Roses Have Thoughts

Theatre of Blood, directed with ghoulish flair by Douglas Hickox, is a macabre love letter to both Shakespeare and horror cinema, dressed in the bloody robes of revenge. Its premise is outrageous and delightful: a hammy, embittered thespian returns from apparent suicide to exact poetic justice on the critics who denied him the only accolade he ever craved. Played with lip-smacking relish by Vincent Price, Edward Lionheart is both monster and martyr, perhaps the most deliciously theatrical killer in horror history.

This film, in essence, is a campy Grand Guignol steeped in classical quotations, flamboyant disguises, and grotesque killings. Each critic meets their grisly end in a manner inspired by Shakespearean death scenes, whether it be decapitation à la Cymbeline, a murderous pie from Titus Andronicus, or a heart cut out, as in The Merchant of Venice. That the script so enthusiastically indulges these morbid parallels is its greatest strength. The humour is blacker than pitch, the satire as sharp as a rapier.

Vincent Price, often typecast but never less than committed, gives one of his most nuanced performances. Lionheart is ludicrous, pitiful, vain, and oddly sympathetic. Price imbues him with grandeur and wounded pride, an actor betrayed not only by his peers but by an indifferent public. Diana Rigg, as his devoted daughter and accomplice Edwina, is marvellous, slipping effortlessly into various guises with playful menace. Her chemistry with Price is sly and affectionate, grounding the operatic violence with something almost tender.

Among the critics-turned-victims, Robert Morley, Coral Browne, and Jack Hawkins stand out, each clearly relishing the opportunity to ham it up before meeting their literary doom. The film also boasts a solid turn from Ian Hendry as the reluctant lead critic, haunted by his part in Lionheart’s fall.

Hickox directs with a brisk, almost gleeful pace, never lingering too long on any single set-piece. The art direction is pleasingly tawdry, London appears perpetually grey, decadent, and crumbling, like the decayed theatrical world Lionheart inhabits. Michael J. Lewis’s score complements the tone perfectly: part tragic overture, part circus nightmare.

If the film has a flaw, it lies in its repetition. With each murder following a similar template, the novelty begins to wear slightly by the third act. Yet, the inventiveness of the kills, the delight in language, and Price’s towering performance keep it buoyant.

Theatre of Blood is a uniquely British concoction, wickedly literate, darkly comic, and drenched in stage blood. For anyone who has ever loathed a critic or loved an actor too much, this film is an unhinged encore that demands applause. A morbid masterpiece of murderous melodrama.

IMDB