The Haunting (film)

Claire Bloom and Julie Harris in The Haunting (1963)

It may be one of the scariest horror movies of all time -- at least among those that have no blood, no body parts, no chattering skeletons -- and it's surely one of the best adaptations of an American work of horror. Directed in 1963 by Robert Wise (West Side Story, The Sound of Music, The Andromeda Strain), it stars Julie Harris as Eleanor Lance, alongside Claire Bloom as Theodora (with wardrobe by Mary Quant, credited as the inventor of the "mini skirt"), Russ Tamblyn (later to star in West Side Story as well, but best known as Dr. Jacoby in David Lynch's Twin Peaks), and Richard Johnson as "Dr. Markway" (oddly changed from the "Dr. Montague" of the novel). Interestingly, Wise's first choice for Markway was Peter Ustinov, but he declined due to other commitments (he was directing his own play, "Photo Finish," on Broadway).

Other than that, though, it's a remarkably faithful adaptation of Shirley Jackson's novel The Haunting of Hill House; Jackson was personally invited to one of the premieres by the director, and by all accounts she was delighted with it. And, though there's a great deal of voice-over with Eleanor's voice -- quite a lot, from the point of view of film -- it's only a small selection of the far more constant stream of her thinking which runs throughout almost the entire length of the novel. The role of the psychic investigator's wife -- Mrs. Montague/Mrs. Markway -- is also quite different in book and film. And, since the film was shot in England, where people drive on the other side of the road, the producers simply flipped the film; they also added a few highway signs for "Route 128," though they neglected to change a placard on a home from "House to Let" to "House for Sale," the more usual American phrase.

Ettington Park Hotel

The interiors of Hill House were all constructed on a soundstage, but for exteriors, they needed a real building -- and they chose an old manor house, since converted to a hotel, not far outside of Stratford-on-Avon (Shakespeare's birthplace). Known as the Ettington Park, it is one of those places on some people's bucket list to stay -- alongside, no doubt, the Stanley Hotel, which was used for exteriors of the "Overlook Hotel" in Stanley Kubrick's "The Shining." Those who do stay at Ettington Park will face just two slight disappointments -- there's no library with a spiral staircase -- and no haunted nursery, either. Perhaps they should consider adding them!

NB: I've added a set of discussion questions -- they are optional -- if responding to them is preferable, use them freely; otherwise, feel free to comment on any aspect of either the novel or the film. I also encourage you to consider responding to one another; that's often where the most interesting comments come about!

Also: check out this excellent site with background on the film's production!

The Haunting of Hill House (part 1)

 Laura Miller, in her recent introduction to a new edition of the book, describes it as "setting a trap" -- both for its main character, Eleanor Vance, and for its reader. The trap is an improved version of the old "Poe" model: get your reader into the head of the protagonist, and once they're there, you can lure them into the deepest and darkest places, and they'll have nowhere else to go!

But it's also more than just a trap. Eleanor is a a curious sort of person -- somewhat reticent, shy, and inwardly turned -- indeed, she could very well fit the profile of many members of today's Gen-X and Gen-Y generations. She's also been victimized by a bossy sister, and saddled with the care of their aging, ailing mother.  In part as a result, she's had very little social contact outside the family; when she receives the invitation from Dr. Montague, the most significant thing about it is that it's an actual invitation -- and now, she's "expected" somewhere. Whether Hill House is haunted or cursed or just old and creepy matters not; what matters is that it's a house, a house where she's wanted, expected, and in which she belongs.

Which of course makes her the perfect central character for a horror novel.

