"...Pollexfen sought to weave a new mystery out of the old. He got to try it twice, and they’re credible efforts..."

We've all seen the saga of Dr. Jekyll and his alter ego, Mr. Hyde, played and replayed in film after film.   And that's all of the Jekyll family we see, since in most of those films, the poor Doc never seems to get married, no matter how hard he tries.  But what if he did get hitched and had a son...and even a daughter?  The results may well be what we find in a pair of obscure films concerning the cursed name of Jekyll, films that are all about...

By DON MANKOWSKI

The Strange Case Of Dr. Jekyll And Mr. Hyde, Robert Louis Stevenson’s short novel of 1886 is one of the most frequently dramatized horror stories in history. The famous silent film of 1920 starring John Barrymore was perhaps the fourth or fifth such adaptation, and there have been literally dozens since.

Producer-screenwriter Jack Pollexfen must have had a particular fascination with the work, as he contributed not one but two sequels in the 1950s. However, it’s widely known that in the story Edward Hyde dies, and necessarily, so does his alter-ego/alter-id, Henry Jekyll. In fact, it’s thematically essential. How then to craft a sequel?

Hyde, the monster, terror of all London, climaxed his many acts of violence by murdering his wife in their Soho flat. Chased by an enraged mob, he fled toward his Mayfair home – his only thought to take the potion that would change him back to the respected Dr. Henry Jekyll.

So are we told by the subtitles that open The Son Of Dr. Jekyll, a 1951 Columbia Pictures release. This might lead one to think that it’s a cheat to get the story moving, but in fact the film does treat us to a version of the villain’s spectacular demise. A good idea, as this scenario does take liberties with Stevenson’s conclusion (as well as with story details).

The Victor Fleming-directed adaptation of the famous tale with Spencer Tracy was already a decade past. It’s a nice touch, creating the sequel hook rather than just referring to it. The year is 1860.

Hyde, with nicely-appointed attire but Neanderthal facial features, does get to Jekyll’s residence ahead of the mob, but mixes and quaffs the antidote a bit too late. They’ve set the place ablaze. Indeed it is Jekyll who emerges from a high window, but moments later he dies in a spectacular fall as the flames engulf the house.

The tragic Jekyll is mourned by his associates, Curtis Lanyon, a psychologist, and John Utterson, a lawyer, but not for long. A police inspector soon dispatches the two to Soho Court, for it seems that Jekyll, or rather Hyde, has left behind an orphan. Both betray some understandable apprehension about the lad’s future, but resolve to care for him. As Lanyon is a bachelor, he persuades John and Helen Utterson to adopt the baby boy, although he will retain legal jurisdiction over the estate. We will pick up the story thirty years later.

Young Jekyll has been expelled from the Royal Academy of Science for research interests that are unorthodox by Victorian standards. Edward, a genial sort who seems to be taking it all quite well, is engaged to Utterson’s niece Lynn. Lanyon convinces the uncle that it’s high time that Edward be fully apprised of his father’s legacy. He is, as Lanyon points out, about to inherit the Jekyll estate.

Needless to say, considerable baggage is involved. It is Dr. Lanyon who relates to the young man the story of his father’s dangerous distillation of Man’s evil essence via chemicals. All concerned put on brave faces, but clearly, all harbor unspoken doubts.

(While it should be obvious to us that heredity isn’t involved—not unless the Jekyll potion altered Hyde’s DNA itself—it is important to remember that the formal science of genetics was itself rather young in 1890, and often badly understood.

Jean Baptiste Lamarck’s argument for the inheritance of acquired characteristics still competed with Charles Darwin’s theory. Gregor Mendel’s groundbreaking work on heredity was awaiting rediscovery and interpretation.)

Lynn is supportive, and Edward makes plans to move into his father’s restored house in preparation for their marriage. This he does, shingle and all. (Perhaps it reads "Mad Chemist." He’s certainly not a physician.)

But, there are mysterious goings-on, just enough odd occurrences to make the neighbors, the press, and the police nervous about Edward’s activities. Lanyon suggests to Utterson that his trusteeship over Edward’s affairs ought to be extended. Spoiler looming. Cover your eyes until I tell you it’s okay to read some more.

