On the surface, nothing should be easier than making a killer doll story. After all, you’re taking something so innocent, so comforting that we give it to children to help them sleep, and making it evil. The juxtaposition alone does most of a horror writer’s work for them.
But when the initial spine shivers stop and the brain’s logic facilities kick in, the concept falls apart. Why would a grown adult be scared of a 30” toy? No matter how angry it gets, it’s still made of plastic or porcelain. How much harm could it do with those teeny-tiny toy hands?
Simply put, a good killer doll story is more than just child’s play. It takes a top-notch storyteller to keep the idea of the monster scary, without letting its physical limitations become apparent.
A number of horror movies have done just that, particularly the Child’s Play and Annabelle franchises, but they all build off the groundwork laid by the 1963 episode of The Twilight Zone, “Living Doll.”
Directed by Richard C. Sarafain, from Jerry Sohl’s adaptation of Charles Beaumont’s short story, “Living Doll” contains none of the philosophical moralizing for which The Twilight Zone is best known (unless you count “don’t be mean to kids” as a moral). Instead, it tells a straightforward scary story about the titular doll, bought by loving mother Annabelle Streator (Mary LaRoche) for her daughter Christie (Tracy Stratford) to help the girl cope with her overbearing new step-dad Erich (Telly Savalas). When Christie and Annabelle are around, Talky Tina waves her arms, shakes her head, and recites her signature phrase, “My name is Talky Tina and I love you very much.” But when the cruel Erich gets alone with her, Tina trades adoration for admonition, warning him “My name is Talky Tina and I’m going to kill you.”
Despite his attempts, Erich cannot convince his family of the doll’s threats, nor can he dispose of her. Every time he thinks he’s destroyed her, Tina appears again in Christie’s bed.
Lacking the special effect budgets enjoyed by modern filmmakers and saddled with the standards & practices restrictions of late-60s network TV, Sarafain cannot overtly show Talky Tina’s menace. Even when she kills Erich by laying on the staircase and tripping him as he walks down, the moment lacks the punch of, say, a babysitter falling through the window in the original Child’s Play.
That scene ends with the camera holding on Erich laying at the bottom of the stairwell, Tina next to him, her empty eyes watching without blinking as his eyes go blank. He knows that she did it on purpose. He always knew she would.
As that moment demonstrates, Sarafain made Talky Tina a credible monster by showing us how much Erich fears her. Much of the credit here goes to Savalas, who stuffs his hulking frame into a casual white shirt and slacks, like a mob heavy masquerading as a suburban dad. He layers every line with a brutal belligerence, so that the audience thinks he’s one glance away from physically assaulting his family, even in his few moments of kindness toward them.
With such an imposing victim, “Living Doll” wisely avoids trying to make Tina look scary, giving her an angry sneer or delivering her lines with a growl. Instead, legendary voice actor June Foray reads Tina’s threats with the same sing-song sweetness as she does her declarations of love. She may turn her head or open her eyes, but her facial expressions never change. When she tells Erich, “You can’t hurt me, but I can hurt you,” she does it with the same bright smile she always wears, because killing Erich is just another part of her playtime.
Of course, Tina doesn’t have to change her appearance because the story makes the doll itself just the focus of larger turmoil. From the gloomy cello episode composer Bernard Herrmann laces under the opening shot, a simple image of Annabelle bringing packages into the suburban Streator home, we know there’s something wrong. Tensions between the resentful Erich, who feels insecure about his inability to conceive a child with Annabelle, and the family he bullies create unease even before Tina begins acting strangely. The mistrust he’s sown makes it easier to understand why Annabelle would doubt him, even as he demands she believe his fear of the doll. Talky Tina doesn’t need to orchestrate fatal accidents or leave creepy notes to bring down Erich; she just needs to make him doubt his own sanity – doubts his family shares.
Tina’s aided in her machinations with powers that make her more than an evil doll. Not only can Tina move her head and open her eyes by herself, her internal gears turning with an otherworldly hum, but she’s also nearly invincible. When Erich tries to set her ablaze, his fire puffs out. Taking a circular saw to Tina’s head produces showers of sparks, but no cuts on her neck. Tina can even call Erich to taunt him on the phone. The big and brutal Erich becomes an impotent weakling when facing the power manifested in Talky Tina.
Later filmmakers like Tom Holland, Don Mancini, and James Wan might have had more effects and gore to work with, but one can see them following this episode’s lead. When Chucky makes troubled little Andy the prime suspect of his crimes, or when Annabelle teleports from a dumpster to two nurses’ apartment, we hear the echo of a voice we’ve heard before.
It all started with Talky Tina.
