‘People should be born at the age of 70 and live their life backwards…’
Now, I’ve got no issue with one film ripping off another film. Tarantino has made a career out of ‘borrowing’ from the movies that he grew up with. George Lucas ‘borrowed’ heavily from the films of Kurosawa for Star Wars. To be fair to Paul Wendkos’ 1971 horror thriller The Mephisto Waltz, the concept of someone selling their soul to the devil dates back to the days of Doctor Faustus in the 17th century and probably beyond. I imagine some of that goes off in The Bible. There’s all sorts of mad shit in there. There is no denying, however, that this film is a poor man’s Rosemary’s Baby. The comparison seemingly cannot be avoided…
Myles Clarkson (Alan Alda), a failed pianist slumming it as a writer, is given the opportunity to sell his soul to become the best goddamn pianist in the world. Myles’ wife Paula (Jacqueline Bisset) is the ‘Rosemary’, suffering from terrible nightmares and strange abrasions. It all plays out as a strange mirror image of Roman Polanski’s film, but with the addition of Alan Alda (which, to be fair, is never a bad thing).
Taken on its own merits, The Mephisto Waltz isn’t a bad film. There are chilling moments. Jerry Goldsmith’s haunting score is exceptional, German actor Curd Jürgens has a blast as the insidious catalyst to the ghastly events that follow. It’s all good fun. I was never bored. And yet… there is simply no escape to comparing this unfavourably to Rosemary’s Baby. This is the Friday the 13th to Rosemary’s Baby‘s Halloween.
The Mephisto Waltz works as a snapshot of occult American horror movies at the start of the ’70s but its lack of originality hampers it badly.
