By GENE DORSOGNA

Let’s get few things straight. When I was a kid, I was scared of everything. Bees? You bet! If I saw one on the azalea bushes that lined the walkway up to the door of our Flushing home,

I’d stay put for hours rather than pass by it. Spiders? Of course. If I saw one on the ceiling of the living room, I was sure it would end up in my bed on the second floor. And sundry other things: A small statue of the Infant of Prague on my parents’ dresser (it had pinched little features and bore a startling resemblance to the mummy of a monkey I’d seen in a museum showcase); a painting of a baleful clown hanging on the guest room wall; and so on. So it may come as a surprise to hear that despite all this incontrovertible evidence that I was a miserable pantywaist at best, there was little that could scare me when it came to the movies. In fact, I loved being scared by them (even the ones about spiders; I probably would have avoided one about a giant Infant of Prague stomping in fallen Catholics).

My childhood search for a quality scare resulted in my seeing a lot of dross; it is a tribute of sorts to my parents, diffident role models at best, that one or the other would cart me around to various movies that I wanted to see without protest. In rummaging through my memories, I began to try to pinpoint the one that really gave me the heebie-jeebies; the job proved harder than I expected it to be…

Some parameters first. I had seen some films that were thrilling without being especially scary. War Of The Worlds I saw on a double bill with When World Collide was a great experience, but I don’t recall being frightened. Forbidden Planet, which was a benchmark cinematic experience for me, frightened me even less; certainly, it made a greater impression on me later when I understood more about both psychology and Shakespeare. Curucu, Beast Of The Amazon was a mere rip-off with its monster manqué nothing more than a guy wearing a piñata; The Mole People, with its depressed-looking mole men (and where did they buy those tatty charcoal-gray sport coats??) was a missed opportunity.

No, I mean scares, here; the "cover your eyes and peep between your fingers" kind of scare.

The Fly almost qualified, but I was more fascinated than scared. (I must add, though, that the kid I saw the movie with - a meager, pale boy named Gerald – spent several months afterwards sleeping with his light on; it was rumored that he’d stopped growing after the experience – a report that was perhaps slightly exaggerated.)

The movie that did scare me--that I knew would scare me from the minute I saw the advertisements for it in The Daily News--was House On Haunted Hill. I’m still not sure how I persuaded my mother to take me to see it, however I suspect it was the presence of Vincent Price that gulled her into chaperoning me; she had seen Dragonwyck about fifteen times because of Price and at this time he had not become fully stereotyped as a "horror star." I’m sure he still has some romantic connotations for her. Whatever the reason, when it showed up at the Mayfair Theatre in nearby Huntington, off we went.

The Mayfair, I later learned, had earned the reputation of being one of the cruddiest movie houses in the area second only to the Larkfield Theatre which had earned the nickname "The Flea Pocket". Not that I cared then, nor would I particularly care now; the Mayfair, no movie palace, was still vast by the standards of most movie theaters now. The place as I recall was packed with a highly sympathetic crowd who was ready to scream at anything; and scream we did.

From the creepy first scene, where the disembodied heads of the principles drifted forward on the screen to assure us we were about to have the pants scared off of us (and who better than Elisha Cook, Jr. to radiate a convincing aura of baffled fear?), to the penultimate scene where the acid vat is revealed (why aren’t more houses equipped with them?), House On Haunted Hill did not disappoint me. To this day, I recall crying out when the contorted old harridan crept up behind our heroine; I remember my yelp of terror when the head is delivered in the hatbox. It mattered not one lick that the film was not tricked out with EMERGO (i.e., a skeleton on a clothesline) by this point in the run. Every minute of the film delivered delicious paroxysms of perfectly safe fright. I do not remember my mother’s reaction; presumably Dragonwyck looked even better to her by the movie’s end. I do recall, however, one thing; that the ending disappointed me. I didn’t object to the acid vat (what red-blooded kid would have?) or the skeleton. It was the fact, rather, that to my young sensibilities the ending was a cheat. None of the hauntings was real. It was to me another Cucurucu, albeit not as cynical as the dénouement of that epic. This did not spoil what had gone before, but I remember a distinct feeling of being let down. But let’s flash forward some forty years….

Well, as Heraclitus put it, one cannot step into the same river twice. Nor is it necessarily wise to revisit movies that were childhood favorites; like mental images of my old college girlfriends, the reality rarely approximates what the mind recollects. Such was the case with House On Haunted Hill when I had an opportunity to see it recently.

Not having seen the movie since the late fifties, I experienced at first the remembrance of the fear it produced in me. Having got past that phantom emotion, I was able to watch the film with some clinical distancing, but not without the happy expectation of getting reacquainted with an old friend. Alas, the old friend had not aged well.

The opening is still effective, with the dramatis personae assuring us that we will be exposed to some pretty grim stuff. However, much in keeping with the overall William Castle approach, the set piece is a mere shill; an attention grabber. There follows much tiresome exposition in a set that offers little visual diversion and is severely underdressed. The flat, too brightly lit rooms do not put the viewer in the proper mood to be scared (Compare this to the ambiance provided by Robert Wise and his set decorators in The Haunting, where everything is there to emphasize fear and dislocation.) The scenes that so scared me as a child are telegraphed shamelessly, with the dimming lights and camera movements blunting any surprises. Worst of all, the shock scenes are cheesesparing and obvious (let me hasten to add that yes, the whole thing, exposed as a charade, legislates for accepting the grue as tacky. I would counter with the contention that anyone who had the financial wherewithal to rig a house as he does this one could have afforded some realistic-looking severed heads). Given all this, the film’s spare seventy-five minutes seems much, much longer.

What remains of value is what no currency for me as a kid: Vincent Price. He remains the sole reason for taking a look at the movie. Not yet entirely typecast as a horror star, despite his turn in House Of Wax several years earlier, Price has his tongue firmly in his cheek throughout. He seems to be having a grand time going through his paces in a part that, with the occasional twist, he would play on and off for the rest of his career: that of the wronged party trying to settle a few scores. That this remarkable actor could repeatedly give credibility to the roles he enacted from here on to the end of his life is a testament to his greatness. Without excessive histrionics, Price is always watchable in this film; always never less that compelling.

And then there is the ending. So objectionable to me as a child, the ending is the only part of House On Haunted Hill that worked. It may be because it gives some rationale for the threadbare special effects; it may be because I so empathized with Price’s character that I wanted him to have the upper hand. Whatever the reason, I truly enjoyed the final scenes in ways I was not able to as a child.

Could House On Haunted Hill scare children today? I doubt it. Kids today are too jaded; it seems, for hoary stuff like this. Children sufficiently wily to gain entrance into something like Seven would never be scared by the papier-mâché horrors of House. Presented to them cold, this film would be hooted down. For older people, with the proper priming, historical perspective, and cultural background House On Haunted Hill is a good example of early William Castle, of late fifties semi-schlocky horror, and of mid-period Price.

For myself, I treasure having seen the film when I did. I look with considerable affection back at the little boy anxious to be scared there in the dark, knowing that after seventy-five minutes all would be well again. Spiders, bees, and lurking religious statuary: they all waited in the real world. In the movies in the late Fifties, the monsters were always vanquished. Naïve, perhaps; but wouldn’t it be nice if it was true?

Thanks, Gene, for providing this slice of horror film nostalgia.  Kids today may not shudder at the original House, but they're sure to have more fun with it than with the remake--even without floating skeletons!