Apart from Veidt's surgically-enhanced grimace and the inherent creepiness of clowns after dark, this “super-production” forgets the horrific aspirations of its first fifteen minutes (stone statues as bedroom decor, an Iron Maiden) in exchange for court intrigue and swashbuckling silliness. One highlight: Olga Baclanova’s queasy eroticism. Scene-stealing.
before the title, be warned—there are possible spoilers in the review.
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