Against expectations, Usher is a monumental hit, boffo boxo, molto ducats in the coffers. Roger makes money. Vinnie makes money. Sam and Jim make more money than they can imagine, and Jim at least has a great imagination. Edgar Allan Poe, or the Baltimore Society in his name, makes money. Even Boomba gets residuals for the use of his unseen likeness. There actually are residuals, and Sam has to find out how to pay them. The matter never came up with Voodoo Woman or Phantom From 10,000 Leagues. Naturally, being Hollywood, this means only one thing—sequels.
The first pass runs to pitches like Return to the House of Usher… only there’s a stinking tarn where the old homestead used to be, so few dramatic possibilities not involving expensive underwater photography present themselves. I spin a story out of my head in which Roderick Usher’s ghost crawls out of the tarn as a green monkey with flippers. Jim sees straight off that I’m angling a star role for Boomba and nixes the approach. It would be easy to take offence—after all, the chimp is a better actor than the duck-tailed hoodlums AIP put ruffs, doublets, and floppy-tasselled hats on in subsequent movies.
Skipping through my now-dog-eared and broken-spined Tales of Mystery and Imagination, Roger gets excited about ‘The Pit and the Pendulum.’ The slavering sketch artist, about whom I’m starting to worry, draws a teeny-bopper in a tight sweater strapped down in a pit while Vinnie swings a blade over her bazooms. Jim and Sam love this and are disappointed when Roger looks up the story and finds it’s a guy in the dungeons of the Spanish Inquisition. Never mind, he says, the pendulum is the monster. By this, he means the torture angle is grabby enough without the added distraction of bazooms. The artist rubs out the bosomage, and puts in a manly chest—revealed through pendulum-slashes in a frilly shirt.
So, Pit and the Pendulum gets a green-light. Even Sam sees one picture for the price of two is a better deal if it hauls in ten times the gross of the average four old-style AIP creature features. He quietly squelches Bert I. Gordon’s Puppet People vs. the Colossal Beast project and Alex Gordon’s long-cherished She-Creature Meets the Old-Time Singing Cowboy script, and pours added shekels into Pit. It’s AIP’s big hope for 1961.
Only problem is, ‘Pit and the Pendulum’ isn’t a story—just a scene. Guy in pit. Nearly sliced by pendulum. Escapes. Even Roger can’t spin that out to feature length with long shots of dripping walls, gnawing rats, and Vinnie licking his lips. The problem is solved, unusually, by the writer. Dick Matheson takes his Usher script, changes the names, and drops the climactic house fire in favor of Pit/Pendulum business. This time, brooding youth—not the same one, though you’d be hard pressed to tell the difference—is looking for his missing sister, and she’s married to Vinnie. But she’s still buried alive—twice, as it happens. The Usher sets are back, with new painted flats and torture equipment to bump the House up to a castle. The establishing shot is a bigger glass painting, with crashing waves included. Vinnie keeps his moustache, which saves behind-the-scenes drama—and wears tights, always a big favorite with him.
One morning, I wake and find I’ve grown a moustache too. Plus I’m thinner, paler and more watery-eyed. And my wardrobe—which was once full of snazzy striped threads—runs to basic black. I don’t think much of it, because the times they are a-changing. Pit is, if anything, bigger boffier boxo than Usher, and the walls start closing in.
Tales of Terror gets through its remake of House of Usher in the first reel, and calls it ‘Morella.’ Then, it runs through ‘The Black Cat’ and ‘A Cask of Amontillado’ (Peter Lorre and Vinnie compete in a face-pulling contest) for a second act, finishing up with ‘The Facts in the Case of M. Valdemar’ (bad-tempered Basil Rathbone turns Vinnie into a ‘nearly liquid mass of loathsome—of detestable putrescence’). Since most of the pages are now torn out of my book, I venture the opinion we’re using up doable Poe at an alarming rate, especially since AIP are cranking out more than one of these pictures a year. I try to get ‘Rue Morgue’ back on the table, determined Boomba will have his comeback before the well runs dry. After only one-and-a-half remakes of House of Usher, everyone is bored again—the curse of success in this business, if you ask me—and trying to break out.
