Movies – The Giallo Project – Assorted 1972 Pt. 1

After the earlier successes of Argento, Mario Bava, Sergio Martino and Lucio Fulci, every working journeyman director employed by every mainstream producer in Italy was expected to try their hand at the giallo, with predictably chequered results. I’m as delighted by diamonds in the rough as most viewers, but the happy surprises are few and far between among most of these one-off efforts.

Farley Granger in “So Sweet, So Dead .” credit: gentedirispetto.com

One of the less enthusiastic efforts was turned in by Roberto Bianchi Montero: So Sweet, So Dead (Rivelazioni Di Un Maniaco Sessuale Al Capo Della Squadra Mobile, or Revelations of a Sexual Maniac to the Head of the Mobile [Police] Team) (Italy, 1972). It’s capably shot, technically proficient, and the narrative is clearly presented, but there’s little if any stylistic effort or distinguishing flavor of any kind. Farley Granger had been working in Europe for a bit – from Hitchcock and Visconti on the high side, to projects like this otherwise – an honest working actor – and stars here as Inspector Capuano, a semi-retired detective who has transferred from the big city to a small-but-posh provincial Italian town, and has been assigned to the kind of crime he’d thought he left behind; a serial murder case where the victims are the unfaithful wives of rich, well-connected men – lawyers, industrialists, retired military. The crime scenes are littered with in flagrante delicto photos, courtesy of the killer; the men’s’ faces in the photos, however, are obscured, scraped away. Why would the killer punish her but protect him? A procession of capable Italian genre actresses (Femi Benussi, Susan Scott, Krista Nell, Annabella Incontrera, Sylva Koscina) meet their demise at the knife-wielding hand of yet another fedora-and-trench-coat-wearing, stocking-masked mystery killer.

The ingredients for a quite lurid, suspenseful and engaging giallo thriller are all here, but Montero’s just not up to making that film with these resources. Instead we’re led through a pretty formulaic plot (with the usual doses of female nudity, red herrings, and a pretty standard-issue antagonist) that veers to outright nasty when one of the husbands lies back in wait to allow the killing of his own (unfaithful) wife. Two birds, one stone…? Watchable for completists, but I was genuinely disappointed here.

 

Doris Kunstmann and Jane Birkin in “Seven Deaths In The Cat’s Eyes.” credit: peanutbutterandgialli.wordpress.com

Italian veteran Antonio Margheriti (billed here as Anthony M. Dawson, his usual nom d’Americano) has far more entertaining fun with Seven Deaths In The Cat’s Eyes (La Morte Negli Occhi Del Gatto) (Italy, 1972). A pretty rigorous mash-up of Hammer Studios-league gothic horror, Agatha Christie-class murder mystery and trademark giallo moral ambiguities and body-counts, the film is a little light on visceral sex and gore for the trash aficionados, but does just fine as a genuinely involving popcorn murder thriller for other adults.

In a stately old castle in Scotland, the MacGrieff clan ancestral home of Dragonstone – fog-bound, lavishly furnished, and accessorized with secret passageways and a giant creepy subterranean chamber – two sisters debate whether to sell the place or to keep preserving the history of the MacGrieff family, warts, real estate, supernatural legends and all. Its current resident, Lady Mary (Françoise Christophe) wants to provide a stable environment for her mentally questionable son James (Hiram Keller) – Lord James, mind you – but the expenses are catching up. James’ “therapist,” Dr. Franz (veteran scoundrel Anton Diffring) (who bedded Lady Mary soon after arriving) and his “French teacher”, Suzanne (the fetching Doris Kunstmann) (whom Lady Mary fervently hopes will cure James of what ails him by other, more intimate, means) both cost a lot of money. Lady Alicia (Dana Ghia) is the sadder but wiser sister who implores Mary to cut her losses, bring James to London and move on. And then who should appear but Alicia’s daughter and Mary’s niece Corringa (Jane Birkin) – she’s made good her escape from her stultifying girl’s boarding school, and has come to crash at Dragonstone with Mom and Aunt Mary. Her freewheeling arrival presents a whole host of opportunities and intrigues, both constructive and underhanded, for all of our other players.

Only a few of our cast are in line to inherit the supposedly valuable MacGrieff estate, and, besides Lady Mary, they don’t seem all that keen on having any part of it. But someone starts murdering the castle’s occupants nonetheless. Add the local coachman, the loyal housekeeping couple and a friendly neighborhood priest to the available suspects and/or victims, and off we go. The murderer, by the way, is tough to figure out but refreshingly logical when revealed.

Margheriti co-writes and spins a terrific mainstream thriller, featuring great visuals from Carlo Carlini (who also shot the notable Bloodstained Butterfly) and a lush musical score from Riz Ortolani. Serge Gainsbourg, Birkin’s longtime boyfriend, makes a cameo appearance as an investigating detective, but he’s peripheral, as are most giallo policemen. I recommend this one!

 

Edwige Fenech in “The Case Of The Bloody Iris.” credit: houseoffreudstein.wordpress.com

The prolific giallo screenwriter Ernesto Gastaldi wrote our next offering, The Case Of The Bloody Iris (a far more efficient title than the original Italian, Perché Quelle Strane Gocce Di Sangue Sul Corpo di Jennifer? [Why Are Those Strange Drops Of Blood On Jennifer’s Body?]) (Italy, 1972). His scripts were done proper justice by directors like Luciano Ercoli (Forbidden Photos Of A Lady Above Suspicion) and Sergio Martino (Strange Vice…, Colors Of The Dark, Torso), whom we’ve explored previously. This film was co-produced by Sergio’s brother Luciano, but was directed by journeyman Giuliano Carmineo, who specialized in westerns; it’s not too speculative, I think, to assume Carmineo was plugged in to this project when Sergio either passed on it or left for other reasons. Not even the presence of Edwige Fenech and George Hilton, and one of Bruno Nicolai’s better soundtracks can really make up for Carmineo’s storytelling shortcomings.

