Lionheart Versus the Critics: "Theater of Blood"
Let's dispense immediately with the notion that there is no better or worse in the arts. This is an idea that has seeped into popular discourse – from claims that there can be no determinations of qualitative differences between genre and literary fiction, to the suggestion that it's impossible make arguments about the moral infantilism of a superhero movie as compared to an action film from 1988 or an adventure film from 1956, because to do so means one "just doesn't get it" – and which seems to provide great comfort to people who don't care to actually think things through.
There is a better and a worse in the arts as there is in writing an essay: one performs both activities in large part by making choices. How is the plot structured? Who is cast in a film? How does that actor decide to portray a character? Which idea, in an essay, to present first, and which to present second? Which words to use? All of these choices are difficult, and all are made because one choice is better than another.
If this were not the case, one could, for example, take all of the scenes from a movie (or words in an essay) and rearrange them in any order without changing the effectiveness of that movie (or essay) in communicating what the filmmaker (or writer) wants to try to accomplish. This is a nonsensical idea. There is a better and a worse way to do things, and we can make comparisons between them. We can also extend these comparisons from one film to the next, and use them to talk about the relative worth of both works.
Having said this, let's also dispense with the idea that this reality of better and worse is a simple thing, or a thing that can aid in reductionism. Making qualitative judgments is, instead, a remarkably complicated process, and one that depends a great deal on questions of criteria. When one talks about one movie being "better" than another, what one is almost always actually talking about is the metrics of comparison, or what one means by "good."
Is Citizen Kane a better action movie than Predator? Of course not. There's not, as far as I can remember, a single good scene of a stuntman leaping out of an explosion in Citizen Kane, or a slow-motion shot of a mini-gun tearing up the scenery, or even a bad guy with green blood. At which point, you might remind me that Citizen Kane is not an action movie at all. Well then, if the two films have different goals, in what sense is Citizen Kane a better movie? Because of its dialogue? Its acting? Its mise-en-scene? Its influence? Its insight into the human condition? Perhaps, but what's the function of dialogue? Does mise-en-scene exist to subtly induce a feeling of tragedy or to instill a feeling of adrenaline-based anxiety at being in a jungle with a dreadlocked alien hunting you? And are insights into the human condition really why we watch movies?
These questions are all worth debating, and in some sense are actaully the whole point. Arguing that a movie is good or bad should be a kind of gateway shorthand, an opening salvo which should lead to a discussion of the movie, and of what one means by "good" or "bad" in the context of discussing why that particular movie succeeds or fails, and why, either because of or despite these things, it might be worth watching.
However, as you probably know, my rather utopic vision of criticism is not widely shared. Instead, declarations of the awfulness or greatness of a movie frequently serve as little more than pretexts. Sometimes they're pretexts for the critic to grind a hidden ax, sometimes they're little more than provocations covering for what seem to be a rather desperate need for attention, and sometimes they're simply attempts to show off some kind of erudition, as if it were the critic who was really important and not the piece under review, to which the critic, whether they like it or not, is always secondary.
All of which brings me to Theater of Blood (1973), in which Vincent Price plays a grandiose Shakespearean actor who has had enough of the snooty circle of London theater critics who have denied him the acclaim he believes he deserves, and so decides to kill them all using various methods derived from Shakespeare's plays.
If you're not familiar with this kind of film, let me set the stage (ahem) by noting that in the early '70s there was a certain kind of film being made that is not made so much anymore. These were generally produced on a relatively low budget, usually involved horror or so-called Grand Guignol themes, and included a greater or lesser degree of camp, by which I mean a kind of self-awareness or performative aspect which allows the viewer, once they get their feet under them, to feel like they're in on a joke, enjoying the proceedings in a way that the uninitiated might not be able to. For many of us, there's a real joy to be had in the excesses of these films, which include things like The Abominable Dr. Phibes (one of the absolute classics of the genre), many of the horror movies that came out of Hammer Studios in England, much of the work of Roger Corman here in the U.S., and others.
There are still movies somewhat like this being made, of course, but to my mind what sets off a lot of the stuff from that time period – and helps give it a distinctive tone – is a kind of gothic classicism. There are lots of 19th Century settings, a feeling of stage-play theatricality, and a tone of almost psychoanalytic symbolism. Unlike our era (which seems to me deeply invested in the dream of absolute self-awareness) many of these films take seriously the notion of buried urges, florid symbolism, and grandiose, uncontrollable desires.
So, in Theater of Blood, a group of stage critics declined to give an aging actor named (wonderfully) Edward Lionheart an award for actor of the year. Lionheart confronted them after the ceremony at a soiree in the apartment of their most esteemed member, and then, tormented by their mockery, hurled himself off the balcony into the Thames.
Lionheart did not die, however, but was pulled from the river by a group of half-mad vagabonds. Now he's back to take his revenge. He and the vagabonds have taken up occupancy in a derelict theater, and one by one they lure the critics to their death, sometimes by involving them in actual mock performances of the Bard's plays.
One critic is stabbed to death in a re-enactment of Julius Caesar, another is drowned in a barrel of wine as in Richard III, another is electrocuted to simulate the burning of Joan of Arc in Henry VI, Part I, another has his heart cut out in reference to the infamous pound of flesh in The Merchant of Venice, etc.
Lionheart is helped in his mission by his daughter Edwina (Diana Rigg), and the film ends with her being mortally wounded. As the cops close in, Lionheart carries her body up to the top of the theater – which has caught on fire – and delivers King Lear's final monologue before leaping to his death in the flames.
