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.