I have yet to see a William Castle film that does not fascinate and entertain me. His movies are macabre joyrides through humanity and the darkness (both human and otherworldly) that plagues it. The Tingler (1959) has all the makings of a great scary flick: creepy creature, a man maddened by scientific quest, machete-wielding figment (or is it?), bathtub of scarlet blood juxtaposed to the stark black and white of the rest of the film, and, above all, Vincent Price. Need I say more?
Actually, the answer to that question is yes; I do need to say more because there is so much else that needs unpacking or at the very least acknowledgment. The external “gimmicks” in the film (I think Castle would heartily approve of that term) work because of the internal darkness that underlies them. The Tingler looks like a slimy, mutated lobster that could easily bore through human flesh--think Red Lobster platter that’s been exposed to radiation. Sure, that’s a frightening thought. But this very tangible creature already lives in all of us . . . a parasite feasting on our darkest fears. That’s an even more frightening thought. The age-old adage, “It’s all in your mind,” is no longer sufficient. The fears in our thoughts have bred a real threat to our existence. Thank God a scream, a physical release of said fears, can allay the callous crustacean. Unless you’re mute like poor Martha Ryerson Higginson . . .
But even beyond The Tingler as the easily-identified evil target are the blackened human relationships that parade before us like a sadistic soap opera. There’s Dr. Warren Chapin (played by Price), a cuckold who watches his wife, Isabel (Patricia Cutts), flaunt her unfaithfulness out of the boredom and jealousy her husband’s work inspires. Their hateful words and his founded accusations flicker like burning snakes’ tongues, searing one another’s psyche with the forked impression of pure hate. He shoots her with a blank to get X-rays of her spine as part of his experiment and the joy of inflicting a faux death on his despised mate. Once The Tingler has been identified and caged, Isabel doesn’t think twice about drugging her husband and then unleashing the beast so that it may devour him. Isabel doesn’t need freedom--she has it. She wants revenge, the deadliest form, and the delight from knowing that she has single-handedly been responsible for Warren’s complete demise.
Could there be a darker portrait of marriage? Sure. Ollie and Martha Higgins (Philip Coolidge and Judith Evelyn)--the owner of a theater showing silent films and his deaf wife who is incapable of hearing or making a sound. When Dr. Chapin cuts his hand while visiting the Higgins, Martha faints at the sight of blood, her normal reaction. Dr. Chapin finds this to be her psychosomatic escape from fear since she cannot scream, and when she fails to recover from her unease after several days, Dr. Chapin prescribes barbiturates and plenty of rest. He gives Martha a shot to help her sleep, but she wakens to a series of elaborate, terrifying hoaxes that literally scare her to death. Ollie is the orchestrator of her untimely death, and very unapologetically so. Why? It’s never really clear. A great deal of attention is paid to a safe that holds the money from the theater box office that Martha tends. If she’s out of the way, Ollie is a rich man. But, he also whines that “You don’t know how it was with her.” How was it? In the scene of Chapin’s visit, Ollie condescends and talks to her and about her like any object in their apartment. There’s much more fondness in his voice when he speaks of his theater. It’s a strange relationship, devoid of love and certainly trust, and Ollie’s intricate maliciousness is underscored by his claim that it isn’t like he shot her or stabbed her. He wants to pin his sin on The Tingler . . . only The Tingler is part of him, living on the deepest, darkest part of him.
For all of its B-movie packaging (which is another one of the things I thoroughly enjoy about the film), there’s a terrifying mass at, well, the spine of the film. And it’s even darker and deeper than the fears we all harbor. It’s the capacity for pure, black hatred toward fellow man that’s truly disturbing. Or even worse, toward those we “love,” or at least loved at one time but have come to loathe after years of circumstance. That we could possess at our core an urge so strong to steal the life of someone we’ve known so closely for years or to be the unsuspecting victim of that urge is enough to produce more than a tingle.
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