There are crimes against literature, and then there are Masque of the Red Death (1989), which makes you wonder if Edgar Allan Poe ever considered rising from the grave just to file a restraining order. Produced by Roger Corman (because apparently, he couldn’t resist the urge to remake his own film, but worse) and directed by Larry Brand, this limp, lethargic medieval slog proves that nothing says “art” quite like stripping Poe’s gothic grandeur and replacing it with bad lighting, worse wigs, and dialogue so dull it could euthanize a caffeinated squirrel.
If you thought the 1964 version was florid and stagey, don’t worry—this one takes that energy, wrings it out, and leaves us with a Renaissance Faire skit performed by hungover community theater extras.
Plot: The Plague is on the Audience
The story is supposed to be classic Poe: the world outside is ravaged by plague, but Prince Prospero decides to lock himself in a castle with his buddies to throw a masquerade ball while the peasants drop dead in the mud. In theory, it’s about arrogance, mortality, and the futility of wealth against death. In practice, it’s about watching Adrian Paul sulk for 90 minutes while extras cough like they’re auditioning for a tuberculosis awareness commercial.
This Prospero isn’t sinister or decadent. He’s just… moody. He wanders around with the energy of a man who misplaced his car keys and keeps pestering a poor peasant girl named Juliette (Clare Hoak), who spends most of the runtime staring blankly like she’s wondering if she should’ve gone into accounting instead. Meanwhile, the peasants outside beg for mercy, only to get boiling oil dumped on their heads—though thanks to the special effects, it looks more like they got caught in a pancake syrup accident.
Oh, and then there’s the Red Death itself, who appears as a mysterious rider named Machiavel (Patrick Macnee). He’s less a terrifying embodiment of mortality and more like your grandpa trying out his Halloween Dracula costume. When Death himself inspires less dread than the closing time at Applebee’s, you know your gothic horror film is in trouble.
Acting: The Theater of the Absurd (and Unpaid)
Adrian Paul plays Prospero before he went on to star in Highlander: The Series, and you can tell he’s still warming up to the idea of being a brooding immortal. His Prospero is supposedly “troubled and thoughtful,” but in execution, he just looks constipated. Every line is delivered with the dramatic weight of a soap opera monologue about missing car insurance payments.
Clare Hoak, as Juliette, manages to bring less charisma than a broken candlestick. She resists Prospero’s advances with the same conviction you’d muster when refusing a second slice of cake—lukewarm at best.
And then there’s Tracy Reiner as Lucrecia, Prospero’s sister, with whom he has an incestuous subplot so unnecessary and poorly executed that even Jerry Springer would’ve called it “too much.”
Patrick Macnee, who once played John Steed in The Avengers, shows up as Death, and clearly decided this gig was just a paycheck. His delivery is so slow and verbose you half expect him to pause mid-monologue and ask the cameraman for tea. The Red Death should chill your bones; instead, he makes you check your watch.
Dialogue: Death by Monologue
The screenplay by Larry Brand and Daryl Haney is less “Poe-inspired” and more “college freshman discovers Nietzsche.” Every other line is about the cruelty of God, the futility of life, or how Death is smarter than you. It’s like being cornered at a party by a philosophy major who won’t stop quoting The Stranger.
Instead of atmosphere or dread, we get speeches. Endless, droning speeches. Characters don’t converse—they lecture each other in tones that suggest they’re trying to win a prize for “Most Pretentious at the Castle Cotillion.”
Production Values: The Renaissance Faire of Poverty
The 1964 Masque of the Red Death had grand sets, saturated colors, and Vincent Price chewing scenery like a gourmet meal. The 1989 version has… Salt Lake City architecture cosplay. The castle looks like it was rented from a local church between bingo nights. The costumes resemble clearance rack prom dresses dyed with red Kool-Aid.
The pacing is glacial, which is a real achievement in a film about a plague wiping out humanity. Whole sequences drag on as nobles twirl in their masks while looking less like they’re celebrating decadence and more like they’re hoping the director calls “cut” before their parking meters expire.
And when the Red Death finally appears at the ball, it should be an apocalyptic spectacle. Instead, it looks like a guy in a Party City cloak wandering in from the wrong movie.
Special Effects: Special in the Wrong Way
The plague victims look less like they’re suffering from a horrifying epidemic and more like they fell asleep in a tanning bed. Boils, lesions, scars? Nope. Just some faint blotchy makeup that wouldn’t even scare the guy behind the CVS pharmacy counter.
The boiling oil scene is unintentionally hilarious, as peasants flail while covered in what looks like maple syrup. And when the castle finally succumbs to Death’s arrival, the climactic moments have all the visual power of someone setting off a smoke machine at a middle school dance.
Missed Opportunities: Poe Deserved Better
At its heart, The Masque of the Red Death is one of Poe’s darkest and most profound stories—a meditation on mortality that still resonates. The 1964 film leaned into its surrealism and grandeur. This 1989 remake? It leans into nap time.
Prospero’s arrogance, the symbolism of the colored rooms, the inevitability of death—these elements could’ve been chilling in the hands of a director with vision. Instead, Larry Brand delivers a medieval soap opera with all the tension of a PBS costume drama minus the budget.
Unintentional Comedy: The Only Entertainment Value
To its credit, the film is occasionally funny—though never on purpose. Prospero broods like a man auditioning for a deodorant commercial. Juliette’s constant resistance feels less like a fight for purity and more like someone fending off a bad pickup line at a bus stop.
And the masquerade ball, with its limp dancing and dime-store masks, looks like a high school Halloween party chaperoned by nuns. By the time the Red Death finally appears, you’re half-convinced the whole thing was an improv skit gone horribly wrong.
Final Verdict: A Death Worth Skipping
Masque of the Red Death (1989) is what happens when you take a timeless gothic story and strip it of atmosphere, menace, and artistry. It’s slow, cheap, and painfully verbose, with performances that range from wooden to outright embarrassing. If the plague doesn’t kill you, the boredom will.
Even Roger Corman—who produced this mess—must’ve looked at the final cut and thought, “Maybe Vincent Price was onto something after all.”
