Spirits of the Dead

Synopsis: Three directors each adapt a Poe short story to the screen: "Toby Dammit" features a disheveled drugged and drunk English movie star who nods acceptance in the Italian press and his producers fawn over him. "Metzengerstein" features a Mediveal countess who has a love-hate relationship with a black stallion - who, it turns out is really her dead lover. "William Wilson" tells the story of a sadistic Austrian student with an exact double whom he later kills.

Genre: Drama, Horror, Mystery

Director(s): Federico Fellini, Louis Malle, Roger Vadim

Actors: Brigitte Bardot, Alain Delon, Jane Fonda, Terence Stamp

Production: Cocinor

1 nomination.


IMDB:: 6.7
Rotten Tomatoes:: 90%

Spirits of the Dead Movie Quotes »

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: R
Year:: 1968
: 40 min
: 154 Views

SPIRITS 0F THE DEAD
Hughes!
Hughes!
Are the horses ready?
Whenever you wish, Madam.
Get them, now!
Your guests are still in bed,
Milady.
I slept badly last night!
Wake them! I need fresh air!
I want to ride, to forget
this dream I had!
Are you sure it was a dream?
Sometimes you need me...
to tell you what you did
was real.
Get out!
You're always lurking about!
At the age of twenty-two,
Frederique,
Countess of Metzengerstein
inherited the entire family fortune.
Rarely had a noble of this land
come into such a legacy.
She ruled over it capriciously:
Both night and day
according to her whim.
That morning, haunted by her
nightmare of the dawn,
she decided to take her guests
to the castle
where she had spent
her childhood.
Marquis!
Give me something to drink!
Blood!
Swine!
Milady!
What! Can't I enjoy myself?
Surely one can still laugh.
I love this place.
It's beautiful!
You have ten finer castles.
Finer than childhood?
Fool!
Is that boy still annoying you?
Shall I throw him out?
And supposing he flies...
It would be a pity!
Shoot straight and true!
The cord must break!
Shameful debaucheries,
flagrant treacheries,
unheard of cruelties soon taught
her vassals
that nothing
could guarantee them security
against the remorseless fangs
of this petty Caligula.
Come!
Come on!
Give me the necklace, boy!
- Is this our room?
- I have a surprise for you.
What is it?
There she is.
Don't be silly!
I knew him long before you did!
The other way!
All encouraged her in her whims,
not only her depraved friends,
but many others who feared
her displeasure.
The sole exception to this rule,
was the less well to do branch
of their related Berlifitzing
family,
who were traditional enemies
of the Metzengersteins,
and openly critical
of Frederique's behavior.
These two families had been
locked in discord for centuries,
and their deadly enmity
reaching so far back
that none could remember
its origins.
At this time the young
Baron Wilhelm of Berlifitzing
lived alone in his family's
castle.
Although he was her closest
neighbor,
he had never spoken to his
appalling cousin,
Frederique of Metzengerstein.
For her part, Frederique, if
by chance she caught sight
of her cousin from afar,
would mock at him and openly
show her scorn.
But Wilhelm seemed not to
notice her.
His lively intelligence would have
made him a great success in society
but nothing interested this
young misanthropist
who divided his life between
hunting and his stables.
Help me!
Quickly!
If I find the idiot who
set this trap,
he'll be flogged for two hours
and I'll apply the vinegar
myself.
Hurry!
And stop staring!
When a vixen gets caught,
she plays dead.
even if she's injured.
Does it hurt?
Chance alone brought Frederique
and Wilhelm together.
The girl would have preferred
to hate this face
that she knew not, but instead
she was unable to forget it.
Something within her had changed.
Haunted by the memory of
a gloomy, mocking glance,
she had but one desire- to see
Wilhelm again.
Hunting the vixen,
Wilhelm Berlifitzing?
Sultan!
Sultan!
He'll be back.
I'm cold!
A Metzengerstein offers
his cloak to a lady.
You don't, apparently!
You never speak, Cousin.
My ankle still hurts
from the trap.
Prince!
Do you only speak to animals?
Come this evening.
You'll find what you need.
Most of my guests are boars,
buzzards and bears.
It should amuse you.
I won't be part of
your collection.
I'm not accustomed to being
refused.
- Do not keep bad habits.
- Who do you think you are?
A happy man.
Frederique!
Wilhelm!
Rejected and ridiculed when
she'd never been so sincere
Frederique angrily suppressed
the emotions
that had drawn her towards
her cousin.
Hughes!
Her only thoughts were
her vengeance.
Hughes!
Yes, Milady?
How did he come here?
He galloped here through
the flames.
- Whose is he?
- Nobody knows.
Not even the Baron Wilhelm's
servants.
No one knows this horse.
- No one can approach him!
- I'll try.
Milady...
The Baron Wilhelm is dead!
What?
He tried to save the horse
he loved and died.
Everything went up in flames.
Everything.
Hughes!
Hughes!
Hughes!
Yes?
You will repair this...
as it was before.
But that's impossible, Madam!
You will, because I wish it!
Find the best tapestry-maker.
Frederique had ordered the stables
to be set on fire
without imagining that
Wilhem would perish in the flames.
His death satisfied neither her
love, nor her bitterness.
She felt a dark foreboding.
Terror took hold of her.
What are you thinking?
Nothing. Go on.
From that time forth, a marked
change took place
in the outward behavior
of the young libertine.
She no longer left her estate,
excluding all companions.
Qr could the wild, unearthly
horse that she rode constantly
have claimed some mysterious
right of friendship...
Frederique remained faithful
to him.
In the glare of noon,
at the dead hour of night,
in sickness or in health,
in calm or in tempest,
Frederique seemed riveted to the
saddle of that colossal horse,
his audacities so well
accorded with her own spirit.
I don't know.
Some days, the threads sing.
and tie themselves in knots.
I asked you how long.
Weeks... months perhaps.
This spell, which she accepted
with all her being,
reached even
into her solitary moments.
She would spent hours before
the tapestry
that was slowly taking shape.
Fascinated, she watched
the agile hands of the old man,
bringing back to life
the great black steed.
His fingers, so deftly knotting
the threads,
seemed to be weaving with
a fatal logic,
her own destiny.
Help me now, my hands.
You always served me well.
Do not betray me.
Have you worked it out?
- Is it blood?
- No, fire!
Frederique had accepted
and now desired her own end.
She rushed toward the flames.
Like Wilhelm, with Wilhelm,
she will die by fire.
- I want to confess!
- After Mass. People are waiting.
- No! Right away!
- Please...
- After Mass.
- Now, I said!
Proceed.
I don't know how.
Tell me what to do. Help me.
I'm not a Catholic.
In that case, my son,
we'll talk after Mass.
I want to confess,
you must hear me!
Do not shout.
You're in God's house.
I don't care about God!
I need to understand.
I want to talk.
I've killed a man.
Someone from this town?
I don't know...
I don't think so.
- Ah, a stranger?
- Yes.
Well... no. I know him.
I have always known him.
You're drunk!
Listen to me!
It's your duty.
Why did you kill him?
I'll tell you everything,
from the beginning.
Franz von Lowenstein.
William Wilson!
It's from Italy.
It must be from your Mother.
Attention!
At ease.
Silence! Stop that!
Wilson did it!
Wilson!
Down.
Up.
Down.
Up.
Down!
Who's that?
He's the new boy.
- What is your name?
- Wilson. William Wilson.
- What's your name again?
- William Wilson.
His name was Wilson?
The same as yours?
Same name, precisely.
- A coincidence.

