The House that Dripped Blood Review

The House that Dripped Blood is one of a number of Amicus portmanteu horror films released in the 1960s and 1970s. All the films consisted of a number of short stories, usually with a twist in the tale, loosely linked by a framing device.

Unfortunately, house is one of the lesser Amicus films. Only the third tale has any real bite, and a great cast (Peter Cushing, Christopher Lee, Ingrid Pitt and Denholm Elliott to name but a few) are sadly wasted.

The first tale has an interesting premise, albeit one that has been dealt with many times before and since, in which a writer is haunted by his own character, but the tale is let down by a disappointing twist and a final few seconds which seem to make no sense whatsoever.

The second tale introduces Peter Cushing (looking like an aged Jason King) who, shortly after moving into the titular house, comes across a waxwork musuem containing an effigy of his dead lover. To be frank, this one made no sense whatsoever and the whole segment was rendered even more laughable by the bizarre late seventies clothing Cushing is wearing, in particular an ever more tasteless selection of neckerchiefs.

Things finally begin to pick up with the third tale, a genuinely creepy story of a stern father (Christopher Lee) who hires a nanny for his somewhat unusual daughter. While the father's behaviour initially seems cruel it soon transpires the daughter is not all she seems. There is an unusual sense of foreboding throughout, and the ending is one of the few chills in the movie.

Unfortunately, things rapidly plummet downhill again with the final tale. A vain horror movie actor (Jon Pertwee), in a quest for authenticity, obtains a genuine vampires robe and begins to take on some of the qualities of its erstwhile owner. Once again, an interesting premise is let down by poor execution. The story features some of the most laughable vampire / flying effects commited to celluloid and no matter how hard you try it's impossible to forget youre watching Worzel Gummidge as a vampire. Even Ingrid Pitt cant save this one.

One final point, and a bugbear for countless films of this type, is the framing device, in which a policeman (and later a real estate agent) recount the tales of terror. How the fuck they can recount events which they did not witness and in which the participants have been variously strangled, beheaded, melted and vampirised is beyond me.

For a much better example of the Amicus anthology films, check out 'Dr Terror's House of Horrors', which apart from featuring an unpleasantly racist segment involving Roy Castle and voodoo jazz, provides much more entertainment and has a more interesting and pleasing framing story.