Category: Italian film

Death Smiles on a Murderer (1973, Joe D’Amato)

Until Death Smiles on a Murderer gets so inane it’s exasperating, at least the music (by Berto Pisano) isn’t terrible, and the editing (Piera Bruni and Gianfranco Simoncelli) is excellent. I don’t think either of them get worse once the rest of the movie does, but at that point, the film’s so bad it’s not like not incompetent music or even good cutting will make a difference.

Murderer opens with Luciano Rossi mooning over sister Ewa Aulin’s corpse. In flashback, we learn Rossi assaulted Aulin at least once and planned to take her somewhere else so they could live as a couple, not siblings. Not surprisingly, Aulin runs away into the immediate arms of older man Giacomo Rossi Stuart. Rossi is chasing her when she meets Stuart. Basically, Aulin sees Stuart on a park bench and is like, take me away.

I need to mention Rossi–the actor and his character—is a man with a hunched back. The film codes it as terrifying and evil.

The action then jumps ahead approximately three years, where bored landed gentry marrieds Sergio Doria and Angela Bo watch a speeding carriage crash at the front gate. The driver’s dead, the passenger’s unconscious. The passenger… is Aulin, alive and groggy and suffering from amnesia.

Police inspector Attilio Dottesio comes out but doesn’t bother interviewing Aulin or even checking in on her (later on, the movie says it’s important; it’s not). Instead, he just tells Doria to have doctor Klaus Kinski check on her and then write the death certificate for the driver. Kinski then inspects Aulin with Doria and Bo, then tells them to leave so Aulin can undress for his further inspection. It seems suspicious because Kinski can’t do anything without it being suspicious, but we’ll soon learn he’s not a perv. Or, at least, he’s not just a perv. He’s got his reasons for being curious about Aulin.

Could they have anything to do with what maid Carla Mancini finds so interesting about Aulin? We’ll have to wait for that answer, which will never be satisfactory.

Kinski tells Doria and Bo to keep an eye on Aulin until her memory returns, then heads off to his laboratory to do a bunch of chemical mixing. There’s got to be six minutes of chemical mixing montages. The first act of Death is incredibly padded, which ends up being okay because at least the music’s pretty and the editing is good. The less story, the better.

But pretty soon, Doria confesses his love to Aulin, who reciprocates (albeit without much enthusiasm). She’s a lot more enthusiastic—or at least director D’Amato’s more enthusiastic—when Bo also confesses her love to Aulin. Apparently, D’Amato convinced Bo to do a lot more nudity than Aulin; in addition to Bo and Aulin’s Skinemax scene, Bo’s also got one with Doria. Their scene—intercut with other footage of the throuple possibly happy (it’s very unclear)—also implies a new status quo, which we soon learn isn’t accurate. Except the inciting incident isn’t shown in scene. It’s like D’Amato knew not to ask his actors to do too much acting. Especially not Aulin, who spends the film looking diminutive and subservient in various outfits.

Everything eventually comes together—inspector Dottesio, Kinski’s experiments, older man Stuart—except D’Amato and his two co-writers are rather bad writers, so instead of tight knots, it’s a loose jumble of threads, less tied than tangled. Except for the music and editing, it often seems like no one’s invested in Death except to get Bo or Aulin undressed. Then there will be some gory sequence and, even though the gore’s low budget, at least the filmmakers were engaged.

D’Amato also photographed, and he’s most competent in that role. He’s downright bad at directing actors, regardless of who dubbed them later on (Death’s Italian), and low middling as far as composition, but his lighting’s fine.

I guess the best performances are Bo and Dottesio. Bo because she gets the only honest part, which helps her through the exploitative aspects. Dottesio’s just the most obviously competent.

Death is gory, lewd, lurid, and inordinately bad.

The Desert of the Tartars (1976, Valerio Zurlini)

The Desert of the Tartars is a warless war epic. Set at a remote desert fort, a young officer (Jacques Perrin) discovers army life isn’t what he was expecting. The film opens with Perrin leaving home, ready for the great fortune awaiting him, only to learn he’s been assigned to the ass-end of nowhere. The fort, commanded by Vittorio Gassman, is between a vast desert, where once upon a time lived and warred the Tartars, and a foreign power to the north. There’s uneasy peace with the north, desert to the south, nothing for the men to do but wait and wonder if they’ll ever see battle.