Well, not really. It’s made obvious at this point that Lanyon is up to something. The only question involves his intentions: is he trying to help Edward clandestinely? After all, Edward’s servant, Michael, defends Lanyon’s loyalty to the family in terms not uncertain.

Laynon delivers a vital notebook of Henry Jekyll’s to the son, and covertly plants an important letter in his mailbox. The result is that Edward resolves to replicate his father’s work. He wants to clear the name, "prove that he actually discovered a new formula." Now, I’m, not at all sure how this is going to help matters, proving that Henry wasn’t merely crazy, but instead really did make a monster of himself. Perhaps Edward sees a way to put the research to benign use, but it seems an odd beginning.

Edward Jekyll works single-mindedly at his project, as the neighbors grow more intolerant. His results are negative, until the night when Dr. Lanyon sneaks into the lab and enhances Edward’s mixture with some reagent of his own. Sure enough, Edward soon pronounces the concoction ready, and tests it on himself. Indeed, it does appear to transform him—or does it?

When Edward attempts to demonstrate his drug to scientists and reporters, it fails. But, soon, he is charged with a Hyde-type of crime (the beating of a youngster) and confined to Lanyon’s care. He has to escape and eventually solve a murder to expose the treachery directed at him.

There will be a final confrontation with Lanyon, who having lost all in the Henry Jekyll affair, plotted to steal the estate from Edward. Lanyon has orchestrated the events ever since Edward’s return. He produced a bogus notebook and altered the chemical formula himself. The potion did not produce a monster: it was all Lanyon’s fabrication with makeup. (Lanyon had earlier expressed his doubts about Henry’s drug, stating that it was probably the man’s mind that effected the changes.)

Edward knows too much, and Lanyon plans to kill him. Their scuffle predictably sets the house ablaze once more – filmic laboratories are quite the firetrap. The ironic ending has the mob identify Lanyon as the true monster, and chase him back into the flaming building as Michael rescues Edward. Lanyon’s fate is remarkably like that of the elder Jekyll.

As Edward leads Lynn away, he watches the fire and concludes, "There’s enough light for everyone to see the truth." End title:

The fiery death of Dr. Lanyon ended the Jekyll-Hyde legend. Both the original manuscript and the fake copy went into Scotland Yard files to go down in history with other tales of bizarre crimes.

This film, directed by Seymour Friedman, has sets that evoke that gas-lit period adequately. There’s a nice attention to detail in, for example, the use of real chem lab equipment and almost-convincing scientific notes.

The cast is quite respectable. It features Lester Matthews (whom you may remember from Werewolf Of London and The Raven) as Utterson and Alexander Knox (the Woodrow in Wilson) as Lanyon. Along for the ride are such fine supporting players as Rhys Williams, Doris Lloyd, Holmes Herbert, and Gavin Muir.

Louis Hayward, who enacts Edward Jekyll, is best known for playing the challenging dual role in The Man In The Iron Mask (1939), directed by James Whale. (In that film, Peter Cushing also performed both roles, providing the other twin for Hayward to play against, but all that survives is the back of his head. I suspect that most of us would rather have an alternate version with Peter’s cuts.)

Indeed, everyone plays with sobriety, but some real fire was badly needed. It’s a dull script, mostly devoid of mystery or horror.

But, if at first…

NARRATOR: One of the early masterpieces of science and horror is Robert Louis Stevenson’s immortal "Doctor Jekyll and Mister Hyde," the thought-provoking story of how a strange experiment transforms a benevolent doctor into…Mister Hyde, a human werewolf. When the news of the death of this monster came, there was a nationwide sign of relief. No longer would the sound of every strange footstep mean terror

The evil thing would never prowl the dark again.

THE EVIL THING (HIMSELF): Are you sure?

Once again, the death of Dr. Jekyll is the starting point. In Allied Artists’ Daughter Of Dr. Jekyll (1957), Janet Smith returns to her family’s ancestral home in the English countryside, accompanied by fiancé George Hastings. She expects a happy reunion with her devoted guardian, old Dr. Lomas. Indeed, the family estate is to be hers, a big Tudor-era mansion with secret rooms and passages.

