Some movies are haunted. Others are just barely alive. Dark Tower (1987), directed by the normally competent Freddie Francis, is a cinematic poltergeist—flickering in and out of coherence like a ghost trapped in a cheap motel TV. Watching it is like walking into an empty elevator and realizing someone farted on the 30th floor and you’ve still got 29 to go.
Let’s just get this out of the way: Dark Tower is not based on Stephen King’s multiverse-spanning gunslinger odyssey. No, this is about a haunted skyscraper. Or maybe it’s about insurance fraud. Or psychokinesis. Or the disintegration of screenwriting as a concept. It’s hard to say, really. The film feels like it was written during a migraine and shot through a hangover. It’s like a student film made by someone whose only exposure to horror was a broken VCR and a cursed VHS copy of Poltergeist III.
And somehow, Freddie Francis—the man who once wielded a camera with Hammer Films and gave us actual atmospheric dread—wound up behind this mess like a retired magician doing tricks with broken fingers.
The Plot (Allegedly)
Dark Tower is set in Barcelona (because why not), in a modern glass skyscraper recently completed by a group of suspiciously tan real estate developers. The tower, of course, is cursed. Or possessed. Or just bored. After a security guard decides gravity isn’t worth it anymore and swan dives out a high window, people start asking questions.
Into this parade of confusion walks Carolyn Page (Jenny Agutter), the building’s architect, who seems permanently stuck somewhere between concerned and mildly annoyed. Her brother Dennis (Michael Moriarty)—a paranormal investigator who acts like he’s doing taxes on ketamine—gets involved, along with a psychic who looks like she hasn’t slept since Nixon resigned.
Spooky things start happening: elevators go berserk, people fall off buildings, lights flicker with all the menace of a haunted Applebee’s. The usual. Meanwhile, the film crawls forward with all the urgency of a dying snail in a fog machine.
Michael Moriarty: The Human Shrug
Michael Moriarty, God bless him, is a fascinating presence. Always has been. He plays Dennis like he lost a bet and had to read his lines off a ceiling tile. His performance floats somewhere between bemusement and full-blown nap. Every line sounds like he’s being interrupted from a crossword puzzle.
There’s a kind of anti-charisma to him that’s both hypnotic and tragic. He’s like a ghost from a better movie, phoning it in from another dimension. You keep waiting for him to crack—either with rage or with understanding of the plot—but it never happens. He’s not sleepwalking; he’s sleep-levitating.
Jenny Agutter: Trapped in a Glass Cage of Ennui
Jenny Agutter, normally a compelling actress, spends the entire film looking like she’s trying to remember her agent’s phone number. As the architect of the building, you’d expect her to either solve the mystery or dramatically plunge into madness. Instead, she just looks… inconvenienced.
She walks the halls of the tower like she’s waiting for a delayed Uber. Haunted elevators? Violent deaths? Whispering winds? She reacts like someone told her the Wi-Fi was out. Occasionally she screams, but even that sounds like she’s checking if she left the oven on.
The Villain: Gravity, Maybe?
The “haunting” itself is about as scary as an unpaid parking ticket. The ghost—or force, or whatever it is—spends the entire film doing things like blowing out lights and nudging people toward open windows. It’s less demonic malevolence and more passive-aggressive architecture. You half expect the building to start sighing or writing moody poetry.
At one point, an elevator drops a guy 40 floors, but the editing is so lazy and the effects so nonexistent that you could blink and miss it. The rest of the film builds toward some big reveal that never really arrives. There’s a séance. Some blood. A psychic mumbling cryptic phrases like she’s narrating her own nap. And then—credits.
The Horror: All Implied, None Delivered
What Dark Tower lacks—besides a point—is atmosphere. The skyscraper, meant to be this gleaming symbol of modern dread, ends up looking like the corporate headquarters for sadness. It’s just glass and beige. The interiors feel like a Marriott lobby after a thunderstorm. You expect ghosts, but all you get is bad lighting and a couple of flickering monitors.
Francis tries to inject mood—there are plenty of low angles, shadows, and synth stings—but the film has the pacing of a sedated sloth. Scenes drag. Dialogue is clunky. And the score sounds like a Casio keyboard being gently sobbed on.
It’s a haunted house story with no soul, no scares, and no reason to exist. You don’t so much watch Dark Tower as endure it, like a mandatory safety training video made by people who’ve never been safe or trained.
Production Woes: The Real Horror
The behind-the-scenes story is almost more compelling than the film. Francis reportedly disowned the movie, which was taken from him in post-production and chopped into incomprehensibility by producers. It shows. The editing is a disaster. Scenes feel pasted together like ransom notes. Characters enter and exit without rhyme or reason. It’s like watching the world’s slowest fever dream unravel in an office building.
There’s even a rumor that famed cinematographer-turned-director Ken Wiederhorn stepped in to finish it—though no one’s eager to claim this ghost child. The whole thing feels like it was directed via Ouija board.
The Ending: A Shrug Wrapped in a Yawn
In true haunted house fashion, the climax involves lots of shouting, flickering lights, and bad decisions. There’s a psychic sacrifice. Maybe a possession. A twist? Hard to say. The final act stumbles forward like a drunk trying to remember where he parked. And then… black screen. Credits. Freedom.
You’re left sitting there, drained and hollow, as if the movie siphoned 90 minutes of your life into a broken popcorn bucket.
Final Thoughts: Burn the Blueprints
Dark Tower isn’t just bad—it’s inert. A film with no teeth, no thrills, and no reason to exist beyond a tax write-off. It fails as horror, as mystery, and as architecture. The cast looks embarrassed, the director disowned it, and the audience (what little of it there ever was) has long since moved on.
If you’re into haunted buildings, watch The Sentinel. If you like cursed elevators, try Devil. If you want to see a movie that feels like your soul slowly evaporating, well, Dark Tower awaits.
Just bring snacks. And maybe a hard hat—for the structural damage to your brain.
