Karl Marx once famously equated capitalism with vampirism:
Capital is dead labour, that, vampire-like, only lives by sucking living labour, and lives the more, the more labour it sucks.1
If we regard fascism a form of super-capitalism, vampire imagery becomes an obvious metaphor for Hitler, which was exactly the approach taken by Hans W. Geissendörfer in Jonathan (1970). This cast Paul Albert Krumm as an unnamed vampire count (though obviously based on Stoker’s Dracula). Inhabiting an early nineteenth-century Biedermeyer Germany, Krumm’s count nonetheless sports a Hitler hairstyle and displays similarly charismatic eyes to those of the fearsome Führer. He presides over a cultish vampire colony (and in this the film bears some comparisons with Don Sharp’s The Kiss of the Vampire, made for Hammer in 1964). The count’s henchmen are a Biedermeyer equivalent of Nazi stormtroopers, while the count’s equivalent of the Hitler Youth — a troupe of pink-beribboned girls — indulge in the kind of stylized movements that characterize the gymnastic routines we so often see in Nazi “Body Beautiful” propaganda films.
The count ruthlessly executes anyone who attempts to escape from his little community, part of whose headquarters are actually the decadent Jugendstil interiors of Munich’s celebrated Villa Stuck, one time home of the Secessionist painter Franz von Stuck (1863-1928), a painter, incidentally, much admired by Hitler himself. The blood-spattered corpse of a former escapee lies on the drive outside, which the count and his henchmen ignore in their pursuit of another fugitive. This one is shot in the back, after which the count decrees: “All of you know none of you are alone here. If you try to leave us…it’s dangerous for us. Be careful. Your betrayal can cost you dearly. Be forewarned. This could also happen to you.” (The German language adds its own chilling resonance to these words, particularly in Krumm’s deliberately Hitlerian intonation). The eponymous Jonathan of Jürgen Jung, Geissendörfer’s version of Stoker’s Jonathan Harker, is then dispatched by the town council to destroy the vampire. When Jonathan eventually arrives at the castle, the count is presiding over a ceremony in a Baroque hall (not, this time Villa Stuck) in which captives are being offered up for initiation (once again one is reminded of Kiss of the Vampire in which much the same thing also happens). The red robes of the count’s acolytes complement both the black ones worn by his henchmen and the white costumes of the chosen women standing immediately around him, thus subtly suggesting the colors of the Nazi flag. (Hitler himself explained, “In red we see the social idea of the movement, in white the nationalistic idea, in the [black] swastika the mission of the struggle for the victory of the Aryan man.”29)
“Halt!” shrieks the Count, channeling his inner Adolf, “There is someone in the castle who may be dangerous to us.” Jonathan is trapped and the count uses this moment to speak the words usually heard at the beginning of Dracula films: “Welcome to my house.” He continues, “I’ve been waiting for you. He is my guest. He can go anywhere he chooses. Except over there…where the doors are locked. There are reasons for the things to be this way. If you had my experience and if you could see with my eyes, you would understand me more completely.” But, alas, this “guest” is soon to be visited by the count’s brides, as in Stoker’s novel. When the count intervenes, insisting, “This man belongs to me,” the brides are given the consolation of a baby to suck upon, and Geissendörfer makes sure to Nazify the scene in which the mother demands the return of her child: she is brutally beaten to death by the count’s black-clad henchmen.
Jonathan next finds himself assaulted by the count’s Biedermeier SS who chain him to the wall of a dungeon cell to the ironic accompaniment of the elegiac “Äse’s Tod” from Grieg’s music for Peer Gynt. A wagon train of villagers then make their way to the castle reminding us of the refugees in so many wartime newsreels, and the shoot-out, as they storm the castle, also has very obvious war-time connotations.
