The Abominable Dr. Phibes

Synopsis: Doctors are being murdered in a bizarre manner: bats, bees, killer frog masks, etc., which represent the nine Biblical plagues. The crimes are orchestrated by the organ-playing, demented Dr .Phibes - from his base; replete with a clockwork orchestra with the help of his mute assistant. The detective is stumped until he finds that all of the doctors being killed assisted a Dr. Vesalius on an unsuccessful operation involving the wife of Dr. Phibes, but he couldn't be the culprit, could he? He was killed in a car crash upon learning of his wife's death...
Genre: Comedy, Horror
Director(s): Robert Fuest
Production: Orion Home Video
  1 win & 1 nomination.
 
IMDB:
7.2
Rotten Tomatoes:
86%
PG-13
Year:
1971
94 min
155 Views


Good morning, sir.

It's a damn strange business, Tom.

A man literally shredded to death

right in the heart of London.

That's the last one.

Bats appearing out of nowhere...

I don't know, it just doesn't make sense.

Nasty-Iooking little blighters, aren't they?

Seen them in Mandalay.

Suck your throat dry, they would.

Well, that's where they belong,

in the tropics, not here.

All right, take them off to the laboratory.

And have them checked for rabies.

- Now, Morgan...

- Yes, sir?

- Where the hell are you?

- Up here.

I want you to question the butler again.

There may be something he overlooked.

Very good, sir.

Remember when you were

in Scotland last week?

There was another surgeon who died.

A Dr Thornton.

- What about him?

- It's how he died. This reminded me of it.

He was stung... to death by bees

in his library.

Bees in his library?

That's right. The place

must've been swarming with 'em.

I've got the file on my desk.

You should've seen his face. The whole

flesh was a mass of... well, boils.

- Boils?

- All over. Stings, I suppose.

I wonder if there is a connection.

Well, I'll go through the file.

God knows what we've got.

Two doctors, both dead...

Oh, don't take him out like that:

At least cover his face up.

What's left of it.

Good God.

Nobody told me this was a masked affair.

For me?

How very elegant.

But, my dear fellow...

it's beautiful.

I say, jolly fine party, what?

Don't believe we've met.

My name's Hargreaves. Dr Hargreaves.

I'm a psychiatrist, actually.

Head shrinker.

I say, would you mind?

Some fancy catch.

Much obliged.

Now, point me towards the ladies.

Thank you.

I say, is that you, Freda?

This mask is jolly tight.

Absolutely not.

We're short-staffed as it is,

and you want more men to charge off

on one of your half-baked theories?

- Medical men die every day.

- I'm aware of that, sir.

They're flesh and blood, like you and I.

I'm aware of that too. I've seen

rather a lot of their flesh and blood lately.

And another thing -

suppose the press get hold of this?

Don't talk to me about the press, Trout.

Keep your ideas to yourself on that one.

Mention this to the press and they'd

whip up a panic story overnight.

There'd be an uproar.

- It was not my intention.

- It's certainly not mine.

I want no statements.

Can you imagine what they'd make

of bats, bees and... and what?

- Frogs.

- Exactly.

Why don't you go

and reread Aesop's Fables?

Perhaps you'll come up

with a more pertinent theory. That's all.

Three men have died,

all in the medical profession.

- Does that not suggest...

- No, it damn well doesn't.

Some very strange people

practise medicine these days.

- Dr Longstreet?

- Agh...

- Mrs Frawley.

- I'm off.

- You're what?

- Off.

Oh, yes. Yes.

Sure you don't mind me

having the evening off?

No, no. I shall rather enjoy it.

I mean, have a good time.

- I've got you some cold brawn.

- Oh, that sounds delicious.

I won't be back late.

I'll be back before midnight.

You don't have to hurry -

you won't turn into a pumpkin.

I don't know, though.

Mrs Frawley:

Dr Longstreet, we are naughty, aren't we?

Haven't touched our supper, have we?

- And what is this?

- This? Well, it's...

Oh, I see what you mean. It's a new thing

on the market. It keeps out draughts.

Dra...

I'm... I'm Dr Longstreet, you know.

Who's this?

- How did it go, Harry?

- It didn't.

It came to a grinding halt.

All he's worried about is the press.

They've been on, of course.

I've killed it, don't worry.

I'm sitting on the lab reports.

I don't care what the old man says, Tom.

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