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Sunday, March 31, 2024

Spanish Horror Part 3:Narciso Ibáñez Serrador by Joe Zanetti



        The Spanish horror boom saw a plethora of directors carve their blood-soaked names into the genre. Names like Amando de Ossorio (who was discussed in part two), Paul Naschy (Jacinto Molina), Carlos Aured, Jorge Grau, Jess Franco, Pedro Olea, and a slew of others. They all contributed their nightmarish visions to a genre that was taking Spain by storm, leaving audiences aghast and feverishly lusting for more. One director, though, not only left an indelible mark on horror but is the one responsible for truly ushering in the Spanish horror boom in the late ‘60s: Narciso Ibáñez Serrador. He first made huge waves in Spain with his television horror/mystery show, Tales to Keep You Awake (Historias para no dormir), from 1966-1968. From there, he would helm the horror boom with his first film, The House that Screamed (North American title), released in 1969. It proved to be a box office hit in Spain, and it garnered much praise from national audiences as well, making it a financial success. Ibáñez Serrador’s second film (and his last) didn’t come out until 1976: Who Can Kill a Child? (¿Quién puede matar a un niño?). Completely different from his first film, it was Ibáñez Serrador’s take on the killer kids subgenre, nicely balanced with a playful, creepy atmosphere filled with shocking and graphic imagery that made it a source of controversy. Despite his short résumé of a two-season television show and two horror films, Ibáñez Serrador grabbed viewers by their throats and injected them with awe, wonder, fear, and panic. In short, he was born to make horror. Let’s delve deeper into this master of horror and his works. 

To understand the love and passion that Ibáñez Serrador had for the horror genre, we must look to his childhood, where the seeds were planted. He was born in Uruguay, and both his parents were part of Spanish theatre groups that toured Spain and Latin America. His father, Narciso Ibáñez Menta, was a lover of horror, and in the 1940s and 1950s he was adapting the works of Edgar Allan Poe, Bram Stoker, H.P. Lovecraft, and others for the theatre. When he was four, his parents divorced, and he stayed with his mother, Pepita Serrador, where she still toured; they would eventually move to Spain, and he would learn more and more about theatre. In the late 1950s, he moved to Argentina to be with his father and convinced him to make for television the stories that he adapted for the theatre. In 1959, they brought Obras maestras del terror (Masterworks of Horror) to Argentinean audiences, lasting for two seasons. Tales from Poe, Robert Louis Stevenson, Gaston Leroux, Guy de Maupassant, and many more. In 1963, Ibáñez Serrador moved back to Spain, and television was taking off there. The TV and film climate was just right for his return. His family name, along with their success and connections to various professionals on both acting and production sides, provided him with everything he needed to open up the country and viewers to new horizons. His love for film, theatre, radio, and production, along with his growing portfolio, afforded him the opportunity to spawn Tales to Keep You Awake, the chilling and suspenseful anthology television show that would change the course of Spanish television and film. 

With Tales to Keep You Awake, Ibáñez Serrador gave Spanish viewers something different in the form of an anthology television show. The episodes were adapted from several Gothic and supernatural stories by Poe, Henry James, and Robert Bloch, and science fiction stories from Ray Bradbury. It’s clear who Ibáñez Serrador’s influences were, and in the vein of American shows like The Outer Limits, The Twilight Zone, or most notably, Alfred Hitchcock Presents. The influence of Hitchcock is especially evident in the show, and in The House that Screamed. Under the pen name Luis Peñafiel, he wrote and directed every episode. He also acted as the show’s host, introducing each episode and discussing the author’s work it was adapted from. He would come alive as he engaged viewers and spoke about what to expect from the episode. He would display humor, passion, wit, intelligence, and energy as he left you laughing, contemplating, or paranoid. With amazing set pieces ranging from haunting to goofy to the actors and actresses who gave noteworthy performances, Spanish audiences were captivated and glued to their television sets, exploring an alien world filled with charm, suspense, tragedy, madness, humor, and even a little bit of hope. For two full seasons, Ibáñez Serrador broke down cultural and social barriers, becoming an icon of horror and television who transcended Spain and its nationalist, hardline structure. Even though the series only lasted from 1966-1968, a TV special would air in 1974, and a mini-series would be released in 1984; however, they don’t capture the magic and atmosphere that the first series did all those years ago, and the overall climate of the country was different. When Tales to Keep You Awake made its debut, all the conditions were right for it, and its success and viewership further stoked the flames of the rising horror genre. With all the decrepit, cobwebbed pieces in place, Ibáñez Serrador would unleash The House that Screamed on an audience that was dying for thrills, chills, and change. 