The vampires are herded to the seashore. “Die! Die” the people shout, waving their crucifixes, while the vampires call on Lucifer for protection; but Lucifer isn’t listening and the vampires drown. Suddenly, all is quiet, with silent corpses floating in the water. Grieg’s equally elegiac piece, “Der leste Frühling,” accompanies the bodies of the vampires floating out to sea, and as the townspeople shamble across the beach to what ever future they can reassemble for themselves, Jonathan is left alone, exhausted and broken, while the endless waves roll indifferently onto the sand. The count’s reign of terror is over, but Geissendörfer’s implication is that what has happened will happen again, as it did when Hitler came to power in 1928. As Karl Jaspers wrote of the Second World War, “That which has happened is a warning. To forget it is guilt. It must be continually remembered. It was possible for this to happen, and it remains possible for it to happen again at any minute. Only in knowledge can it be prevented.”3
Geissendörfer’s final scene also uncannily resembles Waltraud Reski’s account of how her mother was serially raped by the invading Russians at the end of the Second World War, and how she was herself very nearly drowned in the mass suicide of her fellow inhabitants in the East German town of Demmin. “You can’t imagine what it was like for her – to be raped ten or twenty times a day,” Reski explained in an interview for the final episode the BBC’s documentary The Nazis – A Warning From History (dir. Laurence Rees, 1997). “You’re hardly human any more. My mother became an entirely different person for the rest of her life.” Rather than endure the Russian occupation, hundreds of people took the decision to commit suicide in the rivers that flow quietly around the town. “Women holding children by the hand were running towards the water. There were also whole families including elderly people. Many had tied themselves together. I didn’t understand what they were doing. There were also individuals running up and down the riverbank, and children who had lost their families. There was the terrible sight of those who had gone into the water the previous night — those bloated bodies, reddish-blue. Mother grabbed us and wanted to run into the river with us. We were both screaming. We’d almost reached the river, but grandmother managed to stop us and we didn’t jump in.”4
The Biedermeier setting of Jonathan is, of course, a deliberate reference to F.W. Murnau’s Nosferatu (1922) and other horror films from the Golden Age of German cinema made during the Weimar Republic. The Biedermeier period is a significant choice because that was when the idea of a united Germany, in the wake of Napoleonic occupation, really took root, and the period’s Romantic interest in both Nationalism and the occult (which we observe in the tales of E. T. A. Hoffmann and Carl Maria von Weber’s 1821 opera, Der Freischütz) can certainly be seen as the National-Romantic model that was eventually to be so catastrophically perverted by the Nazis. Other Weimar classics also foreshadowed the rise of Hitler, most notably the serial Homunculous (dir. Otto Rippert, 1916), in which Olaf Fønss plays the eponymous anti-hero who takes revenge on his loveless existence by destroying the world (Hammer’s The Satanic Rites of Dracula, directed by Alan Gibson would intriguingly elaborate on this theme in 1973). Fønss’s gestural acting style anticipates not only that of Hitler but also of Mussolini, especially when we observe Homunculous commanding his followers. As Siegfried Krakauer observes, “the film foreshadows Hitler surprisingly. Obsessed by hatred, Homunculous makes himself the dictator of a large country, and then sets out to take unheard-of revenge for his sufferings. Disguised as a worker, he incites riots, which give him – the dictator – an opportunity to crush the masses. [Hitler made it quite clear that “leading means: being able to move masses.”513] Finally, Homunculous precipitates a world war. His monstrous existence is cut short by nothing less than a thunderbolt.”612 Krakauer also points out what the philosopher Max Scheler had to say about the significance of this film. “The Germans resembled Homunculous: they themselves had an inferiority complex, due to an historic development which proved detrimental to the self-confidence of the middle-class.”713 Foreshadowing Hitler’s observation that the great masses of the people will fall for the “the great masters of the lie,”8 in proportion to how bold and monstrous the lie is, 14Homunculous says, “Men are truly worth nothing more than to make fools of!” One of the inter-titles even describes Homunculous as “Führer,” a word, which had by that time already developed Messianic connotations alongside its more prosaic meaning of mere “leader.” Homunculous’ beloved also says, “Ich sterbe gern, um Dir zu dienen.” (“I will gladly die to serve you”), which is exactly what the German army was commanded to swear before Hitler himself.
