This is a film which is sorta-kinda linked to the 'Death Walks' series by virtue of sharing a leading lady in Susan Scott (and canes are typically used to aid perambulation as well). It's certainly not brilliant; it might be really bad, but it's hard to say for sure. And here's why.

Whilst waiting for her husband to show up to take her aunt and uncle to the airport, Kitty passes the time by using one of those public telescope things you get sometimes at viewing points. Seeking out her own house, she accidentally stumbles on a murder-in-progress, seen through the window of a residence. Just when she's about to see the killer's face as he leaves the house (the fact that we can see his face in profile throughout the murder is never mentioned, possibly because the person doubling for the murderer is not actually a character/official actor in the film) her pre-paid time at the tele ends. After initially struggling to convince the police of what she saw (see Death Walks at Midnight for more), things swiftly progress to the point where eyewitnesses who saw the killer making his escape are turning up dead, and it turns out that the killer may have previous-an Australian ballet dancer was murdered in similar circumstances a short time before. Top of the range forensics work (not really) reveals that the killer utilised a cane around the crime scenes. When a third ballet dancer, who was known to Kitty and her husband, is also murdered, it seems that the solution is to be found in a local dance academy...

Remarkably, the idea that the murder of three ballerinas may be linked to their shared profession is presented as being a piece of deduction worthy of Sherlock Holmes when Alberto, Kitty's limping husband, stumbles upon the notion. Certainly it's a line of investigation which hasn't occurred to the dimwitted police force, whose entire process seems to revolve around pressing innocent citizens into service as bait to lure the killer out into the open (indeed, the investigating inspector makes no bones about this being their tactic in a conversation with Alberto, one of his baits). The only fish who takes a bite out of this approach is the cane-using chief of police, who tries to pick up Kitty when she poses as a prostitute. The film seems to hold authority figures in disdain-something established early on when Kitty seeks help in reporting the murder she's witnessed. What she thinks is a policeman is actually an off-duty fireman, who couldn't be less moved by her claims of having witnessed a murder. This performance level is maintained by the police, who focus on the cane lead rather than the ballet lead, despite the film taking place in a world in which the majority of the population are seemingly perambulatorily challenged. Just as how in The Iguana with the Tongue of Fire everyone in rainy Ireland sports natty sunglasses, the Rome of this film would seem to be the epicentre of a thriving cane retail business.

After a fairly classic set-up-voyeurism, a black-clad knife-wielding killer (identified by the fuzz as that most gialloey of characters, the Sex Killer) and a husband for a suspect-the film goes slightly off-piste in its approach. It initially seems primed to be what Michael McKenzie would term an 'F Giallo', with Nieves Navarro's Kitty the focus of both the plot and the killer's ultimate attentions, but somewhere along the way the narrative focus shifts somewhat, and ends up completely unhinged (to the point that her character's main function towards the end is to take the piss. You'll understand when you watch the film [and it has to be said that normal service does resume at the very end, with Kitty assuming the role of victim]). Robert Hoffmann's Alberto, by virtue of his amazing brainwave linking the murder of ballet dancers to ballet, becomes the de facto chief investigator (as stated, the police ultimately prove worthless), but he is literally and figuratively scrambling around in the dark when he breaks into the ballet academy which links the victims, unsure of for what he's really searching. This turns out to be a photograph which shows (SPOILERSish) a ballet pianist accompanying a ballet dancer (one of the victims), which apparently is proof of the pianist's guilt, despite the fact that we've previously seen him accompanying another of the victims IRL without anyone batting an eye. But then, in a twist worthy of a poorly-written giallo, it turns out that there was no need to even pursue an investigation of the ballet school, as the killer's wife finds some notes, which conveniently confess his guilt, hidden among his sheet music.

So, ultimately, all the investigations and using-people-as-live-bait was for nought. But then again, the meat of a giallo really exists around the investigation, not within it, so this isn't a terminal failing of the film, but it does suggest a certain deficiency at script level. And such limp (oh!) plotting would be fine if the film was filled with great music, style, sex and all the rest of the things that giallohounds love. And here's where things get weird-the music is mostly forgettable, apart from one droning sting which effortlessly generates tension early on in the film, but is curiously absent for the climax (which plays largely sans musical accompaniment [semi-ironic, given the profession of the killer]). As for style-there's a shit-ton of handheld shots which on a purely technical level are fairly bad, but there are too many of them for it not to be somewhat of a stylistic choice-an attempt to add kinetic energy and paper over a paper-thin narrative which ultimately is about a woman finding some pieces of paper off-screen. There is sex and nudity aplenty, typically presented in a voyeuristic rather than erotic style. And there's not a huge amount of gore, but what's there is decent-aided by the use of pig carcasses rather than dummies. But overall, there's something just a bit off about the film, and it's hard to know whether this is by design on the part of Maurizio Pradeaux or just accidental by dint of amateurishness.

Narratively, the film almost starts in the wrong place, with the murder of the Australian having been committed beforehand, and only existing as something the characters reference. The past, and events which occur outside the timeframe of the film, is no stranger to gialli, of course-childhood or adulthood trauma suffered in the past accounts for a large percentage of the killers' motivations (eg here). It's just unusual for a murder that's part of the main sequence of (three) killings, thus forming part of the central narrative, not to be represented on-screen. There's further off-kilterishness when we essentially have the field of potential suspects narrowed to 2 with fully half an hour left, when an eyewitness reacts with terror upon seeing a photograph of some of the film's characters. You could charitably say that there are four suspects, given there are 4 people in the photo, but two of them are women, and the person body doubling for the killer in the opening scene could not have been less feminine if he tried. Furthermore, one of these two suspects, despite being ostensibly a main character, doesn't actually say anything in the film (something which isn't explained). And as an aside to the furthermore, the two non-suspect-but-theoretically-suspect women are sisters/twins, played by the same actress, something which is not made at all clear for quite some time in the film-Pradeaux trying to bamboozle us, or just being bad at his job?

Having said all that, I do like films where the viewer is forced to pay close attention to proceedings to figure out what's going on, in effect operating as a kind of amateur detective at the level of plot-see Sonno Profondo for an extreme example of this. As I've said, I'm not sure whether or not this was an deliberate choice by the filmmakers, but at the end of the day, who cares? It is what it is, and what it is is... what*?

PS It's worth pointing out that the German version of the film offers a different explanation to the English and Italian versions, in which the killer is pretending to suffer from limp issues (little double entendre there, which works very neatly indeed). In the German dub, the limp (walking) is real, reawoken by a kind of PTSD, and the limp (willy) is part of the general humiliation/motivation. This works better for me, although because we properly only see the killer walk once, it doesn't really matter whether or not they were pretending to need a cane. In some ways, these different explanations perfectly showcase how the giallo film diverges from the classic detective story-plot, so central to the latter, is just one of many key elements of the former, and sometimes isn't all that key at all.

*A slightly weird, yet slightly run-of-the-mill, giallo

This film, along with its predecessor Phenomena, are commonly held to represent the point where Dario Argento's work passed the peak of its parabolic curve, and began its descent back towards zero (and towards absolute zero, post 2007). While I'd argue that there have been several upward spikes on that curve (Sleepless and Do You Like Hitchcock, to name a couple of examples), it's probably correct to say that this film does represent something of a watershed for Argento, as the impressionistically heightened operatic (yes) environment in which it takes place is worlds away from the Rome which was inhabited by Sam Dalmas and Marc Daly years before; a Rome which was never to reappear in his work.

After being unexpectedly promoted from understudy to take the leading role of Lady Macbeth in Verdi's famous operatic adaptation of Shakespeare, ingenue Betty attracts the attention of a maniac who likes to tie her to poles, stick needles under her eyelids to prevent her from blinking, and murder her friends and colleagues. Could the murderer be linked to Betty's sadistic-and dead-mother? Given that she regularly appears in obtuse flashbacks, of course they are! Seemingly reluctant to place too much trust in the investigating police inspector, she seeks solace in her matronly agent and pervy opera director, both of whom prove to be of little help. Until, that is, El Directore comes up with an ingenius/ridiculous plan to identify the killer, which somehow works. That's the end of it, except it isn't, as no-one seems to be able to actually apprehend the killer, who reappears for two slasheriffic attempts on Betty's life.

If early Argento is pulpy, detective fiction-inspired fun, this film is a different sort of pulp: shapeless, formless goo, but-unlike fruity pulp-it's still rather tasty. It's full on, balls-to-the-wall Argento from start to finish, with the style completely overwhelming the narrative, which is little more than a succession of loosely-formed ideas. He's generally incapable of-or, more likely, disinterested in-filming a straightforward dialogue scene, preferring instead a plethora of oblique angles and swooping camera moves. The camera is in almost continual motion, evoking the flight of the ravens which proves such a vital, if preposterous, plot point. The ravens provide a continuity of sorts from the animal excesses of Phenomena, with the traditional CUs of the killer's eyeball replaced with shots of the birds' eyes, with their disconcerting sideways blinking.

