Film Review: The Last Man on Earth (1964)

Richard Matheson stands as one of the most influential figures in 20th-century American speculative fiction. Renowned for his contributions to cult television series such as The Twilight Zone and Star Trek, Matheson’s imagination left an indelible mark on the genres of science fiction and horror. Among his most celebrated works is the 1954 novel I Am Legend, a masterful blend of science fiction, vampiric horror, and post-apocalyptic storytelling that has inspired numerous adaptations. The novel’s legacy is cemented by its three film adaptations, including the star-studded The Omega Man (1971) with Charlton Heston and the blockbuster I Am Legend (2007) featuring Will Smith. Yet, the first cinematic incarnation—The Last Man on Earth (1964), directed by Sidney Salkow and Ubaldo Ragona—occupies a curious niche. While undeniably derivative of its source material, this low-budget Italian-American co-production remains a fascinating, if flawed, artifact of early 1960s horror. Its modest ambitions and budgetary constraints render it a lesser-known entry in Matheson’s pantheon, yet its existence underscores the challenges of translating visionary literature into visceral cinema.

The script, written by Matheson himself, adheres closely to the novel’s premise. Set in September 1968—three years after a pandemic has decimated humanity—protagonist Robert Morgan (Vincent Price) navigates a world devoid of human life. The sole survivor, Morgan endures crushing loneliness, haunted by memories of his deceased wife, Virge (Emma Danielli), and daughter. His daily routine involves fruitless radio broadcasts for contact, scavenging for supplies, and hunting nocturnal “vampires”—infected humans who transform into mindless, predatory creatures under moonlight. By day, Morgan systematically eliminates these threats, burning their corpses in a massive funeral pit. The narrative pivots when he encounters Ruth Collins (Franca Bettoia), a woman seemingly immune to the plague, whose ambiguous motives and hidden agenda threaten his fragile equilibrium. Matheson’s fidelity to the novel’s structure ensures the film retains the existential dread central to I Am Legend, yet the translation to screen inevitably dilutes the prose’s psychological depth.

The film’s black-and-white cinematography, courtesy of Franco Delli Colli, is less an aesthetic choice than a pragmatic response to financial limitations. Matheson initially pitched the project to Hammer Films, the British studio synonymous with gothic horror and exploitation cinema. However, Hammer reportedly balked at the story’s bleakness, deeming its depiction of a post-pandemic wasteland too grim for British censors. Consequently, producer Robert Lippert shifted production to Italy, where the film was helmed by Salkow and Ragona, directors better known for genre hybrids and modestly budgeted thrillers. This cross-continental collaboration, while cost-effective, imparted a distinct European sensibility to the proceedings. The decision to shoot in black-and-white, while initially a concession to austerity, inadvertently lends the film a stark, desolate atmosphere that amplifies its themes of isolation—a serendipitous stroke of luck in an otherwise constrained production.

The film’s brisk 86-minute runtime, a product of its limited budget, initially serves it well. The opening act immerses viewers in Morgan’s bleak reality, juxtaposing the haunting beauty of Rome’s streets—doubling for an American metropolis—with the eerie silence of a depopulated world. Yet, as the narrative progresses, its structural flaws become glaring. A prolonged flashback midway through the film drags the pacing, devolving into melodramatic reenactments of Morgan’s final days with his family. These scenes, hampered by overly theatrical acting and stilted dialogue, disrupt the tension established in the first act. The introduction of Ruth Collins, while promising intrigue, is underdeveloped. Her enigmatic presence and eventual betrayal feel rushed, undermined by the directors’ unimaginative handling of character dynamics. Compounding these issues is the intrusive score by Paul Sawter and Ben Shefter, which overpowers quieter moments that might have benefited from the silence of Morgan’s solitude.

Production design, though occasionally hamstrung by its reliance on Rome’s architecture to stand in for an American city, manages to evoke a convincing post-apocalyptic landscape. Abandoned streets, dusty libraries, and overgrown gardens effectively convey the passage of time and humanity’s absence. The film’s most memorable set piece—a fortified home—serves as both a practical refuge for Morgan and a symbol of his futile defiance against the encroaching darkness. While the substitution of Italian locations might irk purists, the production’s resourcefulness in crafting an oppressive atmosphere overshadows its geographic inaccuracies.

Vincent Price’s performance anchors the film, though his casting proved contentious. Matheson reportedly insisted on being credited as “Larry Swenson” out of dissatisfaction with Price’s suitability for the role. As the star of countless Roger Corman-produced gothic horrors, Price was inextricably linked to the archetypal “mad scientist” or aristocratic villain—a persona at odds with Morgan’s everyman fragility. Yet Price rises to the challenge, imbuing Morgan with a quiet desperation and weary resolve that elevate the material. His delivery of introspective monologues is particularly affecting. Franca Bettoia, as Ruth, delivers a nuanced performance given her limited screen time, her guarded warmth and latent menace adding depth to an otherwise underwritten character. Giacomo Rossi Stuart, as Morgan’s former friend Ben Cortman—a vampiric antagonist—struggles with the role’s demands, his youthful appearance clashing with the gravitas required of a once-trusted ally turned predator.

The Last Man on Earth’s most enduring legacy lies not in its own merits but in its indirect influence on subsequent horror cinema. The film’s nocturnal “vampires”—slow-moving, mindless creatures who attack in swarms—directly inspired George A. Romero’s seminal Night of the Living Dead (1968). Romero’s zombies, though more visceral and socially charged, owe their herd-like aggression and physical ineptitude to Matheson’s creatures. This unintended homage underscores the film’s role as a proto-zombie narrative, bridging the gap between classical vampire lore and the modern undead menace.

Ultimately, The Last Man on Earth is a curio rather than a classic. While its low budget and rushed pacing prevent it from matching the emotional resonance of Matheson’s novel or the later adaptations, it remains a compelling artifact of 1960s horror. Its value lies in its historical context: a bridge between eras, showcasing the challenges of adapting visionary literature to the screen and hinting at the genre’s future directions. Casual horror fans may find it underwhelming compared to contemporary offerings, but for cinema historians and devotees of Matheson’s work, it offers a glimpse into the evolution of post-apocalyptic storytelling—a testament to the tenacity of ideas, even when their execution falters.

RATING: 5/10 (++)

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