But, as Lomas will reveal, there’s a cross to bear. He shows Janet the family crypt and the tomb of her father: the infamous Dr. Henry Jekyll. He kneweth not what he did…May his tortured soul rest in peace.

Jekyll, explains Lomas, was a scientific genius, but unwisely experimented upon himself. He prowled at the full of the moon, and was not conscious of his crimes, but remembered them only as nightmares-- until the day the villagers cornered him and drove a stake through his heart. Lomas suggests that the condition is not hereditary…probably. (Lomas explains that he is keeping a promise to her late father in revealing all this, but the man does belabor.)

Janet begins a swift descent into madness over concern for her grim legacy. George makes plans to take her away from all of this, and Lomas does his part—with drugs and hypnotism for the young woman. Sinister servant Jacob eavesdrops on the proceedings and riles up the villagers against the Jekyll descendant.

The concerns would appear to be grounded. After experiencing a vivid nightmare of a dark woman stalking an innocent girl, Janet awakens, disheveled, muddied and bloodied. Maggie, Janet’s maid is found dead of throat wounds.

The cycle will repeat. Janet’s dream-self next assumes a Lilith role, stalking a young couple and slaying the girl in vampiric fashion. Again there’s a confused awakening for Janet with news of a dead villager. "I killed her!" screeches Janet. "I crept up like some animal, and then I had my hands around her throat—!"

Now, Jacob really has the villagers incensed, and is sharpening a stake just for Janet. An impending coroner’s inquest serves to keep Janet from fleeing the village. That night, Dr. Lomas administers some heavy drugs to Janet to help her sleep, and vows to stand watch over her. But once George has left, things get curious.

Spoiler alert. Squint here if you still want to be surprised. Then again, if you haven’t figured it out by now…

Flickering candle in hand, Lomas leads the sleepwalking Janet through the passageways to the Jekyll tomb. There he issues a posthypnotic command: Janet is to experience the role of murderer one more time, and then hang herself over her father’s tomb.

But it will be a vicarious experience for her, as were the others. It’s now clear that Lomas is in possession of the Jekyll potion. He partakes of it, and is tortuously transformed into Hyde II. All of this is witnessed by George, who has stealthily come to Janet’s defense. He grapples with Lomas, but the beastly fiend knocks him out and departs on his evil mission.

Lomas/Hyde enacts a rather voyeuristic/fetishistic attack on Janet’s behalf, leering through a window at a young blonde woman in a corset as she puts on stockings and garters; in the background a gramophone grinds out ooh-la-la music.

This could be characterized as a "gratuitous lingerie" scene, but it suggests the sadism of the Stevenson original, at least so far as they could show in the 1950s. The lady gets a general subscriber warning via her telephone just before the creature slays her. (It’s news to me that they had Reverse-911 in Edwardian times.)

Back at the tomb, Janet is preparing the noose, and George recovers in time to prevent her suicide. He explains that Lomas has become the Hyde-monster in order to eliminate her and to gain control of the estate.

But now, Hyde II has returned to the crypt, just ahead of pursuing villagers. George has Janet feign unconsciousness to buy time. Indeed, the fiend wants to paint Janet with the victim’s blood and let her face the wrath of the mob. George fights with the villain as the crowd breaks in. In a nicely choreographed scene, the vigilante Jacob skewers Hyde II with the long stake. The hirsute face reverts to that of Lomas. The terror is dispelled, and George embraces Janet. 

Does it sound as if writer Pollexfen recycled his earlier treatment? Of course he did. But, this time producer Pollexfen hired Edgar G. Ulmer, "The King of the B’s" to direct.

Ulmer (1904-1972) worked with legendary filmmakers like F.W. Murnau and Fritz Lang in Europe prior to his coming to Hollywood. He crossed paths with Max Reinhart, Paul Wegener, Erich von Stroheim, Robert Siodmak, and Billy Wilder. He was renowned as a man who could get the most out of a stingy budget and still impart a personal visual style to a film.

