My dear readers, while I believe we can all agree that recovery from illness both physical and mental should be as painless as possible, sometimes the gentler approaches to such matters simply will not cut the mustard. Soothing balms and the “talking” cure certainly work wonders for some folks but every once in a while something a touch stronger is called for. Though the remedies of the medieval era are hardly remembered for their enduring position in medical science, I cannot help but notice some merit in their focus on the expelling of corrupt humors. This very morning, I found myself in the midst of a terrible faintness spell. Despite being enfeebled and disoriented, I managed to brandish my penknife, press it to my wrist and surrender my fouled essence. When I regained consciousness, I found that my faintness had passed entirely and that the damage to one of our Oriental rugs was considerable. Though the cleaners will undoubtedly demand a hefty sum, it is hard to put a price on one’s good health.

Jason Jones (Robin Askwith) is also someone who takes an open-minded approach to wellness. A musician by trade, Jason is feeling a bit of metropolitan malaise and after a rather public falling out with some of his fellow troubadours, he feels the best thing for him to do is stage a bucolic retreat. The curative promises of a “health farm” called Brittlehurst Manor catch his eye and soon enough, he is on a train bound for betterment. Along the way, he manages to acquaint himself with Judy Peters (Vanessa Shaw) a fellow health enthusiast heading to the same destination. The pair of them find each other to be tolerable enough company and somehow they progress from Jason’s initial announcement that he has no plans to rape her to a sort of light romance.

Jason and Judy are awfully glad to have each other as confidants when Brittlehurst Manor proves to be somewhat less relaxing than advertised. The empirical data regarding the success of their treatments seems sparse and they are discouraged by the sight of their fellow farm attendees, whose uniformly pallid complexions and prominent surgical scars do not exactly suggest a restoration of the spirit. It is soon revealed that the establishment is run by one Dr. Storm (Michael Gough), a man who makes little effort to hide the sinister nature of his enterprise. If his catatonic patients were not enough of a clue, Dr. Storm also employs cackling attendants, brutish motorcycle thugs and stern matrons whose medical credentials seem dubious at best. Eventually, the doctor reveals that his primary interest is turning patients into obedient slaves with the use of intrusive neurosurgery. Jason and Judy decide that this it isn’t quite what they had in mind and try to beat a hasty escape but are met with some resistance from the doctor’s unsubtle cadre.

Produced in the afterglow of the “love” generation, the makers of Horror Hospital may not be the first film to pit hippies against horrors but they come close to perfecting the the villainous end of the equation. The filmmakers have found a perfectly suitable antagonist for their time, one that easily might find themselves clashing with the youth of the 1960s. There is, of course, the fairly obvious stuff about ruthless authoritarianism and sexual repression that even the most casual of viewers are sure to notice. But co-writer and director Antony Balch had the benefit of an entire decade to hone his message and manages to cut to the core of what hippies hated most of all: men who drive cars that decapitate people. 

While automotive accidents that result in a beheading might be forgivable, cars that are specifically designed to rob pedestrians of their craniums are something that the idealistic offspring of Garfunkel and Easy Rider could simply not abide by. Add to this the fact that the automobile is a luxury brand and you have what may very be the perfect symbol of all that a generation came to revile.

Horror Hospital runs 85 minutes and is rated R.