The tracking dreamscapey shots from Phenomena are also in evidence here; indeed the film sometimes plays as if directed by a child who's just been given his first steadicam for Christmas. The camera ducks and dives through the Freudian corridors of memory for the frequent flashback scenes, which strangely seem like the most relaxed moments of the film, probably because of the low key, eerie soundscape, which is in stark contrast to the bombastic opera and rock which is liberally drenching* the rest of the film.

The film is constructed around three set pieces, the first two featuring the aforementioned 'needles under the eyes' trick, and the third being an apartment-set game of cat-and-mouse. The needle scenes, which occasionally creak from a technical standpoint (understandably so-it's unrealistic to expect Argento to be able to use real needles under real eyes, however much he may love tormenting beautiful women), are nevertheless memorably off-kilter, and in some ways represent an early stab at torture porn (my own film The Farm, which is some ways is a peripheral member of that disreputable subgenre, contains a scene that uses a similar central conceit [and which I wrote and filmed before I'd seen Opera, so shut up]), with Betty tortured by being forced to stand and watch people being more literally tortured right in front of her. (Her being an avatar for the audience has been much remarked upon, not least by Argento, so I won't get into it here.)

The lengthy apartment sequence comes close to being Argento's crowning glory as a director. The conception is brilliant, the execution frequently as impressive, as the simple set up plays out in a claustrophobic  space bathed in Bava-esque lighting. The dialogue, however, can be a little on the nose, particularly when Betty and Daria Nicolodi's character are talking, which punctures the tension somewhat, and the inclusion of the angry mother is a bridge too far in terms of realism. Obviously, the sequence as a whole is never going to be confused with a Rosselini neo-realist film, but there has to be at least a toe grounding it in reality in order for us to buy it as a genuinely dangerous situation for Betty, and the sequence's last couple of minutes see the film float off into the metaphorical clouds.

Speaking of last couple of minutes floating off into metaphorical clouds (liquid-smooth segue there), the ending of Opera has been much discussed-and much criticised-over the years. As with all of the film, it's not perfect, with the epilogue never quite seeming to be really happening in any meaningful sense-instead, it seems like someone's dream (as does the film as a whole really). The second return of the killer (after he's already popped up in Betty's changing room post-opera) owes something to the slasher movie craze and the 'undefeatable boogeyman' personified by Michael Myers and Jason Vorhees. Betty's descent into madness has come in for much ridicule, but in some ways it's actually a more realistic ending than that of the majority of gialli, which posit a return to normalcy which completely ignores the carnage which has been wrought across the preceding film. After all, if someone hacked and slashed their way through your family and friends, would you be able to walk off into the sunset once they've been dispatched? Having said that, the rapidity of Betty's descent-one minute making rational plans to trick the killer and buy her some time until the police's arrival, the next crawling around chatting to lizards-is a bit ridiculous. But, again, are we expecting Rome Open City Part 11?**

This dreamlike maelstrom of ideas and style clearly did have personal resonance for Argento, being inspired as it was by his own experiences directing an adaptation of Verdi's Macbeth. The backstage chaos is staged as only someone with direct experience could depict it-indeed, it's probably the only properly realistic aspect of the film. Ian Charleson's  charactor is clearly an avatar (that word again) for Argento himself, as he struggles to deal with diva-like behaviour from his cast, an obvious attraction for his young leading lady, and the critics who approach his work with sharpened knives. Speaking of knives (this is turning into Segue City), the one favoured by the killer is incredibly impressive-looking on screen, with a deep metallic gleam catching the light and showcasing the threatening design.*** Charleson also refers to his proclivity for having a wank before filming a scene-whether or not this is true of Argento, I'd argue that the film as a whole could be viewed as him having one big wank.

Finally, I'll briefly touch on something with which I myself wrestled when writing my own giallo, The Three Sisters-the mask of a masked killer. Specifically, does the killer wear the mask every time they're doing killer-related activities? They certainly wear it whenever they're going to appear on screen-that's just common sense, as it prevents us, the audience from knowing who done it too soon in the film. However, the scheme cooked up by Argento/Charleson to uncover the identity of the killer wouldn't work here unless he engaged in one specific activity sans mask (similarly, a sequence in my film required the killer to be recognised leaving a murder scene by a passer-by, something I achieved through a POV sequence of the mask being removed before exiting the building. I did also include flashback shots at the climax which suggested that the mask wasn't donned for all of the murders-conveniently, only for those which were depicted in full on screen).

One caveat to this is that there is a chance that ravens can recognise someone be their scent or shape, rather than their facial features (or Argento might take his lead from Phenomena and argue that they're slightly telepathic or something), but I think we're meant to take it at face value here, and allow that the killer didn't don their mask for one crucial activity. Given that as far as the characters know the killer has always been, the 'ingenious scheme' is highly flawed, albeit it succeeds against the better odds. Kind of-and stay with me here-like the film itself!

PS I'd recommend switching to Italian for the post-killer-reveal scenes (if not for the film as a whole), as the English mix is muddy in the extreme. The killer, who was re-dubbed after poor notices in the film's festival screenings, is extremely low in the mix, often drowned out by Christina Marsillach's yelps and sobs. 

*Speaking of drenching, what's Betty doing out in a rainstorm?! Surely that can't be good for the ol' vocal chords!

**The crazed voiceover is somewhat trailed earlier in the film with a one-off piece of narration from Betty. Indeed, sporadic narration is something of an Argento trademark, with Suspiria, Tenebrae and Phenomena all featuring early narrators who burn brightly and then fail to reappear.

***The only time it doesn't look that threatening is when the killer pulls it from Betty's boyfriend's mouth, at which point it seems to be missing the top half of the blade. However, given how silly the bf is-moaning about how their relationship has changed because of Betty's newfound fame literally minutes after she's stepped off-stage-the fact that the lack of a cutting edge doesn't seem to hinder the killer's exertions can only come as a relief.

One of the more out-there 80s Italian films (which is saying something), this is one of a number of gialli set in suburban villi (villas) which formed something of a subgenre at the time (think Tenebrae and A Blade in the Dark). 

Former model Gloria has inherited her dead husband's wealth, and spends her time helpfully expositing the circumstances of his death and running a nudie magazine. When models begin turning up dead, their corpses being photographed in a mysterious location in front of a giant snapshot of Gloria from her modelling days, it seems clear an obsession with her is the root cause. Is the killer trying to plant suspicion on Gloria, or are they trying to drive up sales of the magazine through publicity? Or are they doing the murders because of the most garbled, nonsensical bit of reasoning you've ever heard? (Yes.) Will Gloria escape alive, will the genre stalwarts George Eastman and Daria Nicolodi be given anything at all to do with their characters, and will Gloria's pervy peeping tom neighbour get his comeuppance for being a smarmy little sex pervert?

Well, no, he won't actually-he'll turn out to be the hero. But first things first. This film is in many ways a long, long way from the early examples of the genre (which was, of course, pretty much invented by Delirium director Lamberto Bava's father, Mario), but it could also be seen as a very 1980s updating of Blood and Black Lace. Consider the fashion house(ish) setting, the almost total absence of a logical A-B-C mystery (unlike The Girl Who Knew Too Much-excellent reference to the killer in that film's motive there), and the preponderance of pulsing colourful lights. However, Lamberto and Mario are very different directors. To be specific, Mario was an extremely skilled craftsman, capable of creating sumptuous and ingenious visuals on the skimpiest of budgets. Lamberto was not a skilled craftsman, but he could create some damn entertaining films. And this is one of the most entertaining of the lot.

One of the main 'innovations' of this film, and something which has been discussed at length before now, is the 'point-of-view' element to the early couple of murder scenes. Apart from a couple of brief instances this doesn't actually involve a POV camera, rather the general mise-en-scene morphs into a reflection of the killer's warped state of mind. The upshot is that we see the victims as a walking eyeball and bee respectively, lit by an expressionistic pulsing colour-changing light. The bee victim (played by Sabrina of 'Boys, Boys, Boys' fame) is clearly depicted as such because the killer is about to kill her with a load of bees, and the first victim-the walking eyeball-is presumably a hint at the scopophilic* subtext for anyone who's missed it.

The third murder scene (incorporating the third and fourth murders) dispenses with the subjective shenanigans, with both murders occurring offscreen. This, of course, should be an indicator to any serious giallohound that all may not be what it seems. Indeed, (SPOILERS!) the 'mystery' depends on us buying Gloria failing to notice that her brother isn't actually dead, merely made up to appear so. This is something which can work(ish) in literature (as Agatha Christie showed in one of her most famous works), but on film it's problematic. We, the audience, buy the apparent murder-after all, the makeup has been applied by the same makeup artist who's created all the other death effects in the film!-but in the world of the film it stretches credulity to breaking point to suggest that Gloria wouldn't notice that something's amiss. Saying that, there would be an undeniable shock to seeing a loved one apparently dead, so critical faculties might not necessarily be firing on all cylinders. Either way, we as the audience have no real way of telling, which makes it almost impossible to crack the case using deductive reasoning (something which this film also shared with B&BL).  (END SPOILERS)

The film does use some classic misdirection/red herring-planting techniques. George Eastman, playing a scoundrel former lover of Gloria, is shown to repeatedly lie about his whereabouts, capped by a wonderful moment where we see him telling Gloria over the phone that he'll be back in Rome next Monday, with the Colosseum in full view behind him. There are also frequent cuts to Flora, Gloria's former mentor and current business rival, acting suspiciously right after evidence of the latest murder has surfaced. This is something I actually played with in a slightly different manner in my own giallo, cutting to a certain character after almost all of the murder scenes, making sure each time that she was behaving in a normal, unsuspicious manner. The idea was that the audience might  notice and think that I was trying to sneak a link between the character and the murders past them, when in fact the character turns out to be innocent.