With the success of Tales to Keep You Awake, the next logical step for Ibáñez Serrador was to make his first feature film. With such an established name and credentials, producers and distributors wanted to do something big with him. The idea was for the film to break out into the international market, and Ibáñez Serrador was given a massive budget of 50 million pesetas (6 million euros, by today’s currency). During this time, such a budget was unheard of, especially for a horror film. Another way for the film to appeal to international audiences was to cast known, non-Spanish actors, and it would be the first Spanish film produced with English dialog. In 1969, The House that Screamed was released and would be the catalyst for Spain’s rise as a horror powerhouse. With its outstanding production design, stellar performances, and gorgeous, haunting cinematography, The House that Screamed thrilled audiences the world over, and opened the old, corroded gates for other Spanish directors to throw their names in the iron maiden. 

In its native Spain, the film was released as La Residencia, and The Finishing School. It’s about a young woman named Teresa Garan (Christina Galbó), who arrives with a family friend at a French boarding school isolated in the country. The school is run by Madame Forneau (Llli Palmer), the strict and cold headmistress. She makes it known the school is a place for girls aged 15-21 who have not lived up to their societal expectations and must be put on the right path. All we know about Teresa is that she is at the school for an education since she cannot receive one back at home. Like every authoritarian headmistress at a boarding school, Madam Forneau has a spy in the form of Irene Tupan (Mary Maude), another student at the school. Irene also has her own subordinates to do her bidding. The other main character is Luis, the 15-year-old son of Madame Forneau. With physical ailments, Madame Forneau keeps him locked up in the school, forbidding him to even set foot outside. She’s ridiculously overbearing with Luis, coddling him and refusing to let him speak to any of the girls, telling him they are no good. She constantly tells him that he needs a girl like she was when she was young; a girl who will love him the way his mother loves him; who will care and protect him the way his mother does. It’s also made known that some of the girls have gone missing, but their disappearances have been chalked up to escaping the school and running away. Once Teresa is settled in, it becomes abundantly clear that nothing is what it seems at the school. Death and mystery lurk around every corner. 

At its core, The House that Screamed is not a groundbreaking, complex story; however, its structure and incorporated themes distinguish it from what has come before. Ibáñez Serrador deftly weaves the old and the new together, mixing a traditional gothic setting with more contemporary horror tropes of the time. It’s one of the earliest examples of a proto-slasher, featuring an unknown killer picking off the girls one by one, and even has a hint of the Giallo in it. It fits into different subgenres, mainly the story of a young girl staying at a school with other students, but also ventures into women in prison territory. In an effort to prevent the girls from escaping the school, Madame Forneau makes sure that every door is locked, every window shut and nailed, making it seem more like a prison. Even the isolated, rural location of the school makes it look and feel more like a prison. Girls who are insubordinate spend time in what is basically solitary confinement, and Madame Forneau is not above dealing out physical punishment. She has one girl whipped by Irene while others watch. Madame Forneau is the corrupt warden, subjecting the girls to her tyrannical ways. The school, large and beautiful with all its lavish furnishings, long hallways, and cavernous rooms, feels lonely and empty, filled with sad, tragic, and traumatic memories that permeate every dark corner of the school. 

Madame Forneau’s iron-fisted rule over the school serves as a microcosm of the Franco regime and its grip on the country. This is also viewed through a lens tinted with sexual tension that lingers heavily on the eye, almost palpable. The body language, from Madam Forneau gazing upon one of the students as she undresses in the shower; the way the girls eye each other, and the discussion of being locked up with not a single man in sight. It’s this repression that also leads to rebellious acts like a student sneaking out so they can meet with a delivery man and engage in sexual activities that are forbidden on school grounds. Sexual freedom and identity are stifled, and deviating from what is considered normal is not only frowned upon but a punishable offense. The significance of this is heightened because societal expectations always fell on the women; they were to act and conduct themselves in accordance with what the religious, patriarchal hierarchy deemed acceptable. Viewers are given a closer, more unsettling look at Madame Forneau’s relationship with her son, Luis, when the two share a moment that is just a little too intimate. After giving Luis another speech about how he needs a woman like her to care for him, she gives him a kiss that is suggestive and uncomfortable, and then you get this devious smile from Luis that tells you something is seriously wrong. 

