The anthology format is a genre of filmmaking that has seemingly gone out of fashion, with the exception of the occasional attempt to revisit the form, albeit from a more self-aware perspective. Yet, it is a remarkably effective means to make a film – shorter stories sewn together by some narrative or thematic thread. The genre that benefits most from this format is horror – and it only makes sense, considering how some of the most effective horror stories are those of shorter length, that compensate for their brief duration with impactful and often extremely terrifying stories. Some of the most brilliant horror films of the 1960s and 1970s were anthologies, with Hammer and Amicus producing some excellent work during their heyday. Several studios attempted to add prestige to a genre that was successful but ultimately viewed as somewhat lesser than some more elite films. Spirits of the Dead (French: Histoires Extraordinaires) is one such example, and while I will at the outset say this is a film that is quite bewildering and left me quite disillusioned for the most part, the audacity contained within this film just can’t be denied – and in many ways, while there is a much better film lurking within the often exceptionally dull final product, Spirits of the Dead is a fascinating experiment, and something quite worthwhile, if only for the sheer innovation that comes with it.

Based on the work of Edgar Allan Poe, Spirits of the Dead tells three different stories – the first is a tale of a young woman (Jane Fonda) whose carnal desires soon prove to be her downfall when she meets a handsome but mysterious man who she soon finds herself falling in love with (Peter Fonda…I know). The second is the tale of a young French soldier (Alain Delon) who has been haunted by his doppelganger since childhood, and when the soldier’s philandering reaches a grotesque peak after a raucous game of cards with a young woman (Brigitte Bardot), his double is there right on cue to correct his wrongdoing and make him pay the consequences. The final story is about a Shakespearean actor (Terence Stamp) who is slowly losing his mind – but is it the alcohol that he so actively consumes, or the sinister child who is found everywhere he goes? Spirits of the Dead is certainly not a film that can be considered the apex of Poe adaptations (prior to seeing this film, I had been completely unaware of any of these stories), nor the epitome of effective horror anthologies. Rather, its a well-made but often misguided attempt to throw three stories together under the meticulous supervision of three wildly different but extremely talented European auteurs, hoping that of they throw a big budget, a cast of major stars from both sides of the pond and the stories of the iconoclastic Poe at a wall, something would stick. Unfortunately, it doesn’t (at least for the most part). There are merits and shortcomings to every segment in this film, and therefore we can’t really qualify this as a bad film – there are some admirable qualities – nor can we call this a good film either, because the flaws are just too significant to overlook.

The first segment, “Metzengerstein” is set in the European countryside and focuses on Countess Frederique, played with sincere conviction by Jane Fonda, who momentarily steps away from her status as solely a sex symbol to give something off a committed performance as the young noblewoman with carnal desires and a fierce temper. Yet, when she encounters her mysterious neighbour and promptly allows her jealousy to get the better of her, things take a turn for the worse, and the titular character finds herself in quite a precarious position. This segment is about as good as it sounds – which isn’t much. “Metzengerstein”, which is directed by the master of grace, humility and decency, Roger Vadim, is essentially an early performance from Jane Fonda that utilizes her good looks by placing her in ridiculously skimpy outfits, and asking her to prance around beautiful castles and convey some sort of inner conflict – especially those of feeling intense attraction to the other character in the film, a enigmatic baron…played by Peter Fonda. Perhaps its a sign of my middle-class Catholic upbringing, but something about seeing Jane Fonda lust after her own brother just resonates as being inappropriate. Even putting that aside, the storytelling in “Metzengerstein” is just unimpressive. The story has no value, and it is extremely convoluted. It doesn’t help that Vadim seems to be the epitome of style over substance, and as alluring as the segment is visually, it just doesn’t ultimately work very well. It is excruciatingly dull and seems to be moving towards a non-existent resolution, so even though this episode runs for a respectable forty minutes, it feels much longer. I’d say starting the film with this segment was a poor decision, but in all honesty, including it in the film at all seems like a mistake.

One would think after the dreadful “Metzengerstein”, the only logical conclusion would be that the film would get better. Thankfully, this was true for the most part, because the next segment, “William Wilson”, was better, but still not perfect. It may not have the complete disregard for coherency as the previous segment did, but there were still significant flaws that detracted from the fact that this had a decent story at the core. The product of French director Louis Malle, “William Wilson” did certainly have promise – and the first half of this story, whereby the titular young man (Alain Delon) is haunted by his doppelganger, was terrific and had potential to be something quite fascinating (the concept of doubles is one that is profoundly fascinating, as evident by one of this year’s best films being centrally focused on the idea of being haunted by yourself). Where “William Wilson” falls apart is when it abandons this storyline, and takes our protagonist to a masquerade ball, where he engages in a competitive game of cards with an alluring young courtesan (Brigitte Bardot) – and while the idea isn’t bad and does lead to a good payoff, the fact that this is the centrepiece of the segment ruins it, because it just isn’t interesting. “William Wilson” goes from being fascinating to tedious, and not even a committed turn from the brilliant Delon, or Bardot at her most complex, can save this segment from being a trifling and dull experience. It does improve on the preceding story, but not by much, and the only saving grace is its effective story, which isn’t executed to its full capacity.