Homunculous was made during the First World War, whereas Robert Wiene’s The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari was a response to its immediate aftermath in 1919, and despite its expressionist/Biedermeyer/fantasy setting it is a direct response to both the horrors of the war and the political establishment that had allowed it to happen. It also foreshadowed what would happen to Germany with the rise of Hitler. While, on the one hand, the film attacks authority (Kracauer suggests that the film “stigmatized the omnipotence of a state authority manifesting itself in universal conscription and declarations of war”95) it also glamorizes the figure of the hypnotic Dr Caligari, who is eventually unmasked as the crazed director of a lunatic asylum. The somnambulist, Cesare (Conrad Veidt), who is under Caligari’s control, also becomes both a symbol of a society that is controlled by a malevolent authority. Cesare is also an even more potent symbol of what Kracauer calls the German withdrawal “from a harsh outer world into the intangible realm of the soul.”1016 The film thus manages to be both anti-authoritarian and a depiction of the tendencies that were to coalesce under Hitler’s rule. “Caligari is a very specific premonition in the sense that he uses hypnotic power to force his will upon his tool – a technique foreshadowing, in content and purpose, that manipulation of the soul which Hitler was the first to practice on a gigantic scale.”1117 This film, therefore, which has often been called the father of all horror films, is also very much a warning of the horrors of politics. In Caligari, as in life itself, the lunatics are very much in charge of the asylum: We begin with an image of Lil Dagover sleep-walking, and it was as a sleepwalker that Hitler famously described his own approach to foreign policy.
The horror of mob-rule has always been a staple of horror films, with their torch-wielding mittel-European villagers and revolting peasants. Lang encapsulated the dangers of mob-rule in the then-contemporary setting of his child-murder masterpiece, M (1931): A harmless pedestrian is helping a child in a street, but the hysteria caused by a spate of unsolved child murders soon makes him a suspect, and suspicious townspeople gather around him like flies around a piece of meat. The immediately preceding scene has informed us: “Any man the street could be the guilty one,” and Lang wastes time in demonstrating how rapidly false accusations can lead to a lynching, as the imminent Nazi era would all too often demonstrate.
The little man suggests that the girl should go back home, after having told her the time. “Do you know where you live?” he asks. Whereupon a burly fellow appears on the scene and asks, “What’s it to you where the kid lives?” Lang masterfully films the little man from above and the burly man from below to emphasize the sense of threat.
“Why were you bothering that kid?”
“But I – I did nothing!” the little man insists. “What do you want with me?” A crowd gathers.
“Punch him in the face!” says one.
“Yes, he’ll kill her like all the others, right?” says another. “It’s the murderer! It’s him! Hold him! Call the police.”
The final punishment of Lorre’s murderer is as brutal as his own crimes have been, and reveals that the mob is little better than the murderer they are punishing. “Someone like you has no rights,” shouts one woman at the people’s court where criminals preside in judgment. “Kill him! We must treat him like a mad dog. Kill him!” Lang thus skillfully prepares us for the simultaneous empathy and revulsion he wishes us to feel for Lorre’s character when he shouts, “I can’t help what I do. I can’t help it. I can’t. This evil thing inside me, the fire, the voices, the torment. It’s there all the time, driving me out to wander the streets. … It’s me, pursuing myself. I want to escape – escape from myself! But it’s impossible,” at which point one man in the crowd is shown to nod sympathetically. There is an element of Hitler himself here, along with Frankenstein’s monster (Lorre even uses the hand gestures Karloff would exploit in Whale’s film — and the Monster, we recall, is also a child murderer). The mob, however, refuse to accept that the child murderer is a sick man. Instead of being handed over to a doctor, they insist on the hangman. The mob has always been in favor of the death penalty, which is why liberal governments are so reluctant to hold referendums about it.
Of course, political horror is not confined to Germany, much though that county has suffered from it. Early on in its development, the Hollywood horror film politicized its horror themes. In Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde (1931), Rouben Mamoulian injected both sexual and class politics into Robert Louis Stevenson’s otherwise purely psychological tale. We have here an upper class doctor whose respectability prevents him from indulging in pre-marital sex, so it is up to Mr. Hyde to gratify his sadomasochistic impulses with Miriam Hopkins’ young Ivy Pearson, a girl from the lower classes. Everything is split in Mamoulian’s film, not just Jekyll’s personality. Society itself is split in two and sexual desire is compartmentalized. Juxtaposed close-ups of Frederic March’s Jekyll and his upper-class fiancée, Muriel (Rose Hobart) also suggest the split in the psyche between Jekyll’s anima and the animus, while Hyde’s attempt to kiss Muriel at the end of the film demonstrates that there is no room in the drawing rooms of the ruling class for any representatives of the proletariat.