Despite its financial success and viewership at home and abroad, the film was panned by critics. No one could understand why Ibáñez Serrador was given such a huge budget for a horror film of all things, and it was immediately denounced simply for being a horror film; the budget made it scrutinized even more. It was also heavily criticized for not resembling a Spanish film, but that’s partly why the film was so successful. The film was intentionally made to look European so it would appeal to more than just Spanish audiences, which left a bad taste in some mouths. The film was also ridiculed for not being original or breaking new ground, which did not phase Ibáñez Serrador. He wanted to tell a story in a classical manner, but with a Hitchcockian structure. The film did suffer some censorship. The girls in the shower could not be naked, so they had to wear thin white gowns that you could still see through when wet. The more intimate and sexually intense scenes had to be cut for the Spanish version. This resulted in two different cuts of the film, both of which are available on the Arrow Video edition. Even with scathing reviews, the film’s success is what brought Spain to the forefront of the horror genre, and no one can deny that. If Ibáñez Serrador hadn’t approached the film the way he did, we may have never seen the Spanish horror boom, or, perhaps, it wouldn’t have been as big as it was. What he did with The House that Screamed is launch Spain and horror into a new era. We wouldn’t see his next and final film until 1976. 

Ibáñez Serrador’s Who Can Kill a Child? (1976) is wildly different from The House that Screamed, but no less influential, and even controversial. Instead of a large, gloomy, isolated school in rural France, the setting is a sunny, hot, open island off the coast of Spain that offers a different kind of isolation. An English couple, Tom (Lewis Fiander) and his pregnant wife Evelyn (Prunella Ransome), have just arrived in the coastal town of Benavis, Spain, where a big festival is taking place. They plan on taking a boat to the island of Almanzora, a place Tom visited 12 years ago. While walking around and making preparations for their departure to the island the next day, they stop at a store that has a TV displaying news about the military coup in Thailand and the deaths caused by it. It leads to the store clerk remarking about how it’s the children who always suffer. While on the beach, they witness a dead body washing up on shore, and more subequently wash up. Something is not right, but they continue to Almanzora. All looks tranquil and normal when they arrive, but they soon learn that something is seriously wrong when they can’t find a single adult. Soon, they will experience a hellish, scorching, brutal nightmare as they are hunted by every child on the island. Will they be able to escape? Will they do whatever it takes? Are they capable of hurting a child if it means they can live another day? 

Ibáñez Serrador’s film drew considerable controversy over its subject matter. The killer kids subgenre was nothing new, but shocking scenes of kids being gunned down or run over by Tom driving a jeep turned a lot of heads and stomachs. The creepy factor is upped by the kids' blank, yet playful stares; their giggles as they use an old man for a piñata, slicing him with a scythe while dancing around with murderous glee. It’s never actually stated what has turned the kids on the island into ravenous demons hellbent on killing all the adults, even their own parents. It’s this lack of an explanation that makes the movie more sinister. A kid just has to stare at another kid for a few seconds to pass it on, quickly resulting in the entire island becoming a slaughterhouse. The daytime setting adds an extra level of terror, coupled with the limitations of the island; you can only run so far and for so long, there’s nowhere to go. The oppressive heat wears you down and makes you delirious, heightening the fear and panic Tom and Evelyn desperately try to make it off the island alive.



     Unlike the pan-European style and identity of The House that Screamed, the look and feel of Who Can Kill a Child? is clearly Spanish, even with the non-Spanish protagonists. House was shot in Spain, but set in 19th century France, because the evil that happens in the school could never happen in Spain, according to the regime. It was necessary to set the locations outside Spain to avoid censorship. In the case of Who Can Kill a Child?, it’s made known the setting is Spain and its coastal territories. With the death of Franco in 1975, things in Spain began to change, and Ibáñez Serrador had no qualms with the message he was conveying in the film. It still had some censorship issues because of the shocking violence and was heavily cut in some countries. The one glaring problem that the film suffers from, however, is the introduction to the film. Before it officially begins, you are shown footage and statistics of the children who have died during times of war, famine, and anything in between. It’s like you are watching the beginning of a Mondo film, but it’s heavy-handed and whacks you in the face with what it’s about; it takes away from the film, and it reduces and simplifies these world events. There is an alternate version of the film titled Island of Death, and it doesn’t feature that opening. Ibáñez Serrador said in an interview he wished he hadn’t included that footage at the beginning and should’ve saved it for the end, which could’ve had more of an impact on the viewer after watching daylit terror of murderous kids. It must also be mentioned that the film has some commonalities with zombie films, especially George Romero’s Night of the Living Dead (1968), and you can’t help but think about it when you see the ending of Ibáñez Serrador’s multi-themed film. 

