This was the third, and final, film of director Michael Reeves. Reeves, who began his career working on Il Castello dei Morti Vivi (Castle of the Living Dead), a mediocre Franco-Italian co-production directed by Warren Kiefer and Luciano Ricci, was regarded as an up-and-coming talent in the British cinema following his second film, The Sorcerers (1967). Only twenty-five at the time of his death, from an accidental barbiturate overdose, an, “almost mythic reputation has arisen” surrounding the director and his films. While it’s doubtful that he could’ve lived up to the expectations that his fans have developed for him since his death, it is hard to argue that Reeves wasn’t one of the more promising British filmmakers of his generation.

    Based on the historical figure of Matthew Hopkins, and on Ronald Bassett’s novel about England’s most ruthless witch hunter, the script was written by Reeves and Tom Baker (a childhood friend of the director’s, not to be confused with the actor who played Doctor Who). Louis Heyward, an American producer on hand to represent the interests of AIP, who financed the film in exchange for the US rights, received credit for “additional material,” which reportedly consisted of a scene set in a pub with topless barmaids. That scene wasn’t included in the original British release, nor is it in the 2007 DVD release. The footage was in the versions released in the US and West Germany.

    That wasn’t the only change to his concept of the film that Reeves was forced to accept. Reeves’ original vision for Hopkins had Donald Pleasance playing a neurotic, sexually obsessed man, whose inferiority complex and awkwardness kept him from forming natural, healthy relationships with women. As Reeves imagined the character, the persecution and torture of witches had become his method of sexual gratification. Pleasance doubtless would’ve done well with such a character, but AIP was paying the tab, and they wanted the biggest star in their stable to play Hopkins. Reeves was told that Vincent Price would play Hopkins. The director hated it, fought against it, but in the end had no choice but to accept it. Reeves spared no effort in making his displeasure known to the actor; he refused to go to the airport to meet Price upon his arrival, refused to acknowledge him his first day on set, constantly interrupted his scenes to criticize his performances, and generally made Price’s life hell during the filming.

    Whether by design or by a happy coincidence, this had a most positive effect on Price’s performance. As film historian Kim Newman suggests, Price’s expectations for this production couldn’t have been very high. A novice director, not yet twenty-four; a cast list without one name whom Price would’ve been familiar; and no real studio facilities—all interior sets were constructed in abandoned aircraft hangers left over from the Second World War—these factors couldn’t have inspired much confidence in the film. The temptation for Price to phone his performance in, to approach it as he might another AIP beach movie, must’ve been strong. And had he been allowed to get comfortable, to view it as just another job for Sam Arkoff, that’s undoubtedly what would’ve happened. Reeves, however, never let Price find his comfort zone. The story may be apocryphal, but is widely told, of how Price, finally at his limit with the, “goddamn boy genius, ” told him that he had made more than eighty movies, and asked him what he had done. Reeves replied, “I’ve made three good ones.” Price was always tense, always on edge—and always being pushed for his best. The result might be the finest, most nuanced performance of his career .

    It is 1645, and hysteria has seized the English populace, bathing the countryside of East Anglia in blood, the blood of those accused of witchcraft. It is the midst of the English Civil Wars, and little law and less order exist away from the major cities. Into this maelstrom of fear and turmoil comes Matthew Hopkins (Vincent Price), by profession a lawyer, and lately a self-styled judge of witches, who some are referring to as the “Witchfinder General.” Hopkins travels from town to town, offering to rid each in turn of its witches—for a fee. And in Oliver Cromwell’s England, proving a witch’s guilt was a low hurdle to clear. “Dunking” or immersing a suspected witch in a body of water was the accepted test. If the accused drowned, then they were found innocent. If the accused survived, they were convicted of witchcraft, and executed.

