There are bad horror movies, and then there’s The Vulture, a film that proves once and for all that nothing kills fear faster than the sight of a giant seagull with a man’s head glued on it. Directed by Lawrence Huntington, this “thriller” manages to make both grave-robbing and mutant science experiments about as exciting as a pigeon raid on a park bench.
Plot: “The Bird is the Word” (and the Word is Dumb)
The movie opens with a schoolteacher stumbling through a graveyard and watching a bird with a human head fly out of a grave, laughing like it just got into the cooking sherry. Naturally, nobody believes her, because why would they? Even in 1967, this premise was less “terrifying” and more “Saturday morning cartoon.”
Enter nuclear scientist Eric Lutens (Robert Hutton), whose idea of solving a mystery involves checking feathers like he’s on CSI: Bird Edition. He quickly deduces that some cackling ghoul-scientist has resurrected an 18th-century sailor with a fondness for pet birds and revenge on the local aristocracy. Somewhere between voodoo, reincarnation, and Frankenstein knock-off science, we’re supposed to buy that a man-bird hybrid is terrorizing Cornwall. Spoiler: the bird looks like something your uncle would throw together for Halloween with leftover carpet and papier-mâché.
The Horror: More Turkey than Terror
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The Vulture itself: Imagine Big Bird after a meth binge, with a human head that looks taxidermied at Kmart.
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The victims: Broderick Crawford’s Squire Stroud gets plucked off a balcony like a chicken nugget in a claw machine. Another Stroud meets the same fate. At this point, you start rooting for the vulture just to end the movie sooner.
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The “science”: Eric keeps repeating words like “electricity” and “mutation” as though chanting them will make the script less stupid. Spoiler: it doesn’t.
The Cast: Pecking Orders
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Robert Hutton as Eric Lutens: Plays the hero like a man trying to remember if he left his oven on.
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Akim Tamiroff as Koniglich: A villain so subtle he might as well wear a T-shirt reading, “I AM THE VULTURE.”
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Broderick Crawford: Looks like he’s regretting every career choice since All the King’s Men. Honestly, same.
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The Vulture costume: The true star, clearly built out of a wetsuit, molting feathers, and the tears of the costume designer.
Why It’s a Mess
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It tries to be Frankenstein but comes out as Chicken Run.
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The “terrifying” bird attacks are filmed so slowly it looks like the vulture is politely asking people if they’d like to be kidnapped.
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The ending, where the monster plummets off a cliff, looks less like a tragic finale and more like someone throwing a stuffed toy out a window.
Final Verdict
The Vulture is less horror and more ornithological slapstick, a movie where the scariest thing isn’t the monster—it’s the realization that you sat through 90 minutes of this poultry nonsense. If you’ve ever wanted to see a film where a nuclear scientist defeats a man-bird hybrid that cackles like a drunk parrot, congratulations: this is the cinematic swamp you’ve been searching for.
Final Thought: If Alfred Hitchcock’s The Birds gave you nightmares, The Vulture will give you indigestion.