After the release of Who Can Kill a Child? in 1976, the horror boom would die down considerably. With the transition to democracy underway, the new government had zero interest in horror. What they wanted were films of political and historical importance, something more along the lines of dramas, war films, and the like. It became increasingly more difficult to make a horror film in the ‘80s, but Ibáñez Serrador kept going with television shows and game shows. Throughout his career, though, he would receive numerous awards acknowledging his achievements and contributions to Spanish film and television. In 2002, he received the Lifetime Achievement Award from the Spanish Television Academy. In June of 2019, he passed away, but he left behind a legacy of horror films and shows that catapulted Spain to horror stardom. He proved that horror could rise above the strictures put on it by critics and narrow-minded film elites. He showed that horror could have a socio-political sheen on it; that it has this amazing ability to hide and display meanings and critiques of ourselves and society, in Spain and the rest of the world. His name is forever ingrained in the stars and will be remembered as the man who ushered in Spain’s horror boom. 

Thursday, March 21, 2024

The New British School of Weird Horror.

The history of horror and genre fiction is a tangled maze of history and influence. In tracing the roots of modern-day weird horror I think there is a point of genesis. The origins can be found in the speculative fiction and horror fiction from England in the 1970s, From the cold and transgressive novels by J.G. Ballard to the ambiguous and shadowy short fiction of Robert Aickman. The corrupted and malicious cityscapes of Campbell and the rural nightmares of Tuttle. The children of a generation torn apart by total war, where the local cinemas and churches have the scars of Nazi bombing runs. They were also the generation that first experienced the dislocating effects of mass media and entertainment technology. They established themselves as students of a deep and rich history of genre fiction. Writers like Wells and Bradbury and Poe and Sturgeon and Jackson provided a lineage for them to follow. And from the giants of the field, they took the genre into new and increasingly personal places. 

Surrealism, Decadence, New-Wave Science Fiction, the French new novel, Pornography, Lovecraft, and M.R. James all were incorporated into this new literature. These writers, which I shall call the New British School, influenced the trajectory of the current literature of Weird Horror. Writers like Brian Evenson, Thomas Ligotti, and Caitlin Kiernan are writers who are in the direct tradition of the New British School. The breakdown of a consensus on what we use to call reality. The overwhelming takeover of media and fantasy into our lives. These writers offer us a map, enabling us to navigate a strange new world that we seem to have found ourselves waking up into. In the best way, these are stories of confrontation and examination. They plunge you into what society wants to avoid looking at. Or maybe they find joy and a masochistic pleasure in celebrating our breakdown.

These writers created a literature of mental psychography. The use of fantasy and metaphor to openly explore your own perverse obsessions without self-censorship or a redeeming morality was new to literature. Literature traditionally was seen as an objective thing. A tool to offer commentary on current history or trends in society. With this new group of writers, they looked inward. Uncensored, their visions were disturbing, confusing, and sometimes even pornographic. The bringing of heavy erotic elements to horror fiction was one of the innovations of this new English horror. The influence of hallucinogenics and drug culture also first showed itself. A more honest yet more ambiguous literature emerged from the ashes of a bombed-out Britain. A society that always presumed it was safe from the atrocities of the world, now seeing itself devastated and humbled. Seeing dead bodies on the streets while trying to get supplies from the local food bank. A society scarred and traumatized. Safety can no longer be assumed. Their entire worldview shattered. So a literature of paranoia and trauma emerged. The dangers of the city. The horror of the other sex. Corruption and infection waited in the prettiest faces and safest homes.

A face scattered with shards of glass and semen. A porno store hiding a corrupting secret that you maybe actually desire. An impossible dead figure on the ceiling half seen in the flashes of the lights of a passing speeding train. A strange disgusting creature brought home that has replaced you as the loved one in your family and in your home. Visions of nightmare and obsession. Stories both surreal and realist at the same time. The British School were explorers of a new reality infected with self-destructiveness and knowledge that we as a society are gleefully falling into ruin. We were in full view willingly tearing apart the pillars that have held together society for centuries. Our most perverse and cherished fantasies are now all we have left.  

             A suggested reading list:

    J.G. Ballard: 

The Atrocity Exhibition


Concrete Island

Robert Aickman:

Dark Entries 

Cold Hand in Mine

The Unsettled Dust

Lisa Tuttle:

A Nest of Nightmares

The Dead Hours of Night

Riding the Nightmare

Ramsey Campbell:

Demons by Daylight

The Height of the Scream

Cold Print

Sunday, March 10, 2024

Interview: Robert Morgan

Robert Morgan has been one of the most important filmmakers working in recent years. He is a master of the short stop motion animation film. He has directed such masterworks of the form as The Cat with Hands, The Separation, D is for Deloused, Bobby Yeah, and many others. You see his name mentioned in the same category as the Brothers Quay and Jan Svankmajer. And now he has a feature-length film, Stopmotion, out from Wild Bunch and IFC Films. Playing in select theaters now and coming to streaming platforms in Spring 2024. Finally, he is getting the exposure he deserves. 

