Yes, "Incense for the Damned" is a rather shoddy piece of work; you can tell that right from the off with the ludicrous choice of yellow lettering against a grey background for the title sequence.
However, there are hints of what might have been; as David Pirie in the "Time Out" Film Guide and other commentators here have argued, a Roman Polanski or Mario Bava could have done great things with the basic material and with more adept use of a budget. Robert Hartford-Davis (who went on to disown this film) does not marshal whatever meagre resources were available to him with any panache. In fact, technically it is a mix of the ludicrous and laughable: the aforementioned titles, endless half-hearted scenes of fisticuffs and one of the most inane voice-overs in the history of cinema, dispensing exposition with all the perfunctory baldness of Iain Duncan Smith on auto-pilot. "Sunset Boulevard" and William Holden this is most definitely not! It is a shame that so much is bungled and botched; there was scope for an enjoyable occult romp, and potential even for an edgier exploration of vampirism and sexuality. The all-too-brief scene with 'guest star' Edward Woodward hints at a much more interesting film, with his straight-faced thoughts on the links between vampires and masochism: 'Sado-masochism, my dear man, is no joke [...] Some get their excitement from statues, what we call the Pygmalion syndrome. Other men can only make love in a coffin..." There is nothing as interesting in the way the narrative is developed, with Imogen Hassall's voluptuous Chriseis entirely uncharacterised, and the enigma of Patrick Mower's protagonist Richard Fountain untapped.
The premise has promise: young Oxford undergraduate cannot cope with the expectations and restrictions of university life and turns to the dark arts, in a bid to get revenge against Cushing's provost (who is again an under-developed character with little screen time) and the system. This theme only comes into focus with Fountain's outburst at the University 'formal', and then the effect is bewildering rather than illuminating, as one might expect it to be in Simon Raven's original novel. Mower is given poetic, pithy lines about the dons - "smooth deceivers in scarlet gowns" - but the source of his anger is barely addressed. Little is done with the classical allusions that are occasionally shoe-horned in. We are told that Patrick Macnee's character 'was fond of Greece', but this never comes across in the actual script: another case of Hartford-Davis's "Tell Not Show" approach.
The dialogue provided in Julian More's script is a mixture of the sharp and ridiculous, suggesting an imperfect adaptation of the novel, capturing some but far from much of its style. There are hints of a satirical approach not taken up - Cushing's "Bloody socialist ministers" jibe at the then-Labour government. The dialogue is far from the worst problem with the film, however, as many scenes retain an amusement value due to an absurd melodrama inherent in the dialogue; for example: 'You've got your witches' covens in Mayfair, voodoo in Soho! How do you explain that? Logic!? Science!?' No excuse, however, for hoary old chestnuts of hokum like these: "Suppose it was murder..." "I think I'll just go for a walk..." Too often, the film mutates into a tourist video for its Greek settings, and it wastes time on the most tedious 'orgy' you will ever see in 60s/70s British cinema and the many inexcusably risible fight and pursuit scenes. With such a cast and potentially potent elements - sexual deviance, Oxbridge, vampires, anti-establishment - it is ultimately very disappointing. Hartford-Davis was right to disown it, as surely he recognised how much better it should have been. "Show not tell" should have been the watchword. Having said all of that, this film remains watchable; its saving grace being that it is only 79 minutes long, and it does gradually get less boring after the desultory titles and voice-over, with one starting to appreciate that wasted promise.
However, there are hints of what might have been; as David Pirie in the "Time Out" Film Guide and other commentators here have argued, a Roman Polanski or Mario Bava could have done great things with the basic material and with more adept use of a budget. Robert Hartford-Davis (who went on to disown this film) does not marshal whatever meagre resources were available to him with any panache. In fact, technically it is a mix of the ludicrous and laughable: the aforementioned titles, endless half-hearted scenes of fisticuffs and one of the most inane voice-overs in the history of cinema, dispensing exposition with all the perfunctory baldness of Iain Duncan Smith on auto-pilot. "Sunset Boulevard" and William Holden this is most definitely not! It is a shame that so much is bungled and botched; there was scope for an enjoyable occult romp, and potential even for an edgier exploration of vampirism and sexuality. The all-too-brief scene with 'guest star' Edward Woodward hints at a much more interesting film, with his straight-faced thoughts on the links between vampires and masochism: 'Sado-masochism, my dear man, is no joke [...] Some get their excitement from statues, what we call the Pygmalion syndrome. Other men can only make love in a coffin..." There is nothing as interesting in the way the narrative is developed, with Imogen Hassall's voluptuous Chriseis entirely uncharacterised, and the enigma of Patrick Mower's protagonist Richard Fountain untapped.
The premise has promise: young Oxford undergraduate cannot cope with the expectations and restrictions of university life and turns to the dark arts, in a bid to get revenge against Cushing's provost (who is again an under-developed character with little screen time) and the system. This theme only comes into focus with Fountain's outburst at the University 'formal', and then the effect is bewildering rather than illuminating, as one might expect it to be in Simon Raven's original novel. Mower is given poetic, pithy lines about the dons - "smooth deceivers in scarlet gowns" - but the source of his anger is barely addressed. Little is done with the classical allusions that are occasionally shoe-horned in. We are told that Patrick Macnee's character 'was fond of Greece', but this never comes across in the actual script: another case of Hartford-Davis's "Tell Not Show" approach.
The dialogue provided in Julian More's script is a mixture of the sharp and ridiculous, suggesting an imperfect adaptation of the novel, capturing some but far from much of its style. There are hints of a satirical approach not taken up - Cushing's "Bloody socialist ministers" jibe at the then-Labour government. The dialogue is far from the worst problem with the film, however, as many scenes retain an amusement value due to an absurd melodrama inherent in the dialogue; for example: 'You've got your witches' covens in Mayfair, voodoo in Soho! How do you explain that? Logic!? Science!?' No excuse, however, for hoary old chestnuts of hokum like these: "Suppose it was murder..." "I think I'll just go for a walk..." Too often, the film mutates into a tourist video for its Greek settings, and it wastes time on the most tedious 'orgy' you will ever see in 60s/70s British cinema and the many inexcusably risible fight and pursuit scenes. With such a cast and potentially potent elements - sexual deviance, Oxbridge, vampires, anti-establishment - it is ultimately very disappointing. Hartford-Davis was right to disown it, as surely he recognised how much better it should have been. "Show not tell" should have been the watchword. Having said all of that, this film remains watchable; its saving grace being that it is only 79 minutes long, and it does gradually get less boring after the desultory titles and voice-over, with one starting to appreciate that wasted promise.