Madness in
all its many forms has always been a fertile subject for horror films, in
particular the encroachment of its effects by external or internal forces and the
deliberate inducement of these by wicked antagonists upon some poor victim.
Another terrifying strand is the examination of institutions that house and
treat such souls, studying both the patients and their carers. Classics such as
Milos Forman’s One Flew over the Cuckoo’s
Nest (1975) highlight potentially cruel regimes of abuse by the latter, while
Samuel Fuller’s 1953 psychological thriller Shock
Corridor delves into a common deep-seated fear of being unnecessarily committed,
unable to convince the authorities that one is sane enough to ever leave. Val Lewton’s
final film in his tenure of nine at RKO, Bedlam
(1946), taps into both elements of organisational trauma as well as touching on
the historical progress made in the treatment of mental illness.
It was inspired
by London’s Bethlem Royal Hospital, also officially known as St Mary Bethlehem
and Bethlehem Hospital, but unofficially labelled ‘Bedlam’ –and thus forever
became negatively associated with a state of mayhem. Originally created in 1247
as a very small shelter for the homeless by a Christian group near the city
walls, Bethlem Royal Hospital eventually focused on the care of the mentally
ill, albeit unable to retain patients for more than twelve months. The released
‘Bedlamites’ as they were called were reduced to a vulnerable life of licensed
beggary on the streets. Such was the lack of attention or resources given to them
that until the early nineteenth century Bethlem was the only public institution
catering (very humbly) to the mentally ill in the whole of England.
Government reforms
of conditions at Bethlem took hundreds of years to be undertaken. Meanwhile, Lewton’s
film takes place in the later Georgian era of 1761 when monstrously corrupt
exploitation of the system and its patients was still rife. Not only was the
hospital used as a convenient form of incarceration for the authorities’ political
enemies and private families’ difficult relatives, but the public could pay tuppence
to actually spectate on the patients’ behaviour as entertainment. All of this
is woven into Boris Karloff’s lead role of the hospital’s evil Apothecary
General George Simms in a script by returning director Mark Robson and Val
Lewton (under the pen-name of Carlos Keith).
A further
inspiration strengthening Bedlam’s
historical accuracy is the final eighth plate depicting the hospital in William
Hogarth’s famous set of story paintings titled The Rake’s Progress engraved in 1734. The Tate website summarises
the archetypal rake as ‘an impressionable young man from the country who comes
to the city after inheriting money and swiftly embarks on a dissolute life…
(ending in) venereal disease, debtor’s prison and death.’ Having fulfilled his
mission, Scene Eight shows the hero/victim Tom at the end of the ride:
penniless, stripped of dignity, sanity and coherence in the helpless arms of
his fiancé Sarah while a lady aristocrat and her maid, well-lit in the rancid gloom,
watch his final degradation as callous paying customers. Lewton so admired Hogarth’s
rich detail that he actually credited him as a co-writer of the screenplay.
At its heart Bedlam focuses on the power struggle
between Simms’ as the immoral exploiter of his poor charges and the emerging enlightened
conscience of society in the shape of Nell Bowen, initially an unfeeling member
of the nobility. As Bowen, Anna Lee was reunited opposite Karloff in a similar good-versus-evil
dynamic to the one they enjoyed in 1936’s The
Man Who Changed His Mind (see earlier review). She matches his velvety
ferocity with a spirited haughtiness that becomes softened into compassion as
part of her character’s journey.
The script cunningly
ensures that Simms is not simply a two-dimensional villain either. Part of this
learned man’s lust for power derives from self-protection of his side-line as a
poet. Like all artists of the time he needs wealthy patrons to fund him, so he
positions Bethlem as a home for his benefactor’s unwanted opponents while
allowing him to quietly dispose of competitor talents (as he does indirectly at
the start after an escaping one falls to his death from the roof).
Karloff
deftly glides between horrendous cruelty of the inmates and the oily
politicking of his patron Lord Mortimer, a perfectly rotund and genial Billy
House who unsurprisingly went on to play Friar Tuck in Rogues of Sherwood Forest (1950). Mortimer makes a splendid
contrast to Simms, being an open book of plain gluttony and good humour,
resembling one of Gillray or Cruickshank’s bombastic satirical caricatures of little
Englander John Bull. To begin with, he even enjoys the mockery of Bowen’s
parrot that he is “like a pig. His brain is small, his belly big”.
