“You can’t kill me again…”
Boris
Karloff’s second horror film released early in 1936 was a chance to work over
at Warner Brothers for the highly-regarded Michael Curtiz who’d already
established his credentials in horror with Doctor
X (1932) and The Mystery of the Wax
Museum the year after. As we’ve seen in earlier reviews of these two,
Curtiz was a talent who could craft a film well and at speed, talents which
would ensure him a long career in the industry. The Walking Dead basically plays as a gangster murder-thriller rather
than a horror film, which suits not only Curtiz’s previous work in handling
fast wise-guy dialogue on the run, but also was mounted by the perfect studio
as Warner’s house style was already associated with the gritty gangster movies
of Bogart and Cagney. Indeed, Karloff’s central role could just as easily have
been played by Bogart and have the film labelled as a very dark crime picture.
Despite the
esteemed director and studio, Karloff had some misgivings going into the
project, most importantly a concern that his character spent most of his screen
time lumbering in intentionally corpse-like, almost monosyllabic form which he felt
was too close to the career-making monster role of Frankenstein that he was careful to leave behind now. Curtiz added
more writers to a shooting script credited to multiple names including the
original story co-creator Ewart Adamson. The finished film still bears
resemblances to his former part though. Incidentally, Karloff had already
worked with Curtiz shortly before being catapulted to fame in The Mad Genius (1931).
How this
comes about follows a whirlwind opening where Curtiz deftly establishes a fast-paced
world of mobsters and fast-talking reporters at a court house where we learn
that the defence attorney Nolan (Ricardo Cortez) does nothing for negative
legal stereotyping by proving to be more corrupt than his clients as ring-leader
of the city’s mob. He takes advantage of a visit by Karloff’s meek,
down-at-heel ex con John Ellman to frame him for the murder of the Judge.
Circumstantial evidence seems to nail the unlucky Ellman as the driver of a car
the gangsters dump the body into. He’s only just got out from serving ten years
unfairly for second-degree murder as it is, and with the Judge victim being the
same one who sent him down, it looks like a revolving door of more prison food
for the poor bastard.
Ellman may
be a lugubrious sap yet he has a refined soul and musical talent as a pianist.
He asks the Warden for the last request of hearing his favourite piece played
by a violinist as he is walked to the chair. It’s a shame he didn’t ask for a
symphony as the witness couple who can confirm his innocence are just too late
to save him from riding the lightning – courtesy of Nolan stalling for time
instead of communicating up the chain of authority.
At this
point, science trumps the legal double-dealing with the winning hand of Dr
Beaumont, who revives the freshly-dead Ellman. Beaumont is played with a
credible medical passion by Edmund Gwenn who in an impressive career would
later win an Academy Award as Kris Kringle in the charming Miracle on 34th Street (1947). Here he delivers the equally
miraculous present of revivification to the dead Ellman. This plot line seems
to have been the result of a dual inspiration; firstly, the recent jaw-dropping
real life surgery of Dr Robert E Cornish shown in Life Returns (see my review dated 5/7) in which a dog is brought
back to life after being gassed to death. The
Walking Dead was filmed not long after so may be more than a coincidence. Secondly,
the fictional operation involved the staging of another true-life medical marvel, a duplicate ‘perfusion pump’, nicknamed the
Lindbergh heart after its co-creator Charles Lindbergh, which sustains the
organ during surgery
Either way,
the worldwide acclaim this sensational operation bestows on Beaumont is not
shared by Ellman who is reborn into confused solemnity and grunted monosyllabic
utterances. He is a haunted shell of what he was before, conveyed most convincingly
by Karloff, the perfect actor to inhabit such a combination of cadaverous dread
and earned sympathy. This comes across with great effect in a powerful scene
where Beaumont stages a piano recital to encourage Ellman’s dormant memories to
resurface. He begins to play, and Karloff’s piercing soulful gaze hardens into deep
homicidal fire as he surveys each of the mobsters invited by Beaumont’s friend
District Attorney Werner out of suspicion. We don’t know how Ellman senses
these men are implicated in his murder and this intriguing metaphysical thread
will be teased at later. Unbeknownst to the good guys, this is a flame that,
once lit within Ellman’s snoozing synapses, cannot now be extinguished until
each one of his killers has been…
The effect of Ellman's performance supplies enough Hamlet-style vindication for Werner’s earlier hunch
that Nolan secretly heads a clandestine mob racket instead of upholding the law:
“And I believe you threw a monkey wrench
into their machinery when you brought him back to life”. He needn’t worry though
about how to exact justice within a proven corrupt system. Ellman embarks on a
rampage of vigilante sentencing of his own starting with the aptly-named hitman
Trigger who is surprised whilst he was preparing to go after him. Trigger
shoots himself by accident whilst backing away, closely followed in death by Blackstone
who is hit by a train (a nifty effect of simple back projection that is just brief
enough to work).
As the
funeral wreaths of Ellman’s handiwork stack up, Nolan responds with the inadvertently
comedic observation: “I’m beginning to
think those three deaths weren’t a mere coincidence”. No kidding – his steel-trap
legal mind is clearly showing signs of rust at not noticing what connects the
victims.
In its
climax, the film takes an unexpected twist into the religiously poetic. After
Ellman is fatally shot attempting to end Nolan, Beaumont seizes insensitively
on his dying form, urging him to share the secrets of what he has learned of life
beyond death. Karloff again pulls at our heartstrings with a sudden deathbed warning
not to meddle in scientific blasphemy: “Leave
the dead to our maker. The Lord our God is a jealous God”. This impassioned
theistic debate poignantly echoes the moral trespassing by Henry Frankenstein,
linking us with more subtlety to Karloff’s most famous screen incarnation. Ellman
expires, giving away nothing conclusive to Dr Beaumont and rightfully so. We are left with an enigmatic lingering shot
of a church-yard Madonna – and the probable satisfaction for the censors of the
Hays Office that ultimately crime, as well as scientifically enhanced revenge
from beyond the grave, don’t pay.
Fortunately,
The Walking Dead itself profited at
the box office, thus keeping Karloff’s profile energised and usefully
establishing his value to other studios aside from the horror home of Universal.
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