The House of the Long Shadows

A jumble of dark house clichés (loosely based on that old standby, Seven Keys to Baldpate) which stacks up the zzzzz for a good hour before even admitting it's a spoof. Thereafter, two gags for Price, the unavoidable sad ghoulishness of Carradine's mere presence, and a Christopher Lee so wooden that it's hard to tell if he's in a coffin or not. Only Cushing retains any dignity, even coming up with a fresh characterisation - a lisping, drunken rendition of the Upper Class Twit at 70 - that might turn Michael Palin green. The rest is vacuum: bus-ticket script, the usual faceless juvenile support, and bathchair direction.