Bette Davis is an English nanny whose charge is 10-year-old Joey, just released from a home for disturbed children where he’d spent two years undergoing treatment for drowning his little sister in the bath. Shortly after his arrival home, suspicion arouses again when his mother is poisoned. But Joey continues to insist Nanny is responsible, just as she was with the death of his little sister, with only a neighboring friend believing the young boy. –IMDb
Seth Holt was born in Palestine to British parents, and educated at Blackheath School in South London. He spent a term at RADA in 1940 before acting with repertory companies in Liverpool and Bideford, Devon. In 1942 he joined a documentary film company, Strand, as assistant editor and then, at the invitation of his brother-in-law Robert Hamer, moved to Ealing. “In some ways features were a step back,” he later commented, explaining, “One was much nearer the movie makers in documentary but in features you might be the fifth assistant cutter’s nark.”
Over the next fifteen years Holt moved steadily up the Ealing hierarchy. Among the films he worked on as assistant editor were Champagne Charlie (d. Alberto Cavalcanti, 1944), Scott of the Antarctic (d. Charles Frend, 1948) – where he also featured as ‘the voice of the Blizzard’ on the soundtrack – and Passport to Pimlico (d. Henry Cornelius, 1949). Graduating to editor, he cut (among others) The Lavender Hill Mob (d. Charles Crichton… read more
A class minded greek tragedy sold as psychological horror/suspense as well as a clever deconstruction of the "Bette Davis as evil old lady" genre that she'd be type cast into at that time. One of the creepiest G rated films I've ever seen as well as one of the best Hammer films not that isn't Losey's DAMNED or anything by Terence Fischer.
One of Hammer Films' most accomplished works. An eerie and ambiguous psychological thriller that deals with some disturbing taboo themes inside a family. Filmed in a gloriously stark black and white, effortlessly attaining a claustrophobic, lurid and bleak atmosphere. My only regret is that the end seems watered down, just after reaching its real sense of menace.
Damned by faint praise, but a fairly decent entry in the latter-day decline in Davis career in a more British take on grand guignol. It creaks and unfolds with pedestrian predicability but has a off-kilter charm despite the fact one ends up willing it to hurry-up and finish.