If the advance-placement kids who volunteered for extra science classes in junior high were so darn smart, why do so many of them end up appearing in haunted-mansion movies, agreeing to live for as long as a week within the walls of devilishly possessed interiors that any special-ed. stoner dope would know within an instant were housing nothing but bum trips? Such is the question at the core of The Legend of Hell House (1973), a classic in the canon of British horror flicks. The world-renowned researcher who leads an expedition into the unfathomable depths of Belasco Mansion's drawing rooms and great halls has one of those flighty posh accents that chicks always think indicates great refinement and brain power. But Mr. Smartypants fails to perceive the horrors in store for him, inescapable predicaments that even the slowest dolt in the audience can plainly, and gleefully, anticipate.