Danse Macabre #1: Film Review — "Burnt Offerings" (1976)
In 1981, Stephen King published Danse Macabre, a work of non-fiction wherein the author acts as a tour guide through the history of horror. He addresses the social issues and political conflicts that have influenced creators over the years, and the ways creators have influenced each other.
King closes out the volume by recommending 96 films and 113 books released during the 1950-1980 period that he feels have significantly contributed to modern genre fiction. With this Fearsome Queer column, I’ll be making my way through those titles in no particular order.
It’s abundantly clear that Burnt Offerings influenced The Shining—more so the Stephen King novel than the Stanley Kubrick film. In Appendix I of Danse Macabre, King’s non-fiction ode to horror, the author lists it among other “particularly interesting” films that “have contributed something of value to the genre.” He then goes on to cite the Burnt Offerings novel by Robert Marasco in Appendix II, the section dedicated to important works of horror literature. So, the man is definitely a fan, which is funny because Dan Curtis’ only theatrically released motion picture is pretty divisive among horror lovers.
I disagree when folks say that Burnt Offerings is nothing but haunted house clichés. Roger Ebert was one such critic. He’s right that the film employs a number of tropes, sure. But his bitchy prose presumes that the amplitude of the subgenre is as shallow as his own reductive analysis. What’s more, I’m not so confident the Allardyce mansion is actually “haunted” anyway, at least not in the traditional sense. There is a malevolent presence, yes, but whether the menace is caused by the unsettled spirits of the deceased or by some other supernatural force remains ambiguous. I posit that the Allardyce estate is just hungry; it’s an organism of sorts that feeds on the the upper-middle class families that vacation within it for its own preservation. The property rejuvenates a little bit more as each family of the moment endures terrifying event after terrifying event.
Aware of the blueprint they’re working with, Curtis and screenwriter William F. Nolan provide a smörgåsbord of “evil house” tricks, including the standard set-up, to kick things off. Oliver Reed, Karen Black, and Lee Montgomery play Ben, Marian, and David Rolf. Once they arrive at the dilapidated estate that’s soon to be their summer getaway, they are greeted by offbeat siblings Roz and Arnold Allardyce, played by Eileen Heckart and Burgess Meredith. It’s a shame they’re only in such a small fraction of the film because they’re both so chillingly good. The home is not in the best condition, but Roz and Arnold offer the Rolfs a rate so low they’d be crazy to turn it down. So, despite the signs, they take the bargain—but there’s a caveat. Their elderly mother will still reside in the upstairs room, and the Rolfs have to serve her meals. Weird, but somehow the deal is still on.
Accompanying the Rolfs on their sojourn is Ben’s aunt Elizabeth, played by Bette Davis. By this point in her long career, Davis was no stranger to horror cinema. Her most well-known jobs from the 1960s fall within the hagsploitation subgenre—also sometimes called “psycho-biddy films” or “Grande Dame Guignol.” Love them or hate them (I tend to love them), films like The Nanny, Hush… Hush, Sweet Charlotte, and What Ever Happened to Baby Jane? kept the legendary star relevant in an industry that funded few opportunities for women of a certain age, and they also helped to introduce her to a younger crowd of moviegoers. But unlike her characters in those films, Aunt Elizabeth is neither insane nor homicidal. She slowly over the course of the film succumbs to the house’s cravings, like her troubled nephew.
They don’t make ’em like Oliver Reed anymore, an actor who brought a committed all-or-nothing energy to his performances, and his off-set antics. Watching the mental deterioration of Ben Rolf is difficult to stomach once you take into account Reed’s real-life struggles with alcoholism and the compulsive binge-drinking that ultimately killed him. But Ben is not an addict in the way Jack Torrance is in The Shining—rather the Allardyce home itself is an intoxicant that inebriates and drains him. In what is perhaps one of the most violent scenes in the film, Ben is driven briefly mad and nearly drowns his son in the swimming pool. (It’s amazing that Lee Montgomery survived that day of shooting.) Then later, Reed takes Ben’s futile fight to leave the property so close to the limit that he’s rendered virtually catatonic. But even then, when he’s stone-faced, there’s an intensity always brewing behind Oliver Reed’s rich visage.
