Mill of the Stone Women

Holland, the cusp of the 20th century. Student Hans von Arnem (Pierre Brice – Shatterhand in the Winnetou Eurowesterns) is dispatched from Rotterdam to the backwater of Veese to prepare a study of its famous carousel of murderesses on the occasion of its cententary. He finds the exhibit's curator, Professor Gregorius Wahl (Robert Boehme), unprepared for his visit and offering a somewhat standoffish welcome. In time the reason emerges: The man's daughter, Elfi, has a rare illness and must be protected from shocks.

Unfortunately by the time Hans learns this it is already too late. Elfi (the tasty looking Scilla Gabel) has become infatuated with the handsome stranger who, now realising his own feelings towards his childhood friend Liselotte (Dany Carrel – equally lovely), cannot reciprocate. He tries to let Elfi down gently but she takes it badly and collapses dead on the spot. Panicking, Hans puts her body in bed and flees the scene.

But, honourable sort that he is, he returns early the next morning to explain only to then discover that Elfi is not there. The Professor's assistant Dr Bolem (Wolfgang Preiss – the 1960s incarnation of Dr Mabuse) appears and, noticeing the young man's obvious distress, suggests something to calm his nerves. Not realising that Bolem is himself infatuated with Elfi, Hans accepts only to find himself plunged into a waking nightmare where nothing is what it seems…

Giorgo Ferroni's Mill of the Stone Women is one of those Euro-horror entries that, until now, has been known more by reputation than anything else.

And, unusually the film more than matches the hype. It's not that anything on offer is particularly groundbreaking – any synopsis indicates a near-overloading with amour fou, mad scientists and other familiar generic topoi – more that the combination of elements is unusual, blending the solid physicality and restrained yet elegant mise en scene of early Hammer with moments of delirious visual poetry drawn from the longer established continental fantastique, expressionist and surrealist traditions.

It's simply a beautifully crafted piece, with an intelligently written script, lush yet subtle Technicolour cinematography, impressively detailed designs and sets and an unusually effective score that blends traditional horror movie atmospherics – mournful strings, simple ostenato piano and haunting female vocal – with a cleverly used Chopin piano etude that shifts between diegetic and non-diegetic registers.

The only demerits are a slow pace that takes a while to establish what the genre literate viewer will already have surmised on hearing the title and a touch of staginess in places, with Robert Boehme in particular sometimes coming across as someone who would have been more at home in the 1924 Waxworks.

But with many moments that linger in the mind long after the film has ended, such as the harmless yet sinister old woman and child standing, or the image of Elfi in her glass-fronted coffin, yellow flowers standing out amist a sea of blue light, not to mention the or the supremely macabre carousel itself – any such minor errors of judgement as easily forgiven.

Mondo Macabro have given Mill of the Stone Women the DVD treatment it deserves with a quality transfer and nice selection of extras.

The film is presented in widescreen and, though there have been debates here and there about its original aspect ratio, looks correct to my eyes. The transfer is remarkably good considering the age of the piece, the only negative some noticeable colour shifts.

The three language tracks – with US and UK English dubs alongside French – are solid if unspectacular, dialogue, sound and ambiences – a whiny dog in particular – coming through clearly. The extras begins with the UK trailer – "They say that trouble began with women, and you'll see why in Mill of the Stone Women" – followed by three alternate and deleted scenes.

A French-language dialogue-driven scene adds little and, with cars passing over the bridge in the background, would seem to have been omitted from the film for practical reasons.

More interesting are the hallucination scene from the 1963 US release, which uses a crude dissolve to signal Hans's altered state, and the French language credits, which tellingly omit the reference to Pieter van Weigen's Flemish Tales found in the English language versions.

Here, as Pete Tombs suggests in his essay on the film, it would seem to be the case that the author was a fiction dreamed up by the film-makers, contra the original write-up of the piece in Immoral Tales.

The biographies of Brice, Price, Gabel and Carrel are equally worthwhile, going beyond the IMDB cut and paste jobs to also include translations from Carrel's memoirs and the like. Also noteable here are the nude photographs of the two actresses, another reminder of the omnipresent element of sex that often distinguished Euro horror from its Anglophone counterpart. Yet, as the extensive galleries of press materials that follow indicate, exploitation ballyhoo was much the same everywhere.

A lovely looking package – the menus designed in the style of the original artwork – is rounded off by a showcase reel for other Mondo Macabro releases, including the forthcoming Crazy Love.