There’s an old curse that goes something like: May your horror movie open with a Poe quote it can’t possibly live up to.And so begins Cry of the Banshee, a 1970 Vincent Price vehicle that feels like The Crucible got blackout drunk with Witchfinder General, had a fling with Hammer Horror, and then birthed something with just enough madness, melodrama, and misplaced ambition to make you whisper, “Well, at least it’s never boring.”
This movie is a lot. It’s part period piece, part supernatural revenge fantasy, part Vincent Price shriek-fest, and part accidental Monty Python sketch (not helped by the fact that Terry Gilliam actually animated the opening credits). It’s also one of those films where you spend half the runtime questioning whether it’s camp or catastrophe. Spoiler: it’s both.
Vincent Price, Lord of the Hams
Let’s start with our deliciously overcooked main course: Vincent Price as Lord Edward Whitman. Dressed like a puritan pimp with rage management issues, Price snarls and monologues his way through the English countryside, branding peasants, sentencing witches, and generally acting like he just lost a bet with Satan. It’s the kind of performance that could power a small village if you harnessed the theatrical energy.
He’s a “magistrate” in Elizabethan England, which apparently means “judge, jury, executioner, and wedding crasher” in this particular timeline. The man dishes out witchcraft convictions like he’s passing out candy corn on Halloween, all while his family burns through taboos faster than you can say “Oona’s curse.”
“Witchfinder Dysfunctional”
The Whitman household is, in a word, cursed—and not just by Oona’s demon. We’ve got a horny son (Sean) who rapes his stepmother, a sweet daughter (Maureen) who falls in love with a doomed servant, and another son (Harry) who studies at Cambridge and somehow missed all the murder and incest going on at home. Even Lady Patricia—the only one with a conscience—winds up demon-fodder. You’ll start rooting for Oona by the halfway mark, not because she’s noble, but because everyone else is insufferable.
Roderick, the servant-turned-demon-assassin, is the real highlight (and also lowlight). Once possessed, he morphs into the Elizabethan version of Michael Myers with better grooming. His method? Silently stalking and creatively murdering his way through the Whitman family tree, usually while maintaining the dead-eyed stare of someone who’s just been asked to explain the plot of this movie.
Let’s Get Gothic… and Naked
This is the kind of film that thinks “witchcraft” means “lots of screaming women dancing in the woods and awkward nude rituals filmed through fog machines and regret.” The coven leader, Oona (played by a delightfully unhinged Elisabeth Bergner), summons vengeance by doing what looks like an interpretive dance while whispering in a voice somewhere between a prayer and a poorly tuned radio.
There’s a great deal of “black magic” on display, although it’s less Aleister Crowley and more Wicca for Dummies. The supernatural elements have the subtlety of a hammer to the teeth, and the demon seems to operate with all the strategy of a Roomba set loose in a graveyard.
Also, yes—there’s a character named “Bully Boy.” No, it’s not a nickname. Yes, he gets murdered. You’re welcome.
The Gilliam Credits and Poe Pretension
Let’s take a moment to appreciate the bizarre genius of opening this brooding, blood-soaked tale with a whimsical, animated Terry Gilliam credit sequence—because nothing says “impending doom” like Monty Python meets The Seventh Seal. It’s jarring, off-brand, and unintentionally sets the tone for a movie that is perpetually confused about what it wants to be.
And speaking of confusion: this is marketed as being inspired by Edgar Allan Poe. It quotes five lines of The Bells… and then proceeds to ignore every ounce of Poe’s psychological nuance, gothic tension, and literary class. This film’s idea of subtlety is a witch exploding into green smoke.
Sex, Violence, and Censorship
Censor-bait might as well have been the working title. This movie is horny, violent, and weirdly prudish all at once. There are flagellations, nudity, attempted drownings, incest, and Satanic rituals—and that’s just the first 40 minutes.
To get past censors, director Gordon Hessler and writer Christopher Wicking had to downplay the film’s more anti-religious elements, which might explain the oddly moralistic tone that creeps in near the end, just before the demon starts ripping people’s spines out (off-camera, sadly).
Also, in case you’re wondering whether this story ends with justice or redemption—it doesn’t. The final twist involves a dead family, a stolen carriage, and Vincent Price realizing far too late that karma doesn’t just knock. It drives the coach now.
Final Thoughts: Witch-Slapped and Loving It… Sort Of?
Cry of the Banshee is a glorious mess. It’s got atmosphere by the barrel, a committed (read: deranged) performance by Vincent Price, a script held together with thumbtacks and séance dust, and just enough supernatural schlock to keep you mildly invested. It’s not a good movie. But it is a compellingly weird one.
It tries to be an epic tale of witchcraft, justice, and demonic vengeance, but what we get instead is something that looks like Dark Shadows on bath salts. Yet, in its confusion, in its nonsense, in its tonal whiplash and incestuous subplots, it finds a kind of grindhouse poetry.
Final Rating: 2.5 out of 5 Banshees Screaming into the Void
Watch it for Vincent Price’s patented glare, stay for the naked pagan dance scenes, and marvel at how a film can be both overwrought and undercooked at the same time. Perfect for those nights when you want your horror with a side of what the hell did I just watch?