First off congratulations! I know we die hard Robert Morgan fans have been hoping for this moment! I think I am not alone in saying this is exciting seeing you get the chance to direct a feature film! I understand you won Best Director at Fantastic Fest and won the Special Jury Award at the  Sitges Film Festival! This being your first feature film, I am sure there is a lot of pressure and stress having so many eyes on your work and so many critics and reviewers talking about it! How are you dealing with the stress of having a feature-length film out there in the world?  

Thank you! I feel good about it. The most important thing is that the film exists and that it exists in a completely pure, uncompromised form. Stopmotion is exactly what it was intended to be. I can’t ask for more than that. Everything else is just noise. 

How did the idea behind your film Stopmotion originate? Was it a film that you have been wanting to make for years or was it an idea that came together after the possibility of making a feature length film presented itself to you?  

Yes, it’s been years in the planning. I first had the idea to make a film about the process of stop motion itself sometime after I finished Bobby Yeah (2011). My first idea was about a living organic camera, which ended up not really being a feature-length idea, so I made it into a short (Invocation, 2013, which ironically stars Stopmotion’s co-writer Robin King!). After that, I felt that the feature should be more of a character study, following around this stop-motion animator as she goes through a crisis. That was the starting point. And this idea married to a second idea that was inspired by the making of Bobby  Yeah, where I had the sensation that the film I was making had taken on a life of its own and I didn’t have much say in its direction. That’s really the core of what the film Stopmotion is about: creativity as a hostile entity that’s separate from its creator. 

Films that explore the obsessions of the filmmaker and/or the filmmaking process itself, self-reflective works such as HItchcock’s Vertigo, Strickland’s Berberian Sound Studio, Bergman’s  Persona, Powell’s Peeping Tom, are almost a genre in themselves. I think Stopmotion may fall into this tradition, with a filmmaker primarily known for making stopmotion animation films making a film about a stopmotion animator. What is it about using cinema as self-exploration, as confessional, that draws filmmakers to use cinema as a mirror? 

It’s just a world I know very well. I strongly feel that the process of stop-motion animation contains within it mysterious ritualistic aspects and occult energies that I wanted to explore. I wasn’t really trying to make a confessional film, I just thought it was a fascinating, unexplored subject. I was more conscious that the main character Ella was a “tortured artist” archetype if you like (as in Magic or Black Swan for example). Peeping Tom was an influence for sure, as was The Last House on Dead End Street, another horror film about filmmaking. 

I feel we are really seeing a revived era of horror cinema. There seems to be a renewed vitality to horror cinema that has finally escaped from the banal meta-humor of the 1990s or the lame 1970s nostalgia/retreads of say 2000 to 2010. Horror cinema has found its way again. What role do you feel horror cinema plays in our present reality of pandemics and political uncertainties?  

For me, horror is just a perfect way of exploring the hidden worlds that live inside people. I’m not so much interested in political or social influences in my films, my stuff is more internal and insular. I can’t really comment on how the current world would or should be reflected within horror. I suppose the films will inevitably reflect something of the world we live in, but for me at least, it’s not conscious. I like Edgar Allan Poe’s idea that terror is “of the soul” and that this is its legitimate source. You’re right though, horror cinema seems to be in a good place right now. I don’t know why that is.  

The use of surrealist and transgressive humor is a hallmark of your work. I feel that this kind of bizarre humor has become a subgenre unto itself and a lot of the most interesting work today is being done in this realm. I would point to artists and filmmakers from David Firth to Tim Heidecker as examples of people working in this genre. And I feel your works are a vital contribution, works such as Bobby Yeah and D is for Deloused are masterworks in this genre, This kind of ultra reality that satirizes our expectations of what we call the real. This immersion into body horror and laughing at what is found there in the abject and the charnel. There is a kind of unleashing of a primal chaos at the heart of surrealist humor. How do you feel the use of humor is intended in your work and what is it you are exploring? 

I think it’s about the absurdity of existence, and the horror of our inevitable decline and death.  We’re all heading there… You can only laugh at it. Underneath it all, we’re just writhing blobs of decaying meat that are trying not to acknowledge the fact that we’re writhing blobs of decaying meat. That’s pretty funny if you think about it haha. 

