This film is Elizabeth Taylor's only foray into horror (not counting Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf). She stars as a half-mad housewife suffering from over-acting-itis and nightmares about her late husband's drunk-driving death.
Insomnia during a heavy thunderstorm causes her to shoot up from bed and go to the window, where she claims she witnesses a murder at the haunted house next door. Her husband, played by Inanimate Carbon Rod Laurence Harvey, is skeptical but he dials 9-1-1 anyway.
Taylor spends the next hour emoting her way around their house, speaking in a fake poncey accent, periodically getting fed some tranquilizers by family friend Billie Whitelaw. It all builds to a huge confrontation among all three, at the climax of which Taylor completely loses all trace of the fake poncey accent and falls back into her more familiar cadence: "YOU... don't... LOVE.. me; you... NEVER DID.. and I HATE... you," type of thing. Razzie material all the way.
It's the kind murder mystery that probably made for a fun night at the theatre on London's West End. As filmed, it's a tediously over-acted affair by Taylor that isn't redeemed by the revoltingly graphic climax.
But I salvaged the evening by making a drinking game out of it: take a belt every time someone says, ''dahleeng." You'll be completely plastered before you're 10 minutes into the movie.
Insomnia during a heavy thunderstorm causes her to shoot up from bed and go to the window, where she claims she witnesses a murder at the haunted house next door. Her husband, played by Inanimate Carbon Rod Laurence Harvey, is skeptical but he dials 9-1-1 anyway.
Taylor spends the next hour emoting her way around their house, speaking in a fake poncey accent, periodically getting fed some tranquilizers by family friend Billie Whitelaw. It all builds to a huge confrontation among all three, at the climax of which Taylor completely loses all trace of the fake poncey accent and falls back into her more familiar cadence: "YOU... don't... LOVE.. me; you... NEVER DID.. and I HATE... you," type of thing. Razzie material all the way.
It's the kind murder mystery that probably made for a fun night at the theatre on London's West End. As filmed, it's a tediously over-acted affair by Taylor that isn't redeemed by the revoltingly graphic climax.
But I salvaged the evening by making a drinking game out of it: take a belt every time someone says, ''dahleeng." You'll be completely plastered before you're 10 minutes into the movie.