Like Synapse Films, the folks at Wild Eye are in the business of unearthing semi-lost works and bringing them to the attention of genre fans and film buffs.  I, for one, am extremely grateful that someone out there is doing this sort of thing.  A case in point is Wild Eye's DVD release of Crawlspace, a 1972 TV movie that is nothing short of a revelation.

This movie precedes by a couple of years both the similarly-themed Bad Ronald and Black Christmas (probably the ultimate example of hiding-in-the-house horror).  However, despite its creepy title, cover art and even its initial vibe, Crawlspace is a very different kind of animal than those other flicks.  Neither a pseudo-black comedy nor a proto-slasher film, Crawlspace may well disappoint those who expect wholesale bloodletting or a full-fledged work of Gothic Americana.  Rather, Crawlspace is a carefully modulated work of psychological horror staged as a domestic chamber piece.  As such, it excels in ways that are both surprising and surprisingly touching.  Through its themes, its tragic tone and, most of all, its nuanced performances, Crawlspace truly brings horror home.

Part of its power derives from the way that director John Newland doesn't try to "open up" the limited number of sets or the restricted sense of space they evoke, but seems to realize the implicit promise of the film's title; he keeps the lid on things dramatically and visually as long as he can, and the audience has no choice but to wait for them to boil over.

  Instead of using a bunch of low and high angles to maximize perceived distances, Newland keeps his eye on the prize:  he focuses, literally and figuratively, on the elements that help him tell the story simply and with a quiet intensity.  He wisely lets his actors carry the ball… and what actors he has to work with!

Arthur Kennedy, so memorable in the funeral sequence in Lawrence of Arabia (1952) and going up against Jimmy Stewart in Anthony Mann's Bend of the River (1952), does a wonderful job here.  He perfectly leverages his gruff-but-intelligent persona to become a kind of universally recognizable subspecies of American male—if his Albert Graves won’t remind you of your dad, then he'll probably remind you of your uncle or granddad.  Opposite Kennedy is Teresa Wright, who must be considered a full-blown screen icon on the strength of, among other classics, The Little Foxes (1941), Mrs. Miniver (1941) and, of course, Shadow of a Doubt (1943).  What's remarkable about her performance in Crawlspace is how she seamlessly transforms the kindly innocence we recognize from her early roles into a gentle maternal quality:  I felt like shouting, "Wow, it's still Teresa Wright!"  Finally, in a role that had to offer the temptation of diving off the deep end and twitching all the way down, Tom Happer delivers an unexpectedly thoughtful performance, both conveying menace and making us care about him, often within the same scene.

While the quality of Wild Eye's DVD betrays the limitations of the source print, Crawlspace is still certainly watchable and deserves a place high on your wish list.  In short, it's just so darn good that it may cause you, like me, to re-evaluate the entire genre of made-for-TV films.