“You’re not going to get rid of me, do you hear me? This is MY HOUSE!”

It can sometimes be hard to write the kind of reviews this website and its clientele demand. This can be because a film is just so serious in intent and delivery it doesn’t lend itself to a light-of-touch comedy review. But usually, it’s because the makers got there before me and clearly had their tongues firmly in their cheeks. Irony wasn’t invented sometime in the 1990s you know, they had it back in the 1960s and 70s, too. And there’s little point in pointing out the funny bits in a film that was supposed to be funny.

Yup, not every cheesy old horror film was created by people who misguidedly thought they were making high art, although I find it helps if you assume they did. Let’s face it, this website falls flat on its pompous face if we all find out that we’ve missed the point of a joke made half a century ago.

But then along comes a film like Dark Places, which is an unmitigated disaster, and therefore an absolute joy to behold from the moment Robert Hardy steps towards his new home with a huge grin on his face and falls into a hole through a rotten floorboard.

Yes, he’s Edward Foster, seemingly a doctor from an asylum who has just inherited the place from former charge Andrew Marr (not that one), who was committed many years ago after his wife and children were violently murdered.

On Foster’s arrival at the Marr mansion it becomes immediately apparent that the assortment of well-known character actors who live near there all have designs on the Marr millions he appears to have inherited by default. But to be honest, who cares? The whole thing is an hilarious, chaotic mess, which includes a lot of over-ripe performances from people who should have known better (Christopher Lee), some who clearly didn’t (Joan Collins) and at least one who was definitely “going for it” with only the vaguest idea of what “it” was (Hardy).

By the end of a hugely entertaining 90 minutes, everyone involved has forgotten everything they learned at RADA and joined Hardy in a competition to see who can be the most hysterical (the winner? Probably future national treasure Jean Marsh).

The village next to the old Marr house appears to have been owned lock-stock and even barrel by the Marr family. So Foster’s train pulls into “Marr’s Halt”. The house is called “Marr’s Grove” (“That’s old man Marr’s place,” Foster is warned, darkly. “No-one from the village will go there. Things happen there. Just… things. You’ll find out!”). And the local pub is called “Marr’s Bar” (no it isn’t, but had you going).

Mildly put off his new home by his foot-through-the-floorboards shenanigans, Foster decides to stay with a friendly chap called Prescott (Herbert Lom), whose house happens to have a good view of the stately pile. Looking out of his window, Foster spies a light on in Marr’s Grove – but that can’t be right, all the windows are boarded up! (this is the kind of statement that wouldn’t usually warrant an exclamation mark, but it’s that kind of film)

The next day, Foster immediately starts work on making his new house a home, ripping the boards off the windows with much abandon. And no sooner has he made his way inside, ignoring the doors that seem to shut in his face and looking with a vaguely puzzled air at the portraits on the walls, than he discovers that THIS house comes with its own Joan Collins.

You’re nowhere near having seen everything this singular film has got to throw at you yet (“put those bloody lights on!!”) but you might think you’ve slipped into another dimension when you’re greeted with the sight of Dame Joan volunteering to do a bit of housework. Not only that, but in a peculiarly saucy, Carry On kind of way.

Foster finds out that Marr’s children – who he’d assumed he was keeping the house for – are actually dead (murdered dead), and local rumour has it that they’re haunting the place. And to a certain extent, the house seems to agree. Bits of it keep dropping on him, spooky women stare at him from windows, and then, on finding a dusty nursery, he’s plunged into darkness…

It’s at this point I fell in love with the film, for a number of key reasons, all related to Mr Hardy and what can only be described as his total commitment to the part he’s playing. For  a start, his reaction to the sudden darkness is absolutely priceless. He yells “PUT THOSE BLOODY LIGHTS ON!” with such force, and so totally out of character as it has so far been portrayed, one can only assume that it’s an unscripted joke being played on him by the lighting technicians. We then get some more loud-quiet-LOUD as he starts yelling to no-one in particular: “You’re not going to get rid of me, do you hear me? This is MY HOUSE!”

And on discovering that there’s apparently £200,000 hidden somewhere in the building, his commitment to knocking on every panel of a very oak panelled house in his search for hidden doors is truly inspirational.

Up until now we’ve assumed that most of the ghostly hi-jinks are the result of Joan Collins’ character trying to drive Foster mad. After all, she is sister to a deeply peed-off Christopher Lee, who as Marr’s clearly-not-very-good-at-his-job doctor, was expecting to inherit the Marr legacy for some unfathomable reason.

But more spooky things are clearly going on – if not in reality, then definitely in Foster’s bonce – for he’s hearing the sound of ghostly children and appears to be possessed by the ghost of Andrew Marr (not that one).

As Foster suffers numerous flashback/blackouts in which he dons a tweed suit and a spectacular moustache, we all discover the hysterical (in both ways) history of the unfortunate house – which is exactly what you’re thinking. When he’s not back in t’olden days seducing nannies, SHOUTING at his CHILDREN and generally unravelling, Foster is in the less moustachioed present day, busy tapping on walls (yes, again) and taking pick-axes to fireplaces like his life depends on it, before making what can only be described as the most obvious discovery in the history of walled-up treasures. (Oh, a key…)

Just when things look like they’re reaching a crescendo… everyone goes for a walk. People don’t go for walks enough in feature films, I feel. I’m not talking about meaningful, plot-driven journeys, I’m talking about proper “let’s all walk up the lane before lunch” walks.

But oh-oh, perhaps there was a point to it after all, because as Foster has yet another echoey Andrew Marr (not that one) – related flashback, Sarah (Joan Collins) slips away to try and find the missing treasure.

And so to the insane ending. Stranglings? Yup. Pick-axeings? You betcha. Child killings? Why not. ROBERT Hardy TURNING the dial UP to 11? Don’t mind if I do. Frankly odd “twist” that doesn’t make any sense at all? Of course.

Dark Places is an underrated, hidden gem. Robert Hardy leads the charge with his unique “method” (truly this man was the Pixies of the 70s with his “quiet LOUD quiet” approach to sentence structure), but credit where it is due, the rest of the stellar cast aren’t far behind him. From Joan Collins’ remarkable seduction techniques to Christopher Lee’s reaction to his adult sister daring to have a sex life (“You dirty, filthy slut!”), to Herbert Lom’s frankly odd reaction to the whole sordid tale, no-one comes out of this with much dignity intact. Which makes this film a solid masterpiece.

And I haven’t even mentioned Jean Marsh’s astonishing contribution.