“It’s pretty, but its a bit difficult to understand. Somehow it makes me think of all kinds of things, but I’m not sure exactly what”

These are the first words the viewer is presented with the beginning of Malpertuis, the audacious fantasy film crafted by Belgian horror auteur Harry Kümel, and one of the most deliriously strange pieces of narrative filmmaking produced in the 1970s. A darkly comical story of allegory, metaphor and mythology, the film adapts the gothic novel of the same name into a surreal masterpiece that adheres quite adamantly to the opening words. From the outset, we already know that Malpertuis is going to be something extraordinary, a film that may not always make sense (but in the words of Thomas Pynchon, who might have been inspired by this labyrinthine dark comedy in his own allegorical social masterpieces, “why should things be easy to understand?”), but is consistently daring, taking a bold stance in how it portrays the central themes, and most importantly being audacious enough to present the audience with one of the most twisted and perverted horror films of its era, one that embraces corporeality and the carnivalesque nature of lust and desire, but without ever abandoning the oddly enduring dignity that makes it such a fascinating experience. There’s very little doubt that despite being tragically underseen, Malpertuis is a masterpiece of horror filmmaking and one of the most intrepid artworks of its time.

Set in a distant European city, Jan (Mathieu Carrière), a simple seaman, has just arrived in his hometown. He is hoping to return to his family home to spend his sabbatical from ocean life, only to find himself thrust in a world he barely recognizes. He wakes up and discovers that he has been trapped in an enormous gothic mansion, composed of endless corridors and innumerable chambers that apparently never cease to confuse anyone unlucky enough to find themselves inside the manor, apparently named “Malpertuis”. The head of the household is Cassavius (Orson Welles), Jan’s extremely wealthy uncle who has amassed many followers who are constantly by his side, hoping that when the bedridden, draconian nobleman succumbs to his illness, they’ll all receive part of his enormous fortune. Cassavius has many heirs, and when they gather to read his will, they’re thrilled to find that he has left them all a considerable amount, each one of them inheriting part of his wealth. However, there is one condition: none of them are allowed to leave Malpertuis. They are to spend the rest of their lives in the decrepit mansion, with the last surviving beneficiary being the one to inherit everything. What seems like an inconvenient but otherwise simple request eventually becomes impossible, as many of the inhabitants of the mansion try and get around the agreement, and end up meeting quite grim fates, almost as if there was something far larger than just the spirit of a deceased relative roaming the halls of Malpertuis.

This is a remarkably difficult film to talk about, because there is so much complexity in virtually every moment of Malpertuis, you will always leave something pivotal out. Perhaps one of the most beautifully-composed films of the 1970s, the film is a bold exercise in surrealism, at a time when it wasn’t a vogue artistic movement, but rather something very often controversial and limited to the arthouse or the underground. Kümel was not someone to follow conventions (as was evident in his other film from this year, the astonishing cult vampire film, Daughters of Darkness), and he clearly relishes in his reckless disregard for anything related to playing by the rules. Its certainly not a film that one would necessarily enjoy watching, but it does captivate the viewer in a very different way. Instead of alluring us into its beautiful world, it envelopes us in a shroud of deception and dreamlike despair, where we experience the same feelings of entrapment and discomfort as the protagonist, struggling to escape from the grasp of the unknown, but still falling victim to the curiosity that comes with such a situation. In Malpertuis, just like the house that bears that name, you never quite know what’s lurking in the shadows, or waiting just around the corner. That’s where the sheer delight embedded in this film comes from – Kümel’s approach is to make something so terrifying but thrilling in equal measure, we can’t look away, even if we’re perpetually in a state of almost overwhelming panic. Any filmmaker who can elicit such a passionate response from his audience is bound to be of special significance, and Malpertuis is definitely a strong case for Kümel’s entry into the canon of great horror directors.

Malpertuis occurs somewhere between our world and another, albeit one that is never particularly clear, until the final moments. Constructed as an almost perverted adaptation of an Agatha Christie novel, whereby a group of relative strangers set out to achieve a certain goal, but are slowly eliminated due to various reasons, most of them based on their lack of adherence to a particular set of rules. The film is almost impossible to categorize, as it features these elements of suspense blending seamlessly with horror (could Malpertuis be a contender for one of the formative entries into the slasher genre?), as well as dark surrealism, where the director takes us into a realm populated with nightmarish imagery and sense of dread that’s normally only found in the most terrifying of fantasies. Kümel creates a horrifying dreamscape, and through infusing it with dark humour and unsettling occurrences, he’s able to tell a story that is intentionally complex and difficult to follow – how else would the climax of this film, perhaps one of the greatest twists in horror cinema history, been as effective? As we’ve said already, we’re never quite sure where Malpertuis is heading, but the director already prefaced this twisted tale with the opening words, which should prepare even the most acclimated viewer to expect the unexpected – and even through this, the film still manages to be utterly surprising and strangely compelling, even if it is a singularly uncomfortable experience, and intentionally so.

As fascinating as the story is, what makes Malpertuis so memorable is how Kümel visually composes this world – there are numerous moments in this film that could legitimately lay claim to being amongst the most gorgeous pieces of cinematography of its era, with the intersections between the work of veteran Gerry Fisher (who was involved in some truly astonishing films over the course of his career), and the production design working in tandem to realize Kümel’s deranged vision for this film. Malpertuis is not a film that benefits from simplicity, and it is one of the rare examples where excess is not only accepted, it is openly encouraged. The film is so gloriously unhinged, and it forces us into submission at every turn, never giving us even so much as a moment of clarity throughout. The film relies on its uncompromising beauty and feverish attention to detail, both in terms of the story it tells and how it represents the story, it becomes almost impossible to not be captivated, even when the film is at its most unsettling. Malpertuis makes great use of the gothic setting in how it conveys the claustrophobic sensation of being ensnared in a macabre, unearthly realm that resembles our own, but with everything oscillating between slightly uncomfortable to relentlessly disconcerting. The film makes use of a form of controlled chaos, where we are supposed to be confused and bewildered by this strange but fascinating story, mainly because so much of what makes Malpertuis so effective is the sense that the viewer, much like Jan, is thrown into an unrecognizable world of pure terror, where the unexpected is always a looming threat. Much like the opening words of the film make sure to mention, what we are about to see may not make very much sense, but it is at least gorgeous – and it’s in this unconventional beauty that the film flourishes the most.

The best advice anyone can receive before watching Malpertuis is to disregard all sense of logic – Harry Kümel is not a filmmaker that gives much thought to reason, rather building his films out of ideas taken from the director’s own unique perspective on life. Working from Jean Ray’s challenging novel, Kümel makes one of the most enduring fantasy films of its period, a daring combination of otherworldly fear and real-world terror, taking inspiration from various literary moments – Greek mythology, Gothic horror and speculative science fiction, finding a way to put them together in a way that appears authentic but still unquestionably authentic. We’ve already spoken about the opening words to the film, which serve as a disclaimer to just surrender yourself to the idiosyncratic quirks of the films, rather than trying to find meaning in every moment. The film ends with words that respond directly to the opening words, as well as the film as a whole: “life, what is it but a dream?”, which is possibly the best way to conclude this bold and original masterpiece that suspends all belief and challenges conventions, both of narrative fiction and life as a whole, which is an impressive achievement if there ever was one.