The Plague of the Zombies (1966) – Review

Hammer Films wasn’t just about Peter Cushing creating monsters or Christopher Lee hissing over a candelabra. They also dabbled in voodoo, Cornish superstition, and the occasional zombie infestation. 1966’s The Plague of the Zombies is one such detour; a gothic, fog-drenched curiosity that manages to be creepy, silly, and weirdly influential all at once.

Sir James Forbes (André Morell), the sort of doctor who thinks “holiday” means “poke around in other people’s corpses,” is summoned by his old student, Dr. Peter Thompson (Brook Williams). Peter is drowning in patients, but not in cures; his Cornish village is racking up mysterious deaths like it’s running a “buy one, get one free” deal on coffins. Naturally, Sir James shows up with his daughter Sylvia (Diane Clare) in tow, because Hammer films always require a wholesome blonde to imperil.

“What does one wear to a plague, father?”

Things escalate quickly: Peter’s wife Alice (Jacqueline Pearce) is acting like she wandered in from a goth music video, wasting away under an unnamed illness and muttering ominous things. Soon enough, Alice dies, then doesn’t stay dead. Sir James digs her up and finds her body missing, which is never a good sign unless you’re in a farce. Even worse, the graveyard has more traffic than Piccadilly Circus at rush hour, with corpses sneaking out for late-night walks. I think this would be considered a tad odd in most places, but to be fair, in Cornwall, that might not even be a red flag.

“Does this mean we have to bury everyone twice?”

The culprit is revealed to be the suavely sinister Squire Clive Hamilton (John Carson), who has graduated from the standard aristocratic villainy of fox hunting and tenant-cheating to full-on zombie farming. Using a bit of voodoo picked up on his Caribbean holidays (way more hands-on than bringing home a straw hat), Hamilton has turned the local peasants into undead labourers for his tin mine. Hammer really leaned into the “what’s scarier than a union-busting aristocrat?” angle here. Hamilton casually steals some of Sylvia’s blood after a wine glass “accident.” Sylvia is soon entranced and lured to the mine by a small zombie parade, and the Squire prepares her for zombification-lite.

I hope that mine is OSHA-compliant.

Naturally, Sir James isn’t about to let zombie capitalism go unchecked. After some grave robbing, secret passage exploring, and a lot of men in frock coats falling into pits, he unmasks Hamilton’s operation. Luckily, Sir James uncovers Hamilton’s voodoo dolls, accidentally sets the mansion on fire, and discovers that zombies really don’t handle flames well. While the mine becomes a writhing, burning chaos, Sir James and Peter rescue Sylvia, leaving Hamilton to scream his last amid the inferno. Cornwall is saved, though the property values are probably shot.

“Well, that was a shit show.”

Stray Observations:

• Apparently, Cornish police don’t bother with forensics: “Oh, you were drunk near the body? You must have done it.” Case closed.
• Men refuse to work in an unsafe mine, so the mine is closed. Solution: Rich asshat uses voodoo to turn miners into zombies to work the mine. Yeah, that checks out.
• Hamilton’s voodoo involves breaking wine glasses and collecting blood in the least subtle way possible. No one thinks this is weird?
• Burning tiny voodoo dolls causes zombies to freak out and combust in perfect sync. It’s convenient, but raises real questions about quality control.
• We have a spooky manor house, a villainous scheme to make money with zombies, and there’s a Great Dane. A few more elements and we’d have a Scooby-Doo movie.

“And I would have gotten away with it, too, if it weren’t for that meddling doctor.”

Director John Gilling delivers The Plague of the Zombies with the gothic moodiness Hammer was known for, but adds a surprising dose of grit. The opening voodoo sequence, with its pounding drums and eerie ritual, immediately sets this apart from the studio’s usual vampire-goth template. Gilling keeps the action brisk and the suspense simmering, though his biggest triumph is how he balances moments of genuine creepiness (the zombies rising from their graves, Sylvia entranced in the moonlight) with the unintentionally goofy (tin mines and blood-stealing wine tricks).

I do wonder where Hamilton got his voodoo drummers? Did he place an ad?

Arthur Grant’s cinematography is a major reason the film still works today. His fog-drenched Cornish landscapes, shadowy graveyards, and claustrophobic mine shafts give the film an oppressive atmosphere that papered over some of the sillier story beats. The iconic scene of zombies clawing their way out of the earth is still haunting, thanks to Grant’s lighting and framing. It’s one of Hammer’s most enduring images, and you can see why George Romero might have taken notes.

“They’re coming to get you, Sir James.”

In terms of zombie history, The Plague of the Zombies is a fascinating bridge. It looks back to White Zombie (1932), with its voodoo origins and Bela Lugosi’s hypnotic control, while also prefiguring Romero’s flesh-eating hordes two years later in Night of the Living Dead (1968). Hammer’s zombies don’t eat brains—they’re more into unpaid labour—but the imagery of shambling corpses and their tragic victims paved the way for the modern zombie genre.

“More brains, please!”

As for performances, André Morell brings a welcome gravitas to Sir James, grounding the story even when he’s knee-deep in coffin lids. Diane Clare does her best with the fainting-damsel routine, though Sylvia is often more plot device than character. Jacqueline Pearce is wasted as Alice, but her gaunt features as a zombie are unforgettable. And John Carson? He steals the movie, oozing sinister charm as Hamilton, making the voodoo villain both menacing and oddly classy.

He plays “Rich Asshat” with extreme vigour. 

In conclusion, The Plague of the Zombies may not be Hammer’s most famous film, but it’s one of its most distinctive—a gothic horror with a voodoo twist that managed to look backward to Lugosi and forward to Romero. It’s silly, atmospheric, and occasionally profound in its imagery, proving Hammer could do more than just Dracula sequels. If nothing else, it gave us zombies before they were cool, and for that, it deserves a special spot in horror history.