Mamoulian’s Dr Jekyll was played by an American matinée idol perhaps because we are at first meant wholly to sympathize with the doctor, and for American audiences an established American presence was the obvious way to encourage this. More straightforward villains were usually of European extraction, however. Ironically, in a country that was created by émigrés, what was foreign became indicative in Hollywood films of what was suspect. Bela Lugosi epitomized mittel-Europe with his much-imitated though never entirely captured Hungarian accent; but the most sinister of Hollywood’s villains were always reserved for British actors (Basil Rathbone, Boris Karloff, George Zucco, Lionel Atwill), and this says something about America’s ambivalent relationship with Britain. Historical oppressors in a war they lost, the British nonetheless had the history and “legitimacy” so craved by the New World. The English spoke the same language but with a patrician accent that has now become a global eccentricity, American English having long since conquered the world.
British accents brought with them echoes of the aristocratic horrors of the Old World, where one could, for example, be exported to Australia merely for stealing a loaf of bread, and this is exactly the world depicted by Michael Reeves in Witchfinder General (1968), a film that, despite the irony of its American star, eloquently explores how the equivalent of a fascist state existed in the Old Country long before the arrival of National Socialism in Germany. In this case, innocent women accused of witchcraft are lynched, hanged and burned almost as a matter of course, while Matthew Hopkins, the witch finder of the title (Vincent Price) is really Hitler on a horse, abusing his self-imposed authority over a society at war with itself in 1645. Reeves’ aim was to demonstrate humanity’s essential violence, which co-exists alongside elegiac natural beauty in a manner previously explored by Octave Mirbeau in his 1899 novel, The Torture Garden. In Mirbeau’s lush tale, set in China, criminals and political prisoners are tortured for their crimes amid the ravishing beauty of cultivated flowers:
“See, my love, what marvelous artists the Chinese are, and how they contrive to make nature an accomplice of the refinement of their cruelty! In our frightful Europe which, for so long a time has not known what beauty is, they torture in secret, in the depths of jails, or in public squares, among vile, drunken crowds. Here it’s among flowers, amid the prodigious enchantment and prodigious silence if all the flowers, that the instruments of torture are erected, the stake, the scaffold and the cross. You’ll see them right away, so intimately mingled with the splendor of this floral irony and the harmony of this unique and magical nature, that they seem in some way to merge with her, and be miraculous flowers of this soil and this light.”128
Mirbeau’s vision is a summation of the violent beauty of nature and the combined violence and cultivation of human civilization, a civilization that has created Auschwitz and the Sistine Chapel. Mirbeau thus presents humanity as simultaneously monstrous and divine.
Reeves’ film opens with a shot of the sun piercing a canopy of trees, forming a cross of light. The camera pans down to a pastoral scene of sheep, grazing safely in the fields, but this is juxtaposed with the threatening sound of a mallet hammering pegs into a gibbet. Then, a shot of quaint timbered-framed houses forms the backdrop to the film’s first lynching scene, which is accompanied by the Bible readings of a priest. As Patrick Wymark narrates the opening text explaining the film’s political context of the English Civil War, the camera pans around a splendid oak tree, that veritable symbol of England itself. As a troop of parliamentary soldiers appears on horseback amidst this natural beauty, they are ambushed. Later, when the priest, John Lowes, (Rupert Davies) is being tortured by Hopkins and his men, Reeves cuts to another painterly scene showing Lowes’ daughter (Hilary Dwyer) wandering by a river in which evening sunlight is reflected. After these horrors have been perpetrated, another shot shows Hopkins on his way against an avenue of trees summoning memories of Ruysdael’s famous painting of the Avenue at Middelharnais. The ravishingly photographed scenery is also accompanied by Paul Ferris’ “Greensleeves” inspired score, which increases the deliberate alienation between horror and beauty, thus emphasizing the existential nature of the film’s message – that there is no meaning in either beauty or horror, and that the will-to-power inherent in human relations increases human suffering.
Two years after Witchfinder General, Gordon Hessler made Scream and Scream Again, which Fritz Lang regarded as “the first adult horror-film he had ever seen.”1320 He particularly admired its political aspect, which S. S. Prawer has described “humanoids invading the very centre of power and taking over, in human disguise, the British government. Such entertainments brought echoes of the Profumo scandal too.”14Scream and Scream Again also echoes conspiracy films such as Don Siegel’s Invasion of the Body Snatchers (1956) and Hammer’s Quatermass 2 (dir. Val Guest, 1957), in which aggressive aliens assume human form and similarly attempt to take over control of the country. Both films were, of course, a cold-war dramas, Hammer’s entry also exploiting the anxieties of British post-war decline, along with the disorienting and alienating effect of the new towns that were springing up from the debris of the war, and are not so far removed from the outrageous but nonetheless extremely popular “Reptilian” conspiracy theories of David Icke.
