Theatre of Blood

 Famed Shakespeare thespian Edward Lionheart is back from the dead for one last encore: to take bloody revenge on the circle of critics who humiliated him and led to his attempted suicide. One by one, they are treated to bloody murder at the hands of the actor and his accomplices.

 The critics are, like the film around it, over-the-top in a playful way that's only very loosely anchored in reality; A colourful cabal of caricatures, perfectly calibrated that we can enjoy their diverse, often surprisingly grotesque, Shakespeare-inspired demises. Peregrine (Ian Hendry), their leader, gets a fair amount of screen time but he exists only as a foil for Lionheart; His resistance is ineffectual, as is the protection offered by the Scotland Yard, headed by one Inspector Boot (Milo O'Shea).

 No, our point of view is supposed to align squarely with Lionheart's. And it'd be next to impossible to deny him our sympathy, played as he is with soulful hamminess by a never-better Price, who is equally at home affecting a hilarious Scottish accent or a giant afro wig, and always has a killer one-liner to dispatch his victims with. One of the film's funniest conceits, slyly underscored by Price's unhinged but composed performance, is that it seems to be in on the joke that the critics might be correct in their assessment of Lionheart's acting abilities.

 Whether he's a good or bad thespian, there's no question Lionheart is a great villain, one that seldom drops his theatrics and is prone to reciting monologues from the bard at the slightest provocation. Price beautifully plays him as all gravitas, wounded dignity, and puffed-up self-importance.

 The peripherals for his activities are great, too: a beautiful derelict theater acts as his hideout, his aides a hep cat and a gaggle of degenerate destitute squatters he's enlisted as a rowdy troupe of murder assistants. And the murders themselves are the sort of elaborate, intricate schemes that could only work with the full complicity of scriptwriters Anthony Greville-Bell.

 Director Douglas Hickox (father of Anthony, of Waxworks and Hellraiser 3 fame) successfully threads the fine line between camp and suspense, as illustrated on a great flashback scene from Lionheart's suicide, the critics watching the disgruntled actor wander outside their high-rise London flat through different windows, their amusement slowly turning to concern).
 The killings are surprisingly vicious. As is normal for the time (aside from Herschell Gordon Lewis) there's very little gore and most of the carnage is artfully kept off-frame. But there's a fair amount of bloodshed and some pretty gruesome scenes - one with a severed head, for example, hits just the right spot between shock and humour, and there's a murder based on Titus Andronicus that fully honours the source material (a play that can only be described as splatterpunk.)

 Elsewhere Hickox indulges in a gratuitous swashbuckling fencing scene (complete with trampolines!), plus some impressive pyrotechnics and a few stunts for the grand finale. The obligatory "evil never wins" resolution is a little disappointing, but it gives the film's true protagonist a meaty melodramatic turn with his daughter (Diana Rigg), and a couple of pithy, hilarious, oh-so-British final lines.

 When I was a kid I preferred The Abominable Dr. Phibes, which this movie shares more than a passing similarity to. And while (as I remember it) that's probably the funnier film, I find it hard to believe it could top this; this seems like the quintessential Vincent Price role.
 Making some allowances for the year it was made (the intervening time has not been kind to some of the acting choices from a very talented cast, or the very cheesy, often counterproductive soundtrack), it holds up beautifully - funny, fun, mean-hearted and often shocking, its many delights woven around a truly wonderful, ridiculously expansive central performance. A classic.