The Man Who Could Cheat Death
The ideas for Hammer films come from all sorts of places. Sometimes it’s a book, sometimes it’s a legend, and sometimes it’s a room full of people desperately trying to think of a way to get Christopher Lee to play Dracula again (“Count Dracula, P.I.?”). The Man Who Could Cheat Death is based on a play, and not only is that very unsurprising once you’ve watched it for more than ten minutes, it’s also why most people don’t like it very much. There’s too much talking, bugger all action, and an awful lot of ornate bloody boudoirs.
However, if I may be allowed to share this with you, I myself have always had a bit of a soft spot for movies based on plays. I have a lot of fond memories of treading the boards when I was a lad, a bit of an escape from the suffocating grey hellscape of a boarding school that wanted to swallow my soul. Maybe that has something to do with it; or maybe I just like it when people sit in rooms and talk about doing things, instead of going out and doing them; definitely the sort of life experience with which I am more comfortable. It might even be simpler than that, and I just really enjoy watching people walk away from whoever they’re talking with to stare off into the distance while confessing some deeply personal thought. Whatever it is, I’m very partial to the words ‘based on the play by…’ at the beginning of a picture, and sometimes it’s enough when a movie does things that you like.
Of course, one of the things that I’m most partial to in a Hammer movie is Peter Cushing. And he was supposed to be the lead in this one, but was too knackered apparently. Can’t blame him, he was probably on his forty third movie of the year by that point. But is there such a thing as a movie that wouldn’t be improved by Peter Cushing? Well, it’s possible that maybe, maybe, this is that movie.
Hang on though, Peter Cushing as a mad scientist who lives at Number 13, Rue Noire, prowling the streets of a fog suffocated Paris literally tearing the life out of people so he can cheat death, in between creating awe-inspiring works of art? How could horror movies, cinema, the world as a whole, not be richer for having that in it? The thing is though, if Cushing had been in it, I’d have just been thinking about Frankenstein the whole time. Frankenstein was scarier than this, Frankenstein was more exciting than this, there weren’t so many bleeding boudoirs in Frankenstein. Cast Cushing and you might as well sellotape a sign to his forehead that says ‘Better Mad Scientists Are Available’. And it’s hardly fair to compare every Hammer film to Frankenstein, is it?
Because this one does have a lot to recommend it, if you ask me. I quite like what a cold, selfish bastard the lead is. He has a very silent-film star look about him too, which works especially well when they light him in that shadowy ‘Uh-oh! Evil!’ sort of way. And while I do have sympathy for people who get bored by all the talking, I think the Doctor’s manic chasing after and grasping at immortality fills out the film nicely, acting as a good balance that in any other movie might end up being nothing more than a giant ham sandwich, curling at the edges, whetting no-one’s appetite. Plus Christopher Lee gets to be cool! He is cast in the traditional role of bland leading man, filled with so many forgettable moustaches throughout Hammer’s history; but put Lee in it and he’s all gravitas and magnetism, sloshing his bucket of charm all over the dirty floorboards of this too-late-to-stop-production-now movie. There’s also some cracking Terence Fisher bits of directing, including the climax where the rapidly aging mad scientist, flesh sloughing off as he experiences every moment of pain and suffering he has ever avoided, gets set on fire by the cackling artist’s model who’s gone out of her tiny mind. Watching him spin around in the flame as an almost incongruous woman’s laugh comes unhinged off-screen is just one of those horror movie moments you know you won’t forget. Finally, never has there been a movie that so eloquently makes the case for every mad scientist needing an Igor. If The Man Who Lived In The Rue Noire (the original, and much better, title) had only had a hunchbacked assistant who knew his experiments inside and out, he’d still be showing off his terrible sculptures in blooming boudoirs to this day.
It just goes to show that everyone needs a little help sometimes. Especially when you’re fighting against the inevitability of death. Speaking of which, another pint?
