Step right up to Hammer Films’ lesser‑known circus of cruelty—The Anniversary. Here, world‑weary Bette Davis dons an eyepatch and becomes Mrs. Taggart, the family’s one‑eyed matriarch whose annual ritual isn’t celebrating matrimonial bliss—it’s psychological torture. Welcome to a birthday party where the cake is lies, the candles are sharp, and everyone leaves feeling more emotionally bankrupt than before.
🏰 Plot: Three Sons, Zero Escape
Mrs. Taggart summons her three adult sons home for the yearly anniversary of her late husband’s passing (yes, she celebrates death the way most of us celebrate birthdays). Each son arrives with a secret:
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Henry (James Cossins): The eldest, a cross‑dresser with a wardrobe of his own—Mrs. Taggart treats his fetish like a party favor: “I have enough women in my house without you turning into one!”
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Terry (Jack Hedley): A married man plotting an escape to Canada—where the maple leaves will shield him from maternal tyranny.
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Tom (Christian Roberts): The youngest, showed up with his pregnant fiancée Shirley (Elaine Taylor). Guess what he’s got to confess? Not just impending parenthood, but that he wants to marry her.
Each revelation is supposed to be an earthquake. Instead, Mrs. Taggart turns them into paper cuts—with a look.
🎭 Davis as Taggart: Cruelty in Couture
Bette Davis is a force of nature. As Mrs. Taggart, she strides through every room like a pistol. One‑eyed, polishing, poised to fire. She delivers insults like barbed fairy dust:
“My dear, would you mind sitting somewhere else? Body odor offends me.”
She toys with her sons emotionally: lies about deaths (“Oh, your children were killed in a car crash”) and gambles with secrets. She wrings every ounce of pathetic confession from them, then watches them drown in shame. She’s the venomous charm of Cruella de Vil crossed with Mommie Dearest and fueled by pure psychological warfare.
💥 Davis chews up the script like luminescent gum—hard, with relish and no remorse.
🪩 Tone & Atmosphere: Paper‑Thin Gothic, Heavy Emotional Bile
Joe plays this like gothic soap opera. The set is a Baroque cage: mahogany, plush drapes, vintage eyepatches, and framed guilt. Roy Baker (who replaced the original mid‑shoot) does his best to avoid the “filmed play” trap by adding fireworks, a silent fireworks show of tension, and moving the camera around enough that you don’t confuse it for a stage TV special.
But there’s no digging. It’s as if the script vows allegiance to a single setting: a family living room. The effect? Emotional claustrophobia. You want them to fling a chair—preferably at Mrs. Taggart’s single good eye—but the barbs keep volleying like verbal fencing.
😂 Dark Humor Moments: Sarcasm in Satin
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Mrs. Taggart’s eyepatch is fashion and power. She quips, “I save the other eye for what’s important.”
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Henry’s underwear fetish is handled like a family scandal at Buckingham Palace. Meanwhile, Mrs. Taggart sends him to the cellar: “Enough women in my house!”
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Terry’s plan to flee Canada backfires spectacularly when mother fakes a death, turning his flight into a shame spiral.
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Tom’s pregnant fiancée arrives like a peace offering. Instead, she’s a target for psychological sand‑bagging.
When the fireworks go off mid‑dialogue, it’s less “Ooh!” and more “Oof,” as if the setting out‑shouts the script. But those moments of absurdity—G-rated domestic warfare with X‑rated emotional violence—lend the film its sardonic bite.
🤐 Supporting Cast: Sand‑Trapped in Davis’s Shadow
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Sheila Hancock (Karen): Terry’s wife, fiery and fierce—the only one who pushes back. At times, she almostupstages Davis.
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Elaine Taylor (Shirley): Pregnant, naive, hopeful… until she verbally unleashes on Mrs. Taggart. A breakout moment of simmering defiance.
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The three sons? They’re hapless princes in a castle of cruelty. Weak‑willed yes—but watchable as chaff before the matriarchal blade.
Even when they speak, you suspect they’re auditioning for a world without women. Still, the actors fine‑tune understatement: a glance, a slump, a silenced shame. It’s not overtly theatrical—until Davis unleashes the beast.
🔄 Stage Roots & Hammer DNA
The script by Jimmy Sangster (adapted from the play by Bill MacIlwraith) screams stage. It’s dialogue‑heavy, concentrated, and location‑locked. The trick is Baker’s camera motion, occasional fireworks, and Davis’s gravity to convince us we’re locked in a slow‑burn pressure cooker.
It almost works. The tension builds—like overboiling tea—and the occasional firecracker interrupts it just enough not to collapse under its own theatrical weight.
🎬 Final Act: Power Struggles & Poisoned Love
As the evening devolves, mother tightens emotional screws:
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Henry gets exposed.
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Terry is tethered to guilt, guilt, guilt.
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Tom’s engagement becomes a hostage negotiation—emotional, psychological, and terrifyingly personal.
By the end, Mrs. Taggart’s dominance goes unchallenged—but she’s hollowed out her family. She wins the game, but the board is empty. The credits roll in silence—no heroic resolution, just a family wrecked on the shore of her ego.
You feel dirty for almost sympathizing with her, or finding yourself laughing when children get emotional smackdowns. That’s dark comedy for you.
👍 Why It Works (Mostly)
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Davis is the star, the villain, and the engine. Her evil is elegant and effortless.
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Tone walks the line between dark comedy and psychological horror.
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Supporting ensemble hold their own—enough friction to keep things tense.
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Direction injects pace and energy without undermining the claustrophobia.
⚠️ Why It Falters
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Dialogue stays one‑room claustrophobic.
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Its stage‑bound origins sometimes show: ever wish they’d thrown a vase or two?
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The emotional shock wears off. Predictabilities emerge: fetish, flight, pregnancy, secrets.
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The payoff: no catharsis, just exhaustion. You want them to break—but they don’t.
🏁 Final Verdict: Cake That Cuts You
The Anniversary is a scrumptious poison apple of a film: shiny on the surface, rotten at the core. Bette Davis devours the screen, as gloriously venomous a matriarch as ever stalked film. You come for the black comedy, stay for the emotional dissection, and are forcibly served humble pie by the end.
It’s sophisticated cruelty—witty, unrelenting, and ever‑so‑slightly stagey. Like a vintage wine tinted with arsenic. So, bring your companions. Bring your secrets. Don’t bring the tissues—you’ll need them to muffle your maniacal laughter… or your own tears.
⭐ Final Rating: 4.5 out of 5 Gold‑Lined Guillotines
A twisted family gathering full of poisoned toasts, sharper cackles than a witching hour coven, and a performance from Davis that steals more than hearts—she steals souls, one caustic quip at a time.
