In the midst of working on what my man Jack Torrance would refer to as “a new writing project,” I come upon a road block which I decide would be best transcended via distraction. A 1965 serial-killer thriller with a supernatural edge starring Troy Donohue and Joey Heatherton and directed by William Conrad would appear to be just the thing.
But My Blood Runs Cold turns out to be quite a bit, well, tonier than its particulars would make it appear. Granted, its opening minutes—a 19th-century flashback that Conrad places a scrim of optically-printed parchment behind—is on the goofily faux-refined side, and who does that plummy but gruff voice reciting poetry belong to…
…but our own auteur himself. (Personal note: Ever since watching Bride of Frankenstein together years ago, My Lovely Wife and I only ever refer to the above Romantic poet as “George Gordon, Lord Byron!”, exclamation point included.) And the sight of Joey Heatherton in period dress does give one a real who-knows-what-to-expect presentiment.
But the picture rather quickly settles in to a mode of contemporary melodrama not that far removed from the work Donahue did with Delmer Daves just years earlier, and then-sex-kitten Heatherton is, to my eye, a more creditable performer than Connie Stevens. I know, I know—you’re gonna have to see it to believe it. Heatherton plays a standard-issue self-destructive young heiress who meets “drifter” Donahue (who really puts on his best Rock Hudson voice here) after knocking him off his motorcycle in a road accident. Donahue’s character calls himself Ben, insists on calling Heatherton’s Julie “Barbara,” and has an interesting story about how the two were lovers a century ago. Julie’s dad, a ruthless businessman played by Barry Sullivan, doesn’t like it, and neither does Julie’s basically-okay-but-sort-of-spineless paramour Harry (Nicolas Coster). Julie’s aunt (Jeanette Nolan in faux Agnes Moorehead mode), on the other hand, is intrigued, particularly because this stranger has all of the facts about a generations-ago family romance dead on.
Conrad refuses to overplay the supernatural hoo-ha aspect of the scenario (the screenplay is by John Mantley, from a story by John Meredyth Lucas) and hones in on the poor-little-rich-girl domestic dramatics in a fashion that’s both fluid and slightly, slyly, self-conscious. “Father, please, you sound like something out of East Lynne,” Heatherton’s character protests at one point. Even when one very real corpse turns up, Conrad’s perspective is one of near-disinterest. One might expect such an approach to yield the cinematic equivalent of lukewarm water, but instead one is kept pleasingly off-balance, at least up until the sadly inevitable “he’s-both-a-delinquent-AND-misunderstood” plot reveal/climax.
Which is not to say that the picture entirely lacks in the lurid perversity department, where I was expecting it to deliver most. There’s one scene in which Heatherton, doing some restoration work on a family beach house, turns on the radio and starts doing an entirely unmotivated dance number to some fake Jobim/Gilberto grooves. Conrad, who by his friend Anthony Burgess’ account was as much an ass-chaser as he was a Shakespearean, begins the sequence thusly:
Then Joey really gets into it:
…Endust, take me away!
Donahue’s impassive reaction shot (he’s snuck in and is watching) is a real keeper:
No, don’t get too excited there, fella.
Thoroughly minor stuff, to be sure, but entirely worthwhile for genre fiends, Bill Conrad boosters, and doubters of Joey Heatherton’s acting chops. You WILL believe!
I don’t fall into any of those categories, but you left one out: Fans of Overripe Intertitles. And it sure looks like I done struck oil with THAT one.
Plus, that looks suspiciously like an old dark house Heatherton is dancing around.
Something in your last shot reminded me of this line from Donahue’s Wikipedia entry: “The union ended two years later when Allen claimed in divorce proceedings that Donahue was constantly late for dinner and ignored her.”
C’mon Siren, Conrad was a real renaissance man, from movie villain in The Killers to narrator in Rocky and Bullwinkle and the Fugitive and who knows how many shows, to producing and directing, starring in a couple of TV shows, what’s not to love?
😉
It is said that Joey Heatherton studied ballet under Balanchine, but I can spot no traces of the Balanchine style or technique in her steamy jukebox go-go solo in Twilight of Honor, where, as Nick Adams’ wife, she infused genuine feeling into the line, “I hope he croaks.” I haven’t seen My Blood Runs Cold, but from the stills Joey’s gyrations here don’t appear to be Balanchinian in origin either; perhaps her hips were their own choreographer, answering only to the beat. Further study is warranted, if Dave Kehr is up to the task.
The fact that there’s a film called My Blood Runs Cold, and a film called I Wake Up Screaming, makes me feel there should be a third film to complete the symptoms trilogy, perhaps to be entitled And Then I Just kind of Throw Up in My Pants.
Glenn- is the Jack Torrance you reference here the same role that Jack Nicholson played in The Shining? God, I loved that film…one favorite scene is with bartender “Hello, Lloyd…”.
All work and no play makes Glenn a dull boy. All work and no play makes Glenn a dull boy. All work and no play makes Glenn a dull boy. All work and no play makes Glenn a dull boy. All work and no play makes Glenn a dull boy. All work and no play makes Glenn a dull boy. All work and no play makes Glenn a dull boy. All work and no play makes Glenn a dull boy. All work and no play makes Glenn a dull boy. All work and no play makes Glenn a dull boy. All work and no play makes Glenn a dull boy. All work and no play makes Glenn a dull boy.
Jeff…redrum! redrum! redrum! Loved Shelly Duval in that movie as well. Perfect casting.
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Some Came Running: Tales from the Warner Archives #2: “My Blood Runs Cold” (Conrad, 1968)