IN THE FOLDS OF THE FLESH
1970 - Dir. Sergio Bergonzelli
While its lighting is a little flat, this Bergonzelli film's got ballsy twists, and the ability to go deep into sordidness without getting depressingly graphic (the severed heads are numerous but humorous - more like knocking a ceramic head off a coffee table than actual killing). Even though you've got no clue who's-who 'til the final denouement, it's worth being confused for a finale that's like having eight Brian De Palma Hitchcock climax wigs coming off at the same time, with lurid flashbacks mixing MARNIE, SUDDENLY LAST SUMMER, MANTIS IN LACE and NIGHT PORTER all up in a kaleidoscope psychedelic miasma. Pier Angeli is the girl in the wig with the twisted mind with the black widow habit, incestuously grooving with her brooding artist brother (Emilio Guttierez Caba) while the stoic mother (Eleonora Rossi Drago) scowls on. Plus there's sleazy character actor males who drop by begging for the old ceramic head off the coffee table treatment) mod clothes, groovy incestuous petting, a pet vulture who eats the scraps, and Ultramannish paint swirl credits. Jesus Villa Rojo did the score, which prefigures SILENCE OF THE LAMBS in places, and as long as the lurid topless Auschwitz flashback doesn't get your PC braids in a knot (this may be the only giallo do have a holocaust survivor who's kept a Zyclon B stash for use in the bathtub) and you dig SPIDER BABY, GIRLY, CUL-DE-SAC and mixing metaphors like you're a student at Freud's psychosexual taboo bartending school after a night of trying to study for finals during your roommate's orgy--you'll love IN THE FOLDS, for THE FLESH is not weak!
ALL THE COLORS OF THE DARK
(1972) Dir. Sergio Martino
Jane (Edwige Fenech) is having weird nightmares ever since the accident that killed her unborn child. Is Richard (George Hilton) gaslighting her or just a typically sexist Italian male? Who is Richard and why is he dissolving blue pills in her water and refusing to let her see a shrink? Is that strange-looking man (Ivan Rassimov) stalking her or is he a hallucination? Maybe he's the shrink. Her sexy sister Barbara (Nieves Navarro) brings Jane to get psychiatric help while her sexy neighbor (Marina Malfatti) thinks she just needs to attend a Satanic ritual led by a Robert Downey Jr-esque hippy with long gold fingernails. There, Jane drinks the blood of a puppy from a golden chalice and makes out with the whole pasty-faced coven, and maybe more but before we can find out their lips dissolve into goddamned Richard again--she's cured! But there's all sorts of obligations "Now you are one of us, Jane," Rassimov says "It's impossible to renounce us." Yeah, but if they made her crazy in the first place, what good did they really do?
Credit Martino's ingenious direction that we understand completely Jane's confused mindset, that we understand the sort of queasy dread that can only be come from being stabbed by a hallucination. Is that how death is, your killer just goes from being real to imagined and you just never come back to reality again? Is death just snapping out of a schizophrenic break or snapping forever into one? A lot of filmmakers get the diabolical nature of dreams and hallucinations all wrong, not Martino! And while the 'is there or is there not a guy trying to kill you' makes the film similar to another Italian flick which is almost a near giallo in itself, THE ROMAN SPRING OF MRS. STONE (my review here), as well as Polanski's REPULSION, maybe there's just a lot of phantom killer pretty boy gigolos skulking around London and Rome, or there were in that golden time before, you know, AIDS. Nothing makes danger limp like a condom. Even Satanic mind control sex cults aren't immune! Or did they cause it in the first place? It's impossible to renounce us, Jane!
