In its half-century at the blind end of a cobbled alley in Montmartre, le Théâtre du Grand Guignol has become a synonym for blood-drenched horror on the stage. Until the war came along, its 293 seats were filled nightly with a faithful, shuddering clientele. Its finest hour came one night when a woman in the audience swooned at the sight of two harridans gouging out a girl's eyes in their madhouse cell; the management called for the house doctor, but he had passed out too.
No New Twists. The war made horror trite and started emptying the Grand Guignol's seats. Another blow:...
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