It's loony, both funny and savage, and a pure pleasure for fans of this kind of fare. But, to return to my earlier ruminations, is Theater of Blood a good film or a bad one, better or worse than other movies?
In many ways, it might be worse. Compared to something like The Godfather, which came out the year before it, the film is lacking in many respects. It has none of the visual accomplishment of Coppola's masterpiece. Nor does it share much of that film's astounding filmic technique – an ability to stir in us, with a single shot or carefully crafted sequence, a set of deep emotional responses or insights into the shared qualities of being human – or its sweeping, immersive narrative.
Having said that, Theater of Blood is not, of course, trying to be The Godfather, or to do what Coppola's film is trying to do. Its delights are cheeky and comedic and referential, and it takes an outsider's view of the vital importance of the petty side of human life. So while it’s perhaps worse in certain ways, it also may be better in others, or at least have its own unique aims that should be taken into account.
Start with Vincent Price. Immensely prolific, for some thirty years he had, rightly or wrongly, increasingly been relegated to films sharing the B-movie ambitions of Theater of Blood, for which his considerable talents were perfectly suited. In roles like this one, he was able to project a rather forlorn, gentle internality which, once the surface was scratched, was revealed to cover an immense self-regard, or even megalomania; the villainous turns of his characters, that is, always seemed to be based in an authentic, wounded humanity. (The comparison to Al Pacino – who starred in The Godfather – is an interesting one: the older actor often seems to use gentleness to hide intensity, while the younger finds his way into subtle emotion (when he does) precisely through intensity.) Price had the thing, in other words, that draws the viewer into an actor's performances, makes them watchable, memorable; and the way this manifested in him made him exactly right for these kinds of gothic films.
And what a delight to watch him here, in a role that draws our attention to not only the conundrums of his character, but also to a playful summation of his own career: much viewed, much loved, but never able to break into the kind of work that the tux and playbill crowd would much appreciate. In a sort of loving, overt comparison to this, Theater of Blood has lots of fun with the question of whether Lionheart the Shakespearean a very good actor. Its answer might be said to be that he was a legend in his own mind, if not in the mind of the public.
Early in the movie, a police detective recalls that he saw Lionheart on stage once, and offers the following judgment: "Very vigorous actor." It's a good line, hinting that perhaps enthusiasm was Lionheart's greatest strength. Responds one of the film's circle of critics: "It's a funny thing, but you begin to resent an actor if you always have to give him bad notices." This is not just a good line but a magical one, combining a clever deflection on the part of the critic – it's the actor's fault when the critic chooses to make things personal in their reviews – with an astute observation about human nature. We really do begin to resent people when they don't live up to arbitrary expectations we've set.
Theater of Blood, that is, is a wonderful film in the way it meditates on the career of a Hollywood legend in Price – and indeed of actors everywhere – neither (ahem) lionizing him, nor mocking him, but setting into opposition the facts of what any artist desires and what they are frequently given. It does this all with a smile, and at the same time allows Price himself to be in on the joke. He gets to perform Shakespearean monologues in the role of an actor who is a ham; at the same time, he gets to perform them with a good deal of their intended depth, as the ferocity of vengeful feeling with which Lionheart throws himself into his lines is the precise ferocity of feeling that fills many of Shakespeare's characters in these moments.
Beyond this, Theater of Blood excels in maximizing the potential of the genre in which it participates. Like many similar works, as well as Gothic literary treasures like "The Cask of Amontillado" or "The Tell-Tale Heart," it attempts to provoke a frisson of uncomfortable recognition at the way humanity can turn ingenuity into assault, and the casualness with which brutality against others can become a mark of self-regarding cleverness. And, as with Poe's stories, the frisson here is not just one of discomfort but also one of a kind of macabre pleasure, a feeling of glee at the genius of the wicked.
Here, there's certainly a comparison to be made to something like The Godfather, which trades in many of the same qualities. The famous scene in which the Hollywood studio exec wakes up in bed with the bloody head of his decapitated horse, for example, has captivated viewers for a half century because of its surprising and satisfying combination of violence and inventiveness; the scene in which Lionheart and his daughter sneak into the home of a critic by sending him a huge steamer trunk with themselves inside, and then emerge at night to decapitate him in an homage to Cymbeline, functions in the exact same way.
In a sense, the entirety of Theater of Blood consists of a series of these adventures, each so creative (and preposterous – it is a camp film, after all) that they invariably bring a smile to the face. That these are not set into a larger framework with deeper interests – as is the scene in The Godfather – certainly limits the film's reach. They are pleasurable only in and of themselves, rather than as waypoints on the road of Michael Corleone's moral decimation; and yet they are tremendously successful in their own right. Theater of Blood stays on a certain level, but it's a good film – perhaps even a great one – in carrying us along on that level, delivering its bon mots of pure maliciousness in an uninterrupted and delightful string.
All of which is to say that if we’re careful, we can compare films and make judgements about their worth. Theater of Blood offers a self-reflexive and playful meditation on the career of its central actor, a feat which The Godfather isn't interested in attempting. Conversely, Coppola's film sets its violence into a far larger, more complicated, and more serious framework, which allows it to sustain larger, more complicated, and more serious insights into human life.
So which is better? To come to a satisfactory agreement, you and I would have to decide what we value in film and in life; through those discussions, we might just manage to both entertain ourselves and deepen our understanding of the workings and importance of art itself. Which seems to me to be more or less the entire purpose of criticism.
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