Lambava goes so far as to (SPOILERS) try to sneak a couple of cheeky references to the killer's guilt past the audience, with no double-bluffing involved. The killer-someone very close to Gloria who is instrumental in the day-to-day operations of her publishing empire-tells her after the latest model's death that "sales are booming," to which Gloria replies "They should-thanks to all the work you've done."  Minutes later, after viewing the corpse of Beegirl (who he'd shagged right before she died), he muses aloud that he was "probably the last one to see her alive." The police detective, understandably not picking up on the fact that the killer is planting information for the film's audience to notice on a second viewing of the film,  merely replies by saying "The last one? No. You're forgetting her killer." (END SPOILERS)

There are a few moments which suggest that the film is aware of the mild absurdity of its setting, with the struggle of a rich businesswoman to hang on to her publishing empire not exactly something to which we can all relate. A throwaway reference is made to Gloria's 'Ask Gloria' column in her mag being written by someone else, and the predatory competitor who keeps trying to buy Gloria out barks for an alcoholic loosener, to which her assistant replies: "Isn't is a little early to be drinking? It's not quite 9:30 yet." (This is 9:30am I hasten to add.) Another moment which is either knowingly filmic or showing an unthinking adherence to cliché comes when George Eastman mentions a proposition to Gloria in a bar, only for us to cut to the couple walking into her house, seamlessly picking up the conversation where they left off in the bar. This simply doesn't happen in real life, any is merely a tool used by films to expediently move characters from one location to another without disrupting the flow too much (although The Limey does experiment with this technique, to extremely interesting effect. However, that's one of the greatest films ever made; Delirium is not). 

I've gotten this far without mentioning sex or nudity too much, for which I probably deserve a round, juicy medal. Delirium seems to have been conceived by producer Luciano Martino to showcase lead actress Serena's Grandis, although her acting ability is fairly minisculo. She even manages to persuade George Eastman to dispense with his trademark sex jeans (think Joe D'Amato's Caribbean films) for a bathtub romp, although he does seem to focus most of his attentions on the outside of her thigh. Being very much a product of a pre-MeToo era, in an un-MeToo country, the film's attitude towards women is predictably iffy. The first victim responds to a warning about going home alone from a party at Gloria's house ("You never know who you might run into") with a glib reply that could (one would hope) only have been written by a middle-aged man ("Just as long as he's cute"). The film is drenched with the sexual allure of the female body, with the killer's motive (although mostly garbled nonsense) stemming from his inability to deal with same. It's not unironic that a film which ostensibly judges a killer for his sexual perversions is simultaneously salivating over voluptuous female bodies (literally simultaneously when it comes to the film's climax [which features the killer being shot in the dick and splooshing blood all over Gloria's exposed body]).

The nosey neighbour, played by Colombian cyclist Rigoberto Uran (there's a niche reference for you) is clearly a take-off of Jimmy Stewart in Vertigo. His character is also someone to whom the progress of time and societal standards have not been kind. His pervy phone shtick is tolerated to a ridiculous degree by Gloria, and the fact that he's lonely and disabled hardly excuses his behaviour. In some ways it's refreshing to see a disabled character who's not the focus of the film's sympathy (nor is his disability used as a dubious justification for his being  the murderer). However, (SPOILERS) his ultimate status as the 'hero' of the film leaves something of a sour taste, and I defy anyone to witness his shit-eating grin after vanquishing the murderer and not feel an intense urge to break his spine so the fucker really can't walk. (END SPOILERS.)  Still, even when it's making you angry, the film is hard to hate. It's not a great giallo, or even a good one. It's not a good film by most metrics. But it sure as shit is mental (delirious) and guaranteed to entertain. Classic Lambava.

*For those of you who aren't wankers who studied English Literature or Film Studies at university, scopophilia is pleasure derived from observing/looking, usually of an erotic bent. Slasher films tend to be a rich ground for discourse on the subject, due to the frequent use of POV shots and nudie ladies, and her we also have the nosey neighbour and the general theme of photographing women for good measure.

Of all the films about which I say 'this isn't really a giallo, but...' this is among the most not-really-a-giallo of them all. To be honest, I'm only including it because I remembered it as having slightly more of a mystery at the centre, and thus took notes as I watched it, and I don't want those wrist exertions to go to waste. 

Lucio Fulci, playing himself (or a very similar character who has the same job, face and body as him, but with a different voice-he was dubbed by someone else in every version-and a made up title [Doctor]) is gradually unravelling. He's knee-deep in production on his latest gore epic, and having increasing trouble distinguishing reality from fantasy. As he seeks solace in the metaphorical arms and literal mind of a psychoanalyst, local prostitutes begin to turn up dead. Does the trail of destruction lead, as he himself believes, to Fulci's own door? 

No, it doesn't-the psychoanalyst is the killer. That's not overly a spoiler, as he lays bare his fiendish plan to frame Lucio for his killings at the half hour mark of the film, which I would deem to be early enough to not constitute a spoiler. If you disagree, I can only apologise. However, to approach this film as a mystery film is to miss the point (and I can speak from experience; see opening para). It's really more an exercise in self-satire/parody, with Fulci simultaneously embracing and disparaging his reputation as a gorehound director. Saying that, much of the film-certainly the bulk of the middle third-consists of gore clips recycled from other films he'd produced or directed, so the self-examination conceit is likely the result of expediency as much as a genuine wish to interrogate his career and reputation.

He's certainly not afraid to dive wholeheartedly into the role and 'character', one early sequence constructed around orgy clips from his own Ghosts of Sodom making him come across as a demented old pervert. The set-up was possibly conceived as an excuse to take another pop at one of Fulci's favourite targets (along with the church): psychoanalysis (apart from being an excuse to recycle a lot of old footage). The psychoanalyst  (/psycho analyst) is shown to be exploiting his patient for personal gain, and he salaciously gets off on watching Fulci's goriest work. Fulci himself makes reference to the cliché of horror films inspiring real-life violence, and that's exactly what does happen with the good doctor here.* 

However, the fact that the on-screen violence is shown to be inspiring the 'real' life murders of the doc suggests an ambivalence on Fucli's part towards his work and cinematic violence in general. Far from repudiating the (ridiculous) theory linking on- and off-screen violence, he himself is influenced by the power of his filmic work to such an extent that he seems unable to distinguish between the two. So, we can interpret the inclusion of the psychoanalyst as a dig at what he sees as an exploitation of patients, and possibly an over-reliance on the power of images within that profession, but there's also an unquestionable ambivalence towards the power of the images which he himself created. 

Another way of looking at it would be to simply say that his own career, and thus self, was consumed by the power of the violent image to such an extent that it left precious little else. Certainly on a professional level, by the time he made this film he was only able to secure budgets to make horror films, and barrel-scraping budgets at that. 

So, let's deal with the film itself a little bit. It does bear some structural similarities with gialli, with a killer targeting prostitutes around Roma, and a bewildered central figure struggling to prove their innocence. However, the film takes almost every possible opportunity to subvert standard giallo practice, and could thus almost be seen as an anti-giallo. To give but a few examples: the killer outs themselves before any murders have been committed, the central character has no part in proving his innocence, and the final confrontation between killer and police occurs entirely off-screen. The police, in fact, play absolutely no part, with the Chief Inspector being on holiday for the duration of the film (and presumably not viewing the newly-active serial killer as worth abandoning the holiday for).

The murder scenes, which are mainly culled from existing films, show the difference between a stalk-and-slash set piece and a gore scene. These aren't necessarily mutually exclusive, as a tense stalk-and-slash can easily be followed by a gore-heavy murder, but gialli tended to contain examples of the former. We get a couple of tense scenes here, courtesy of giallo/slasher hybrid Massacre, but the rest of the inserts are exercises in special effects, which, shorn of any context, quickly lose any inherent power to shock. As a general rule, the camera stays still for gore scenes, its placement designed to showcase the special effects, whereas for tense stalk-and-slash sequences, the camera glides around the characters, functioning as an invisible net closing in on its victims. Even the stalk-and-slash scenes from Massacre don't really work when viewed here, as there's no real tension generated by placing characters we've never met before in peril. A talented director could, of course, potentially make an amazing standalone stalk scene, but that label doesn't really apply to Andrea Bianchi, who made Massacre. However, what little he does accomplish with his forest canoodling scenes merely highlights the lack of punch and affect afflicting the rest of the insert scenes. 

