The House that Screamed (1969)Messy Spanish Proto-slasher almost saved by a ghoulish, genius finale (Review)

If Spanish horror was a man, his name would be Narciso Ibáñez Serrador. Known as “Chicho” by fans, Serrador brought stories of the thrilling and chilling to Spain’s television screens for almost three decades with his popular anthology series Tales to Keep You Awake – though, to international viewers, he’s likely more well-known for the masterfully harrowing Who Can Kill a Child? (1976), a terrifying and criminally under-seen horror classic. Originally envisioned as yet another of Ibáñez’s Tales for the small screen, The House That Screamed (original title “La residencia”) found itself promoted to a feature film in an attempt to spark a worldwide Spanish horror phenomenon – and whilst it might not have been the hit with contemporary global audiences that its producers had hoped for, its financial success on home shores partially enabled the production of over 150 Spanish genre pictures throughout the following decade, which is no small feat. Over 50 years later, Arrow Video are finally bringing The House That Screamed to British audiences with its first-ever U.K. home media release; let’s see if there’s anything worth screaming about.

The House That Screamed opens with the arrival of Thérèse (Cristina Galbó Sánchez), a new student at an all-female boarding school in the 19th-century French countryside; except this isn’t exactly your typical educational establishment. Ruled over with an iron fist by Headmistress Fourneau (Golden Globe-nominated actress Lilli Palmer), the academy is more akin to a prison than a place of learning, where wayward girls are taught to stay in line at risk of being hauled off to the “punishment room” – not least if they’re caught looking in the direction of Fourneau’s sheltered teenage son, Louis (John Moulder-Brown). Worst of all, it seems as though whippings may not be the extent of the school’s cruel disciplinary measures, as rumours quickly spread among the student body of runaways who have never been heard from again – and may not even have left the building alive. It’s an interesting combination of old and new ideas, with the gothic castles and candelabras of Hammer horror meeting the psychosexual thrills of Hitchcock’s Psycho (1960).

It’s a shame that this girls’ school screamer, influential as it may be, doesn’t have too much going for it. For all its grand production design and vibrant technicolour palette (captured gorgeously in a spotless brand new 2K transfer by Arrow), this house is not exactly full of life; this proto-slasher murder mystery lacks sincerity as either a murder or mystery, instead largely being dedicated to confusing storytelling and repetitive character beats for far too much of its runtime. Entire sequences appear to be missing from the film, which is apparently not the result of me watching the wrong cut of the film (predictably, for a European horror film of its vintage, there are several); a brief but suspenseful scene in which a character becomes trapped in a claustrophobic crawlspace loses all tension when its conclusion is entirely offscreen and not acknowledged by any of the characters, let alone the plot – almost as if it never even happened. Most of the aforementioned characters are flat and interchangeable, essentially being carbon copies of one another in their motives and behaviour, and it quickly became difficult to follow the narrative as it became increasingly unclear who was who.

However, this is not necessarily always the case. Lilli Palmer gives a rather solid performance as Mme. Fourneau. A stern and cold figure of authority who carries with her a certain air of uncomfortable sexual repression in regard to her treatment of her underage students – not to mention her own son. Also of note is mean-girl senior student Irene, played with fervour by actress Mary Maude, who makes for a more complex and memorable figure than her classmates – although she’s also a pretty straightforward example of the predatory lesbian prison guard archetype seen in many “women-in-prison” exploitation flicks, which might leave a sour taste in the mouth for audience members in the 2020s.

I wish I could forgive The House That Screamed its large portions of tedium and inconsequentiality, because the actual slasher sequences, few and far between as they may be, are exquisitely done. The gruesome stabbings peppered throughout the feature are all inventively shot, intelligently edited, and retain an astounding amount of shock factor. Even better is the film’s ghoulish, genius final beat, which almost salvages the entire piece – but in the end, these few masterful horror sequences don’t make up for the weak connective tissue.

Spanish horror aficionados will be delighted by this release, even if the film itself may leave you with mixed emotions. The 94-minute U.S. cut of The House That Screamed is joined here by a newly-restored extended 105-minute edition, The Finishing School, which features all of the uncut material that the Franco-era Spanish censors objected to, available with both Spanish and English audio tracks. Extras include a plethora of interviews with cast and crew members, trailers and radio spots, alternate footage from the Spanish-language theatrical cut, and a well-researched featurette on the social and political context of La residencia’s production from Spanish horror scholar Dr Antonio Lázaro-Reboll.

Robyn’s Archive – The House That Screamed