Casting the unrivaled Karen Black to play his wife was a wise move. A devoted performer who brought such distinct eccentricities to the atypical characters played, Black was an oddity in post-studio Hollywood, someone who often seemed out of place among her peers. She was not formally trained in acting—classical or method—so she possessed a naturally jagged manner that added an unrestrained quality to her work: Her Rayette Dipesto in Five Easy Pieces is a revelation. Her Myrtle Wilson in The Great Gatsby is an unhinged gem. And her Connie White in Nashville is a vision of light. Here in Burnt Offerings, her Marian Rolf is entrancing. Like Ben, the Allardyce mansion is feeding upon Marian, but in a different sense. She is its spellbound acolyte.
Having just directed her in the TV-movie Trilogy of Terror, a horror anthology in which Karen Black plays a grand total of four parts across the three stories, Dan Curtis obviously knew she had the range. While Oliver Reed may have the more physically demanding role in the film, Karen Black’s knotty psychological descent is just as beguiling. The house sinks its claws in her early on. She’s determined to get this home that’s not even really hers in tip-top shape, and she doesn’t seem to think that delivering food to the unseen Mrs. Allardyce’s sitting room on the upper floor three times a day is bizarre in the slightest.
At first, Marian merely looks to be addressing the needs of the house as a harmless timepass—refurbishing, gardening, and cooking become summer activities she wouldn’t normally get the chance to do every day in the city. Slowly, those tasks grow to be all-consuming, and the wellbeing of the estate turns into her number-one priority. The costume design of the character is brilliant. As Marian’s desires merge with that of the Allardyce home, her wardrobe and hairstyling steadily lean further and further into gothic territory, harkening back the decades of the house’s birth. Her collars and lapels become more pronounced, her hair creeps upward, she never runs out of statement brooches… Renowned costume designer Ann Roth was behind the garments. Only a fraction of the way through her 50+ years of filmmaking in 1976, Roth came to this production with Midnight Cowboy, Klute, and The Day of the Locust under her belt. After Burnt Offerings, she’d only do a few horror films, which is too bad because I’m sure she would’ve thrived as a genre designer.
Unfortunately, cinematographer Jacques Marquette’s vision isn’t quite as interesting as Roth’s. Marquette, like Curtis, came from the world of television, which in the 1970s was a far less dynamic arena than it is today—and patently less dynamic than the era’s cinema. Television productions were shot flatly for practical reasons. They had fewer resources than the movies, and the viewers watching at home had to be able to see it on the small screen in their den. But even though Burnt Offerings was made for theatrical distribution, Curtis and Marquette maintained the tried-and-true shooting style of their chief medium, which sometimes makes for uninspired visuals; daylight horror can be unnerving, but Marquette doesn’t always shape it expertly. On the flip side, however, all that broad lighting does occasionally have a disconcerting effect on the action, impelling the viewer to focus on the characters as opposed to the environment they’re occupying. Be that as it may, I can’t help but wonder what a DP like Gilbert Taylor could’ve brought.
Perhaps with more creativity behind the lens, the Allardyce house could’ve been a character. Just a few years later, we’d see that done in The Amityville Horror and in Stanley Kubrick’s The Shining, two essential building blocks of the “hungry house” canon. These kindred stories that may read as dead ringers for one another on the page are in fact fundamentally different. The Amityville house is a symbol of economic anxiety. Intent on getting that coveted slice of the American Dream, the Lutz family buys a house that financially cripples them. Homeownership turns out to be a trap, and they cannot afford to escape the horrors. Alternatively, the Overlook Hotel is a catalyst for violent rage. Fueled largely by alcoholism, Jack Torrance is an abuser prone to savage outbursts. So, the Overlook exploits Jack’s addiction to get him to kill his family as a means of strengthening itself. You can see how Burnt Offerings was a baseline for both: an idyllic residence—once the sign of middle class success—destroys a nuclear family from the inside in post-Vietnam War America.
It’s not a perfect film, but Burnt Offerings has more going for it than Mr. Ebert and other dissident reviewers may suggest. I like Roger Ebert, don’t get me wrong. When he nailed it, he really nailed it. But sometimes he was way off and let his cattiness get the better of him, especially when it came to horror pictures. With regards to this particular one, I’m firmly in the Stephen King camp because this movie truly is foundational. I have not read Robert Marasco’s novel yet, but I’m sure I will as I make my way through Appendix II: The Books in the back of Danse Macabre. As of today, I’ve embarrassingly only checked off eight of the roughly one hundred titles listed. But I’m pleased to report that I’ve seen the majority of the Appendix I films, which I’ll be covering one by one from time to time in the weeks to come.
