked as a story editor for David O. Selznick,
but much preferred being ‘mostly’ his own boss at RKO, would see his autonomy
evaporate, practically overnight, his authority too, scrutinized after the
death of studio head Charles Koerner in 1946. Koerner believed in Lewton. The
new, and ever-revolving management who replaced him, decidedly did not. The
stress of having to justify his every move proved too much, and Lewton suffered
a near-fatal heart attack. Never again was he to regain his stature at the studio.
A brief move to Paramount did little to invigorate his morale, and neither was
Lewton particularly successful at MGM. His bittersweet attempt to form an indie
production house with former protégés, Robert Wise and Mark Robson miserably
fizzled over artistic disputes and Lewton was once more on the outside looking
in. Now, in very poor health, Lewton completed a movie for Universal before
accepting another offer from producer, Stanley Kramer. Alas, plagued by chronic
gallstones, Lewton suffered two more heart attacks in rapid succession. He was
taken to Cedars-Sinai Medical Center, but died on March 14, 1951, age 46.
Today, Val Lewton is best remembered for the 9
psychological horror masterpieces made at RKO. Personally, I have always felt
Lewton did his very best work with relative unknowns in the leads. The pictures
with Boris Karloff are…well…Karloff horror movies that stand in relief
of Lewton’s earlier imaginative works that did not require a ‘name’ above the
title to sell them as art; movies like The Seventh Victim and The
Leopard Man (both made and released in 1943). Casting Karloff anchors the
last 3 Lewton/RKO movies in a sort of thinly veiled homage to the Karloff we
remember from his days at Universal, albeit, with Karloff’s talents skewed in
support of Lewton’s more deeply wounded and mysterious psychological slant. For
those who only think they know what vintage scares at the movies is all about, the
9 movies Val Lewton made at RKO represent something quite rare and uniquely
disturbing. For, in as much as they are of the macabre ilk and moody resolve of
an Edgar Allen Poe, each reveals as much about Lewton’s own darkening
dissatisfactions with his somber life and unraveling career. Lewton’s genius,
at least in his own time, was greatly undervalued, especially in an era when
the factory-like assembly of movie art was much preferred to any lingering
passion for creative virtuosity. Make no mistake. The purpose of picture-making
has always been firmly anchored to the dollars and cents gleaned by the
experience, proving the age-old maxim about the trouble with the business of
making movies is that they are an art. Although the trouble with making art is
that it must be profitable as a business. For the briefest wrinkle in time, Val
Lewton proved one could create real/reel art – even on a shoe-string – and still
make money. Isle of the Dead may not be his best work, but it is
certainly one of his most haunting apocalyptic.
It is gratifying to see Isle of the Dead make
its hi-def debut via the Warner Archive. Two years ago, it looked as though Warner
Home Media was content to license the Lewton classics out to either Criterion
or Shout! Factory for distribution. While Criterion was given first dibs on Cat
People, Shout! picked up the baton to release its sequel, Curse of the
Cat People, The Body Snatcher and The Leopard Man, before suddenly,
and quite inexplicably, cancelling their plans to release Isle of the Dead
– and this, after the pre-orders were already in and the date of release, a
mere 2 weeks away. The reason for the cancellation given then by Shout! was ‘poor
sales’ from the aforementioned already released catalog. But seeing Isle of
the Dead get its due on Blu-ray now, gives one hope WAC will soon to
release the remaining Lewton catalog, including my personal favorites, I
Walked with A Zombie, and, The Seventh Victim. The Lewton movies on
DVD were a horrendously slap-dash affair with brutally careworn elements riddled
in age-related muck and mire. To date, all of the Lewton movies to have found
their way to Blu-ray are miracles of film restoration and digital remastering. Isle
of the Dead is no exception to this rule. Where once the image appeared overly
dark, poorly contrasted and plagued by age-related dirt and debris, this newly
minted WAC release sports a subtly nuanced, exceptionally detailed and
beautifully contrasted image with NO hint 76 years have passed since its
theatrical debut. Truly, the work WAC continues to do on its deep catalog ranks
as not only impressive, but well worth the wait of seeing these movies again on
home video. The 1.0 DTS mono is excellent, sporting remarkable clarity with
zero hiss or pop. Retained from the old
DVD release, is Steve Haberman’s audio commentary, a comprehensive and
fascinating listen. We also get the original theatrical trailer. Bottom line: Isle
of the Dead is a darkly purposed trek into paranoia, as much in the mind of
its creator as what appears on the screen, and a testament of that brief flourish
to make Val Lewton synonymous with terrors aplenty. No true cinephile can be
without it and WAC’s new-to-Blu provides no good reason to pass it by. Very
highly recommended!
FILM RATING (out of 5 – 5 being the best)
3.5
VIDEO/AUDIO
5
EXTRAS
1
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