In 1934 Ulmer had directed Boris Karloff and Bela Lugosi in The Black Cat, and turned out the most daring and offbeat of the Universal classics. Detour (1945)--shot in four days on three sets with two actors and a partridge in a pear tree--had become something of a textbook example of film noir and low-budget artistry. His other credits included Bluebeard (1944), starring John Carradine, and The Man From Planet X (1951), a misty and moody science fiction flick unusually thoughtful for its time.

Though not much of a mystery, Daughter Of Dr. Jekyll is a visual treat. The nightmare sequences are most unsettling. They employ disorienting camera angles, and unsynchronized or absent sound. Atavistic-Janet is played by a different actress, a nightgown-clad Vampira-type. Shrouded in near-impenetrable mist, these scenes are the illogical stuff of which dreams are made. There’s also a nice, cheap, mirror trick where Janet’s reflection is replaced by her nightmare self looking back at her.

Despite a similar plot, Daughter is an interesting contrast with The Son Of Dr. Jekyll. In place of Son’s Victorian era setting, Daughter’s seems at times almost contemporary, as the period is portrayed indifferently. I gather it’s supposed to be circa 1910. There’s one antique motor car and a few dated costumes, but that’s about it. (Poor "George" has to wear a horrendous Gay Nineties sport coat with wide stripes. a jacket that makes you grateful the film isn’t in color.) Well, so what? The Universal classics, Bride Of Frankenstein in particular, seemed to be set in several eras at once.

Son has a relatively staid music score, whereas Daughter’s is blatantly brassy. Instead of the clean, sturdy London sets of Son, Daughter features castles and isolated homes, and its sylvan scenes are cloaked in an oppressive fog. The film almost makes it on atmosphere alone. Even the daytime scenes have smoky wisps about them.

(For you E.C. fans out there, I’d say that if Son were Reed Crandall then Daughter is Ghastly Graham Ingels.) So, let’s take the time to credit designers Theobold Holsopple and Mowbray Berkeley, editor Holbrook N. Todd, and cinematographer John F. Warren Ulmer has said that he was consciously imitating Tod Browning’s love of mist and fog business here.

The screenplay features an odd blending of legends. Mister Hyde is called, at the outset, "a human werewolf," although he is finally put down in vampire fashion, staked through the heart. If indeed the Jekyll drug induces lycanthropy, then it must be a synthetic version of some substance found naturally in werewolf saliva, the counter to the Mariphasa lupina lumino extract that Dr. Glendon sought in Werewolf Of London.

The counterpart drug in Son would seem to be no more than a potent hallucinogen. We see that Son attempted to lift the creaky old story into the currently fashionable realm of psychology, but that Daughter took it back to old-fashioned bio-chemistry, or rather, bio-alchemy.

Janet is played by darkly beautiful Gloria Talbott, who looks quite good in her lacy wardrobe. Look for Gloria in I Married A Monster From Outer Space (1958—a good film despite an awful title), and Cyclops (1957).

John Agar, who had an incredibly prolific career in incredible films, is George. Of course, we remember him from Revenge Of The Creature (1955), Tarantula (1955), The Mole People (1956), and King Kong (1976, the infamous remake).

Agar and Talbott play off each other nicely. I especially like the way that a bust of Shakespeare glowers at their romantic interludes, suggesting tragic lovers like nothing else could. A very odd device has George read of werewolves in a book only to have his voice-over joined by a distraught Janet. It doesn’t work, but you won’t forget it.

If Arthur Shields looks familiar, it’s because he’s the younger brother of the more famous actor Barry Fitzgerald, the Oscar-winner for Going My Way in 1944. Shields’ Dr. Lomas suggests dear old Father Fitzgibbon so much that at times I was waiting for Bing Crosby to drop in and sing "Too-Ra-Loo-Ra-Loo-Ra" to anesthetize the old guy for us.

His Dr. Lomas, of the lispy-brogue voice, prances nicely between the trustworthy and the suspicious, just the sort who can spike your milk-and-brandy with an additional shot of something and get away with it.

(Everyone in the film pronounces the family name JEE-kill, with a longer "e’ sound than is used in Son. Well, Jacob, the sinister servant tends towards "JAY-kill," but he’s an odd sort.)