With a couple exceptions, the film ignores the enlisted men. Principally there’s Francisco Rabal, who’s in Perrin’s platoon; Perrin turns to him for advice the first time he thinks he sees something in the desert. You’re never supposed to see anything in the desert, lest you act on it, and end up like the fort’s captain, Max von Sydow. Ten years before, von Sydow sounded the alarm and got everyone very worked up… only for there to be no invading army. So instead of becoming a war hero, von Sydow’s become another of the fort’s forgotten officers, waiting and hoping for eventual glory.

The film’s first half takes place over Perrin’s first four to six months at the fort. The first four are clearly delineated, as Perrin’s got to wait for general Philippe Noiret to arrive and sign his transfer orders. Perrin arranged with the fort’s major, Giuliano Gemma, for the fort doctor, Jean-Louis Trintignant, to give him a medical out. Perrin doesn’t understand why Gemma’s helping him—Perrin gives the assignment only a few days (at most) before trying to get out and doesn’t want to file for an official transfer because it’d look bad. It takes the film a while to observe Gemma’s behavior enough to explain his altruism in the matter—Gemma resents the upper-class officer core in the fort and doesn’t want to share the eventual glory.

Trintignant is willing to help Perrin but would never consider leaving himself. There’s an unspoken agreement between the officers to not abandon one another or the fort, especially not when one of them, Laurent Terzieff, is deathly ill. Turns out the fort has mold growing in its walls, and, if it gets you sick, you never get better. But Terzieff’s not willing to abandon his duty, being royalty and all, which confuses Gemma but not the rest of the officers.

So much of Tartars, at least in the first and second acts, is a society drama with dress uniforms, occasional military exercises, and foreboding dread. The other important officer is Helmut Griem. Griem, Terzieff, and Perrin all serve under von Sydow; there are some other lieutenants around, but the film never shows their commands, if they have any.

Fernando Rey plays the only officer to have seen any action; everyone needs to pitch in and help him since he’s got a broken back from the experience. He’s not eagerly anticipating an invasion or any glory.

The first six months of Perrin’s assignment will be more consequential than the rest of it, with the fort suffering enough tragedy to lose its stature. The failure and tragedy play out on all the officers, who find themselves looking out into the empty desert to stay occupied; they can look out and remember to dream of glorious battle instead of looking around at the various failures in leadership and camaraderie.

The second half of the film takes place over an indeterminate number of years, with Perrin aging along with his peers, unprepared for how the years of waiting will affect them all.

Director and co-screenwriter Zurlini sustains a languid, lyrical pacing for almost a full hour (Tartars runs two hours and twenty minutes, never feeling it). Much more happens in the first hour, but because there are more people around, Zurlini keeps and maintains the same narrative distance throughout, approximately eight feet away from Perrin at all times. It’s a character study, just one without much detail. The film doesn’t dwell too deep into the characters’ personal lives or thoughts—outside their formal or professional interactions, we don’t see anything of the character relationships. Perrin and Griem are good friends, for example, but outside how they exhibit that friendship on duty, we don’t see it. Other characters have similarly opaque relationships, with aristocratic pride and privacy enforcing the haziness. Tartars, especially in the first half, is a fascinating character drama.

The most pay-off the film ever allows is Gemma’s arc about not being high enough class to understand how the rest of the officers feel. Otherwise, the characters remain private and separated from one another. One subplot involves the fort’s enlisted men organizing and acting out, but Zurlini still keeps it at a distance. Duty requires the officers not to address it, but their subsequent inability to process it will congeal into very particular morale rot.

The second half of the film becomes far more concerned with the endless waiting, with Perrin unexpectedly having to endure more of the remote assignment and how his peers change. Perrin becomes disillusioned and more and more isolated, mentally and physically. By the end of the film, the fort’s officers more haunt it than serve it, the empty years of anticipation eating them away, nothing left but a someday glory.

Zurlini ends the film more empathetic than sympathetic with the characters. They’re all too far gone by the end, too broken to remember when they weren’t, the fort literally poisoning them.

