Mexico Macabre: Four Sinister Tales from the Alameda Films Vault (1959-62) An unmissable collection of Horror Treats (Review)

In a world premiere on Blu-ray, Indicator presents a selection of four films from Mexican film company Alameda films from their early years, in this case, between 1959 to 1963. The quartet form an array of tales that showcase a variety of horror subgenres: a Poe-esque cautionary tale, an occult revenge narrative, a monster movie, and Gothic melodrama. There’s something for everyone, and all of them, are gems in their own strange, unique way.

The first film, Black Pit of Dr. M – also known as the more accurately translated title Mysteries From Beyond the Grave (1959) – begins with narration as the camera scans over a building in ruins. It tells us that this is a true story about “a strange man of science” determined to know what lies beyond death. As his colleague, Dr Jacinto Almada, is dying, Dr Mazali reminds him of their scientific agreement that whoever died first would attempt to make contact afterwards. A séance takes place as Almada is buried, and in summoning his spirit, Mazali begins a spiral of events that get increasingly strange and twisted as the film goes on.

The shlocky sounding title of Black Pit of Dr. M belies how beautiful it is to look at with a wonderfully moody atmosphere. The presence of a ghost is described as “a shadow following me”, and the simple but effective effects of the ghost invisibly moving and destroying objects provide consistently entertaining thrills. The narrative does become convoluted and takes a considerable detour into romantic melodrama as Patricia, Almada’s daughter, strikes up a (creakily established) relationship with a man she had previously seen in her dreams.

It only gets more incredulous from there as disfigured surgeons and asylum inmates run around causing havoc, distracting from the dark twisted actions of Mazali that drive the plot. As a fellow colleague declares, Mazali is driven by “science’s senseless struggles to break the barriers that separate us from God” and the film is strongest when focusing on this theme. Despite these flaws, it provides a perfect introduction for what to expect from this collection in terms of tone, style and entertainment value.

In the middle of this boxset is a twofold showcase for director Chano Urueta, a tiny sample of the hundred and twenty films he directed over his career. Nonetheless, The Witch’s Mirror (1961) alone demonstrates the skill and ingenuity of his direction. Beginning with Elena shown that her husband wants to kill her via the titular mirror, the murder then shortly follows and godmother Sara, the witch of the title, sets in motion a plan for revenge against the husband that involves Elena’s ghost, owls as spies and plentiful other supernatural shenanigans.

With nods to horror classics like Rebecca and Eyes Without a Face, The Witch’s Mirror ably forms its own peculiar identity. It tells its dark tale with a surrealistic style at points and a self-awareness of its more ridiculous aspects. That’s not to say it lacks depth – for instance, its introductory opening of the horrors of witches is quickly contrasted with the more human horror of a husband wanting to kill his wife just because he is attracted to someone else. While it doesn’t plunge into such gender issues as modern films would, we are fully on the side of Sara, not least because of Isabela Corona’s terrific performance holding the film together.

You could question why it is that Deborah, the new wife, is the one tormented with visions of rapidly wilting flowers and disappearing belongings when the husband is the one in the wrong, but such datedness can be forgiven for the sheer inventiveness on display. Accompanying the film is an episode of Channel 4 series Mondo Macabro on Mexican Horror Movies from 2001 which, as well as providing a concise history of 20th century Mexican horror, highlights the film’s virtues as a vital part of horror canon. Often such a statement suggests a film is meant to be admired more than enjoyed, but The Witch’s Mirror is both and has immediately made Chano Urueta a director I want to see more of.

Another Urueta often mentioned in high regard is The Brainiac / El Baron de Terror (1962). Described on the accompanying documentary on Urueta as a film only a singular director like him could pull off. It’s a high concept take on the monster movie with a dash of occult to mix things up.

Beginning in 1661, the Baron Vitelius of Astara is burnt to death for his sinful behaviour and declares revenge on each of the juror’s descendants. Three hundred years later, arriving in a comet, the Baron returns to exact his revenge in his true monstrous form. Brain-sucking, hypnotism, cat-and-mouse games with the police and shape shifting ensues as the film throws a multitude of fantastical concepts as is possible to have in a single film. 

Unfortunately, these flurry of ideas are weighed down by a pedestrian and repetitive plot. Compared to the surreal storytelling of The Witch’s Mirror, The Brainiac is far more formulaic, perhaps as a way to ground the fantastic elements and make it more palatable for a general audience. But when Urueta has already demonstrated he can make these high concept stories work, taking the safe approach feels like a let-down.

For all of that, there’s still plenty to enjoy, not least Abel Salazar as the titular Baron/Brainiac. He generates a lot of the tension in the set piece scenes of him picking off each of his victims, hypnotising them (conveyed with a similar effect seen in the Universal Dracula) and making them fully aware of how they will die but helpless to stop it. He is a charismatic presence who holds the film together, alluding to a complex conflict between man and monster that the film barely explores. While dated as an effect, the monster design is also a highlight with its long two-pronged tongue and pulsating head.

Salazar also appears in the final film of this set – The Curse of the Crying Woman (1963) – as Jaime, the husband of Amelia who has been summoned by her Aunt Selma after fifteen years of silence. Alone in her crumbling mansion by a withered forest apart from her limping manservant, Selma has planned this reunion to reveal the curse on their bloodline from the titular Crying Woman or Llarona.

Sixty years old this year, the film’s opening shot of a woman with blackened eyes and sorrowful face is immediately striking and demonstrates how age has not diminished the film’s power. The mansion itself contains as many secrets as its inhabitant in a similar manner to the House of Usher; its permanently decrepit appearance effectively demonstrates Selma’s statement, “In our world nothing begins and nothing ends.” Set almost entirely within the mansion, the relatively small cast rip into the Gothic melodrama on offer with director Rafael Baledon drawing every ounce of moody atmosphere he can muster.

The supplements include numerous tributes to cast and crew that worked on many of the collected films. The age of the films mean that these recollections come from descendants, who themselves had worked with their parents and established artistic careers in their own right. This sense of preserving a legacy and celebrating work which could be so easily forgotten is at the heart of each of the audio commentaries. Each film has a different speaker for their commentary tracks and the four critics (Abraham Castillo Flores, David Wilt, Keith J Rainville and Morena de Fuego) provide plenty of contextual information and enthusiasm for the films and the wider genre.

This collection comes heartily recommended as a great showcase of a neglected area of horror. Generally speaking, the horror film canon revolves around Western, typically American, horror, and while these films were created in direct response to the classic Universal horror films of the 1930s, they provide a new perspective on what early 20th century horror cinema looked like. The boxset provides plenty of information from a historical perspective, but all of these films stand on their own merits as entertaining horror. As a collection, this release is a great deal that should not be missed.

Mike’s Archive: Mexico Macabre