Simms invites
Mortimer and Bowen to a high society masque performed by the Bedlamites which neatly
demonstrates his bullying humiliation of them and gives an insight into the
mood of the times.
The period, known as the Age of Reason for its embrace of a rational
perspective on religious freedom, is ridiculed by personifying Reason as a
Gilded Boy (Glen Vernon) stuttering his lines through a fatal onset of gold
paint asphyxiation a la Shirley Eaton
in Goldfinger (1964). He dies in
front of the uncaring Simms and his guests – who represent both the era’s
duelling Tory and Whig political factions. No more awful denunciation of their combined
inhumanity is needed.
After Miss
Bowen pays a visit to Bethlem though, instead of amusement the sight of the
Bedlamites causes her revulsion and pity in equal measure, amplified by Simm’s
hideous voyeurism: “Look at the frolic this one treats himself to!” She is unexpectedly
jolted into a private plan of selfless action for the inmates, allying with kindly
Quaker stonemason Hannay (Richard Fraser) who had recently endured gorilla
thriller White Pongo (1945) yet more
happily appeared with Lee in 1941’s celebrated How Green was My Valley.
Hannay
becomes the moral compass to guide Bowen through her new landscape of social
responsibility. Meanwhile Mortimer has a more selfish public concern for his self-image
and aims to seize her rude parrot – an oddly trivial sub-plot in such a serious
picture. Bowen schemes to hold onto it with the aid of her man-servant Varney
(Skelton Knaggs, given more screen time than usual with an airy foppishness).
Bolstering the cast is the welcome return of Elizabeth Russell, a feline alumni
from the evocative Cat Woman films
who’s somewhat wasted here (in more ways than one) as Simms’ boozy conniving niece.
Together with Mortimer and Simms, the threesome plot to have Bowen committed
and thus remove her and her offending bird from society.
From this
point, Bedlam dives headlong into the
grim waters of conditions inside the hospital. Nicholas Musuraca’s camera
frames a powerfully unsettling scene of Hannay passing along the row of cells
in the dark, accosted by unidentified arms vainly trying to grasp him. A still image
of this in Denis Gifford’s book A
Pictorial History of Horror Movies haunted me as a boy. Bowen is even forced
to ask Hannay for his trowel to defend herself, despite her genuine care for
these wretches.
Bowen’s
committal allows us and her greater insight into the plight of the abandoned as
well as those like herself that were incarcerated for others’ expediency. She happily
joins in a card game playing with three different victim types of some
privilege - known as the Group around the Pillar: Ian Wolfe’s disgraced Crown
Solicitor Long whose calm kindness to her offsets a flaring paranoia and raging
superiority complex about his fellow professionals, an excitable young man
obsessed with dogs, and a silent companion who later reveals he was dispatched there
by his family simply to stop his drinking.
Knowing of
Lewton’s wide range of cultural influences, it feels like a deliberate echo of Victorian
heroine Florence Nightingale when Bowen’s altruistic Lady of the Lamp wanders
among the forlorn inmates. Her previously hidden goodness shines out later as well
when Simms orders this growing troublemaker to share a cage with a hulking mute.
She soothes his frustrated amnesia while Simms seethes at the scuppered
bloodshed he had anticipated.
The scene is
set for a revolt as the lunatics literally take over the asylum and force Simms
to undergo a mock trial, no worse than those which banged up many of them,
accompanied by the grisly declaration of Solomon to ‘Split him in two!’
However, director Robson is careful never to reduce the inmates to a crude monsterdom.
While the kangaroo court is in session, Bowen’s freed cell-mate takes a moment during
their escape to enjoy the innocent wonderment of the night sky’s stars. It’s a
poignant reminder of the terrible loss the prisoners have endured in their
hell-hole.
Simm’s
sentence is judged to be death by being bricked up alive in the very wall he
had attempted to bribe Hannay to build at the film’s opening. When the
authorities finally arrive and cannot find Simms, Hannay touches the wet mortar
knowingly. Bowen is surprised to find she has no need to plead with him to keep
quiet. To him: “The inmates are not answerable for what they do” – and so ends
Simms: chiselled, as it were, by a stonemason’s equipment and arguably flexible
morality.
As Bedlam’s
epilogue card points out, eventual reforms took place in the slow progress
toward humanitarian treatment of the mentally-afflicted. In the fabricated
madhouse of 1940’s Hollywood, Val Lewton decided that his time served in elevating
B-movies was also enough and opted to spend his remaining few years devoted to
less satisfying A-pictures.
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