I was transfixed by this segment. I simply couldn't take my eyes off it. Yes, the ending is obvious (although this might not be so much NG's fault as this story has been reworked and re-envisioned what must be at least a dozen times or more since NG on all those other syndicated horror anthologies). But the construction and portrayal was so tight and effective that it worked.
All the characters were crazed. From Carl Betz' sardonic Max to Louise Sorel's Velia Redford, who eventually looked like a 1960s version of the Bride of Frankenstein, each one was mad as a hatter--and morally empty. Even the supposedly "sane" Miles Talmadge looked the part of a crazed fanatic. His face hidden behind coke bottle sized eyeglass lenses, bushy brows that would create envy in a Neanderthal, and a frizzed out hairdo that probably inspired Dr. J, Miles quickly succumbed to investigating the failure of the experiment, rather than locking up the madman responsible for it.
In a deft little touch that seems to symbolize Miles' descent into the darkside, there is a drastic shift in photography when Talmadge essentially joins in with Max. Whereas the story had been photographed rather straightforwardly, albeit in numerous close-ups, when Miles files out, after the attempt to revive Fearing has failed, and settles on the staircase next to Velia the photography suddenly becomes Expressionistic. Deep shadows fall across characters and their situations. The close-ups are replaced by extreme low and high angle shots--more low than high, however. And the entire set begins to seem like something designed by Dr. Caligari.
This is all very effective. Yet I hesitate to call the segment "good". Why? Maybe it's because there is no catharsis for the viewer with this tale. Instead, I'm left feeling "disturbed" and "uneasy". I can still, long after the actual viewing, "feel" the weight of the segment. The interior of the Queen Anne/Eastlake style house was stifling. Its Edwardian decor, with the heavy curtains and drapes, the massive wooden beams, made for such a close feeling that I thought I would have trouble breathing. And then there was the "research room", where modern medical equipment seemed to be jammed into what was an already impossibly small room better suited for antiques, which just highlighted the ill fitting nature of it all.
In the end, I was drawn to this thing, although I'm not really sure why. Everything about it projected a sense of revulsion, decay, and disorder. I doubt I've ever seen a locale on television that I wanted to avoid more than this one.
All the characters were crazed. From Carl Betz' sardonic Max to Louise Sorel's Velia Redford, who eventually looked like a 1960s version of the Bride of Frankenstein, each one was mad as a hatter--and morally empty. Even the supposedly "sane" Miles Talmadge looked the part of a crazed fanatic. His face hidden behind coke bottle sized eyeglass lenses, bushy brows that would create envy in a Neanderthal, and a frizzed out hairdo that probably inspired Dr. J, Miles quickly succumbed to investigating the failure of the experiment, rather than locking up the madman responsible for it.
In a deft little touch that seems to symbolize Miles' descent into the darkside, there is a drastic shift in photography when Talmadge essentially joins in with Max. Whereas the story had been photographed rather straightforwardly, albeit in numerous close-ups, when Miles files out, after the attempt to revive Fearing has failed, and settles on the staircase next to Velia the photography suddenly becomes Expressionistic. Deep shadows fall across characters and their situations. The close-ups are replaced by extreme low and high angle shots--more low than high, however. And the entire set begins to seem like something designed by Dr. Caligari.
This is all very effective. Yet I hesitate to call the segment "good". Why? Maybe it's because there is no catharsis for the viewer with this tale. Instead, I'm left feeling "disturbed" and "uneasy". I can still, long after the actual viewing, "feel" the weight of the segment. The interior of the Queen Anne/Eastlake style house was stifling. Its Edwardian decor, with the heavy curtains and drapes, the massive wooden beams, made for such a close feeling that I thought I would have trouble breathing. And then there was the "research room", where modern medical equipment seemed to be jammed into what was an already impossibly small room better suited for antiques, which just highlighted the ill fitting nature of it all.
In the end, I was drawn to this thing, although I'm not really sure why. Everything about it projected a sense of revulsion, decay, and disorder. I doubt I've ever seen a locale on television that I wanted to avoid more than this one.