My dear readers, though I make every attempt not to dwell unnecessarily on morbid topics, I cannot help but ponder what form the announcement of my passing will eventually take. Will my name appear as some afterthought, slipped into a faceless roster of other recently departed souls? Or will it warrant a headline of its own, perhaps accompanied by a photograph taken in my more robust years? The depth and breadth of one’s obituary has always been a point of pride among the Hauntedhouses and there has been admittedly some competition in regards to the amount of ink local publications devote to inscribing one’s accomplishments. My distant uncle Horace Hauntedhouse was a man of considerable import in his time and yet a creeping insecurity about the his legacy led him to devote his later years to both elaborate charity fundraising dinners and cannibalism. I imagine he was deeply pleased that his decision to eventually combine the two led to a fair amount of press coverage both before and after his demise. 

Edmond Bancroft (Michael Gough) is quite familiar with developing an impressive curriculum vitae. He is, first and foremost, a chronicler of crime whose books on the subject have made him a wealthy and popular character of note. Edmond is also a curator who has established a private museum of torture that he somewhat huffily insists is far superior to the Crime Museum of Scotland Yard. And finally, despite his other captivating pursuits, Edmond also finds the time to be a murderer. Not wanting to face a shortage of material, he commits crimes himself so that he can write about them, presenting a remarkably efficient and self-sustaining solution to the problem of writer’s block.

Of course, committing a host of murders all by oneself is an exhausting proposition and can clash most disagreeably with one’s regular social schedule. And so Edmond employs Rick (Graham Curnow), a young assistant whose qualifications include punctuality, a clean-cut appearance and a willingness to be treated with a variety of experimental serums. These intravenous concoctions are of Edmond’s own devising and they temporarily transform the user into a hideous monstrosity who is incapable of resisting their master’s violent instructions. It is a most productive arrangement and between the two of them they are able to manage quite the sanguinary schedule. But Rick’s secret engagement to one Angela Banks (Shirley Anne Field) threatens to expose the whole enterprise, as their approaching nuptials lead Angela closer and closer to the truth about her betrothed’s occupation.

If their choice of anti-hero is any indication, the makers of Horrors of the Black Museum believe wholeheartedly in that helpful old adage, “write what you know.” While some feel this to be a stifling view of how one might apply their imagination, I must say it is positively disheartening to consider the number of authors who devote themselves to the subject of murder without any firsthand experience with the subject. Certainly, Edmond’s methods may result in a dead body here and there but if you take a more utilitarian approach to the matter, his popularity suggests that his books have done more people good than harm. A couple of corpses hardly seems too steep a price for his unique authorial qualifications. I imagine the public would only benefit if all the inhabitants of the literary world were as steeped in their subject as old Edmond.

Horrors of the Black Museum runs 93 minutes and does not possess a certified rating in the United States.