As our technological capacity to destroy ourselves grows ever greater, popular culture increasingly attempts to exorcise the fear we have of ourselves. The Omen (dir. Richard Donner, 1976) is structurally little more than a series of grisly murders, but the apparent motivation behind them is what matters: the devil is in charge of American politics and is hell-bent on his traditional desire to destroy humanity. Nuclear war is never mentioned by name but the fear of nuclear apocalypse is what this film is all about. A poem created by the screenwriter David Seltzer, implies this subtext:
From the eternal sea he rises,
Raising armies on either shore,
Setting man against his brother,
Till man exists no more.
The photographer played by David Warner analyses the poem by explaining: “In ‘Revelations’ it says ‘he shall rise from the eternal sea.’ … And theologians have already interpreted the eternal sea as meaning the world of politics, the sea that constantly rages with turmoil and revolution; so the Devil’s child will rise from the world of politics.”
Any hope that we will be able to stop our imminent self-immolation at the hands of Damien, the devil’s child, are quashed at the end of the film, when Gregory Peck’s Senator Thorn is shot by the police as he attempts to destroy the demonic cuckoo that has already destroyed Thorn’s nest. The moment is a pivotal one in the horror genre for it shows that audiences no longer believed in their own salvation. The moral ending dies with Thorn. The devil – even if only the devil within us – has won, and humanity, it would appear, is now either powerless to save itself, or no longer even sufficiently interested to do so.
Fantasy films are thus a kind of magic mirror that reflects reality back at us. Guillermo Del Toro’s much-acclaimed Pan’s Labyrinth (2007), however, combines both reality and fantasy. In his unflinching portrayal of General Franco’s fascist will-to-power, Del Toro demonstrates a graphic obsession with the horror of violence: There are shootings, knifings, beatings, euthanasia, amputation and tortures galore, all of which should prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that, as one of the characters herself says, “life is not like your fairy tales. The world is a cruel place….Magic does not exist.” However, Del Toro’s Goya-esque vision of political horror is deeply rooted in Spanish Catholic tradition, a key element of which is actually spoken during a funeral service: “…it is in pain that we find the meaning of life.” The imaginative fantasies of the young girl Ofelia (Ivana Baquero), who finds herself at the mercy not only of the Spanish civil war in general and her appallingly sadistic stepfather, General Vidal (Sergi López), are really equivalent to the teachings of the Catholic Church. One might imagine that a film as bloody and brutal as this one would have no redeeming moral at all, but even though Vidal shoots Ofelia before meeting his own end at the hands of partisans, Del Toro bathes his bruised and battered audience with glittering CGI visions of what amount to the triumph of the imagination over reality, thus cancelling out the real world he is at such pains to present in all its ghastliness.
Set in 1944, when Franco’s regime was triumphant and merely mopping up resistance, Del Torro relishes, with a kind of outraged fascination, the brutalities of Captain Vidal who bludgeons a farmer’s son with a wine bottle and then casually shoots the farmer at point blank range. This would be all very well if the film confined itself to such atrocities, but side-by-side with these graphic indulgences (reminiscent of a medieval monk scourging himself) Del Toro’s message, via Ofelia’s fantasies, is that the imagination can redeem any amount of horror in reality, regardless of the fact that Franco won the war, as the Captain at one stage eloquently points out. Only once in the film does a character adopt a logical response to the horror of the world in which the film takes place: A tortured, mutilated partisan fighter asks the doctor played by Álex Angulo to kill him with a lethal injection.
