You want a film about Richard III? You want Machiavellian treachery, poison poured in ears, daggers in the dark, and a crown bought with blood? Shakespeare gave it to you, four centuries before Roger Corman decided to play mix‑and‑match with Richard III and Macbeth and crank out Tower of London (1962). The result isn’t Shakespearean tragedy. It isn’t even pulp horror. It’s a creaky stage play stuffed into a Halloween costume and shot on the cheap.
And not even Vincent Price, sneering and foaming like a cornered cat, can save it.
History by Way of Horror Comics
The film opens with Richard, Duke of Gloucester, stabbing his brother Clarence and blaming the Woodvilles. From there, it’s torture racks, ghostly apparitions, and nightly visitations from every corpse Richard leaves in his wake. Corman doesn’t trust history, so he slathers the story with Gothic horror clichés: sorcerers with crystal balls, spectral warnings, and ghost children luring Richard to his doom.
It’s like somebody jammed Richard III into a monster magazine and hoped nobody would notice the seams. What you get is neither faithful history nor satisfying horror. Just a mess of theatrics dressed in crown and cape.
Vincent Price, Wasted and Wailing
Vincent Price should’ve been perfect as Richard. He had the voice, the menace, the sly cruelty. But instead of subtle evil, we get camp hysteria. He rants, he shouts, he strangles his wife in a ghost‑induced frenzy, he cackles like a man who’s read the script and knows the only way out is to chew it to pieces.
By the time he’s waving his sword at invisible ghosts on Bosworth Field, you don’t feel horror — you feel secondhand embarrassment. This isn’t Richard III, it’s Vincent Price doing community‑theater Shakespeare after too much gin.
Ghosts, Gimmicks, and Garbage
The ghosts of Clarence, Mistress Shore, Edward, and the murdered princes parade through the film like carnival spooks, muttering vague threats of “Bosworth” while Richard sweats and shrieks. Instead of dread, it plays like a haunted house ride at the county fair.
Then there’s the Moorish sorcerer Tyrus, trotted in to add a mystical angle, but all he does is shuffle cards, wave his arms, and predict doom like a medieval fortune‑cookie. His visions are less prophecy than padding.
And the finale? Richard dies not in glory, not in tragedy, but swiping at air until a dead soldier’s battleaxe drops him like a sack of flour. That’s not Shakespearean irony. That’s lazy writing.
The Corman Touch, Without the Magic
Roger Corman was king of cheap horror done with flair. The Raven, House of Usher, Pit and the Pendulum — all glorious gothic fun. But here, saddled with half‑baked Shakespeare and history, Corman stumbles. The sets look bare, the costumes look rented, the battle scenes are laughable, with five extras clashing swords in a foggy field while the soundtrack tries to convince us it’s Bosworth.
Instead of grandeur, we get cardboard castles. Instead of tragedy, we get melodrama. Instead of horror, we get Vincent Price shrieking at pigeons in a wig.
Final Thoughts
Tower of London (1962) is proof that not every crown fits, not every play can be warped into Gothic horror, and not even Vincent Price can polish a script this dull. It wanted to be Richard III by way of Hammer Horror, but it lands closer to a high‑school play haunted by soap opera ghosts.
History deserves more weight. Horror deserves more bite. This film gives us neither. It’s all shadows without menace, ghosts without terror, Price without grace.
Corman could do miracles with Edgar Allan Poe. With Shakespeare, he gave us a turkey.
