“What if it’s some kind of black magic?!”

In the world of British horror films, there’s a specific trope which involves an American being summoned over to these islands to be haunted/stalked/stalked by a ghost/made to think they’re being haunted but are actually being stalked/involved in some kind of satanic shenanigans. Sometimes they’re responsible for said shenanigans, but mostly they’re the innocent victim, starting off enjoying the rain, miserable weather, warm beer etc before getting shat up by whatever mysterious goings-on are, erm, going on. And then everything bursts into flames.

And so we come to The Legacy (the clue’s in the title), which sprinkles a little 1970s Hollywood glamour onto what turns into a surprisingly gory take on this old chestnut – and adds in Roger Daltry, making an heroic attempt to portray himself on-screen, and yet somehow bollocksing it up.

This tone-shifting tale (Is it a romantic comedy? Is it a fish-out-of-water vulgar Americans let loose in a stately home farce? Is it an Agatha Christie-style whodunnit? Is it a “we don’t like stranger round these parts” folk horror?) doesn’t make a huge amount of sense, but despite Daltry’s attempts to derail it with his cockernee plot exposition antics, the madness on show (particularly once the blood starts flowing) is entertaining. Although perhaps more in a “well, I’m glad that’s over” kind of way.

Maggie Walsh (Katharine Ross) has been invited to England for some shady reason. Boyfriend Pete (Sam Elliott, being about as Sam Elliottish throughout as it’s possible for a man to be) isn’t keen. But she persuades him with talk of fishing and riding horses. Two things which apparently you can’t do in LA. So they’re off, and are soon feeding ducks on the Thames and doubling up on the riding things promise by making use of both horses and a rather nice motorbike.

The bike isn’t nice for long, though, as being Americans (and probably therefore riding on the wrong side of the road, boom-boom), they have a near miss with a vintage Rolls-Royce, write the bike off and find themselves invited to stay with the car’s passenger, Jason Mountolive (John Standing). The perils of listening to Kiki Dee whilst performing complex tasks.

There’s no explanation for why they should be so matey with someone who’s just nearly killed them, but this is just the first of such odd reactions to events, which given the way things go, can probably be explained as “because black magic”. Or maybe, it’s just poor plotting? I guess we’ll never know. Let’s say the former, for a laugh.

So far, this hasn’t looked or felt much like a horror film – it’s all jolly music and “isn’t England quaint?”. But once Mountolive gets the couple back to his stately pile “for tea” (see previous comment about being quaint), everything becomes much more doom-laden and portentous.

People start assuming things on Maggie and Pete’s behalf – one minute the couple are just coming in for tea, the next they’re staying the night while the bike is fixed at a nearby garage. Everyone seems to know Maggie’s name without asking, and – weirdly – Mountolive, who in the car seemed perfectly healthy, gets very sick very quickly on arrival back at the house.

None of this stops the two Americans from stripping off and jumping into bed (in the middle of the day, the animals), but the sexy hi-jinks are curtailed when a helicopter arrives outside. Out pop a group of rich-looking people (including Charles Gray), who during a discussion appear to know that an American would be joining them. The plot thickens. With emphasis on the “thick”.

The apparent over-emphasis of household items continues, but this time with purpose. For after a lingering close-up of the shower head in their en-suite, a bare-arsed Pete finds himself locked in the cubicle and pelted with scalding water. His solution? Jump head first through the glass shower door, then promptly dismiss it as just one of those things (we’ve all been there).

The guests are now informed by Mountolive’s nurse/scary nun (Margaret Tyzack) that her patient is “fading fast”. What’s more, every time Maggie mentions meeting Mountolive, people look shifty and vaguely surprised.

Enter Clive Jackson (Roger Daltrey), the last guest to arrive. And it’s about time, too, as what we needed was a lengthy monologue, apparently delivered stream-of-conscious, to explain who everyone is. Thanks Clive. Here’s hoping you die before you get old (oh, you will).

All of the guests are rich beyond dreams, and have been helped through life by Mountolive. They have come together to hear about his legacy before he dies, and (ironic drumroll) Maggie is involved, somehow. Well, that was un-unexpected.

And so the deaths begin, as Mountolive’s bevvy of bedevilled beneficiaries are whittled down for some reason that’s never really adequately explained, in ever more gory ways.

Strange swimming pool drownings, nasty failed tracheotomies, exploding fireplaces, exploding mirrors, exploding guns, exploding hospital rooms (you name it, it’s likely explode before the end of the film).

In between executions, Maggie and Pete realise they’re being kept against their respective wills and plot an escape which (to be fair) escalates quickly in quite an action-packed way. But whatever method they try, be it rustling horses or stealing cars (“That’s a speedy little exit.” / “What do you expect when you’re stealing a car?”) they always end up back at the mansion. This is our first clue that things may be a little more supernatural than we’ve been so far led to believe.

“What if it’s some kind of black magic?” wails Maggie. “Maybe that’s why I came back!”

She then finds an old painting of the former owner of the house, which looks remarkably familiar (audience: “Aha!”).

And so to the denouement, which involves a bit of gun action and a spectacular fall off a roof, the revelation that someone is also the cat off the old VHS cover (me neither), and someone getting Mountolive’s legacy. Can you guess who? The final scene is a classic in a very 1970s way - death and destruction all around, but everyone still alive seems remarkably unfazed all of a sudden.