Cry of the Banshee (1970)

England in the Sixteenth Century, and superstition rules the countryside. Lord Edward Whitman, the sadistic local magistrate (played, somewhat inevitably, by Vincent Price), takes it upon himself to rid the land of witchcraft by stripping, flogging, branding and burning as many buxom wenches as his corrupt family can lay their hands on.

Eventually the law of averages pays off and Whitman manages to find a genuine coven of witches – or at least a bunch of pasty extras prancing around a woodland clearing in white robes. Whitman wastes little time in ordering the death of most of them but, for reasons that remain bewilderingly mysterious, he opts to let the head witch, Oona, go free.

This, unsurprisingly, proves to be a mistake as Oona has a secret weapon already esconsed in the Whitman household. It’s Roderick, their groomsman, who was found wandering the forest as a child many years earlier and was taken in by Whitman’s wife. Now all grown up, Roderick is embroiled in a bawdy affair with Whitman’s daughter and – wait for it – he’s also a werewolf. Night after night, Oona and her remaining acolytes chant and sway, and Roderick sprouts fur and mauls another Whitman to death.



But let’s rewind to the pivotal scene of this rather plodding gothic melodrama, as Whitman’s goons round up Oona’s worshippers. If you’re quick with the freeze-frame button you might be able to spot the 24-year-old Stephen Rea as one of the scantily clad witches interrupted mid-frolic. We get a fleeting glimpse of the future Oscar nominee as he’s trapped in a net, right before he gets chopped to bits with a hatchet.

Of course, following this inauspicious debut the Belfast-born Rea went on to become one of Britain’s leading stage and screen actors. From The Crying Game (for which he received his Oscar nod) through to Interview With The Vampire and, more recently, V For Vendetta he’s alternated between low budget British films and Hollywood blockbusters with admirable aplomb.

Need to know: The banshee is a creature from Celtic folklore, a female apparition whose unearthly scream heralds death and tragedy for those who hear it. Despite the title, Cry of the Banshee features no such creature. The movie also bears more than a passing resemblance to the 1968 horror classic, Witchfinder General (released in the US as Conqueror Worm), with both featuring Vincent Price as a witch-burning puritan – though the 1968 film contains no witches or werewolves and is instead a powerful study of hypocrisy and corruption.

Cry of the Banshee was produced and distributed by American International Pictures and, despite having absolutely no connection with the author, the studio sold the movie as part of its Edgar Allen Poe series, which had previously found Price collaborating with Roger Corman on a string of wonderfully baroque – and financially lucrative - horror classics. Banshee was directed by Gordon Hessler, who helmed several of AIPs later efforts, as well as The Golden Voyage of Sinbad and the rock-horror of KISS meets the Phantom of the Park.

The script was written by Christopher Wicking, who would go on to write the incomprehensible Dream Demon (see: Timothy Spall). And don’t be surprised if the opening titles for Cry of the Banshee look familiar – they were animated by Terry Gilliam, then just embarking on the first season of seminal TV comedy, Monty Python’s Flying Circus.

Honourable mentions: Cry of the Banshee wasn’t Rea’s only brush with horror. In 1984 he appeared in another lycanthropic yarn, the infinitely more respectable The Company of Wolves. He followed that with the grave-robbing story of Burke and Hare in The Doctor and the Devils, before playing a supporting role in the histrionic vampire soap opera, Interview with a Vampire. As recently as 2002 he appeared in the utterly ludicrous Feardotcom, so you should clearly never give up hope of yet another return to cheesy horror.

Availability: Cry of the Banshee is available on DVD in a double bill with The Oblong Box as one of MGMs Midnite Movies releases.

 

 

 

 

Text © 2008 Dan Whitehead. No cut and paste, y'hear?
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