    Richard Marshall (Ian Ogilvy), a Cornet (a rank equivalent to Second Lieutenant in modern military usage) in Cromwell’s Parliamentarian Army, has earned two days leave, and travels to the small village of Bradenston to visit the girl that he loves, Sara (Hilary Dwyer), and her uncle John Lowes (Rupert Davies), the town’s priest. The old man is fond of the young soldier, and pushes him to set the date for the couple’s wedding; he senses the trouble that grows nearer to his parish by the day and wants to see the girl safely wed and away from there. Marshall is willing, even eager, to wed Sara, but he is a soldier, and his time is not his own. He and Sara spend the night together, and he leaves the next morning to rejoin his regiment.

    Not long thereafter, Hopkins and his assistant Stearne (Robert Russell) arrive in Bradenston and soon found suspects for their witch trials—including the priest. Catholics, considered idolaters by the Protestants, were frequent and easy targets of persecution as witches. Sara pleads with Hopkins to spare her uncle; she swears that he is a good and Christian man. Hopkins agrees to consider her plea—if she gives herself to him. She consents, and the priest, though confined to a cell, is spared the torturous interrogation at Stearne’s hands. As long as Sara continues as Hopkins’ mistress, both she and her uncle enjoy his protection. However, he is called upon to visit a nearby town on business, and will be gone overnight. Stearne uses the opportunity to rape the young woman. They are seen by a villager, who informs Hopkins upon his return. Rather than punishing Stearne for the assault however, he blames Sara for her weakness. He orders the old man to stand trial. Lowes and two women are dunked; one dies, and Hopkins declares her innocent. Lowes and the other woman are hung.

    As this is happening, Marshall is scouring nearby villages on a mission to procure horses for the army. He hears the news that they’re hanging witches in Bradenston, including the old priest. He immediately abandons his mission, riding to Bradenston. He finds Sara hiding in the church, and she tells him the whole story, including her abuse and humiliation at the hands of the Witchfinder and his henchman. Taking her by the hand, he leads her to the altar, where he takes two vows—one as her husband, and another, never to rest until he has delivered Hopkins and Stearne to God’s justice.

    Though not highly regarded at the time of its release, the critical appraisal of the film has grown down through the years, doubtless helped by the near legendary status its director has assumed since his premature death. That’s not intended to detract from the film at all; it fully deserves recognition as the best British Horror film of the late 1960s, far superior to anything its competitors at Hammer and Amicus were turning out at the time. The photography, by John Coquillon, is superb. Even at its best, Hammer’s photography has an artificiality to it; as lush and beautiful as it may be, the sets, the costumes, even the exteriors seem like constructs. Amicus, whose productions were filmed at the much more lavish Shepperton studios, didn’t suffer as much from this phenomenon as did Hammer, whose own Bray studios could hardly compare.

    In comparison however, Coquillon’s photography here uses a natural, muted color palette that conveys an authentic look to the film, helped no doubt by the use of actual locations in the towns and villages of East Anglia wherein Hopkins did his work, many of which date from the period in which he plied his trade. In conjunction with Paul Ferris’ score (thankfully restored to its proper place after being replaced for the VHS releases), and excellent performances by the cast of experienced character players, the combination was a winner.

    For the movie’s US release, AIP wanted to tie it into their successful string of adaptations of the stories of Edgar Allan Poe, many of which starred Price. Never mind the fact that nothing in the film bore the slightest connection to Poe, or any of his stories. Sam Arkoff wanted this to be a Poe film, so a Poe film it would become. Retitled The Conqueror Worm, with a new introductory voiceover by Price, it would do well in the US, and no one concerned themselves greatly with the overall lack of Poe in what was ostensibly a Poe movie.

    Tigon British Film Productions was a late arrival on Britain’s Horror scene, and had left it by 1973. The last Tigon production was The Creeping Flesh, a Lee and Cushing vehicle that borrowed heavily from Anglo-Amalgamated’s Carry on Screaming (1966), as well as the previous year’s Horror Express. It was, in a word, execrable, as was much of Tigon’s product. However, they did produce one truly great film, Matthew Hopkins — Witchfinder General. And it’s for that movie, fortunately, that they will be remembered.