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Edgar Allan Poe

Edgar Allan Poe (; born Edgar Poe; January 19, 1809 – October 7, 1849) was an American writer, editor, and literary critic. Poe is best known for his poetry and short stories, particularly his tales of mystery and the macabre. He is widely regarded as a central figure of Romanticism in the United States and American literature as a whole, and he was one of the country's earliest practitioners of the short story. Poe is generally considered the inventor of the detective fiction genre and is further credited with contributing to the emerging genre of science fiction. He was the first well-known American writer to try to earn a living through writing alone, resulting in a financially difficult life and career.Poe was born in Boston, the second child of two actors. His father abandoned the family in 1810, and his mother died the following year. Thus orphaned, the child was taken in by John and Frances Allan of Richmond, Virginia. They never formally adopted him, but Poe was with them well into young adulthood. Tension developed later as John Allan and Edgar repeatedly clashed over debts, including those incurred by gambling, and the cost of secondary education for the young man. Poe attended the University of Virginia but left after a year due to lack of money. Poe quarreled with Allan over the funds for his education and enlisted in the Army in 1827 under an assumed name. It was at this time that his publishing career began, albeit humbly, with the anonymous collection Tamerlane and Other Poems (1827), credited only to "a Bostonian". With the death of Frances Allan in 1829, Poe and Allan reached a temporary rapprochement. However, Poe later failed as an officer cadet at West Point, declaring a firm wish to be a poet and writer, and he ultimately parted ways with John Allan. Poe switched his focus to prose and spent the next several years working for literary journals and periodicals, becoming known for his own style of literary criticism. His work forced him to move among several cities, including Baltimore, Philadelphia, and New York City. In Richmond in 1836, he married Virginia Clemm, his 13-year-old cousin. In January 1845, Poe published his poem "The Raven" to instant success. His wife died of tuberculosis two years after its publication. For years, he had been planning to produce his own journal The Penn (later renamed The Stylus), though he died before it could be produced. Poe died in Baltimore on October 7, 1849, at age 40; the cause of his death is unknown and has been variously attributed to alcohol, "brain congestion", cholera, drugs, heart disease, rabies, suicide, tuberculosis, and other agents.Poe and his works influenced literature in the United States and around the world, as well as in specialized fields such as cosmology and cryptography. Poe and his work appear throughout popular culture in literature, music, films, and television. A number of his homes are dedicated museums today. The Mystery Writers of America present an annual award known as the Edgar Award for distinguished work in the mystery genre. more…

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