I'm not smitten or anything, but I respect that Fenech is a sultry icon in some blog circles, I like that she's a large, voluptuous Italian love doll of a thing, limbs all flayed about the room like they're barely connected to her well-fucked body, and she does have nice boots, which look good running amidst the fallen autumnal foliage of England where this film was shot. Ah, that's the first mistake, for the dreary skies and colorless Tudor architecture are a far cry from the chiaroscuro trimmings of Rome where most gialli are lensed. It's like drinking Jameson's instead of J&B --it might still get you drunk, but what's the point? Don't worry, it's J&B here and the black magic all goes down under a solid Bruno Nicolai score, even if that singsong children's la-la-la business seems largely ripped from the stuff he did a couple years earlier with Ennio Morricone for BIRD WITH THE CRYSTAL PLUMAGE, though that itself was semi-stolen from Krzysztof Komeda in ROSEMARY'S BABY a year or so before that. But stealing is part of the culture in Roma! Make sure your money belt is well-hidden when you visit. But this is England.
CAT O'NINE TAILS
(1971) Dir Dario Argento
That said, blind puzzlemaker Malden has a hip little seeing-eye niece who calls him Cookie, a weird relationship reflected perversely in that between a possibly gender-disoriented and certainly automaton-esque suspect Fanciscus sleeps with (Catherine Spaak, below) and her older "father" and the founder of a sinister genetics institute (villainous eyebrow wearer Tino Carraro). Though that may sound Cronenbergian, with this whole thing about a 'criminal' extra chromosome, it's more De Palma in practice There's a clue in a locket, and if you can get around the cops not bothering to look in a murder victim's car, or towing it, then you can just dig that crazy Morricone mash-up: repeating little drum refrains, flute melodies that cycle around on repeat and sing-song high voices that seem to drift around over thudding bass lines like a cloud of smoke.
While it's minor Argento, CAT holds up well over repeat viewings. It's got a good spritely rhythm and a killer nicely poised on the cusp between sociopath and methodical evidence-coverer, with all sorts of ingenious clues planted for later recovery, with the killer as omnipresent as that funky minimalist Morricone two-note bass line, violently plucking evidence of his/her identity at the last moment (for example a deep cut on the hand would be a dead give away when visiting the suspects, except that we hear a vase break off camera right before the bleeding suspect comes down the stairs).
Note should be made of gay bar scene, overwrought with the kind of CRUISIN'-style masochistic self-loathing filmmakers presumed--as they explored the milieu for the sake of tawdry atmosphere, and the further blurring of possible suspects' gender identity--was part of the gay lifestyle rather than a sad reflection of the intolerant times. Coming out as openly gay in these films involves the kind of sordid overdoing it (such as they 'tickle palm' gay handshake) imagined as real today only by crazy old preachers and politicians.
Ironically, in today's generally more tolerant climate it's the homophobic Christian zealots that are painted in lurid broad strokes. Now it's the homosexual couple that are happily married with kids and a suburban house with a white picket fence, while the Christians fume in incestuous hypocrisy. Only a few filmmakers, like Howard Hawks, see the virtuous suburban nuclear family unit itself as the real enemy as far back as the 50s-60s (note the almost total lack of moms in Hawks movies). In Argento, if they are there, it's to hold murderous sway over gay, transgender or deformed sons, not unlike MOST of Hitchcock).
I mention Hawks for a reason: aside from the usual Hitchcock references (poisoned glass of milk POV) there's at least two Hawksian motifs in TAILS, there's some dialogue that recalls THE BIG SLEEP (which also had a gay couple of young turk and older sugar daddy) and a telltale blood drip ala RIO BRAVO. But those things are just parenthetical. What counts is that the percussive super-funky Ennio Morricone score is so thumping and rattly that you're bound to get a terrified frisson sooner or later and, if not, there's the idea of being a blind graverobber led through a creepy nighttime cemetery (with the requisite 'locked in the mausoleum), puzzles and clue trails zipping by with almost no dead air and plenty of nice widescreen wallpaper; the white and magenta color schemes in that Carror's mansion are as sickening to the base of the spine as the aforementioned iodine. All along the way, there's nary a lull even if there's nary a wow.