We have talked privately about our mutual love for the fiction of Thomas Ligotti. I am waiting, and certain that it will happen, that a wave of films based or influenced by Ligotti will hit theaters in much the same way H.P. Lovecraft became a cinematic trend in the 1960s and 1970s. It does seem that the best Lovecraftian films are works influenced by the work and not direct translations. Like Carpenter’s The Thing or Scott’s Alien. I think one of the films that I really don’t think is a direct adaptation but certainly captures the feel of a Ligotti tale is Kurosawa’s Cure with its hypnotized characters and its mysterious shadowy cityscapes. Was Ligotti and his malicious puppets in any way an influence on Stopmotion? And would you like to adapt a film based on his works and what works would interest you the most to adapt? 

Ligotti was certainly an influence - the puppet theme in particular, and the main character’s lack of agency against these malignant forces, plus the setting of the empty building. We did briefly discuss the idea of adapting The Red Tower as a stop-motion short, didn't we? I think that one would lend itself well to a semi-abstract film. The problem with directly adapting Ligotti into live-action features is that so much of his power comes from the prose. The characters are mostly ciphers and the plots are often barely there.  There are exceptions of course, like My Work is Not Yet Done and The Last Feast of Harlequin, maybe The Small People too, but often, the most powerful aspects of his stories come from their vagueness I think, which is tricky to translate into a 90-minute live-action narrative film. The prospect of a wave of  Ligotti-esque films is an exciting one though. The vibe is so strong in his work. I haven’t read the screenplays he co-wrote but I can’t wait to get my hands on Crampton and Michigan Basement that  Chiroptera Press are publishing.  

Lastly, what is next for you? Do you have any projects you are working on? What can we look forward to next from you?  

I’m always working on stuff, but I can’t really talk about them yet! Making films is so hard and unpredictable. Announcing things before they happen is never a good idea in my experience!

Tuesday, February 6, 2024

Spanish Horror Part Two: Rise of The Blind Dead by Joe Zanetti.

By the early 1970s, Spanish horror was savagely tearing its way through silver screens, domestically and internationally. The Franco regime was also on its last legs, and things began to loosen up a bit in Spain. Censorship was diminishing, and directors weren’t faced with the rigid scrutiny they were accustomed to during previous years. It was this period that saw directors truly making a name for themselves, frightening and offending audiences with bloody and horrific films that would be forever carved in their memories! One director spawned a tetralogy of films that would brand its unholy mark on the horror genre. From the tenebrous depths of his mind, Amando de Ossorio conjured the Blind Dead. They were Templar knights who would return from their graves and crypts, eternally seeking victims to dismember with their old, rusted swords; to tear the flesh with their rotting teeth, drinking the blood to satisfy their infernal desires!


        The first of Ossorio’s four-film undead cycle was Tombs of the Blind Dead, aka La noche del terror ciego (The Night of the Blind Terror) in Spain. Released in April of 1972, Ossorio’s film was a box-office hit, attracting over 500,000 spectators, and generating over 100,000 euros. More importantly, it gave rise to the Spanish zombie boom, pre-dating the Italian zombie boom that wouldn’t start until the end of the ‘70s! Ossorio took gothic horror elements such as beautiful sweeping landscapes and ancient, dilapidated churches, graveyards, and abbeys, combining them with adult themes and modernity. Audiences were treated to something new and different. The undead knights with their ragged, dirt-covered hooded cloaks and warrior's clothing; skeletal hands and rotting faces with the eyes missing, showing only hollow orbital sockets that look like endless pits; bits of facial hair still remaining, and the phantom horses they ride on. You can smell the stench of death and decay emanating from the screen. They can’t see you, but they can hear your every step, your every breath, heightening the dread! Mixed with these walking cadavers, their gloomy ruins, and archaic, fiendish ways are bikini-clad women, macho and horny dudes, big hotels with giant swimming pools, flash, and pizzazz. This combination of old and modern was a formula not seen in horror cinema. The success of Tombs of the Blind Dead would birth three more films, each one being quite different from the other. Return of the Evil Dead (1973), The Ghost Galleon (1974), and Night of the Seagulls (1975). Where did Amando de Ossorio get this idea, though? What prompted him to make a series of films about Templar knights returning from their hellish slumber to massacre the living and drink their blood?