Tartars is technically exceptional, with Zurlini, cinematographer Luciano Tovoli, editors Franco Arcalli and Raimondo Crociani, production designer Giancarlo Bartolini Salimbeni (who also worked on costumes), and other costume designer Sissi Parravicini all doing spectacular work. The costumes are essential in the first act, tracking Perrin’s acceptance into the fort’s “society.” Zurlini and Tovoli shoot a magnificent picture. And then there’s Ennis Morricone’s outstanding score. Morricone’s music needs to do a lot in the second half, and it’s always a success.

Most of the performances are excellent; the rest are just exceptionally good. Gassman, Gemma, and von Sydow are the standouts. And Rabal, who’s not around as much once Perrin gets in with the officers.

Desert of the Tartars is a superb film. It’s nimble with a lengthy runtime and a long present action, with Zurlini knowing just when to slow down and when to turn the haunting and the dread up to eleven.

It’s glorious.

This post is part of the Bustles and Bonnets: Costume Blogathon hosted by Gabriela of Pale Writer and Paul of Silver Screen Classics.

The Great Silence (1968, Sergio Corbucci)

The first act of The Great Silence at least implies some traditional Western tropes. Jean-Louis Trintignant is a gunslinger who fights with evil bounty hunters. Frank Wolff is the new sheriff. Klaus Kinski is one of the evil bounty hunters. Wolff’s got political stuff, or at least the script implies there’s going to be political stuff, just like the script makes implications about Trintignant and Kinski. They’re not red herrings, but director Corbucci has something to say about the Western genre and he’s getting his pieces in order.

And, frankly, that first act is a little plodding. Sure, the winter setting is cool–Corbucci has no interest in the town other than as a setting for his action, so getting to know it is a passive experience, unnecessary for the narrative but so gorgeous snow covered–and Kinski’s immediately awesome. Well, he’s immediately different. It takes a couple scenes before it’s clear he’s just going to be awesome throughout, like he’s the only one who gets to know the film’s destination.

After running around in circles–literally–Corbucci gets Silence into the second act and the film starts to get a lot different. None of the Western tropes implied are getting followed up on. I mean, Trintignant’s even revealed to be hunting bounty killers because they killed his parents. Corbucci is going all out with the possible tropes and none of them really stick. Silvano Ippoliti’s photography is too heartless for them to stick. Even the Ennio Morricone score bucks sentimentality and nostalgia; it’s not a particularly successful score, but it is an effective one.

Instead, Silence becomes Wolff’s story. Turns out Luigi Pistilli’s Mr. Big is running the bounty hunters–that political subplot possibility–and Wolff’s going to do whatever it takes to keep things apolitical and legal. There’s a lot about legality in Great Silence; Corbucci plays just enough into Spaghetti Western expectations to get away with a lot of exposition and a lot of sentimentality. The love scene between Trintignant and Vonetta McGee (as the woman who hires him to avenge her husband–against Kinski, of course)–their whole romance–is just a subplot in what’s first Wolff’s film and then Kinski’s. Even though Trintignant is playing the title character–he’s The Great Silence–Corbucci kicks the genre around enough to allow the hero to be another player and a silent one at that.

See, Trintignant isn’t speaking. Those bounty killers who killed his parents made him mute. His whole performance is stress fractures in stoicism, which makes the whole love story subplot even better. It’s also a device for Corbucci’s commentary–the hero, though present and active, is removed from the viewer’s experience of the film.

Kinski’s amazing. It’s his movie. Wolff’s great, McGhee’s great. There’s a lot going on in the second act, including some nice stuff from Marisa Merlini too. Corbucci’s going for better performances than one expects from a Spaghetti Western; he’s refusing to let them be caricature. After threatening it for the first act; presumably to get the viewer to pay attention.

And then there’s the finish, which is sort of what the third act to the first act would look like–with a more traditional second act–only Corbucci’s run it through that devastating second act.

So the big question–since I didn’t start writing this response with a star rating decided on–do Corbucci’s successes make up for the film’s problems. And they do. The Great Silence has some slow parts, some seemingly needless shots, some way too long takes, but Corbucci does bring it all together and make something fantastic. It’s exceptional.

4/4★★★★

CREDITS

Directed by Sergio Corbucci; screenplay by Vittoriano Petrilli, Mario Amendola, Bruno Corbucci, and Sergio Corbucci, based on a story by Sergio Corbucci; director of photography, Silvano Ippoliti; edited by Amedeo Salfa; music by Ennio Morricone; produced by Attilio Riccio and Robert Dorfmann; released by 20th Century Fox.

