Scared to Death
This 1947 turkey—Bela Lugosi’s only color film1—opens with a corpse narrating her own demise. It’s the most interesting thing about her. What follows is 68 minutes that feel like 168, a talky slog through exposition delivered with all the finesse of an amateur production.
Shot in garish Cinecolor, the film flaunts oversaturated hues that recall the early Technicolor experiments of the 1930s. But don’t get excited. The filmmakers squander their palette on brown walls and drab costumes. Black and white might have added shadows and mood. This just adds migraine.
Characters stand. Characters talk. Characters explain things that don’t matter. Roland Varno sports an accent that appears and vanishes. The script never bothers to explain it. Why would it? Nothing else makes sense either.
Between scenes, our corpse narrator pipes up with voice-overs that stop the film cold—literally. The picture freezes mid-music cue for her one-line interjections. When it resumes, the score blasts back at ear-splitting volume. Somebody thought this was a good idea.
Though top-billed, Lugosi looks exhausted. At 62, he knew this was a dog. He arrives in a red-lined cape with a deaf-mute midget sidekick who reads lips. Why? The film never says. The midget vanishes anyway. But Lugosi keeps that cape, lurking outside windows, recoiling as though from a cross, vampire-style, despite this not being a vampire picture. They had Dracula, so why not throw it in? Incoherent desperation.
George Zucco tries. He’s the only one with any dignity left. But the script knocks him unconscious. Twice.
Nat Pendleton lumbers through as a dimwitted guard, doing his usual shtick. It wears thin in the first few minutes.
A mysterious green mask2 appears in windows throughout. Aside from one scene, characters never notice it, hinting it was spliced in during post-production. Another Band-Aid on a hemorrhaging patient.
The score blares and bellows, trying to manufacture drama and atmosphere. It fails. Everything fails.
The plot? Convoluted beyond reason. But don’t strain yourself following it. The final sequence spells everything out anyway, rendering the previous hour completely redundant. You could skip to the last ten minutes and lose nothing.
Better yet, skip the whole thing.
At 68 minutes, this is one of the longest short films ever made. Did anyone read this script before production? Did anyone care?
Scared to Death isn’t just bad. It’s a masterclass in how to waste film stock, talent, and the audience’s time.
Lugosi deserved better.