        Before directing horror films, Ossorio was putting out comedies and spaghetti westerns. In 1965, Paul Naschy (Jacinto Molina) approached him with his idea of making a werewolf film. Ossorio actually turned him down! Seems crazy, but horror just hadn’t quite yet dug its claws in. It was only a matter of time, though, before Ossorio caught on and made his debut horror film Malenka, the Vampire’s Niece (1969). He would also direct The Night of the Sorcerers (1974) and The Loreley’s Grasp (1974). It was his Blind Dead cycle, however, that would put his name on the map! He was influenced by an 1861 gothic horror story titled El Monte de las Animas (The Spirit’s Mountain). In short, it’s about two cousins who go on a hunting expedition with their parents in the Spanish countryside. To pass the time while riding their horses, a tale is told about a nearby hill that is haunted by the spirits of the Knights Templar, and one of the cousins will come face-to-face with the evil. Another influence was George Romero’s Night of the Living Dead (1968). You cannot talk about zombies without mentioning Romero’s classic! The film played in Spain and was considered to be an arthouse work, becoming popular with the underground. It didn’t influence only  Ossorio, but other directors like Jorge Grau and León Klimovsky (born in Argentina, but settled in Spain during the ‘50s). Ossorio would begin the zombie boom in Spain and have his cycle of films out before Romero’s Dawn of the Dead came out in ‘78. It shows that the Spanish were capitalizing on the zombie trend before Romero could even get his second film out and before the Italians as well! Ossorio is careful to make a clear distinction, though, between his undead Templars and Romero’s slow-moving, mindless hordes who are driven to feed on human flesh. He describes them as being mummies who ride on horseback. Every night, they emerge from their tombs to search for victims and their blood, which also puts them in the category of vampires. They aren’t mindless, they know exactly what they want! They also wield swords that they use to stab, slash, and sever! Audiences were treated to scenes of decapitation; limbs being hacked off; women having their hearts removed as they were being fed upon! It’s also worth noting that Ossorio initially received some resistance from producers. The Templars had no cinematic precedent, and producers argued that audiences were only familiar with classic monsters. Ossorio would create his own artwork, showing producers designs and illustrations depicting his vision. These illustrations would be featured in the first film, where a librarian recounts the tale of the knights. It’s this backstory that adds layers to the film.

The story behind Ossorio’s fictionalized Templars is slightly different in each film, but one aspect that remains the same is they came back from the Crusades as practitioners of black magic, engaging in ritual sacrifices of young virgin women to appease a supernatural force of evil origins, granting them immortality. The films never truly state what they worship, but that’s not exactly an important part. Ossorio would draw these ideas from the historical Knights Templar and the charges brought against them by King Philip IV of France (he really wanted to free himself of his debts to them). The knights were arrested and accused of idol worship, having recruits spit on the cross and deny Christ, engaging in homosexual activity, financial corruption, and other charges. In Tombs of the Blind Dead, we are given a flashback scene that shows the Templars tying a woman to a torture rack, and two of them proceed to ride up and down with their horses, slashing at her with their swords. The knights begin to drink the blood flowing from her wounds. The story goes that they were arrested and tried by the King of Spain, hung from trees and their eyes pecked out by crows, hence them being blind. Return of the Evil Dead has a slightly altered story where a scene shows the knights cutting the heart from a woman and eating it. They are captured by villagers and have their eyes burned out and then burned alive, but not before swearing they will return. The Ghost Galleon features a phantom ship that exists in its own dimension, drawing small boats to it so the bloodthirsty knights can feast on whoever is aboard! The navigational log found on board merely mentions the knights and their captain, “The Dutchman,” returning from the east and ex-communicated by the pope for practicing black magic. Night of the Seagulls takes a rather different approach. It takes place in a coastal village. The opening scene shows the knights worshiping a statue of what looks like a sea deity or demon, adding a bit of a Lovecraftian touch. They cut the heart from a woman and place it in the mouth of the statue. An aesthetic that never changes is the symbol of the knights: a red ankh on their tattered wardrobe, with what looks like a flaming circle around it. The ankh, in conjunction with the sacrifices, symbolizes eternal life through death; they will always come back for blood and sacrifices! With such different stories, locations, and scenarios, it’s easy to think of each film as its own entity; more a reimagining rather than being true sequels, adding an air of mystery and intrigue to Ossorio’s cycle, like mythical tales being retold over time. The actual quality of the subsequent films, though, is an entirely different matter.