A rather more convincing critique of Franco’s fascism can be found in Pere Portabella’s astonishing infiltration of Jess Franco’s El Conde Dracula, which he called Cuadecuc, vampir (1970). By filming his own version of Franco’s frankly ponderous movie, Portabella provides the audience with a meta-text, not only about how the movie was made and the nature of its illusion, but also an oblique commentary on the oppression of General Franco’s Spain. Franco was still alive when El Conde Dracula was made, and Portabella seems to be making an ironic juxtaposition between the dictator’s name and that of the prolific director (who also had a penchant for pornography). By vampirizing Franco’s film and creating a shadowy, expressionist reflection of it, often distorted and always in sombre monochrome, he turns the distinct pig’s ear of Franco’s film into a positive silk purse of poetry and political commentary. Portabella’s grainy monochrome vision also references Carl Dreyer’s Vampyr (1932), not to mention F. W. Murnau’s Nosferatu (1922); but the shots of Christopher Lee, who has never looked quite so imposing as he does here as a mustachioed vampire, wearing a top hat in some shots and feeding on the distinctly Latinate features of Soledad Miranda, provide Portabella with a profoundly resonant though subliminal metaphor of General Franco’s dictatorship. The parallel resonates through the context of both films’ creation, and to emphasize this, Portabella’s sound designer and composer, Carles Santos, not only includes the kind of lounge music associated with advertising and the jet-set lifestyle that was emerging at the time, but also blends it with contemporary sounds such as pneumatic drills and airplanes to remind the viewer of the world of everyday reality in which Franco’s unconvincing fantasy is being constructed. He thus makes another comment about General Franco’s fascist fantasy, for it too was an unconvincing imposition on the lives of his cast of thousands of ordinary Spanish people.
General Franco was indeed a kind of second-rate film director, presiding over a creaking melodrama of fascist sadism and political oppression, and Portabella is careful to include a shot of Jess Franco, who plays a walk-on part in El Conde Dracula as a servant, perhaps to strengthen this point. We are also shown footage of Lee, out of character, though still in costume, wearing modern sunglasses and smiling at the camera. Other back-stage business, such as Lee climbing into his coffin and being sprayed with a cobweb machine, also has its political resonance. General Franco, the “great leader” was, after all, just a man, just as the great Lee was “only” an actor, but both were on-screen tyrants, so to speak. The back-stage mechanics of fascism are thus equated with the realities of a film set before the director shouts “action.” To seal this Brechtian “alienation” technique, Portabella has Lee explain and then read Stoker’s description of Dracula’s death. Lee makes a mistake and asks to start again, but Portabella keeps the mistake in (Lee is still acting the role of Lee), and when he has finished Lee stares directly into the camera without moving. (He would do the same in Portabella’s later El Umbráculo, of which Lee recalled: “I spoke no dialogue as such, though I recited a sizable chunk of Poe’s ‘Raven,’ sang music excerpts from The Flying Dutchman and The Damnation of Faust, and had a long, silent, motionless close-up of me which lasted one and a half minutes and for which I never received full credit, as people supposed it to be a still.”1528)
Image is what fascism is all about. As Quentin Crisp once said of the Hitler, “Of course, Hitler did have style. If he did not, how would we now have a Germany of elderly people saying, ‘I can’t think what came over me!’?”1629 After Lee’s almost hypnotic gaze has been sustained for a while, we hear Portabella shout, “Cut!” and, just as General Franco’s death brought the nightmare of fascism to an end, Portabella’s single directorial utterance ends his masterpiece of infiltration and commentary. Cuadecuc is one the greatest political horror films ever made.
- Karl Marx – an abridged edition (ed.David McLellan), Capital, Oxford, Oxford University Press, 1995, 149.
- Adolf Hitler (trans. Ralph Manheim), Mein Kampf, London: Hutchinson, 1974, 452.
- Laurence Rees, The Nazis – A Warning From History, London: BBC, 1997.
- Ibid., 94.
- Hitler, Mein Kampf, 528.
- Siegfried Kracauer, From Caligari to Hitler – A Psychological History of The German Film, Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1947, 32.
- Ibid., 33.
- Adolf Hitler, Mein Kampf, 211.
- Kracauer, From Caligari to Hitler, 64.
- Ibid., 67.
- Ibid., 72-73.
- Octave Mirbeau (trans. Alvah C. Bessie), The Torture Garden, New York: RE/Search and Juno Books, 2000, 73.
- S. S. Prawer, Caligari’s Children – The Film as Tale of Terror, Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1980, 247.
- Ibid., 247-248.
- Christopher Lee, Tall, Dark and Gruesome – An Autobiography, London: Victor Gollancz, 1997, 306-307.
- Quentin Crisp, An Evening With Quentin Crisp, [https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mIjuHWUHnhI