|Franco Nero hunts for clues|
THE FIFTH CORD
(1971) - Dir Luigi Bazzoni
Sometimes there comes a film like THE FIFTH CORD that is so good it's impossible to follow until the third magical viewing. I only recall now that Franco Franco Nero smolders and drinks valiantly against the current of ennui and fatalistic Ennio Morricone music, in the process exposing not just the killer but the vanity and childish narcissism of all the handsome Italian drunks who've been presuming their macho charm still melts any woman's resolve. If the woman have grown wise to his tricks, they've also grown old enough to have fewer options. Either way, he's too in denial to notice he's not as cool as he think he is, so he can't keep the macho swagger out of his shambling wobbly drunken steps. Though a mere crime reporter, he acts like he's the giallo version of BAD LIEUTENANT. He's Franco Nero, damnit - and he does his own dubbing, and he rocks.
And while all the international architecture and light through Venetian blinds, the roving camera, crisp sets, scopophilic perversion red herring and good dubbing all elevate this to the top of the giallo food chain, there's also a sense of phoniness inside the souls of the characters that not only excuses phoniness in the film but resembles Antonioni-esque fatalism as much as it does Argento diabolism. Even when the crippled heiress is being terrified, crawling across the floor like a snake towards her distant wheelchair, she's framed beautifully by a stone lion, dark yellow curtains, and a gray cat, Morricone's organ fugue coordinating her funeral even as she's still alive. The Blue Underground DVD's blacks are so deep she seems like she's crawling out of the letterbox frame into the black bars. And there's a cool use of International style architecture's lines as both prison and protection: every scene is so layered in vertical and horizontal lines and reflections and contrasting vanishing points, psychedelic sexy silhouettes and circular corners that you want to every frame as a still (DP Vittorio Storaro went on to make Apocalypse Now). And then... when in the last reel, the lines and bars and frames suddenly aren't there the characters seem extra-vulnerable. Even a tomb feels secure by contrast to such pregnant blackness.
As a tall, handsome, debauched, erudite, charming, and delusional alcoholic, I recognize myself in Nero's self-deluding eyes. I like the way he slaps around young hoods in racing suits, but never carries a gun or uses any weapon but his lashing fists. Cops with goofball smiles, typing, lots of smoking, drinking and obscene pitch-shifted phone calls from the killer round out the package. As Michael Mackenzie at Home Cinema notes:
"That The Fifth Cord (Giornata Nera per l'Ariete, which translates as "Black Day of the Ram") could pass for a film made by the maestro himself is high praise indeed, and it is to the credit of its director, the elusive Luigi Bazzoni, that the film so perfectly captures the mood of Argento's "Animal Trilogy" without ever coming across as a slavish copy."
BLOOD AND BLACK LACE
(1964) Dir Mario Bava
The film that started it all: the black gloves, the mannequins, the terrified fashion plates, it's all here, and it's the one that should most be on Blu-ray! Oh please VCI, pleeease do a better job or pass it over to a better label. It's sooo pretty and rich with the titular textures and deep red gel lighting that the sleazy misogynist relish of lingering on screaming women's faces, necks, and bodies is almost forgivable. After all, it's not the women's or director Mario Bava's, but Roman Catholic culture's fault. Italy invented the Madonna/Whore complex.
Here's why I think this: the Catholic-Italian suffocating power of a mother's love and guilt trips make her son's sexual desires painfully ungratified while growing up, and meanwhile the moms of girls you love know all-a the tricks. They make sure you're not allowed to get within ten feet of their virginal charges unsupervised (as in Michael Corleone's experience in Italy). Even masturbation is a sin, and your mom makes it impossible to try, banging on the door if you lock it, as if sensing when-a you're doing wrong. The giallo is the result of the curdled venom of semen retentum finally lashing out with a phallic blade at those hydra-like red apron strings projected on the white blouse wall, and there's nothing wrong with that, if it's via artistic sublimation (pretending to kill women for a movie is much better than to kill them in real life, capito?) Now that we know it's wrong, and why, and why we'll never do it again, can we film it?