Past Misdeeds: La vendetta di Lady Morgan (1965)

This is a re-run with only the slightest of edits, so please don’t ask me what the heck I was thinking when I wrote any given entry into this section.

Warning: spoilers haunt this write-up with adorable puffs of smoke!

Despite her rather uninviting name, 19th Century (or thereabouts, we’re in Gothic Horror time here) noble Susan Blackhouse (Barbara Nelli) leads a bit of a charmed life: not only will she very soon inherit one of the greatest fortunes in the country but she has also found love in the hunky shape of French architect Pierre Brissac (Michel Forain). Even better, when Susan declares her love and her determination to marry Pierre, neither her uncle Neville (Carlo Kechler) nor the man she was actually supposed to marry, Sir Harold Morgan (Paul Muller) put up even a bit of a fight.

So, once Pierre will return from a quick trip to Paris, a-marrying they will go. Alas, someone with the same haircut and general body shape as Harold’s manservant Roger (Gordon Mitchell) throws Pierre off the ferry to France, breaking Susan’s heart in the process.

Some time later, and for no explicable reason seeing as nobody was actually trying to push her into it, Susan decides to marry Harold. It’s going to be a bit of a curious marriage, though, for she, her uncle and her husband have made a pact to have her leave the country and stay with Neville right after the wedding ceremony until such a time as she will be actually willing and able to love Harold. We can only assume the patron saint of good plans was on holiday.

While this melodramatic brouhaha is going on, the audience learn that Pierre did actually survive his involuntary swimming lesson. Of course, and to nobody’s surprise given the rest of the plot, he’s suffering from amnesia that’ll only lift when it’s opportune for further developments, that is to say, the film needs a warm body to be threatened by vampire ghosts.

Again some time later, Susan decides she’s willing to move in with her husband who has been living in her ancestral home while she was shacking up with Uncle Neville. But how curious! Harold has let go all of her trusted servants but one, and so the house staff now consists of the not-at-all-murderous Roger, Susan’s least favourite maid, and one Lillian (Erika Blanc), a woman with quite the habit of grim staring. Or is it even…hypnotic staring? So now it’s time for the gaslighting part of the film. However, to give Lady Morgan its due, only few gaslight plots work with the help of a female hypnotist who whispers through a connection between her and her victim’s bed room, nor do many of them succeed in what amounts to the space of two or three nights.

By now, I’ve grown quite used to the fact that even the best Italian Gothic Horror films tend to have plots that only make sense when looked at as products of dream states or as walking and talking metaphors but even in this exalted realm Massimo Pupillo’s La vendetta di Lady Morgan is quite remarkable; it also isn’t a film to which the word “best” applies. However, Pupillo’s film is bad in all the right ways, and I don’t think it’s possible to be bored by it, or not come away from it liking this dubious piece of work that it is quite a bit.

It’s not just that the film’s narrative content is – quite keeping in the style of the original gothic novels, of course, though I doubt that’s on purpose – pretty darn stupid, dominated by coincidences and really bad plans that only work because everybody involved is an idiot, it’s also that Pupillo pretends the nonsense to be very very serious in the most hysterically melodramatic tones he can afford, with no line of dialogue that isn’t commented on by cloying and dominant music, and come to think of it, no line of dialogue that shouldn’t be ended with at least one or two exclamation points.

I can’t help but admire the film for it, though, for there really are few Gothics – quite independent of the country they were made in – whose tone is as consistently shrill; there are also only very few films where the main character has a major freak-out because she’s convinced her husband’s manservant has ONLY PRETENDED TO POUR WINE FOR HER (insert DRAMATIC MUSIC and ZOOMS ZOOMS ZOOMS here!), which honestly is the point where our dear Susan gets her first big breakdown. Who’d have thunk Erika Blanc staring at a girl really hard and whispering “You’re crazy! You’re crazy!”, and a guy not pouring wine could be this effective?

The acting is on par with the writing too (is that artistic unity, or what?), with Nelli portraying Susan as a gibbering emotional wreck on the slightest provocation, Muller making all the evil faces a career of playing the bad guy had provided him with, Blanc looking really, really annoyed – unless when she’s rubbing a man’s face and shoulders, which is this film’s apex of eroticism and her face turns to looking slightly less annoyed – and Gordon Mitchell. Well, and we all know how Gordon Mitchell gets when a director tells him to really let loose with his acting, don’t we?

And this all happens before the film’s final twenty-five minutes or so hit, and the titular vengeance of Lady Morgan finally starts. You see, right at the moment when the evil conspirators have managed to drive Susan to death (spoiler, I guess), Pierre suddenly remembers everything, and promptly returns to Susan’s ancestral home where he and Susan’s ghost proceed to have face and shoulder-rubbing ghost sex, after which she tells him how she spooked her murderers into killing one another with her awesome powers of blowing out candles, turning whiskey into water, letting little smoke explosions off, blowing up a vase, stealing shoes, and whispering. Said conspirators of course treat all this as if it were the height of the scare; well, and reason to kill one another, of course. Oh, and afterwards our now dead bad guys have turned into some kind of ghost vampires keeping themselves undead with the blood of Uncle Neville, whom they had stashed in the cellar when they were still alive to give Gordon Mitchell somebody to whip. Nope, I got nothing.


What I do have is a healthy respect for the grand gestures Pupillo uses to treat the piddling and harmless supernatural phenomena he’s got in his budget, trying and failing merrily to turn that bloody exploding vase into a real event, pretending that all that screaming and shouting through a very limited number of generally overly lit sets were actually utterly horrifying. And really, if I have to watch some third row Italian Gothic made by people who were neither named Bava, Freda or Margheriti, or just plain crazy, I rather prefer a film like this that’s desperate to provide me with all the entertainment it can afford.