When Allied Artists studios released its 1950s films to television in the mid-1960s, many of these had to be padded out to at least 75 minutes in length. Anything shorter wouldn’t properly fill a 90-minute time slot even after commercials were added. (That must sound incredible to today’s television viewer. I suspect that most pitch-laden stations of 2003 would have to trim a 75-minute film drastically to fit it in an hour and a half of air time.)

For most of A.A.’s films, this was accomplished by lifting an interesting passage from the middle of the film and previewing it as a kicker before the main title. I know that I’ve seen From Hell It Came (1957), The Cyclops (1957), Macabre (1958) and a few others elongated in this fashion.

But for Daughter, the editors did something even more interesting. They lifted the opening sequence of Howard W. Koch’s Frankenstein 1970 (1958) and spliced it into the middle of Daughter!

In the clip, a young woman runs in terror through a misty forest, inexorably pursued by a shuffling, slouching half-human, half-animal monstrosity whose face we can’t quite see, but whose claws are evident. Eventually, the creature backs her into a steaming lake until she can retreat no more, and…

It’s a very good scene, probably the best thing about Frankenstein 1970: pity that film still had 80-odd minutes to fill out with less imposing stuff. The scene seems even more fogbound in Daughter (post processing—probably with bleach), and is truly the stuff of nightmares.

I was at first rather sorry to find the clip missing from the DVD release of Daughter, but for all its glory, it really doesn’t fit very well, introducing a very different terror into the middle of the first of the nightmare sequences. (For many years, having seen only the television versions of both films, I’d assumed that the only good scene in F’70 had been stolen from Ulmer. Truth is, Koch really outdid himself once, and some anonymous editor executed a good swipe on Ulmer’s behalf.)

Furthermore, television broadcasts of the padded-out version of Daughter begin with a scrolling-text introduction. You might get a kick out of the less-than-immortal prose that no longer survives:

We raise a familiar ghost from its moonlit grave, to bring you a sequel to the story of the world’s most famous monster.

On the eerie grounds of an ancient manor house in England lies a tomb with a grim history. Within the tomb is the body of the man known as Dr. Jekyll – Mr. Hyde.

THESE are the startling revelations concerning an unknown secret, buried with the fiend…and discovered by the girl who never knew, she was the "DAUGHTER OF DR. JEKYLL"

Next comes the narrated prologue, and only then the standard title sequence! (Add on some dippy "horror host" setting up the whole package and it becomes absolutely surreal.)

Each film features a single on-screen man-into-monster transformation, one for Hayward and another for Shields. Unless I’m mistaken, both employ the trick of making already-applied makeup turn visible via changes in the color of the lighting, something that works only in black-and-white cinematography. It’s an interesting alternative to the more familiar Wolf Man time-lapse dissolves. This technique was used to great effect on Fredric March in Rouben Mamoulian’s 1932 film of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, although Spencer Tracy eschewed extreme makeup for his 1941 portrayal.

The Stevenson original was composed as a mystery: confirmation that Hyde was indeed Jekyll comes near the end of the story, in fact after Hyde’s death. Pollexfen sought to weave a new mystery out of the old. He got to try it twice, and they’re credible efforts. Neither film is much of a chip off the old block, but Daughter does the old man prouder.

Son remains unavailable in any video format. All Day Entertainment recently released a DVD of Daughter as part of an Ulmer series. The film is nicely presented, and the disc includes reminiscences by John Agar and Arianne Ulmer Cipes, the director’s daughter. She reveals that Jack Pollexfen, midwife for the Jekyll siblings, is retired, living quietly in Saulsalito, California. He’s earned it.

(Don Mankowski assures his readers that this article was composed without the aid of any psychochemical agents. Check out his modest Webpage for other works)

Thanks, Don!  It seems that, unlike their two-faced father, the progeny of Dr. Jekyll have also retired from duty.   The tortured Doc seems to be resurrected every so often by Hollywood, but his children are allowed to live in relative obscurity.  Yet both films are well worth viewing, although Son will take some sleuthing to secure a watchable copy.   Maybe if Columbia's Nippon bosses ever decide to listen to US fans for once, we will someday see that flick join its sister on DVD.

Article copyright © Don Mankowski

Return To Archives