The fact that the audience knows the identity of the killer leaves Fulci as the only real presence in the film who's operating in the dark. He functions as a kind of audience cipher for much of the film-particularly the  insert-heavy middle third-standing around and watching the horrific goings-on, but powerless to intervene. (This is, of course, has much to do with the impossibility of editing him into already-existing footage.) He's impotent in the face of the horrific goings on, and clueless as to the identity of the murderer, almost as if Fulci is trying to create a cut-price copy of Dario Argento's audience-culpability treatise contained in his then-recent giallo Opera. 

The film's not unwatchable-Fulci actually commits gamely to proceedings, and the interweaving of the old footage is occasionally neatly done, not least when he recruits Robert Egon to reprise his role from Ghosts of Sodom (although the remainder of the Sodom footage is terribly shoehorned in, so he giveth and taketh at the same time). If there's any serious attempt to get to grips with his legacy, we can only conclude that he's reached a kind of uneasy truce with his work, as the final scene breaks the fourth wall with the wrapping of the filming of A Cat in the Brain, and he contentedly sails off into the sunset (on a yacht called 'Perversion') accompanied by a busty brunette. The truth is likely that he was less-than-satisfied, both with his career at this point and this film in particular, but given the paucity of budget he's done OK. Even if he clearly doesn't know how to turn on a microwave.

*The doc articulates the issue quite succinctly in an early session with Fulci, telling him that he's struggling due to a "breaking down [of] the boundary between what you film and what's real." This is accompanied by a portentious zoom into his face, denoting this as an Important Moment in the film. The session begins (onscreen, at least) in slightly more prosaic fashion, the doc mentioning that the recent manifestations of Fulci's mania have involved a (very specific) fear of "hamburgers and gardeners." This leads to Fulci describing his interactions with both (which we've already seen), despite the fact that he must have already just told the doc about them, hence the doc's comment which opened the scene. This is a classic example of filmic dialogue which bears no relation to how people actually talk in real life (something not uncommon in Italian genre films). 

It's hard to know what to make of this gothic giallo from Romano Scavolini. As a murder-mystery, it fails miserably. As a gothic horror, likewise. As an examination of the lingering effects of childhood grief, or of what happens when cracks appear in the tenuous structures of civilisation to which we all subscribe, it's also a failure. But as a film, it's a qualified success.

A young girl-the titular Mariale-watches her father gun down her mother and a nude lover in a countryside idyll. The father then turns the gun on himself. Years later, Mariale lives in her family's crumbling castle in near-captivity, sedated by her husband Paolo and their creepy servant Osvaldo. She manages to break the lock on one of the castle's telephones and dictates a telegram, to be sent to several old friends, inviting them to visit the castle. Despite Osvaldo's initial efforts to repel the visitors, Paolo decides to let them come in, hoping to persuade them to leave at the earliest opportunity. After taking a tour of the castle, the group play an after-dinner game of Mariale's choosing, which revolves around ideas of submission and domination. They also appear to have a bit of drink taken, and things very quickly get messy, with the already-unlikable visitors revealing even more reasons to hate them. Then, finally, they start being offed one by one, until the not-very-shocking, not-very-grisly truth is revealed.

This is a pretty uneven film, although considering it was made by the same man who gave us Nightmares in a Damaged Brain a few years later, that's not really surprising. As stated above, it doesn't really succeed on any specific level, but it is worth a watch nonetheless. The cast is pretty top-notch, with Ivan Rassimov notable in that he plays by far the most sympathetic character. Maybe 'sympathetic' isn't quite the right word, but he's willing to call the rest of them out for being the unlikable assholes that they are, and he's the only character who seems capable of something approaching rational thought (ironic given that the rest of them refer to him as 'Poet' in a snidey manner). His slamming of attempted rapist Jo's "idiotic talk and dirty kisses" is shady as fuck, too.

SPOLIERS! Mariale, who is simultaneously the main protagonist and antagonist, reacts slightly differently to Jo's attempted rape of his girlfriend Mercedes-she walks right up to him and kisses him. She's set up initially as a victim-we witness the traumatic childhood murder-suicide of her parents, and then discover her years later, apparently held prisoner by a callous husband and creepy servant. We sympathise with her attempts to avoid sedation, and cheer at the success of her cry for help, achieved after she breaks the flimsy lock on one of the telephones. Why she didn't just call the police should be the first question asked by the discerning viewer, who before long will have arrived at the incontrovertible conclusion that she must be guilty of the series of murders, despite her status as possibly the most likely suspect. 

NO SPOILERS! I say'before long'; that's not strictly true. The murders don't actually begin until 55 minutes have elapsed (if you discount the prologue killings). To make up for this, we're treated to a quick succession of kills for the next twenty minutes of so, none of which are top of the range set-pieces, although a dog-mauling scene is imaginatively shot with some interesting point-of-view camerawork, which doesn't intercut that well with the scene's non-POV footage. The very first murder is almost casually introduced, in a sequence which cuts between it and some softcore lesbianism, all scored to some light-hearted muzak (odd, as most of the rest of the score is nice and powerful). This-along with the lack of mystery at the heart of the plot-is one of the chief giallo failings of the film, which before that point has veered variously between gothic horror (never quite crossing into fully-fledged G.H. though) and bizarro satirical/social commentary-laden drama.

The exchanges between Gustavo and his black girlfriend Semy seem to exist to criticise a what would nowadays be referred to as 'toxic masculinity' (and racism), but on the other hand Semy doesn't help herself with some of her scatty behaviour and utterances. Scavolini also can't resist including a de rigeur 'exotic dance' scene for Semy either. Rassimov's Massimo, with whom we're most closely aligned, criticises Gustavo's behaviour (and, justifiably, that of most of the guests), which does suggest that this is one of the more socially-aware and progressive gialli. The game played post-dinner seems designed to expose the truth about human nature, specifically the selfishness and immorality which lurks just beneath the surface of respectable people with their respectable behaviour. The point is somewhat laboured, though, and could have been made in a more measured manner throughout the film, which instead moves clunkily from sequence to sequence in a stilted 'gothic scene to social commentary to murder set-piece' manner. There's a great opportunity for some early killing when the guests go exploring the tunnels in the castle's cellars-the separation of characters being a pre-requisite for murders in a single-location mystery-but Scavolini curiously passes it up, no doubt because his A to B to C formula hadn't yet reached K for Killing.

The existence of a thruple (a polygamous word for a three-person couple, keep up you squares) also hints at a progressive viewpoint, although this is undercut by the already-detailed rapey behaviour of one of the thruple's males, Jo. The other male in the triangle, Sebastiano, also covers himself in unglory when he chooses to covertly observe Jo's assault rather than intervene. In fact, Gustavo (who looks confusingly like Sebastiano) behaves in much the same manner when he stands idly by as his gf Semy tries to escape a horde of scorpions in the animal room. In both instances Rassimov's Massimo comes to the rescue, with Mariale gliding in after him to emphasise the increasing control which she's exerting on proceedings. The film could probably be seen as a treatise on the arrogance and underlying cowardice of the male, and the ability of the female to thrive when she escapes the domineering influence of the male, up to a point (the point being the final ten minutes). This interrogation of gender stereotypes is present right from the beginning, with Mariale's fully-clothed mother picnicing with a fully-nude dude.

SPOILERS! As well as gender stereotypes and behaviour dynamics, the film also somewhat investigates the effects of grief. I say 'somewhat' because while it does show that traumatic events of the past can exert an influence over present-day matters, with Mariale donning her mother's death dress to literally wear the events of the past on her sleeve, the execution-specifically, Mariale's executions-isn't exactly a nuanced representation of the effects of grief. But saying that, this is a giallo, not a Dogme film, and past traumas pretty much exist solely to provide a backstory/motive for a killer, and this film does scratch the surface of the topic more than most. It kind of has to, though, given that  unlike something like, say, Bird with the Crystal Plumage, we know the identity of the trauma victim from the start, so they're never far from position numero one in terms of suspects. 

NO SPOILERS! To sum up, this is a very flawed but somewhat interesting film. It's stylishly-shot (far, far, far more so than Nightmares), with the lighting on one shot which has the characters descending a staircase by candlelight being particularly impressive (most Italian films adopted a crude 'shine a torch at the actor with the candle' approach to lighting such sequences). There are also several stylish swooping camera moves, particularly during the debauched after-dinner behaviour, with the suggestion that the film is 'looking down' on its characters in more ways than one (specifically, in two ways). The music for this sequence is a thinly-veiled facsimile of In a Gadda Da Vida, a song which inspired more than one Italian knock-off. As for Scavolini, the jury's still out on him as far as I'm concerned, especially knowing the bizarre film he'd go on to create nine years later. Nightmares is either the work of a flawed genius who's decided to lower himself to making trash, or the work of someone who thinks he's a genius and has lowered himself to making trash. Or maybe it's just the work of a not-very-talented filmmaker who's prone to occasional flashes of eccentricity/inspiration. A White Dress for Mariale brings us no closer to solving that mystery, so kudos to Scavo for at least giving us one tough-to-crack puzzle.