Much of the film occurs in an apartment building shared by many of the characters. A beautiful woman keeping an appointment is murdered in the elevator in broad daylight. Another woman, the dancer/entertainer Mizar (Carla Brait), is ambushed in her flat a day or two later. The building’s real-estate developer, Andrea (George Hilton), consults his fashion photographer friend Arthur on using models for marketing and promotion, meets Jennifer (Edwige Fenech) and Marilyn (Paola Quattrini) through him, and then lets out the late Mizar’s apartment to them. Jennifer is also being stalked by a sex-cult leader (Ben Carra) she followed briefly, then threw over. No repercussions there, right…?! The other interactions in the building just introduce us to the potential killer and/or victims – the seductive Sheila (Annabella Incontrera) and her violin-playing father Professor Isaacs (George Rigaud), and mean-old-lady Mrs. Moss (Maria Tedeschi) and her mysterious secret son. There’s a pretty disturbing M.O. at work when the killer is revealed, but Carmineo just cruises through any deeper implications.

Like So Sweet, So Dead, the script is willing but the artistry’s weak. Emulating Argento, Carmineo lets his characters indulge their scripted eccentricities, especially the entertaining police inspector (Giampiero Albertini) and his assistant (Franco Agostini), and the aforementioned photographer (Oreste Lionello). Paola Quattrini is very good, and has lots of dark fun with Marilyn; she primarily worked in TV, as did Albertini – it would have been nice to have seen more of their work.

“… capably shot, technically proficient, and the narrative is clearly presented” describes a lot of the deluge of giallo films in 1972; it’s just too bad that Case Of The Bloody Iris, built on a promising conceptual foundation, falls so far short.

 

Anthony Steffan and Anita Strindberg in “Tropic Of Cancer.” credit: wipfilms.net

Some directors just followed the urban thriller template for giallos to frequently uneventful effect. On the other hand, Antonio Margheriti successfully transplanted the giallo aesthetic to an earlier gothic horror milieu – much like his own black-and-white sixties classics The Virgin Of Nuremburg or Barbara Steele’s Castle Of Blood. Writers Edoardo Mulargia, Giampaolo Lomi and the actor Anthony Steffen took a shot at combining the giallo with the cultural exoticism of Haiti and a dash of voodoo to create Tropic Of Cancer (Al Tropico Del Cancro) (Italy, 1972). Lomi was in Haiti previously shooting the mondo-style re-enactment documentary Goodbye, Uncle Tom, and still had enough favors and resources to knock this film out as well. The ideas are pretty good, but the script that carries the promising narrative is a train wreck.

Steffen plays Dr. Williams (no first name necessary), a doctor, biologist, chemist and all-around good guy whom the locals seem to like having around. He could work at fancy American hospitals, or for hifalutin’ pharmaceutical corporations, but his place is here, serving these simple but fascinating island folk in underequipped hospitals and shantytowns. Fred and Grace Wright (Gabriele Tinti and Anita Strindberg) have ostensibly come to Port-Au-Prince to get away from it all and try to rekindle their marriage, but Fred is also looking forward to looking up his old acquaintance Williams as well. Williams meets them at their hotel, and agrees to take them to a truly impressive, if unsettling, Haitian voodoo ritual. Admirably, his explanations are fairly spot-on: Haitian voodoo has evolved as much as a direct refutation of European colonial Catholicism as it has as a standalone religion derived from other West Indian forms of voodoo. The whole undercurrent of religious ecstasy and fertility-worship is rich territory here, and Grace, especially, is caught up in it.

Meanwhile, Dr. Williams’ research assistants seem to be disappearing, and some tough and sleazy business-types from the east coast (American) are pushing people around and taking a greedy interest in Williams. Mr. Peacock (Gordon Felio) is the androgynous Sidney Greenstreet-style wheeler and dealer who acts as Williams’ “agent”; we come to learn from his dealings that Williams’ “research“ has created a powerful new hallucinogenic drug, and, thanks to his big-mouth assistants, all sorts of willing potential distributors are appearing whether Williams likes it or not.

So, while Williams is showing Fred and Grace the sights, various competitors are bumping each other off. But which of these murderous entrepreneurs is successfully killing off the others? Meanwhile, Grace gets a bouquet of druggy flowers that triggers a pretty racy and surreal dream sequence, and she’s then saved by Williams, who has taken a liking to her while her husband grows more distant. Anita Strindberg is well-known for her body-baring proclivities, but she’s an extraordinarily camera-friendly presence who can genuinely act, even when given next-to-nothing to work with. Anthony Steffan as Williams, on the other hand, goes through the narrative motions but is oddly detached; this was his schtick in The Night Evelyn Came Out Of The Grave as well, but his character’s mental illness there justified that… I think. Here he just looks coked up, as does co-star Gabriele Tinti, who is a bit more speedy-aggro than his character really calls for. Oh, well, as long as they were having fun… Recommended only for Anita Strindberg completists – the other novelties of the film just aren’t enough to overcome the general tawdriness.