Starring Jean-Louis Trintignant (Silence), Klaus Kinski (Tigrero), Vonetta McGee (Pauline Middleton), Frank Wolff (Sheriff Gideon Corbett), Marisa Merlini (Regina), Mario Brega (Martin), and Luigi Pistilli (Henry Pollicut).

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Django (1966, Sergio Corbucci)

Right away, Djano sets itself to have a problem–gunfighter Franco Nero is just way too good. Just when he’s too unstoppable, too unbeatable, the film finds a way to make him even more unstoppable, more unbeatable. The first act of the film has him taking on a band of Confederate soldiers who have rallied behind a would-be Klan leader (Eduardo Fajardo) and are terrorizing Mexicans and possible race traitors in border towns.

Nero has something of a love interest in Loredana Nusciak (who he saves first from Mexican revolutionaries and then the Klansmen) and something of a sidekick in cathouse owner Ángel Álvarez. Only these character relationships only go so far. Nero’s got to kill a lot of people and friends and lady friends just get in the way of it.

Sometime in the second act, José Bódalo shows up as a revolutionary general. He and Nero are old friends and they basically plan a heist. And the movie sort of starts over again. Nusciak isn’t the love interest anymore, Álvarez isn’t the sidekick, instead it’s Nero and Bódalo all the way. Until it starts over again. I don’t think it starts over a third time. It’s very episodic, but the episodes go on just a little too long and don’t have good transitions.

Nero mostly keeps the film together, though the supporting cast helps a lot. Fajardo is an awesome villain, Álvarez’s a decent sidekick, and Nusciak’s pretty good when she’s not acting opposite Nero. As a director–at least as far as directing his actors goes–Corbucci is better when they aren’t talking to each other. Nusciak’s silent observations of the goings on around her, Nero’s reading of his adversaries, those moments are some of the actors’ bests. Though Nero and Bódalo are cute together. Bódalo is far more likable than he ought to be.

Technically, the film has its ups and downs. Nino Baragli and Sergio Montanari’s editing is weak. Corbucci has some well-choreographed sequences–especially a barroom fistfight–but Baragli and Montanari’s editing emphasizes Corbucci’s worst ideas, not his best. The gunfights in particular lack any rhythm. Though Luis Bacalov’s Morricone super-lite score doesn’t help with them either.

Enzo Barboni’s photography is fine, Carlo Simi’s production design is awesome. And Corbucci does have his moments.

Whatever its problems, Django compels throughout. Even in its sillier moments.

2/4★★

CREDITS

Produced and directed by Sergio Corbucci; screenplay by Franco Rossetti, Piero Vivarelli, Sergio Corbucci, and Bruno Corbucci, based on a story by Sergio Corbucci and Bruno Corbucci; director of photography, Enzo Barboni; edited by Nino Baragli and Sergio Montanari; music by Luis Bacalov; production designer, Carlo Simi; released by Euro International Film.

Starring Franco Nero (Django), José Bódalo (Gen. Hugo Rodriguez), Loredana Nusciak (Maria), Ángel Álvarez (Nathaniel the Bartender), Gino Pernice (Brother Jonathan), Simón Arriaga (Miguel), Remo De Angelis (Ricardo), and Eduardo Fajardo (Major Jackson).

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The Battle of Algiers (1966, Gillo Pontecorvo)

The Battle of Algiers is brilliantly constructed. Director Pontecorvo deceptively frames the film–he also gives most sequences a date and time, which shows the viewer how greater events are progressing, but Pontecovro also gives multiple times in a day, which puts the viewer on edge even though the exact time isn’t really useful.

Pontecorvo and co-writer Solinas are extremely careful about how they show sympathy to either side–the revolutionary Algerians and the occupying French. A character will get all sorts of humanizing only to be revealed a monster and vice versa. Pontecorvo most enthusiastically shows the contradictions in Jean Martin’s colonel in charge of suppressing the revolt. Martin’s performance is so striking, he’s the most active thing in the second half of Algiers. The film, and the viewer, wait for him.