*First, Roger sneaks off to do The Premature Burial at another outfit, with Ray Milland playing Vincent Price, but Sam and Jim buy into the deal, so Roger is sucked back in. Premature isn’t quite as much of a remake of Usher as Pit and ‘Morella,’ but it is a remake of the scheme-to-drive-the-husband-crazy sub-plot Matheson padded out Pit with. Roger wants to hop-frog off and make, I don’t know, socially significant movies about segregation. He winds up buried alive in Venice, California, in those standing Danny Haller sets. Decaying mansions with stock furniture. Tiny soundstage exteriors with false-perspective stunted trees. Dry-ice mist pooling over bare floor.
*Piqued that Milland is daring to usurp his shtick, Vinnie hares all over the library, doing Master of the World, Confessions of an Opium Eater, Twice Told Tales, Diary of a Madman and Tower of London. In Vinnie’s mouth, Verne, de Quincey, Hawthorne, de Maupassant and Shakespeare somehow turn into Poe. Brooding youths. Velvet jackets. Buried alive girls. Vinnie a-flutter. Crypt in the basement. House burns down. Swirly credits. The Shakespeare (Tower of London is Richard III translated into English) is directed by Roger, who swears he can’t remember being on the set. He admits it’s possible the film got shot during a blackout he had during a screening of a Russian science fiction film he was cutting the special effects out of to fit around rubber monster scenes shot by some kid to see release as Rocket Voyage to the Planet of Prehistoric Women of Blood. Meanwhile, Vinnie is muy fortunato lording it over the castles of AIP, hawking Sears-Roebuck art selections and cookbooks on the side.
Even the critics start noticing they get the same picture every time. Recalling that this happened before, I propose an ingenious solution. When Universal got in a rut with Frankenstein, Dracula and Mummy pictures, they had the monsters meet Abbott and Costello. Comedy killed off the cycle. Once you’ve laughed at a horror, it’s never frightening again. Since Lou has passed away, we can’t get the team back but I suggest it would at least triple the hilarity if Bud’s new comedy partner is a rotund, talented chimpanzee…and AIP can launch a new series with Abbott and Boomba Meet the Black Cat. It’ll slay ’em in the stalls when Boomba starts tossing loathsome, detestable putrescence at Vinnie Price’s moustache. We can bill Boomba as ‘The Chimp of the Perverse.’
Before I sell Jim, Sam and Roger—not to mention Bud Abbott—on this, Matheson dashes off a funny remake of House of Usher, purportedly based on ‘The Raven.’ It breaks my heart to tell Boomba he’s been benched again, but the ‘ass. prod’ gig is still live and EAPSoB dues are pouring in. The Raven, for comedy value, casts Vinnie as the brooding youth in tights, makes the buried-alive chick a faithless slut, and has Boris Karloff play Vincent Price. The castle still burns down in by-now scratchy stock footage, which almost counts as a joke. Lorre is in it too, driving Karloff nuts making up his own dialogue. The juve is some piranha-toothed nobody who lands the job by spreading a false rumor he’s Jim Nicholson’s illegitimate son. When it comes out that he isn’t, Sam swears the grinning kid will never work in this town again, though it’s too late to cut him out of The Terror, yet another remake of House of Usher that Roger shoots in three days because he still has Karloff under contract. The twist here is that the house is washed away rather than burned down.
After sending the cycle up with The Raven and cynically hammering it into the ground with The Terror, there’s no way this perpetuation of Poe can persist. So, relief all round, and a sense everyone can move on to better—or at least new—things in 1964. Jim thinks H.P. Lovecraft could be the new Poe and buys up a ton of his stories. Yes, AIP lay out for film rights! Banner headlines in Variety. Having missed out with Verne, Hawthorne, De Quincey and the other bums, I found the Howard Phillips Lovecraft Society of Providence. I pore through The Outsider, and Others, determined to find a tale with a good part for a chimp—the best I can manage
is a rat with a withered human head in ‘Dreams in the Witch House,’ which should be close enough. But first up on AIP’s Lovecraft schedule is The Case of Charles Dexter Ward. Only it’s going to be The Curse of Charles Dexter Ward—Curse, which sounds like swearing and violence, is a better movie title word than Case, which sounds like measles and bed-rest.
