I love a good inn scene in a movie.  While this particular setting occurs in various film genres (from the saloon of the western to the canteen or cafe of the World War II film), its best use (in my opinion) is in horror movies… where said public house invariably serves as an oasis of calm (and, of course, provincial superstition) in a desert of fear and dread and galloping horror. Spooky on the outside, warm and cozy on the inside… a horror movie inn scene is like being curled up in mama’s arms. Of course, certain standards must be met. The inn should have a colorful name, like The Lion’s Head or The Four Devils or The Slaughtered Lamb…

… and things should be lively inside. Tuba music and dancing (as in the image above, from Mario Bava’s Black Sunday) isn’t necessary (but is of course always welcome) so much as a good fire, lots of company on the coarse wooden benches and a bit of manly bonhomie. A village inn is the best place for a vampire hunter and a parish priest to toss back a couple of cold ones before setting out on their unpleasant business, as in the picture below, from The Brides of Dracula.

Of course, village inns are best when situated off the beaten track. (The drinking house in Black Sunday is actually located next to “the old, haunted cemetery.”) Interior decorating runs to varnished wood paneling and deer antlers. Pleasures here are simple: some crusty bread, a bowl of thick soup (if not goulash), a bit of hard cheese and the wine of the valley, probably a Tokay. Smoking is permitted and even encouraged, especially via clay pipe that you keep lit with kindling from the hearth. The thicker the air the better. And the general absence of women (as paying customers, anyway) means that gentlemen are not required to remove their hats, as in this moment from the original The Invisible Man.

Gossiping is also encouraged, especially if it serves to ramp up the local unease and rouse the villagers to doing something stupid, like blowing up a dam or storming the castle. It’s always helpful if there’s one fat head in particular (for instance, the fellow in the scarf below, one of the regulars of The Invisible Man) who will take it upon himself to rile up his friends and neighbors with a lot of bold talk and vague threats about village security. And if he’s got a half-witted confederate with a job behind the bar to keep him plied with lager, so much the better.

Not so long ago, I wrote about the coziness of movies set aboard moving trains. While they are by their nature stationary (no matter how they may seem at times to spin around you), village inns are similarly snug and comfortable and safe, providing characters with a chance to catch their breath, to retrench before going back out into the evil world. I’ve always loved these scenes, with their dim lighting and overlapping dialogue and that feeling of belonging to a group that encourages you to join in on the unfriendly staring whenever an outsider happens in out of the cold…

Hmph, strangers. No good can come of it, I tells ya. Mark my words!

Now, who fancies another? And for all that’s holy, close that door!