'The Innocents,' 1961

"The Innocents" is the rare psychological horror movie that can be enjoyed afresh each time you see it. It's a tense, elegant rendering of Henry James' "The Turn of the Screw," the tale of a governess ( <a class="taxInlineTagLink" id="PECLB002773" title="Deborah Kerr" href="/topic/entertainment/deborah-kerr-PECLB002773.topic">Deborah Kerr</a>) at a secluded country estate who becomes convinced that her two young charges ( <a class="taxInlineTagLink" id="PECLB001795" title="Pamela Franklin" href="/topic/entertainment/pamela-franklin-PECLB001795.topic">Pamela Franklin</a> and Martin Stephens) have fallen under the spell of ghosts. The director, Jack Clayton, understands the Jamesian power of suggestion, etching whole biographies in facial shifts and single strokes of dialogue. He also suffuses the material with a palpable creeping terror possible only in the movies. Clayton and his screenwriters (William Archibald, <a class="taxInlineTagLink" id="PEHST000369" title="Truman Capote" href="/topic/arts-culture/literature/truman-capote-PEHST000369.topic">Truman Capote</a> and John Mortimer) tell the story from the nanny's perspective, and take their emotional pitch from her fervor and excitability. It's a tribute to the brilliant, innovative black-and-white cinematography of Freddie Francis, and to Kerr's eloquent tremor of a performance, that when the heroine witnesses the apparitions, they're immediately credible to the audience. The filmmakers, though, never downplay her peculiar Victorian mixture of propriety and romanticism, her willingness to be "carried away." And, as the children, Franklin and Stephens embody the kind of precocious, eerie high spirits that could be construed as "corruption." The governess sights the ghosts at all hours, but the ambiguities reach their fullness in the dark. The whole movie is frighteningly beautiful: a night-blooming flower.<br>
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<i>Pictured: Deborah Kerr in 1954, photo by Frank Mastro AFP/Getty Images</i>

( Handout )

"The Innocents" is the rare psychological horror movie that can be enjoyed afresh each time you see it. It's a tense, elegant rendering of Henry James' "The Turn of the Screw," the tale of a governess ( Deborah Kerr) at a secluded country estate who becomes convinced that her two young charges ( Pamela Franklin and Martin Stephens) have fallen under the spell of ghosts. The director, Jack Clayton, understands the Jamesian power of suggestion, etching whole biographies in facial shifts and single strokes of dialogue. He also suffuses the material with a palpable creeping terror possible only in the movies. Clayton and his screenwriters (William Archibald, Truman Capote and John Mortimer) tell the story from the nanny's perspective, and take their emotional pitch from her fervor and excitability. It's a tribute to the brilliant, innovative black-and-white cinematography of Freddie Francis, and to Kerr's eloquent tremor of a performance, that when the heroine witnesses the apparitions, they're immediately credible to the audience. The filmmakers, though, never downplay her peculiar Victorian mixture of propriety and romanticism, her willingness to be "carried away." And, as the children, Franklin and Stephens embody the kind of precocious, eerie high spirits that could be construed as "corruption." The governess sights the ghosts at all hours, but the ambiguities reach their fullness in the dark. The whole movie is frighteningly beautiful: a night-blooming flower.

Pictured: Deborah Kerr in 1954, photo by Frank Mastro AFP/Getty Images

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