Crisply realised but dry as toast ghost story that plots an honourable if unexciting line. Somewhat reminiscent of Greenaway or Jarman, more for the painterliness than ghoulishness, either of whom might have injected some air into the musty atmosphere.
A chilly, distant, glacial tale where the dual horrors arise from its evocation of a world where people are cheap and money is everything, and it's Lewtonesque supernatural elements. John Justin is about as disgusting a screen presence as Barrymore's Hyde
I have to admit - I saw this 6 months ago and it still has not left my head. The film's lyricism and unease are one and the same, letting its slow-boil plot to rise to a dead-heat before you know it. Its primary framing device, using art appreciation as both a pretense and a way to build the horror, is as cold and calculating and disturbing as Schalcken himself, the poor rich bastard.