After the first act, which follows Brahim Hadjadj’s transition from a petty crook to a freedom fighter, Martin is the only sign Pontecorvo is going to allow easy access to the film. Everything else is disinterested. Hadjadj isn’t likable or even charismatic. Saadi Yacef, as the revolutionary leader, is both those things. Pontecorvo makes Hadjadj by forcing the viewer to question why he shouldn’t be sympathetic.

The narrative complexities can’t work with Pontecorvo’s direction. Every shot is so controlled–but every shot is of something chaotic–it creates detached cinéma vérité. In Algiers, Pontecorvo is showing truth through an acknowledged fictive lens, giving him options.

Glorious editing from Mario Morra and Mario Serandrei.

Algiers is brilliant.

4/4★★★★

CREDITS

Directed by Gillo Pontecorvo; screenplay by Pontecorvo and Franco Solinas, based on a book by Saadi Yacef; director of photography, Marcello Gatti; edited by Mario Morra and Mario Serandrei; music by Ennio Morricone and Pontecorvo; production designer, Sergio Canevari; produced by Saadi Yacef and Antonio Musu; released by Magna.

Starring Brahim Haggiag (Ali La Pointe), Jean Martin (Col. Mathieu), Saadi Yacef (Djafar), Samia Kerbash (one of the girls), Ugo Paletti (captain), Fusia El Kader (Halima), Mohamed Ben Kassen (Petit Omar).

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The Goodbye Kiss (2006, Michele Soavi)

As a rule, neo-noir tends to be crap. The Goodbye Kiss is no different, except in its protagonist. The male role here replaces the traditional deceptive female role. I had that observation near the end of the film, when I’d given up trying to figure out why I’d kept watching it instead of turning it off. Maybe because it is interesting. The protagonist, the lead, is a terrible human being. He’s not amoral or something. He’s a bad guy. The film does feature worse guys and it does present the character as haunted by some of his previous bad acts, but he’s bad guy and the viewer knows it the whole time. Unfortunately, this different approach does not a good film make.

Another problem is its obvious novel roots. The film’s very fat, with a lot developments and events in the first hour and twenty minutes. Enough for five movies probably. Three decent ones and two good ones. The film’s mostly told in summary with indeterminate time passing between each cut and it dehumanizes the supporting, which is probably a good idea because the protagonist might end up killing them. Actually, no. His cold-bloodness increases as time passes, probably to make the viewer think he might not end up doing what ends up doing in the end, but, really, it’s a foregone conclusion. Goodbye Kiss is a big believer of Chekov’s gun on the wall.

I watched it mostly because Michele Soavi directed it and he’s an Argento protégé and he has the same problems Argento has (the inability to make a good film because of its script) and there’s some cute homages. Otherwise he’s fifty-fifty. Half his shots, half don’t. The working ones do so because he’s in his element. The failing ones because he’s out of it. He’s as disconnected with the film as a viewer will be.

The acting’s generally good. Alessio Boni plays the lead and he does fine, having fun with playing someone totally unsympathetic but in every scene. Michele Placido is a corrupt cop who’s amusing. There are some romantic interests who are boring, not bad, but boring.

Like I said, there’s enough story here for five movies (more than the average neo-noir, which usually only has three). Terrible writing and–visual proficiency aside–the wrong director certainly hurt the film. But the container itself is flawed, if not broken completely.

Oh, jeez–I just looked up the credits on IMDb: a novel author, two story credits and four screenwriters. Nothing better than a film in a debilitated genre written by four people.

0/4ⓏⒺⓇⓄ

CREDITS

Directed by Michele Soavi; screenplay by Soavi, Marco Colli, Franco Ferrini and Luigi Ventriglia, from a story by Soavi and Lorenzo Favella, based on a novel by Massimo Carlotto; director of photography, Giovanni Mammolotti; edited by Anna Rosa Napoli; music by Andrea Guerra; production designer, Andrea Crisanti; produced by Dino Di Dionisio; released by Mikado.

Starring Alessio Boni (Giorgio), Michele Placido (Anedda), Carlo Cecchi (Maître Brianese), Alina Nedelea (Roberta) and Isabella Ferrari (Flora).