For some reason no one can fathom, Roger wants the non-bastard Nicholson to play Charles Dexter Ward. He thinks up this scene where Chuck is possessed by his evil wizard ancestor and smashes an axe through a door to get to his terrified wife (Debra Paget) while shouting something from The Tonight Show. I know that will never work, but keep quiet. Vinnie, meanwhile, happily breezes off to play Big Daddy in Sweet Charity on Broadway, intending to conquer a whole new career as a musical comedy star. The velvet jackets go in storage. The burning building footage goes back in the cans. As per HPL, this time, the monster is the monster.
Though I don’t live anywhere remotely near a Witch House, I’m tormented by dreams—not of human-faced rats or green monkeys, but an angry Eddy. In my restless slumber, Poe comes at me with a long list of grievances which, in my official EAPSoB capacity, he wants presented to Congress, the publishing industry, drinking establishments long since gone out of business, the United States army and sundry other bodies and individuals. With his name writ large on panoramic magic lantern screens undreamed of even in the thousand-and-third tale of Scheherezade, he feels he has the attention of a general public who once gave him the shortest of shrifts—and wishes to plead for a redress of wrongs done long ago. I put these dreams down to the rich foods I’m able to afford thanks to ‘ass. prod.’ fees, and think hard about cutting down on lunches.
At the Charles Dexter Ward preview, we find out something mysterious and beyond imagining has happened during production. I settle into my seat, with a big bucket of popcorn Sam has made me pay for, certain that the HPLSoP is going to trash the EAPSoB in the coming fiscal year. The lights go down, the curtains crank open, and the projector whirrs. The AIP logo fills the screen. The opening title is not H.P. Lovecraft’s The Curse of Charles Dexter Ward…but Edgar Allan Poe’s The Haunted Palace.
There’s a rustling, creeping, susurrating, terror-filled sensation in the house. The wet cigar falls from Sam’s open mouth. Roger puts on dark glasses and starts to cry. Jim gets up and checks with the projectionist that this is the right film. I know now we’re all cursed, that we’ll never be free of Eddy Poe Rex.
The velvet jackets are back. The fog swirls on those same tiny sets. There’s a crypt in the basement, where the monster lives. It’s out of focus. Vincent Price, grieving for lost chances on the Great White Way, plods through a part written for a much younger, scarier man, bidding a bittersweet farewell to life as the New Rex Harrison (or the White Sammy Davis, Jr.). Finally, as we sob in the screening room, the house burns down. It’s another remake of House of Usher. After burning beams collapse for the ninth or tenth time, there’s even a quote. ‘“While, like a rapid ghastly river, through the pale door, a hideous throng rush out forever, and laugh—but smile no more.”’—Edgar Allan Poe.’
We know how that pale throng feel….
In melancholy despair, Roger flees to Swinging England, vowing to make films about Oliver Cromwell and the Beatles. Unable to resist the fateful clutch of dread destiny, he shoots The Masque of the Red Death and Tomb of Ligeia—with Vinnie Price, buried girls, burning buildings, swirly credits, and end-quotes. ‘The boundaries which divide life from death are at best shadowy and vague. Who can say where the one ends and where the other begins?’ ‘And Darkness and Decay and the Red Death held illimitable dominion over all.’ There’s nothing Roger can do. He hires Richard Chamberlain, Christopher Lee, Shirley MacLaine or Jerry Lewis, but visits the star’s dressing room on the first day of the shoots to find ashen-faced, quivering-jowelled, red-eyed Vinnie Price having his eyebrows powdered and helped into another velvet jacket.
I wind up the HPLSoP and find myself shackled full-time to the interests of the EAPSoB, which has regional chapters in Boston, New York, Paris, and Antarctica. The Society brings a massive lawsuit against NASA, claiming that the Apollo program infringing the intellectual property rights of ‘The Balloon Hoax.’
Boomba drowns in his swimming pool. At Hollywoodlawn, I march leaden-footed behind Cheetah, Bonzo, J. Fred Muggs and Stanley (billed as ‘more fun than a barrel of teenagers’ in Disney’s The Monkey’s Uncle) as they carry the child-sized coffin to the tiny grave. Judy, the simian slut who wormed her way into Boomba’s affections then stole a plum continuing role on Daktari! from him, makes a show of honking bogus grief into her Kleenex. The wake is a gloomy, ill-tempered affair. I repress an urge to daub the sanctimonious surviving chimps with pitch, string ‘em up from the beams at Ben Frank’s and set light to them.