This is definitely more of a supernatural gothic horror than a giallo, in as much as it is a supernatural gothic horror film which happens to feature two kills early on in which we cannot see the killer's face. But, it's usually listed as part of the giallo cannon, so here we go.

A young, incredibly beautiful and apparently dead woman is found in the wreckage of a crashed carriage in 1909 somewhere in Germany or Austria or Switzerland or Luxembourg. Despite being clinically deceased (no heartbeat; doesn't react when her eyeball is stabbed) she is to all intents and purposes 'alive', but cannot remember her name or from where she has come. A clue comes in the form of a neck pendant reading 'Greta 2006', which also incorporates an old Inca design which apparently was used in reincarnation rituals. Walter von Ravensbruck and his wife Eva, who discovered Greta in the wreckage, take her in and each fall in love with her. After a servant girl and the doctor who examined Greta after the crash are murdered, Eva takes against Greta and walls her into a disused room in the basement of their large house/castle. Mere walls aren't enough to contain an undead Swede however, and Greta returns to wreak havoc on the von Ravensbrucks, including Walter's father Herbert, to whom she was previously married (and to whose wedding Walter-who's about three years younger than his dad-and Eva apparently weren't invited). Will Greta ever find peace, and will the inspector sleepwalking his way through the film finally figure out what's going on?

This is different to most gialli (in that it's not a giallo, but whatevs) because the supernatural idea of a reincarnated woman turns out not to be merely a ruse designed to scare someone to death/into signing over their claim to an estate. This is made fairly explicit early on, in that our first glimpse of Greta is of her corpse laid out and being mourned by her incestuous brother, and it's confirmed when Klaus Kinski's mad doctor (he's not really meant to be mad, but come on-it's Klaus) can't detect a heartbeat and then sticks a pin in her eye to no response. A world in which reincarnation is possible is not really suited to a giallo film, as the threat of death-the bedrock upon which the genre's sense of danger is built-carries less weight if it's not a terminal event, but, as I've said (and will stop saying now), this isn't really a giallo.

We do get a couple of 'faceless killer'-style killings, although the fact that the mystery angle is suddenly dropped after killing number two suggests that the script, which was apparently more of a traditional mystery when first conceived, was adapted somewhat on the fly. From the point where Greta returns from her walled-in tomb we see her cut a swathe through the cast, and we can only assume that she was responsible for the two early murders (although there's a chance that the creepy butler Simeon, who seems to be in on her secret, was the initial killer; not that it really matters). It is notable that the first murder is committed by a shotgun, something rarely utilised in gialli (or slasher films) due to the slightly routine nature of a gunshot killing. D'Amato certainly does his best to sex things up here though, with some inventive, if ludicrously unrealistic, facial make-up effects.

There's a clear Poe influence at play, with cats suddenly becoming prominent right about the time that Eva walls Greta into the room in the basement. Plus, Walter actually resembles Poe fairly closely (and there's a bit of incest thrown in as well, which would no doubt have pleased ol' Edgar).  Greta's role as avenging angel clad in red and black can also be seen as a personification of the Red Death, with her second resurrection being revealed to Eva at a Masque-rade ball. The story is very much a hodgepodge of various fragments of Poe stories, with some gialloey iconagraphy* sprinkled on top, and a single reel diversion into the realm of the sex film (where D'Amato would later reside permanently). The traditional giallo slo-mo flashback, replete with ethereal music and smiling, silent characters recurs throughout; in fact, as much as half of the film is comprised of dialogue-free sequences. 

As a rule, these flashbacks seemed to largely be confined to gialli set in the past (see A White Dress for Mariale and The Murder Clinic), which suggests that filmmakers knew that they were faintly ridiculous, or at least incongruous with standard 1960s/70s behaviour-people then were protesting wars and smoking ganja, not lolloping through meadows smiling like loons. Of course, what passed for 'normal' behaviour, and depictions thereof, in the films c. 1970 are now often derided and mocked by contemporary audiences, who would doubtless find the slo-mo flashback sequences to be doubly guffaw-inducing (and one wonders if audiences in 2050 will chortle away at the films that we unquestioningly lap up as entertainment-quite possible, if people cop on and realise in the interim that Marvel movies are bullshit). 

Trapped in among all the slo-mo frolicking and Poe references there is a meditation on desire and freedom struggling to (ironically) break free. The love triangle which develops could have formed the centrepiece of the film, but instead is limited to the aforementioned sexy sex reel. Greta also gives a heartfelt speech to Walter about how she identifies with his pet birds, as she too feels trapped by her 'owner' (him), to which he responds by laughingly telling her that the bird she has taught to say her name is actually a chap. Men as a whole don't really come off great here, being either leering pervs (Kinski and Luciano Rossi) or sly, shy pervs (Simeon, and Walter to some extent). The women are more forceful, driving the narrative and being responsible for pretty much all the kills (and attempted kills), although man is still in control for the sciencey reincarnation bit. So, this is a world where a male God has control but women have agency.

The film is very stylishly shot, with excellent use of wide-angled lenses, and the soundtrack is fantastic (the opening credits feature possibly my favourite giallo score of all time, with a extremely sparse soundscape punctured by occasional guitar stings). It's definitely D'Amato on top form, and he knew it-it's the only film he ever directed which bore his actual name, Aristide Massaccesi. The stalk-and-slash sequences aren't quite as tautly executed as Argento at his best, and after Greta is unequivocally revealed to be responsible for the killings they become almost choreographed dance sequences, but they're never less than visually arresting. The same goes for the make-up effects which, although frequently ridiculous, very much go for the jugular in every respect. D'Amato also finds an interesting halfway house for his presentation of violence, marrying the quick. incisive cutting of an Argento set piece with the lovingly lingering presentation of gore effects of a Fulci gore effect.

As I think I may have hinted at before, this isn't really a giallo. As with many fringe efforts, if it was made elsewhere in the world it would simply be a supernatural horror film which features two killings in which we're not immediately sure of the killer's identity. Despite the semi-regular presence of a police inspector, there's no real investigation into the murders (indeed, the two 'anonymous' early killings are never mentioned by anyone after they happen), and any mystery that is present in the film surrounds the exact provenance and intentions of Greta. But even this isn't really a mystery-we have a fair sense of what she's about from the start, and nothing that happens is exactly a shocking revelation.** Instead, possibly wisely, D'Amato plays up the incredibly ethereal beauty of Ewa Aulin as she ghosts through the film seducing and destroying. She may not be a giallo killer, but by damn she's certainly a killer gal. And, on that dud note, I'm off to watch Candy.

*AKA eyeconagraphy-witness the violence visited upon Greta's eyeball, as well as the shots of eyes silently observing characters through windows and cracks in doors. 

**There is a semi-twist in the very last shot, although it's undercut slightly with the plethora of questions it raises as to the inspector's general competence and quality of eyesight.

This giallo takes the fish-out-of-water trope to the max, being entirely set (and largely shot) in Haiti. It incorporates elements of mondo films-with one of its co-directors having a background almost exclusively in that arena-and also throws in some sexytime and spy thriller material for good measure. It's a fairly unique rum-infused Caribbean cocktail, but not one that really hits the spot (unless you're a craven alcoholic with low standard/a superfan of Anita Strindberg's baps). 

Fred and Grace Wright, who look nothing like their names, holiday in Haiti, ostensibly to try and save their crumbling marriage and check in on Fred's old college buddy Williams. Williams has a day job as a doctor, but by night works as a scientist, developing a powerful new hallucinogenic drug which is a target for several interested investors, as well as a black-gloved killer who's offing Williams' assistants and several of his suitors. As Grace becomes enamoured of the island's raw sensuality, her husband's real motivation for visiting the island becomes clear. But is he the mysterious killer, or is it someone else, someone who's a less-obvious suspect? Course it bloody is!

One of the film's failings is actually its lack of suspects; in common with many gialli it slightly over-extends itself with the number of killings, and by the time we come the the big reveal there are very, very few potential suspects. That, added to the presence of a reasonably big-name (and prominently-billed) actor in what appears to be an extremely throwaway cameo kind of tips the film's hat as to the killer's identity. But this isn't really a tightly-plotted thriller; it is, as stated above, a curious mix of influences which is content to do things on its own terms.

There's no real investigative through-line for the audience to latch onto; instead we're kept busy simply piecing together what exactly is going on, and what the characters are really after (the drug McGuffin for all apart from Grace-who wants sex-and Williams-who wants Grace, kind of). Actually, it's difficult to know what exactly Williams wants, as he stalks his way around the island seemingly trying to escape some past trauma which is never expounded. All we really know is that he doesn't need money, and is implacable in the face of death, something he repeatedly displays thanks to his unfortunate habit of finding corpses. That might be a trait he's picked up from the Haitian locals, given the police's apparent lack of interest in investigating the spate of murders, or of giving a shit when Williams reveals that he's been concealing a murder from them.