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Investigation of a Citizen Above Suspicion (1970, Elio Petri)

I can’t remember–if I ever have–seeing a film where the main character goes through more changes than in Investigation of a Citizen Above Suspicion. Actually, he doesn’t change, but the truth keeps getting more and more revealed to the viewer, making him more and more different. First he’s a smart bad guy, then he’s a dumb bad guy, then he’s a sad guy, then he’s a scared guy, then he’s a bad guy. Or something along those lines. Gian Maria Volontè handles the role well (except the scared guy parts) because he’s playing it for laughs.

The movie opens with him and Ennio Morricone music and the music’s goofy and immediately sets up Investigation as something not to be taken too seriously. As something not to be taken seriously, it’d work too, but that approach doesn’t last long. Pretty soon, it becomes clear this bad guy–he’s a tyrannical, fascist police captain going after political demonstrators (sort of)–is supposed to be representative of that sort of mindset. He’s got a great speech in the movie, railing against freedom, but it’s also the scene where I realized he’s a cartoon. Except… then he becomes sad guy, emotionally stunted and hurt by a unfeeling woman.

Stylistically, the movie’s all over the place. There are constant flashbacks and fantasies and some of these scenes don’t have the most graceful transitions (or sensical). The director’s got an annoying abridging of scenes method, which occasionally makes it hard to discern what’s going on–like when the woman, who kicks off the titular investigation, dies. It’s never clear what happened because the director really liked that goofy Morricone music.

Movielens gave Investigation an incredibly high prediction so I went into it expecting something really good. Instead, it was a goofy, forgettable film. But never boring, which was nice.

1.5/4★½

CREDITS

Directed by Elio Petri; written by Ugo Pirro and Petri; director of photography, Luigi Kuveiller; edited by Ruggero Mastroianni; music by Ennio Morricone; production designer, Romano Cardarelli; produced by Daniele Senatore and Marina Cicogna; released by Vera Films.

Starring Gian Maria Volonte (The Police Inspector), Florinda Bolkan (Augusta Terzi), Salvo Randone (The Plumber), Gianni Santuccio (The Police Commissioner), Arturo Dominici (Mangani), Orazio Oriando (Biglia), Sergio Tramonti (Antonio Pace), Massimo Foschi (Augusta’s Husband) and Aldo Rendine (Homicide Functionary).

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Girl with a Suitcase (1961, Valerio Zurlini)

Girl with a Suitcase plays a little like The Nights of Cabiria. Watching Suitcase, one can’t help but feel like the filmmakers were quite familiar with Cabiria. Cabiria, of course, is from a certain period of Fellini and Suitcase feels a little like that Fellini, only the diet version. The film does have a lot of nice things about it–Valerio Zurlini is a fantastic director and he has wonderful composition in this film. Also, for a film with lots of loud music, it’s really quiet. Zurlini lets his actors act and doesn’t help them much in the technical department, which means the actors have to be really good… and, for the most part, they are. Claudia Cardinale is fine, but her character is something of an intentional enigma, so she’s really not the best standard for the film–she’s also not the protagonist. The protagonist is the sixteen year old boy who’s got the crush on her, which is where Girl with a Suitcase differs from other depressing Italian films (it’s like Nights of Cabiria with kids, maybe).

The problem with this story–the boy-about-to-be-a-man and the older woman with secrets he loves–is the lack of a successful conclusion to the story. There are probably films with this story made twice a year from every country in the world (at least one with a good-sized film industry). Girl with a Suitcase goes a different route for most of the film though, not giving the kid anything to do but spend time with Cardinale. Oh sure, he’s got the absent family, but it’s not an issue for a couple reasons. First, because he’s too busy with Cardinale. Second, because the damn thing switches protagonists for the third act, concentrating on her. Those diet Cabiria moments come about because of the switch, but they also serve to make Cardinale a sympathetic character. Only to crap on her in a boring way.

Somehow, the film’s two hours and boring but really not long enough. It stops without ending. The kid, played Jacques Perrin, is okay. Sometimes he does good, sometimes he doesn’t. It’s like Zurlini wasn’t giving him enough direction in some scenes. Another problem with the inevitable conclusion is the age difference. While Perrin is supposed to be sixteen, he was actually twenty and Cardinale was twenty-three. They look close in age and it really affects the reading of certain scenes.

I’ve only seen one other Zurlini film, The Desert of the Tartars, and I was expecting a lot more from Suitcase. The first hour is pretty good though and, overall, it’s not wasted two hours (especially given the amazing sound design).