The Haunting of Morella (1990) from Tuna
Tuna's comments in white
A Roger Corman production, The Haunting of Morella is a titty flick based on a story of the same name by Edgar Allen Poe. Jim Wynorsky directed, and tried to include homages to both early Italian horror masters and Corman's Poe films from the 60s.
Morella, a witch in Colonial America, is put to
death via crucifixion and having her eyes put out with a hot poker.
She warns her husband that she will return in the body of their baby
daughter, Lenora. Cut to the future, and Lenora is nearly 18, but
has been kept a virtual prisoner by her father, who is now blind.
She is under the care of her governess (Lana Clarkson).
Scoop's comments in yellow:
The amazing thing to me is the date of this film: 1990, not 1960.
I am not a young man, 56 as I type these words, but Roger Corman was already producing low budget adaptations of Edgar Allen Poe stories 45 years ago, when I was in sixth grade in Ike's America. The USA and USSR were at odds over Cuba for the first time after the Castro/Guevara revolution when Vincent Price starred in Corman's The Fall of the House of Usher that year. I saw it at a drive-in, from the back seat of my parents' Studebaker. Within five years Corman and Price would team up for seven more Poe adaptations: Premature Burial, Pit and the Pendulum, Poe's Tales of Terror, The Raven, The Haunted Palace, The Masque of the Red Death, and the Tomb of Ligeia. As I write this some 40 years later, Corman has produced at least 360 films, and those Poe adaptations from the early 60s may still be his best body of work. Those eight films are all in his career top twenty as a producer.
If one considers only the films which Corman has directed personally, those films comprise eight of his top thirteen, and five of the top seven. (The scores vary slightly from list to list because of IMDb's weighting system, which is on double secret probation and cannot be revealed upon pain of death.)
Fast forward thirty years from that summer night in my parents' Studebaker. I was then a 40-year-old man living in Norway, working with a major oil company, trying to figure out how to attend my 25th high school reunion, an ocean away, without missing any work in the process. Fortunately, jet travel had become commonplace, and I could hop from Oslo to Rochester for the weekend. Ike had long since joined the choir invisible, and several presidents had come and gone in those years since I had first seen The House of Usher. Man had walked on the moon. The USSR and East Germany had disintegrated. There were no longer many drive-ins, which had been the natural outlets for Corman's films and the summer Saturday night parking places for my parent's Studebaker. That car had long since been scrapped, and even its brand name existed only in nostalgic remembrances and trivia contests.
And Corman? Still producing low budget adaptations of Poe films, similar to his old ones, except that Vincent Price had been replaced by breasts. Except for Castro, Corman must have been was the most constant element of the past 45 years.
I expect that the last thing I will see in my life, as I lie on my deathbed trying to distract myself with a newspaper or cable TV, will be an ad for a new straight-to-video film called Roger Corman's The Cask of Amontillado.
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