The past trauma from which Williams is seemingly hiding from is hinted at by some comments by his old college mucker, but the 'revelation' of who Williams really is, as Fred puts it snarlingly to his wife towards the climax of the film, contains no information that we didn't already know, and is surprisingly anodyne. Similarly, is the (SPOILERY) confession by Williams that he discovered his missing colleague Crotz's corpse several days previously supposed to be a shocking revelation? We've seen him (implacably) make the discovery, and it's fairly easy to deduce the identity of the corpse, the later phone calls supposedly made by Crotz notwithstanding. The lack of giallo experience of any of the main creative forces behind the film really shines through in moments such as these. (END SPOILERIES)

The casual approach to the giallo aspects of the film can also be seen by the fact that the first three kills happen offscreen; the first murder we see occurring at the halfway point. It's as if the directors suddenly realised that they needed to spice things up with a few murders, leading to a couple of fairly brutal and drawn-out murder scenes belatedly rearing their heads (this also supposes that the film was shot in order, which is unlikely in the extreme, but hey ho).  There are other failings-the plot to entrap the killer makes no sense unless his identity was already known to the architects of said plot, to give one example. And, the revelation that Williams was a dab hand at using a spear gun in his youth which comes literally seconds after we've seen a spear gun murder is so heavy-handed it beggars belief. 

The aim when foregrounding characters as suspects should ultimately be to put one over on the audience, and have them suspect the wrong character come the time of the big reveal.  To achieve this, you need them to think they're outsmarting the film, and picking up on visual or aural cues which were supposed to bypass them (but which have actually been deliberately planted by the filmmakers, in a kind of double-bluff). If Williams' prowess was hinted at through a half-seen framed photo in his house, for example, or if there was a spear gun glimpsed in the corner of his bedroom, framed in a manner which leads the viewer to suspect that their eagle eye has picked up on some vital info the film was trying to sneak past them, then Williams might have been a viable suspect (setting aside the fact that we've seen the killer spying on him earlier in the film-there could, one supposes, have been two killers working independently). But the clumsy shoehorning in of the spear gun dialogue here has the opposite effect-it's so nakedly obvious an attempt to cast suspicion on Williams , we know straight away that he's innocent.

What the directors*-at least, one of them (Giampaolo Lomi)-were good at was filming documentary footage. The native voodoo rituals are shot with energy and do seemingly capture a sense of authenticity, with Lomi himself (as well as an end credits spiel) stating that they were ceremonies which were staged for the film, but were nonetheless genuine. Given mondo films' propensity for playing fast and loose with the truth it's difficult to fully accept this assertion, but I'm no expert in voodoo, so I can't point to anything specific to debunk it. (The slaughter of the bull in the first, and main, ceremony is certainly, and lamentably, genuine.) One of the main purposes of the ceremony seems to be to showcase as many topless young women as possible-is there any giallo featuring a black woman which doesn't involve an exotic dance sequence?

The veneer of authenticity of the ceremony lends it some credibility, and it's certainly a less egregious display of female flesh than you'd see in many a giallo, but the film does inarguably position the native Haitians as an 'other', denying them any real identity apart from their voodoo rituals and street bazaars. There's nothing necessarily overtly racist in the film (although I suspect that the subtitles on the Camera Obscura DVD may have fudged over a few derogatory terms for black people), but it certainly isn't overflowing with enlightenment, to the point where no native characters are really prominent enough even to be considered suspects for the murders (scientific advancements being, after all, anathema to their earthy way of life). And, there is a certain fetishisation of the young virile black man, but at least that's a variation on the more common fetishisation of the young, sexy black woman. Although given that I'm a proponent of the futility of reading single characters as being representative of groups of people as a whole, maybe it's just that these films happen to showcase the few black people who are into dancing and sex. After all, it's not as if one in, say, seven white males are murderers, is it?

*There's some debate/confusion over who actually directed the film; Lomi claims that Mulargia treated the film as a holiday, only occasionally turning up  to supervise goings-on, whereas Mulargia, who's now dead and thus has been denied a right-to-reply to Lomi's comments on the Camera Obscura release, did say previously that Lomi was brought in to film the voodoo rituals in a documentary style, but didn't direct the rest of the film. I'd tend to believe Mulargia, given the difference in style between the 'documentary' sequences and the remainder of the film.

Artistic trendsetters and influence-makers are, of course, hugely important from a historical perspective. However, just because The Jazz singer marked the beginning of people talking in films, it doesn't mean it's the best film which involves people talking. And-you're probably way ahead of me here-just because The Sweet Body of Deborah ushered in the wave of black-glove-killer-lite seaside dramas featuring rich people tricking each other into murder and suicide, doesn't mean it's the best example of such films. Or even that it's any good at all.

Newlyweds Deborah and Marcel travel to his hometown of Geneva, ostensibly so she can get a sense of who her new husband is (should've done that BEFORE the wedding, love). They run into a past acquaintance of Marcel's who accuses him of being a murderer because his ex-girlfriend, traumatised at Marcel's having left her for America and Deborah, has committed suicide. The couple leave Geneva to continue their honeymoon, but find that they can't escape the past so easily, with threatening phone calls, and Marcel's old friend Philip, following them across the continent.

It's probably a bit harsh to say that this isn't any good at all, however, it's far from a top drawer giallo. As an example of the 'rich people double cross each other' subgenre (upon which I think I've bestowed a different descriptive title every single time I've referred to it), it's nowhere near as good as several of the later Lenzi imitators. And it's not necessarily even that trailblazing, given that it, as with all those films, owes a huge debt to Les Diaboliques. and the concept of a woman/couple being harassed by the sea had been done before (Ernie Gastaldi's Libido). However, this film does it all in colour-garish, garish colour-with the odd flash of nudity, which seemed to catch the attention of Umberto Lenzi and Ernie G (who, to be fair, wrote it) to influence their subsequent efforts.

So, this is an important film in as much as several other, better films may not have existed without it. But still, that doesn't make it any less of a slog to get through. There is, as stated, no black gloved killer, which is fine, but there simply isn't enough there to maintain interest for the still-brief 92 minute running time. The central conceit of a couple being pursued for a past 'crime' (which in this case isn't even a crime) isn't really fleshed out at all. You get a couple of phone calls (one of which is technically an impossible call, with the film never explaining how a phone line which has been out of use for a year was able to take a call*) and Luigi Pistilli's Philip lurks in the background a couple of times, showing off his skills in the 'vanishing from view while the main character rubs their eyes to make sure they're not hallucinating' area (top tip-if you're ever the 'viewer' in this situation, don't look away-keep a close eye on the intruder and place an immediate call to the authorities). But there's never a real sense of overpowering evil closing in on the couple-although, to be fair, this could be partly explained by the end twists, of which more anon.

The idea of a song motif being the source of a kind of Proustian recollection of memory-and guilt-for Marcel is neatly done, and would reappear in Deep Red, among other films. However, the film as a whole is curiously silent (at least, it is in the English version I watched), with long stretches which feel aurally dead, lacking the requisite foley sounds of clothes rustling and footsteps to create any believable facsimile of reality. These sequences just involve dialogue being exchanged over heavy silence, with even a climactic scene which involves Philip breaking into the sleeping couple's villa being played out with no score, which deadens the mood horribly. Nora Orlandi's soundtrack is decent (and very 60s), but it appears that either she didn't compose enough non-slinky lounge tunes, or the editor wasn't keen on using  them.

There are a few extremely 60s nightclub sequences  (going by gialli, what few black women there were in Europe in the 60s/70s must have almost all worked as strippers), and a game of twister that has to be seen to be believed. Although, by the time this sequence comes around you might well be ready to give up on the film, as it comes quite deep into the film, and the fact that the two main characters, and potential victims, are laughing and dancing around their garden without a care in the world kind of sums up the general lack of tension in the film as a whole.

Things do finally pick up with Philip's aforementioned home invasion and (SPOILERS) 'death'. Attentive viewers will have noted that for about ten minutes in the middle of film every time Marcel speaks it's to try and engineer an excuse to leave Deborah, which heavily suggests that he's not quite the catch he appeared to be. And it's true-he is, in fact, in league with Philip and his 'dead' ex as part of an inheritance scheme (the standard motivation in these films). This twist is even less surprising for modern viewers given that Marcel is played by Jean Sorel, which essentially means that the 'surprise' is that Jean Sorel is Jean Sorel. To be fair, contemporary audiences wouldn't have viewed the film armed with such knowledge, and it's hardly its fault that it was successful enough to spawn all those similar films with Sorel in near-identical roles.

There's (STILL SPOILERS) a second twist thrown in for good measure at the end-Deborah is apparently in cahoots with her extremely annoying neighbour George Hilton, and was orchestrating an inheritance scheme of her own which trumped that of Marcel. However, this is the very definition of a twist for twist's sake, and rivals the one at the end of The House on the Edge of the Park for implausibility-how did the unconscious Deborah know that she'd be abandoned by her 'killers' minutes before she bled out? If Hilton had been on site to intervene quicker it might be believable, although this would have ruined the second twist ending by placing it before the less surprising Sorel one. Still, on the other hand it wouldn't make No Sense What So Fucking Ever.

