Ever since I
was a little boy, I’ve always associated waxwork figures with frissons of
horror. One of my most vivid childhood horror experiences was visiting the old Osborne-Smith
Wax Museum on the Isle of Wight. Something about the frozen images of life-like
humans from history sends shivers down the spine, even those depicting people
engaged in harmless activities. They are
preserved for ever, suspended in time, merely statues – and yet didn’t I see it
move, breathe? For some, the fear they inspire is as deep-rooted and
inexplicable as coulrophobia. For me, the ‘blame’ can be traced back to the
wonderful horror films made by Hollywood’s Golden Age and I thank them for the
extra dimension of pleasurable fear that played tricks on my imagination and
that of many others. Long before Doctor
Who gave us the stuff of nightmares with the wonderful cold stone chills of
the Weeping Angels, film-makers seduced us with warm wax.
The
creatives behind the successful Doctor X
in 1932 reteamed for the following year’s Mystery
of the Wax Museum, a horror tale that developed the potential evil of wax
humans first shown on screen in 1924’s silent feature Waxworks (see my review here dated 8/1). A welcome reuniting it was, combining among
others the confidence of director Michael Curtiz and actors Lionel Atwill and
the emerging Scream Queen Fay Wray (warming up for her vocal folds for her
star-making role in King Kong) – all
handsomely presented once again in glorious Technicolor. Sadly, this was to be
the swan-song for this format of two-colour films for a while. The technique had proved expensive, and too
many movies had been made without enough quality control, leading to audiences
and critics complaining of an unreality about it. This film is a show-case for
what the process could achieve, largely thanks to the art design of Anton Grot
and the cinematography of Ray Rennahan, also brought back from Doctor X. Like its predecessor, the
sumptuous colouring of Wax Museum adds
a modern freshness and shows off the creamy skin tones of the wax models to
luscious effect, one that is crucial in selling the story idea of their
incredible ‘realism’.
Don Mullaly
and Carl Erickson based their script on the 1932 short story ‘The Wax Museum’ by
Charles Spencer Beldon. Curtiz demonstrates once more his sure handling of
actors. There’s not a duff note in the performances and the pacing is
well-maintained. We are introduced almost immediately to Atwill as Ivan Igor,
celebrated sculptor and part-owner of a 1920s London wax museum. The gentle
coiffuring of his hair and trimmed beard is nicely reminiscent of a neater
Vincent Van Gogh, a suave, aristocratic look that seemed to inspire the
real-life Fine Arts expert Vincent Price in his 1953 remake House of Wax). Atwill also subtly alters
his accent to what I believe is Hungarian. His gently rolling ‘r’ sounds match
those of Curtiz, himself a native Hungarian, and he occasionally mis-stresses
syllables. As a voice artist myself, I appreciate his reigning back on what
could otherwise have been a fruity and ruinously distracting stereotype.
Igor is a
passionate artist, yet with enough modesty to be humbly gratified by the
patronage of a friend and a potential investor he shows around, who volunteers
to recommend his amazingly lifelike works to the Royal Academy before they
leave. He has lovingly sculpted figures from history and the arts such as
Voltaire, Joan of Arc and his masterpiece, Marie Anotinette – using wax rather
than stone to more faithfully reproduce their human warmth. The glow of his
visitors’ flattery is soon muted though by the sudden appearance of Igor’s
business partner Joe Worth (Edwin Maxwell), who delivers the bad news that they
are financially bankrupt, suggests that torching the museum for the insurance
money is the best solution and sets light to the place without waiting for
agreement. They fight madly but to no avail for Igor, who is knocked
unconscious and locked into the museum by the fleeing Worth, while his beloved
wax ‘children’ melt tragically around him….
Moving
forward to 1993 New York and the champagne cracks open to see in a New Year. Here
the pace really kicks in, amidst the hustle of a convincing ‘city that never
sleeps’. From here, Curtiz deftly handles a switch in tone and genre akin to Doctor X with the wise-cracking reporter
Florence Dempsey desperate for a story to save her from being fired by her
editor Jim played by Frank McHugh. Theirs is a fiery, classic newspaper movie
relationship and their dynamic exchanges have all the verve and machine-gun
rat-a-tat of His Girl Friday. Farrell
made a name for herself as the dame with urban attitude in many films, leading
to her own series as a similarly bolshy newshound Torchy Blane later in the decade.
Igor has
resurfaced in the city, albeit wheel-chair bound and without the ability to
sculpt with fire-scarred hands. He prepares for the grand opening of the
revived London Wax Museum, created using assistants who work to his painstaking
designs. At the same time, Florence‘s nose for a story leads her to suspect
that something doesn’t sit right in the presumed suicide of model Joan Gale,
whose corpse is secretly stolen from the morgue by a disfigured man. Florence’s
flat-mate Charlotte (Fay Wray) is a link to the museum, as her boyfriend Ralph
(Allen Vincent) works there for Igor. Working whatever connection she can like
a good reporter, Florence sneaks into the museum, her intuition expressed in
gangster-moll terms: “There’s something
cock-eyed about that joint”. She is stunned by the similarity between Gale
and a model of Joan of Arc. She isn’t the only one transfixed by life seemingly
imitating art – Igor spots Charlotte and is transfixed by her beauty, a
dead-ringer for his beloved Marie Antoinette. This unhealthy fascination, if we
hadn’t suspected it already, leads us to conclude Igor has a ghoulish trade
secret for achieving his uncannily life-like mannequins. He’s also involved in
an underworld network of ne’er-do-wells that facilitates his work including drug
addict professor Darcy (Arthur Edmund Carewe) and the deaf-mute Hugo (Matthew
Betz).
Over the
years, Worth has ‘graduated’ from insurance scamming in London to channelling
his criminally enterprising streak into bootleg trade. Florence’s snooping
leads her to Gale’s body on Worth’s property and the re-appearance of that
unsightly-visaged man, but the evidence vanishes, meaning she can’t get the
police to take her seriously. If only Charlotte had that benefit – she tangles
with Igor in revelations she might wish she could unsee. Grappling with him
when he apprehends her at the museum, she strikes his face, recalling the shock
unmasking of Eric in Phantom of the Opera
as we discover that Igor’s face is the disfigured creature under a brilliant
concealing mask of his own handiwork. Wray then unleashes several lusty shrieks
of terror, vocally earning her a place in the annals of horror heroines in
peril even before the mighty Kong can get her in his simian clutches.
Igor allows
Charlotte’s cries of fear to feed the flames of his long-burning vengeance in a
speech of real feeling by Atwill that underscores the Grand Guignol horror with
some pitiable sympathy for his lost humanity. He is a monster, yet one whose
real ugliness is a good heart crippled beyond recognition into a seething, single-minded
rage for rough justice: “For twelve
years, twelve awful years, this living dead man with his burnt hands and face
has searched for this fiend. Now the account is closed!” Charlotte’s
distress is re-doubled when Igor opens a crate and out falls his nemesis Worth,
boxed up like a bottle of his own illicit hooch. The cops arrive just in time before he can dip
Charlotte into his vat of molten wax to preserve her in waxey immortality. The
resulting unseemly scuffle ends with him terminally immersed in his own
creativity - another gleefully macabre Atwill performance. In seizing every opportunity to memorably thrill
audiences throughout the 1930s, he was no dummy.
Mystery of the Wax Museum became one of the classic staple
horror plots, revitalised in a celebrated colour remake by director Andre de Toth in 1953 with
Vincent Price, pioneering another cinema format of 3-D, and then (ahem) another one with Paris Hilton
in 2005.
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