Poe goes on. Roger, running in vain from the Red Death, takes a trip around the world in eighty pictures. City in the Sea, The Oblong Box, The Conqueror Worm, Murders in the Rue Morgue (finally—but with a goddamn gorilla suit and made in Spain!), X-ing the Paragrab, The System of Dr Tarr and Professor Fether. All the Tales and Poems are consumed, so AIP start in on the essays. In Eureka!, a velvet-jacket philosopher is on the point of understanding how the universe functions when his buried-alive niece claws at his eyes and the house catches fire.
My hair long and lank, my cheeks hollow, my eyes red-veined, my moustache floppy—I realise I look like Eddy Poe. Considering he was found near death in ill-fitting clothes borrowed from someone else, it seems I even dress like the unhappy poet whose still-beating heart of horror I discern beneath the floorboards of my office or bricked up in the basement of my bungalow (which doesn’t even have a basement). Everywhere I go, every mirror I look into, I glimpse the spectre of myself, silently accusing ‘thou art the man!’
I am that ‘unhappy master whom unmerciful disaster followed fast and follows faster till my songs one burden bore—till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore—of “Never-Nevermore”!’
But I’m not alone in being by horror haunted, by Eddy ensnared, by Allan alienated, by Poe persecuted….
By now, it’s not just Roger films and Vinnie vehicles. It’s everything Jim and Sam put into production. Alongside remakes of The House of Usher, AIP are doing annual reunions of Beach Party—itself a thinly-disguised remake of Gidget—with beach bums and bikini babes surfing and smooching to tunes from Frankie and Annette, plus comedy Hells’ Angels led by Rocco Barbella from Bilko. Even in the first Beach Party, the first signs are there when ‘Big Daddy,’ who runs the hang-out shack on the beach, looks up, and turns out to be…Vincent Price. AIP try a James Bond skit and it comes out as Dr Goldfoot and the Bikini Machine, with Vinnie Price using a razor-pendulum to part Frankie Avalon’s hair. Soon, all beach pictures bear the mark of Poe—Buried Alive Bikini, Beach Blanket Berenice, Muscle Beach Metzengerstein. Annette spends more time in a shroud than a bathing suit, with a black cat entombed in her beehive hairdo. Rod Usher takes over the Hells’ Angels, wearing a studded velvet jacket and a floppy-tasselled cap, and complains that the revving of bikes is torture to his over-sensitive ears.
We’re all drinking heavily now and choking on the poison. The Hollywood Reporter prints an item that Jim is on the point of marrying his thirteen-year-old cousin. Variety claims Roger is trying to raise funds for a Southern Literary Magazine when he ought to be shooting a motor-racing picture in Europe. At the Brown Derby, they say Sam is never seen without a raven flapping ominously after him, croaking whole stanzas. Vinnie lands a prime-time comedy special, but it comes out as An Evening With Edgar Allan Poe. My second-best client, a rare and radiant exotic dancer whom the angels name Lenore, flies from my agency door and I spend much time agonising about her lost and lovely tassels.
Still, it continues. AIP try a war picture. It turns out to feature a brooding young commando who storms a Nazi castle in search of his missing girlfriend and finds Vinnie in a velvet SS uniform before inevitable torture, bu
rial alive, and burning-down. With his producer’s hat on, Roger sends some film students and the Nicholson kid into the desert to make a Western, and they come back with Vinnie as an accursed cattle baron, doppelganger gunslingers, and a cattle stampede flattening the ranch house in place of the fire. Rocket Voyage to the Planet of Prehistoric Women of Blood eventually sells to television with the hammer and sickle insignia on the spacecraft blotted out. It is somehow re-edited. A brooding young astronaut lands on a haunted world where Mr Touch-and-Go Bullet-Head (Vincent Price) rules a telepathic tribe of ululating bikini girls who are interred living within the tomb as doom-haunted dinosaurs set fire to the whole planet.
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