I don't want to be too down on the film, but it's just hard to be in any way 'up' about it. There are some semi-stylish sequences, and a few of those 'idiosyncratic', shall we say, moments that only exist in old-school Italian films-look out for the Big Lebowski-esque goons who threaten Marcel, the classy "I'm raping you" response Marcel gives when Deborah asks what he's doing when he literally sweeps her off her feet, and the very real reckless driving which sees several near-crashes with civilian drivers at a couple of points in the film.  Look out for those, but don't be on the look out for a great film; nothing of that sort to see here.

*And staying with phone lines for a minute, what's with the 'police' phoning Deborah to make sure that she's kept the line open and not hung up on the threatening caller? Did they know that Hilton would sneak into the house and hang up the phone behind Deborah's back? No, course they facking didn't!

Lucio Fulci's follow-up giallo to the New York Ripper uses its predecessor's plot outline and shares its location, but this is a very, very different animal altogether. Part one (and part only) of a mooted trilogy of music-themed gialli, it's the work of a director struggling to keep up with pop culture trends, something which hadn't been a concern of his since his pop pictures of the 60s. This is indicative of the increasing struggles of the Italian film business as a whole to stay relevant, and the relatively-for Fulci, anyway-restraint shown in the gore scenes suggests that either he was willing to toe the commercial line, or his hands were tied by the producers. If only they'd taken advantage of his being incapacitated in a such a way to stab him in the heart before he made the film. Only joking, it's not that bad!!!

Someone is slashing their way through a troupe of dancers at the bizarrely-named 'Arts for the Living Center' in New York. And by 'slashing' I mean 'chloroforming and then stabbing them in the heart with a large hatpin'. Lieutenant Borges, giving NY Ripper's Jack Hedley's Lt Williams a run for his money in the ineffectual cop stakes, is lukewarm on the trail of the killer, with the guilty party seemingly one of the students or teachers of the school. Or is it, in fact, Ray Lovelock's alcoholic actor, George Webb, who begins a romance with head teacher Candice Norman after she dreams about him murdering her and tracks him down in real life? Why do the students keep hanging out along in the academy as its closing? And why don't the plentiful CCTV cameras get any shots of the killer??

This isn't top tier Fulci; in fact, only the relatively decent budget raises it somewhat above such late-career lowlights as Demonia and Aenigma. Definitely his worst giallo, the film is a tired retread of the New York Ripper, coming from the same writing team, possibly even using the same story outline. However, whereas the Ripper was, for better or worse, an extremely powerful treatise on misogyny, misanthropy and urban alienation, this film is Fulci on autopilot, seemingly unconcerned that the script reads like a hastily thrown together first draft.

Both Murder Rock and the NY Ripper feature investigations by policemen, rather than the amateur sleuths which proliferated a decade previously in the filone's heyday. It's easy to poke fun at Italian films for their occasionally clunky English dialogue and lapses of logic-and it is precisely the out-of-leftfield nature of the films which is a core part of the appeal for many-but it's impossible to overlook the fact that the Lieutenants are, to put it mildly, not very proficient. Having an amateur sleuth who has something personal at stake gives us a more passionate central character, in whom we can forgive the occasional duff move because they're not policemen. These amateurs typically become obsessed with and consumed by their investigation, whereas with coppers they're just doing their job. And when it's a copper just doing their job, they need to do a good job. Or even a passable one.

Cosimo  Cinieri, Fulci's go-to guy around this time,  certainly looks the part, but his Lt Borges is an absolute disaster of a detective. His first big pronouncement is to daringly suggest that "the killer-the murderer-is someone who has easy access to the school." Huge insight there, given that the first murder happened inside the school. Then, after a secret recording is used to identify a student who, claiming to be the murderer, phoned in a threat to kill again, he secures a confession from the self-confessed killer. Said confession is immediately dismissed, on the grounds that the student knew he'd be caught, and was merely publicity-hungry. But-how did the student know he'd be caught? He was only identified because Borges' colleague secretly recorded the students talking to the police. Maybe the student, who has made a call identifying himself as the killer and who has confessed to the murders, might actually be guilty? I mean, he's not-there's still half the film left at this stage, but Borges didn't know that! Finally, after the killer incriminates themselves by referring to a piece of evidence which was kept secret from the general public, Borges allows them to leave the police station without so much as a tail, a gamble which kind-of pays off when the killer commits suicide, but one which completely unnecessarily threatened the life of at least one character.

It's not just Borges whose work is of a questionable standard (the films' writers, for example, are also guilty of same). His colleague Professor Davis, the equivalent of Paolo Malco's identically-named character in Ripper (possibly also played here as gay by Giuseppe Mannajuolo) dismisses Claudio Cassinelli as a suspect after a photo of the murderer's torso shows them wearing a leather jacket. Cassinelli, who was picked up outside the crime scene by police on an undefined stake out (why didn't they nab the actual killer when they left minutes before?), and who'd been having an affair with the murdered girl, was indeed wearing different clothes when arrested. Did the police enact a thorough search of the house to ensure that he hadn't changed clothes and stashed the leather jacket? Of course not; Davis dismisses the case against Cassinelli solely because he "always wears a suit and tie."  Egad. Although, again, I have to ask why the police on stakeout didn't just identify the leather jacket wearer once the photograph surfaces.*

The substandard police work on show is presumably why Geretta Geretta plots a copycat kill, based on the real murderer's modus operandi, and, after being unable to go through with it, sobs "They never would've suspected me." This despite her being the person who discovered the first murdered girl's body, as well as having the biggest motive of anyone for killing her intended victim. Presumably this would've led to Borges and Davis dismissing her as a suspect on some spurious basis. It's almost as if the police realise they're in a giallo, and are acting according to the laws of the film world, rather than the 'real' one! 

So, plotwise, things don't hang together too well. However, the same could be said for Ripper, which more than compensated for these failings. The same can't be said here, unfortunately, despite some token, and occasional, efforts by Fulci to amp up the style. Mirrors feature heavily, especially early on in the dancing scenes, to little real effect, and his beloved pulsing lights are very much in evidence, with the school signifying the approach of its closing time by introducing a weird on-off lighting scheme, and the murder scenes feature possibly the Fulciest 'bleached out photography' set up ever. An atmospheric slow motion dream sequence, echoing the surreal dream at the centre of Ripper, introduces Ray Lovelock's character, as well as (SPOILER) giving a large clue as to the murderer's identity, featuring as it does one of the killer's hatpins, which the dreamer wouldn't have seen before unless they'd already used them to kill women and birds). (END SPOILER)

The end sequence takes place in a CCTV control room, with the killer tormented by footage of their victims in their dancing pomp filling the screens. This sequence could've captured the mounting terror and confusion of the killer, but is hamstrung by flat staging, a poor score (more on that anon) and-for me, anyway-the distracting nature of the CCTV images, which seem suspiciously like professionally-shot film footage from non-CCTV angles. And, as previously posited, if the school features such extensive surveillance, how on earth did the killer escape detection?  The classic Fulci eyes-and-bridge-of-nose close up appears precisely once in the film, and, given its context, is an extremely unsubtle attempt at a subtle hint. The eye CU was never exactly utilised with any subtlety in Fulci's films, but here it has all the finesse of a fistbump with a concrete boxing glove. Or a director running on empty.

The film is apparently an unofficial adaptation of a novel called A Time of Predators by Joe Gores, although from reading the synopsis of the book I suspect that this is untrue. I also suspect that the Keith Emerson responsible for the awful plinkety plonk score was some randomer hired by accident, under the mistaken assumption that he was the famous musician of the same name. I'd even be tempted to suggest the Lucio Fulci who sat in the director's chair might have been a similar imposter, were there not sprinklings of his DNA evident throughout the film. And, unlike the terrible policemen who were at the heart of his 80s gialli, I know how to interpret a clue when I see one. So Lucio, you are, sadly, under arrest, charged with producing an anodyne, anaemic rehash of previous, far superior glories.

*There's a chance that the police are on the stakeout after the crime has been rung in, and are hoping that the killer returns to the scene of the crime. This, however, isn't made explicitly clear.

This is one of the most notorious giallo films of all time, and could be described as cinematic marmite, being variously considered as misogynistic filth and a late classic from Lucio Fulci.  Me? I quite like it (the film-I've never had marmite).

A killer who speaks in a voice which was blatantly ripped off for Itchy off The Simpsons is ripping his way around New York. Given the fact that the police investigation is being led by one of the Worst Giallo Cops of All Time, Jack Hedley's Lieutenant Fred Williams (probably not named in honour of the somnambulistic star of Vampyros Lesbos), the ripper manages to cut quite the swathe before any progress is made towards catching him. After one of his intended victims escapes alive, the police think they've a positive ID on the killer: Mikos Scellenda, a Greek pervert who attempted to molest the woman shortly before the killer struck. Dr Davis, a psychotherapist attempting to profile the killer for the police, doesn't believe Scellenda is the killer, and, given there's still half of the film left, we can be pretty sure that he's right. Who is the killer, though, and why do they speak in that crazy duck voice?

