My first encounter with Vincent Price wasn’t in one of his eerie gothic mansions or amid a swirl of Poe-inspired madness; it was on The Muppet Show. There he was, fangs and all, gleefully joking with Kermit the Frog, mock-biting and cackling with that unmistakable voice. Even through the laughter, I could sense there was something different about him—a kind of elegance in the way he played with the macabre.
I remember pointing at the TV and asking my mum, “Who is that?” Her face lit up instantly. My mum was a massive Hammer Horror fan, raised on Christopher Lee, Peter Cushing, and all the gloriously gothic films that made British horror its own dark art form. But she didn’t want to introduce me to horror too early—she was worried about the content and my imagination running wild. At that age, the only scary things I was allowed to watch were the Abbott and Costello horror spoofs.
“Oh, that’s Vincent Price,” she said. “You’re going to love him… eventually.”
And she was right. Eventually came sooner than she thought.
Once I was old enough, my mum began introducing me to Price’s real horror films—the ones that made him legendary. House on Haunted Hill. The Fly. The Tingler. House of Wax. And then came his collaborations with Roger Corman—those lush, melancholy Edgar Allan Poe adaptations that felt like nightmares painted in Technicolor: The Fall of the House of Usher, The Pit and the Pendulum, Tales of Terror, The Masque of the Red Death, The Raven, and The Tomb of Ligeia.
Those films hit me like nothing else. The colours were vivid, the sets theatrical, and at the centre of it all was Price—moving through the chaos with aristocratic grace and a hint of mischief. He didn’t just act; he conducted. His performances were symphonies of menace and melancholy. He could go from charming to chilling in half a sentence, and you never knew which side he was really on. That’s what made him captivating.
And Sweet Lucifer, that voice.
Smooth as smoke, rich as old wine, and wickedly amused, even when he was threatening you. Price didn’t just lend that voice to film; he ruled the airwaves long before he became a horror icon. His work in old-time radio was extraordinary—The Saint, Escape, Suspense, and CBS Radio Mystery Theater were programs where his voice carried entire worlds. He could shift tone from warmth to wickedness with a breath, narrating tales of ghosts, murderers, and moral dilemmas that felt like living poetry. Listening to him on the radio was like being hypnotised.
He made you see the story with nothing but his cadence and timing.
Later, of course, that same voice became immortal again in Michael Jackson’s Thriller—the cackling echo of a man who’d spent decades perfecting the art of giving words a pulse. I remember hearing that eerie monologue as a kid and thinking, “Hey! That’s the Muppet guy!”
The deeper I fell into Price’s world, the more I realised how multifaceted he was. Beyond the horror icon, he was a scholar, an art collector, a traveller, and, in one of life’s best plot twists, a gourmet chef. He and his wife, Mary, wrote several cookbooks, including A Treasury of Great Recipes, Come Into the Kitchen Cookbook, and Cooking Price-Wise. They weren’t campy celebrity projects; they were serious, beautifully written explorations of world cuisine. He even hosted a British cooking show, captivating audiences with his poised whisking of sauces and roasting of meats.
He also helped found the Vincent Price Art Museum in California, donating hundreds of pieces from his personal collection so the public could enjoy them. That generosity says everything about him; he wasn’t a man who hoarded beauty; he shared it.
Through Price, I discovered Edgar Allan Poe, the writer whose words he brought to life with such haunted dignity. These stories provided me with insights into Gothic literature, philosophy, and the intricacies of the human condition. And somewhere along the way, I became a chef myself. I started to understand what Price meant when he talked about cooking as both art, ritual, and the joy of creating something beautiful, sensory, and fleeting.
He was, in a strange way, my introduction to epicureanism, not the shallow pursuit of luxury, but the deeper philosophy of savouring life in all its forms. Art, food, film, fear—all things to be tasted, studied, and enjoyed. That idea has stayed with me my entire life.
Price’s influence reaches beyond my generation, too. Tim Burton’s early short film Vincent (1982) is a perfect example—a stop-motion love letter to both Price and Poe. Price narrates it with that velvet menace only he could deliver, bringing Burton’s boyish, gothic daydream to life.
Burton’s imagination is given a voice by the man who defined the sound of elegant horror. That short remains one of my favourite collaborations in cinema, and not because it’s flashy, but because it feels like legacy acknowledging legacy.
But what always fascinated me was how long and varied his film career really was—over a hundred films across five decades. Before he became the Master of Horror, he was a respected character actor in dramas and noir classics like Laura (1944), Leave Her to Heaven (1945), and The Ten Commandments (1956). He even appeared in adventure and fantasy films like The Three Musketeers (1948), The Baron of Arizona (1950), and His Kind of Woman (1951).
Later, he reinvented himself in cult masterpieces like Witchfinder General (1968), The Abominable Dr. Phibes (1971), Dr. Phibes Rises Again (1972), Theatre of Blood (1973), Madhouse (1974), and The Monster Club (1981).
Each role, no matter how outrageous, had that unmistakable Price touch—the arch wit, the elegance, and the glint of intelligence behind the madness. He could be horrifying, hilarious, and heartbreakingly human all at once.
For all his sinister roles and wicked laughter, Vincent Price was famously kind, articulate, and funny. He approached life with curiosity and compassion, continually seeking new forms of expression. He wasn’t content to play the villain; he wanted to understand him. That’s why his final role in Edward Scissorhands still moves me so deeply. As the gentle inventor, he’s fragile and wise, and it felt like a farewell from a man who spent his life giving depth to the dark.
Vincent Price passed away on October 25, 1993—the same date as my birthday. When I found out, it hit me in a strange, fitting way. Not spooky, just poetic. Every year when that date rolls around, I celebrate life the same way he did: through film, art, food, and a touch of the macabre.
Tonight’s film for my 31 Days of Horror is one of his lesser-known gems, The Haunted Palace (1963). It’s often mistaken for another Poe adaptation, but it’s actually based on H.P. Lovecraft’s The Case of Charles Dexter Ward. Price plays the dual roles of both the cursed descendant and the resurrected warlock with his signature blend of elegance and menace. The film drips with atmosphere: fog-wreathed streets, cursed townsfolk, and a creeping sense of ancestral rot that seeps into every frame.
What sets The Haunted Palace apart is its restraint. There’s less theatrical madness here, more slow dread, the kind that seeps under your skin. Price plays Joseph Curwen with eerie subtlety, letting the horror unfurl through suggestion and sorrow rather than hysteria. It’s a gothic tragedy with Lovecraftian decay, and no one could have balanced those tones quite like him.
So tonight, I will be pouring a glass of wine, plating something indulgent, and watching The Haunted Palace flicker across the screen. I will watch it as a quiet thank-you to the man who showed me that horror can be graceful, that villains can have hearts, and that the darkest stories are often told in the most beautiful voices, rather than as a ritual or out of nostalgia.
Here’s to Vincent Price!
Forever the gentleman ghoul!
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