Finally, the sole reason for watching Spirits of the Dead can be found in the final segment, which is also the only one that rises above mediocrity. “Toby Dammit” tells of the titular character (Terence Stamp), a once-beloved actor who was one of the most acclaimed interpreters of Shakespeare but has recently fallen into disfavour as a result of his raging alcoholism. An attempt to revive his career comes when he is sent to Italy to star in an experimental film about the life of Jesus Christ. While there, Toby interacts with a variety of industry folk, and whether taking part in an invasive, soulless tabloid interview or being a guest at a lavish, overly-excessive awards ceremony, Toby is surrounded by sycophantic, manipulative individuals that wish to exploit his fame for their own gain. However, Toby is bothered by someone far more sinister – a young girl who follows him across the world, armed with a white ball and an air of undeniable evil. Toby believes she is the embodiment of the devil, and when our protagonist finally reaches the point of losing his mind, a high-space journey across the gorgeous Italian town brings him once again into the presence of this spectre, who is intent on bringing demise to the promising but tragic life of Toby Dammit. Terence Stamp is undeniably one of the finest actors of his generation, and while most of his memorable work is in the latter part of his career, his performance in films such as this show the promise he already showed as a younger actor. In “Toby Dammit”, he is just perfect – his character is a bundle of neuroses and anxieties, which he remedies through copious amounts of alcohol, which has effectively brought an end to his career, but also kept the demons, both psychological and corporeal, at bay. Directed by Federico Fellini, “Toby Dammit” is an explosion of colour and style, and unlike the other two segments, this one certainly has the story to go with it, as well as the confidence to put it all together effectively. However, despite being quite good throughout, “Toby Dammit” starts to fall apart near the end, where it chooses to have the titular character drive through the Italian city and soon meet his demise at the hand of his own vision of Satan (a good friend refers to this segment as “The Faust and the Furious”, which is quite appropriate). However, in contrast of the two previous segments, the problem with “Toby Dammit” is that it is the only one that could’ve been a feature all on its own, and its shortcomings all stem from the fact that there’s a much longer story begging to be told, but being put into this limited space forced it to cut out a lot of what would presumably resolve some of the small flaws. I would say Spirits of the Dead saved the best for last, but in all honesty, this film would’ve just been better had it just been a film about Toby Dammit. Here’s hoping someone is inspired enough to write something more for this character, because if there is only one takeaway from this film, its that Toby is one of the most profoundly fascinating characters in horror cinema.

In tying these three separate segments together, there are some qualities that they all have in common, and surprisingly, what binds these imperfect short films are merits rather than shortcomings. First of all, they were made by great visual stylists, in particular, Vadim and Fellini, who use their unique visions to craft stunning pieces. The films make use of every part of its budget to add exquisite detail to the films, which compensate for some narrative shortcomings – whether it be in the gorgeous costumes Vadim dresses Fonda in, or Malle’s excellent rendering of space in contrast of the events being depicted (whether showing the action in wide, sweeping shots or in tense close-ups), or Fellini’s nightmarish use of colour that lends the final segment an undeniably powerful beauty. Spirits of the Dead may not be the most scintillating films in terms of the way it adapts Poe’s stories narratively, but it would be foolish to not acknowledge the visual beauty of this film, which elevates it and actually makes it worth watching – at its best, Spirits of the Dead is compelling and unsettling, and at its worst, it is beautiful to look at. “Toby Dammit” on its own constitutes a masterful example of style and substance in horror cinema (something a certain Mario Bava could have taken a cue from), and it makes one wonder why he never ventured into the genre again. Vadim and Malle, to the credit, deal with difficult stories in genres that aren’t clearly within their wheelhouse. Thus, despite some of the shortcomings in the final product, I lean towards giving Spirits of the Dead kudos for its unabashed audacity, and the sheer passion behind these segments.

Ultimately, Spirits of the Dead is a flawed film, and it starts off as a convoluted, confusing muddle, and only marginally improves by the second segment, but barely enough to elicit much passion. The final segment and undeniably the best is a vast improvement and manages to stand as a great piece all on its own, but it features a lack of development not even a spirited performance from Terence Stamp can compensate for. This film doesn’t represent the apex of anthology filmmaking, nor does it demonstrate the strengths of these kinds of films with any discernible coherency. However, where it does succeed is in its ability to be gorgeous in visual style, and confident in the stories it tells. It is not very often you see three eclectic arthouse directors thrown together under one broad work, and the result, while often disappointing, is at least a fascinating experiment. Spirits of the Dead could’ve been better, but it also could’ve been worse – and by that, I mean “Metzengerstein” could’ve been longer.