First thing first, I'll get straight into it and discuss the big M(isogyny). Having had that term used as a stick with which to lightly beat one of my own films, I think I'm well qualified to speak about it here. So, is The New York Ripper a misogynistic film? Was Fulci a misogynist? Am I? (I'm not; the idiot woman reviewer was wrong.) Fulci himself may well have had some slight issues with women, although it's extremely dangerous to extrapolate such observations solely based on viewings of his films and the opinions of those who've worked with him. And, anyway, a misogynist mightn't necessarily make a misogynistic film. 

By the same token, a misogynistic character doesn't automatically mean that the film endorses said character's opinions (YOU HEAR THAT, GILLIAN MIDDLETON? [I jest, you're alright]). The killer in this film undeniably hates women, but the film itself doesn't really row in behind this viewpoint. There are several murders of women, sure, featuring varying degrees of graphic violence, but the fact that the film is specifically about a man who hates, and kills, women necessitates this. And, given that it was a commercial film, and one made by a director garnering increasing fame for his graphic violence, the kills are of course going to be full-on. 

However, it's important to remember that a full-on murder depicted on screen is just that, on screen. One of the gorier deaths in my own giallo The Three Sisters featured the murder of my own mother. Do I want to kill her in real life? Of course not, I want to kill my father (not really, I'm jesting again [and anyway, he did die in the film as wel]). She was just a reluctant actor playing a role in a film, the plot of which happened to require her on-screen death. Of course, I did come up with the plot, and could have come up with one which required fewer female deaths, but I didn't. However, in my first film, The Farm, far more men than women die on screen. Again, I could have come up with a different plot, etc etc. My point is that a film depicting women getting killed isn't automatically a misogynistic tract. 

To get into more specific NY Ripper-related discussion, one of the main arguments in favour of it being misogynistic is the depiction and treatment of Daniela Doria's prostitute, Kitty. She's only fleetingly in the film, and spends her entire screentime nude. The camera never leers at her, apart from arguably during her death scene-although any leering there has more to do with highlighting special effects-but confining a prostitute character to essentially being defined by her profession, and depriving her of any clothes, isn't necessarily the most progressive depiction of a woman. Saying that, that does inherently assume that there's something degrading or shameful about the female body, which shouldn't really be taken as a given.

Another area of controversy is the character of Jane, played by a supposedly 25 year old Alexandra Delli Colli (I only note her age because she's so patently older than that; not as an attempt to shame her-she still looks very nice!). She's something of a voyeur/exhibitionist, her sexuality contrasting with her voyeur/impotent husband, who tolerates-and even encourages-her sexual adventures. These adventures encompass a peep show, a deeply uncomfortable encounter with some Hispanic guys in a bar, and a sexy hotel rendez-vous with Mickey Scellenda.  She ultimately pays for her licentiousness-as traditional society would no doubt view her behaviour as being-when the Ripper knifes her to death after she escapes Scellenda's eight-fingered clutches (that's just me saying that he has only 8 fingers, it's not a description of some kinky sexual act).

It's tempting, and easy, to read her demise as  a punishment for her perversions/sexual adventurousness, but equally she could be viewed as a victim in a male-dominated world which isn't yet ready to take female sexuality seriously. Whether or not the film falls prey to this inability to properly respect her sexuality is unclear (course it is-I've been banging on about this exact thing for several paragraphs now), but the fact that she gets sexually assaulted in a bar and still goes out on potentially dangerous night-time hook ups doesn't necessarily mean she deserves what she gets (of course), nor does the film necessarily endorse this.

To take a small lateral step, the pornography which is in abundance in Scellenda's apartment would seem to suggest a parallel being drawn between an obsession with sex and general deviancy. He doesn't seem to have any extreme porn, yet he clearly likes the stuff, and we know that he's into kinky sex, and not above trying to molest women on the subway. In short, he's a bit of a shit. But is everyone who likes porn as much of a shit as he is? Dr Davis, for one, likes porn (albeit of a more homoerotic bent than Scellenda), and while he does come across as a self-satisfied asshole, he's not a deviant killer. Is the short scene of him buying the gay porn mag designed to suggest that he may very well be such a monster, only for his ultimate innocence to show up such inferences as being inherently prejudiced? But then, does the film itself invite such prejudices by highlighting the gay porn-buying?

My point here is that these things aren't black and white; the film is neither inherently misogynistic nor inherently progressive. Like the fever dream at its centre, which begins with Scellenda's attempted assault on the train, the truth is more elusive than it first appears. It's probably easier to find evidence of the film being misogynistic than not, but that doesn't mean that Fulci isn't loading it with more nuance and intelligence than for which it's often given credit. And there's a level of self-awareness suggested by the early exchange between the young cyclist and the driver of the car in which she's ultimately killed (where the hell is the driver when the ferry docks, by the way?), in which he rants at her to get back in the kitchen, to suggest that the film was consciously creating a space within which to interrogate misogyny. And I've certainly taken my cue from that here.

To change tack completely, it's worth detailing just how poor a detective Jack Hedley's Lieutenant Williams is. He discounts the aforementioned car driver as a suspect for the cyclist's death due to a perceived lack of physical strength (which the ultimate killer doesn't seem to possess at all), despite the fact that she was murdered in his vehicle, and he was suspiciously absent at the time of the body's discovery. Previously, upon hearing that the ripper's first victim was overheard on the telephone making arrangements to meet a strange duck-voiced caller, he immediately dismisses the witness without asking where or when the rendez vous occurred. He claims that the killer is 'maybe... between 28 and 30 and has lives all his life in New York' after the second killing, an outrageous series of assumptions that are based on Nothing Whatsoever.

And, most seriously of all, he's indirectly responsible for the death of Kitty, his prostitute girlfriend, because he's so obsessed with locating a phone booth from which a call is being made that he ignores the fact that the killer explicitly told him that Kitty will be murdered shortly, which suggests-especially given the film's confining her to a single location-that it might be better to go straight to her apartment. Or at least to send one of the plethora of police vehicles to check on her, instead of bringing them all to one location. Is it his professional pride that prevents him from disclosing her location sooner, given his relationship with her, or is he really just that limited brainwise that he couldn't think beyond tracking the call?

Williams flits in and out of the narrative, as do all the 'lead' characters, which is indicative of the rudimentary narrative which doesn't really have a strong through-line. The film is very episodic in nature, much as Fulci's gothic horrors of the time were, with a seedy 42nd Street atmosphere* replacing the more oblique, supernatural vibe of those other films. The attempted murder/dream sequence which lies at the centre of the film does capture the disorientating feel of something like The Beyond, with the moment when the killer reaches under the cinema seat to grab the woman being particularly effective. The audio of this scene is terrific as well, even if the musical choices which accompany several of the stalk-and-slash scenes are idiosyncratic, to be polite. And what's with the Italian movies' belief that New York is a city of incessant horns, both of the car and ship variety?**

In terms of being a successful giallo, the film falls undeniably short. The mystery aspect is curiously handled, always towards the centre of the film but never really being afforded the respect it deserves. There are shockingly few suspects (especially if we take a leaf out of Williams' book and discount the car driver); possibly two, and at most three. The aforementioned dream sequence (SPOILERS) depicts the killer as the killer, with the revelation that it was (supposedly) just a dream being presumably intended to lead to us naturally directing our suspicions elsewhere-we've strongly suspected this character for a few minutes before his apparent innocence is revealed, and logic suggests that the actual killer in these films never assumes the role of suspect. This is an interesting-if not exactly totally original-approach to take, albeit one which would work better in a film which is more concerned with plot. Overall, plot certainly takes a back seat here to the sex, drugs and funky jazz music. And-whether you like it or not-to the killing of lots of nudie ladies. But still, if there's one thing that True Crime series can teach us, it's that women love to consume stories about women being killed, so maybe Fulci has made the most female-friendly film of all time.

He hasn't, though-he's made an incredibly powerful, angry film which, just as in something like Last House on the Left, is all the better and more shocking for containing such passion. Just be aware that you're unlikely to skip out of the room after seeing it, as it literally contains the most depressing and nihilistic ending ever.  But don't skip out of the room anyway, you're not six years old. And if you are six years old, please Christ do not watch The New York Ripper.

*To briefly return to talking about sex, I believe that the extremely perfunctory backstage interaction between Zora Kerova's sex show performer and one of her co-workers can be seen as being more significant than it might first appear-after seemingly climaxing onstage in paroxysms of delight, Kerova's disinterested shrug when asked how it was pulls back the metaphorical curtain to reveal the often performative nature of sex. Even though she performs a physical act with literally nothing to hide her body, the depiction of sex offered up to the audience is not authentic, much as the copious sex scenes in the film are being performed by actors. It also highlights how depictions of sex and sexuality are often dressed up to appear as more exotic and exciting than they really are, which can fuel resentment in people of the same mindset as the killer. So, while far from everyone who consumes pornography is a deviant killer, there is [erhaps something potentially dangerous in the selling of unrealistic dreams to downtrodden people.

**To be fair, I've never been there and the filmmakers have, so they may be right.