        With the release of Tombs of the Blind Dead, Ossorio faced very little censorship. As stated before, the regime had dialed down their restrictions for matters of exporting these films outside Spain. Still, though, the films could not be political; however, that doesn’t mean they didn’t contain political commentary! The Blind Dead films, most notably the first film, offered veiled criticism of the Franco regime and its ideologies. The undead knights with their tattered clothing and dreary colors represent a not-so-distant past. The regime was crumbling and would last only a few more years, but that doesn’t mean it couldn’t come back! The knights served as a warning for a Spain that was experiencing a shift in ideologies and values. When riding on their phantom steeds, they are slowed down to add a greater sense of menace and fear. It also acts as a sort of time/space displacement; they exist between the past and present; they shouldn’t be here, but they are! The first film begins with scenes of an abandoned village; buildings hollowed out, filled with cobwebs and dirt-covered floors, weeds and vines taking over. Eerie Gregorian chants mixed with a cacophony of creepy sounds emphasize the past and old ways. It immediately cuts to modern living, where men and women are shown swimming in pools, drinking and conversing, and wearing the latest fashion trends. Everything is bright and colorful. This juxtaposition tells you of a collision that will soon happen. The original artwork for the poster shows four knights; two in the foreground holding a terrified woman, and two in the background with one holding a sword with a hilt and blade facing down. The sword acts as both weapon and cross, conveying violence and the divine. They represent a threat to sexual freedoms and identity, an extension of the fascist ideals that embody the masculine in the form of the monk-warrior that was perpetuated by Nationalist propaganda going back to the Spanish Civil War. General Franco was portrayed as a religious and military hero, given names like “general-priest,” “Sword of the Highest,” or “Captain of the Vessel.” This fusion of the religious and military was a symbol of oppression for mainly women, as shown in the films with the knights sacrificing virgin women, or any woman in general. 

The first film also features a brief flashback scene, showing a lesbian romance between two of the main characters, Virginia and Betty. They attended a religious school together, sharing a room. Both are dancing around and wearing white see-through gowns. Betty kisses Virginia with a cross clearly visible on the back wall, a reminder that, despite the changes Spain was experiencing, the regime was still there, lurking in the distance, waiting to oppress and terrorize! The following films didn’t contain the layers of the first film. Return of the Evil Dead did feature some small political commentary in the form of Mayor Duncan, a selfish man who cared little for the people of the village he was governing. Night of the Seagulls focused more on the superstitions of villagers, and it was these superstitions that prompted them to offer young women as sacrifices to the undead knights every seven years, for seven consecutive nights. With so much to discuss about these films, does that mean they are cinematic masterpieces? Absolutely not. 

Ossorio was always given a small budget to work with, along with a short timeframe. With the success of Tombs of the Blind Dead, producers were demanding him to quickly make more films. He had to use exploitation production methods to get the films out when the producers wanted them. In the second and fourth films, he reuses footage from Tombs. He cast relatively unknown actors and actresses. The first film’s open ending had to conclude with screams off screen and a freeze frame. For far-away shots in The Ghost Galleon, the ship was a plastic toy shot in a bathtub. The film was Ossorio’s biggest disappointment and most ambitious. This was the case for the other films as well. He stated he never truly got to make the films he wanted because he didn’t have the budget and wasn’t allotted the time he needed. Don’t expect any award-winning performances either. The acting leaves much to be desired, and the dialog, especially in the third film, is laughable at times. Many characters make the most idiotic decisions, and some are so annoying, you want to strangle them! In the U.S., Tombs of the Blind Dead was severely watered down. Nudity and scenes of sexual violence and gore were removed to maintain an “R” rating. Even a scene towards the end where the knights are tearing into a woman, and her blood is pouring down on her daughter’s face, her eyes wide with fear! It’s a truly unsettling scene. In one instance, sketchy distributors altered the opening scene to capitalize on Planet of the Apes (1968). A ridiculous narration was added that talks about the conflict between man and ultra-intelligent apes 3,000 years ago. Humans conquered the apes, capturing and torturing them by piercing their eyes with burning hot pokers. The leader of the apes swore they would come back for revenge! Then the title appears: Revenge from Planet Ape. After that, the rest of the movie remains the same! Ossorio’s last horror film was The Sea Serpent (1984). It was a huge disappointment for him because of the small budget he was given, forced to use cheap special effects. It was his dream project, and its failure led to his retirement in filmmaking in the same year. He was 66 years old. Despite the flaws and gross lack of character development, Ossorio’s Blind Dead cycle makes up for it with spine-chilling atmosphere, violence, gore, and nudity! The films are available on either Blu-ray or DVD, with varying degrees of quality. A definitive copy of Tombs of the Blind Dead was released by Synapse Films, with a gorgeous restoration. It’s packed with special features that give you more insight into his films and Spanish horror in general! With The Blind Dead, Ossorio cemented his legacy, and the unforgettable, unholy knights in the halls of horror history, are still viewed and talked about today!