According to an account by Paula Guran, Jackson had decided to write "a ghost story" after reading about a group of nineteenth-century "psychic researchers" who studied a house and somberly reported their supposedly scientific findings to the Society for Psychic Research. What she discovered in their "dry reports was not the story of a haunted house, it was the story of several earnest, I believe misguided, certainly determined people, with their differing motivations and background." Excited by the prospect of creating her own haunted house and the characters to explore it, she launched into research. She later claimed to have found a picture of a California house she believed was suitably haunted-looking in a magazine. She asked her mother, who lived in California, to help find information about the dwelling. According to Jackson, her mother identified the house as one the author's own great-great-grandfather, an architect who had designed some of San Francisco's oldest buildings, had built. Jackson also read volume upon volume of traditional ghost stories while preparing to write her own, "No one can get into a novel about a haunted house without hitting the subject of reality head-on; either I have to believe in ghosts, which I do, or I have to write another kind of novel altogether."

So, do you believe in ghosts? Does one need to, in order be enthralled by a tale that includes them? And as to houses, perhaps you know a haunted-looking one in your neighborhood. In your comments, let your fellow students know what views you had before -- and after -- entering Hill House; if you like, you can make use of these discussion questions, which are keyed to the first half of the novel.

The Bus

Original 1965 illustration for "The Bus"

With each miniature masterwork, Shirley Jackson gets a little more "under our skin." Here again, we have a tale of displacement: of time, distance, and of the sudden loss -- or acquisition -- of a feeling of familiarity. We've all had those moments of dissociation -- familiar things seeming suddenly unfamiliar, and vice versa -- but what if, after we rubbed our eyes, they still remained reversed?

"The Bus" is filled with the small frustrations of the everyday, amplified since we know that the main character is elderly, and at times confused. She is determined, all the same, to reach her destination. How many time have any of us heard the words "this is your stop" from a bus driver or conductor -- who are we to question them? We begin, indeed, with empathy: what a sad turn of events -- what will happen to this innocent old woman? And then, by slow degrees, we begin to anticipate another fate: is this just some random house, with a faint whiff of familiarity? Or is it, though at first unrecognized, home?

Along with Jackson's story, I'm asking you to view an old episode of The Twilight Zone, "Mirror Image." It, too, begins in a bus depot with an unfriendly ticket agent, though in this case the protagonist is a young woman, Millicent Barnes (Vera Miles) waiting for her bus to Cortland. The bus is late, the ticket agent is grumpy, but nothing else seems out of place -- until, well, of course, it does. Directed by the German filmmaker John Brahm, and introduced with his usual stretched-lip panache by Rod Serling, it offers another tale in which a journey by bus becomes a trip to insanity. It's available via various streaming services, including Paramount Plus, Prime Video, or Apple TV.

The Lottery

Shirley Jackson's short story "The Lottery" -- in which a town selects each year those of its fellows it will stone to death -- generated more letters to The New Yorker than any other story in its history. Some of these letters were written by quite prominent persons; many seemed to take the story as a claim about some actual town in New England, and rejected it as spurious or insulting. A couple of years ago, a current writer for the New Yorker tracked down a few of the surviving writers of these letters, and some of them stuck to their criticism of nearly seventy years earlier. Miriam Friend, whose husband had been a scientist working on the Manhattan Project, had written to Jackson asking her to explain its meaning "before my husband and I scratch right through our scalps trying to fathom it." Reached in 2013, she told the interviewer she hadn't changed her mind; it was still "such a harsh story."

Jackson herself read all these letters, and incorporated them into a talk she gave on a number of occasions, "Biography of a story" where she took wry pleasure in the musings and misunderstandings readers communicated to her. In a way, it's rather like what happens instantaneously on Twitter or Facebook today; a writer impugns her readers' values and beliefs, and is suddenly called into the court of public shame. Only Jackson wasn't ashamed, only bemused -- and the story ended up as a breakthrough moment in her career.

Perhaps no less remarkable is that the tale was taken up for a film treatment in 1969 by Encyclopedia Britannica, whose film series was, in nearly all other cases, drily educational. Their director Larry Yust, whose other EB shorts included "Electrons at Work" and "How to Produce Current with Magnets," did not flinch at the story's subject-matter, or soften it in any way. The soft Kodachrome tones of his production make the blood at the end even redder. It's been adapted several times since, but never so effectively.

Once again this week we have four discussion questions -- choose one and post your reply below (you don't need to paste the entire question in, just your response).