Ted Demme's Blow (2001)

Ted Demme's Blow (2001) is a film about George Jung (Johnny Depp), a true-to-life, real flesh-and-blood person who was a major figure in the American drug smuggling cocaine ring in the 1980s. Demme tells his tale in traditional American fashion, one which our culture very much loves--the rise and fall of the American Dream. Film depictions of criminals in this fashion are particularly popular and attractive such as Brian de Palma's Scarface (1983) and Martin Scorsese's Goodfellas (1990); and Blow shows a strong influence from both. Blow, however, takes a traditional formula and goes in an nontraditional direction. Whether Demme made a conscious choice to attempt to render a faithful history of George Jung's life or to take a traditional and tried-and-true American film formula, use it as a loose framework, play with it, and ultimately subvert it (or both) is unknown to me. However the result is that Demme's last film is perhaps one of the last decade's most underrated and under-appreciated films.

George Jung is an interesting character who seemingly doesn't fit the archetype of the man in pursuit of the American Dream: ambition and perseverance through hard work are not two of his shining attributes. As a criminal, Jung doesn't even fit the traditional mold either--he's not violent and ruthless, charming or charismatic, or particularly sharp, methodical, or scheming. Although his father, portrayed by Ray Liotta, tells him that "he would be great at anything," the truth is really what Jung tells Pablo Escobar (Cliff Curtis) during his first meeting: "You need a man with balls." Jung dives into life headlong and living life very much in the present (later revealed very much to his detriment) with consequences being damned. Eventually Jung's impulsive living resulted in his capture and imprisonment but it had a much deeper spiritual effect upon Jung. This latter effect is where Demme shines with Blow, and Depp deserves some serious praise for his portrayal of Jung.

One of Depp's best sequences, and also one of the best within Blow, is when Jung attempts to simply arrive into America via plane from Colombia with several kilos of cocaine in two suitcases. His goal is to make it through customs with his contraband successfully. If his contraband is discovered by authorities, then he's going to jail for a potentially long time. Jung has no further plan to make his goal successful: he's just going to take the chance. After Depp's Jung takes his two suitcases from the airport carousel, in voice-over narration Jung talks about thinking happy thoughts, like a party or having sex, and projecting his mind into those thoughts (in a lot of ways like slipping slightly out of reality temporarily). Demme focuses on Depp's face as he walks to the customs' station in a well-crafted move: Depp is singularly able to render this notion just with the changing look on his face in a very subtle fashion. Jung almost gets caught twice by the customs' officer but coolly gets through.

It is only apparent by the final act within Blow for the viewer to see with whom Jung had the most important relationships in his life and where the real dramatic conflict resides. During the first act during Jung's youth with his "rise" as focus, his relationships are with his close friends Tuna (Ethan Suplee) and Dulli (Max Perlich), his friend and business contact, Derek (Paul Reubens as an eccentric character in a standout performance), and a brief, intense and loving relationship with Barbara (Franka Potente). All of Jung's relationships with these characters are given in glimpses with some even disappearing after the first act, but this is Jung's life or either a reflection of how he lives it: very much in the present. His relationship with his parents, portrayed by Ray Liotta and Rachel Griffiths, are also shown with glimpses (early scenes with younger depictions of Liotta and Griffiths strain credulity as each looks like a sibling of Depp instead of a parent. However, as the two characters get older their characters become more credible, through make-up and very good performances by both, especially Liotta). Any real depth with Jung's relationship with his later wife, Mirtha (Penelope Cruz) is absent. (Their scenes feel like carbon copies of Tony and Elvira in Scarface or Henry and Karen in Goodfellas. Even some of Demme's set-ups and compositions mimic or emphasize this comparison.) Jung's most important relationship in his life comes much, much later in Blow and its depiction is where Demme sets his film apart from its traditional predecessors and shines. This relationship has a real intimacy in its depiction, despite the absence of any intimacy in its substance. The desire for a loving intimacy becomes Jung's strongest and what he always wanted.

At the completion of Blow, the viewer can only then reflect upon its action and see the result of Demme's craft with his narrative. Depp's portrayal seemingly begins as the man in pursuit of the American Dream yet what his character always wanted was something much older and much more human. Depp's scenes with his father, shown in glimpses throughout Blow, after all are seen together, paint the history of this character far better than any true historical account. With little dialogue and two stellar performances by Depp and Liotta, Demme slowly builds his real story with real emotion. At the film's conclusion, Blow can truly be appreciated for how often brilliant it is. Like Goodfellas or Paul Thomas Anderson's Boogie Nights (1997), for example, Blow goes for real accuracy in its depiction of its historical time with authentic-looking costumes, cars, and especially pop music of the period. As the film starts to unfold, Blow feels as if it is going to continue in that tradition in another rendition of which perhaps audiences and critics were becoming tired. Depp and Demme set this film apart and make Blow truly memorable. This was Ted Demme's last film, and what he would have made possibly could have put him into the elite. As Blow stands, however, it is very much worth seeing as it shows an immense amount of creative talent, a loving eye to both overt and subtle detail, and above all, real human emotion.

Mario Gariazzo's The Bloody Hands of the Law (La mano spietata della legge) (1973)

I used to not be tolerant towards those who were intolerant and violent, says Commissario Gianni de Carmine (Philippe Leroy) to his breathtakingly beautiful lady, Linda (Silvia Monti). Now, he continues, I've become more violent and intolerant than anyone. The Commissario feels powerless on his current case: he believes that he is unable to make any progress because of newly-enacted criminal procedural laws: in other words, de Carmine is unable to beat upon his suspects to induce a confession or a promising lead, because nearly all criminals know that if he remains silent, then he will definitely walk. The Commissario feels justified with his violent methods: the criminals aren't adhering to any procedural rules and are terrorizing and killing innocent citizens. Leroy's de Carmine is correct: he is powerless on his current case. However and most importantly, the Commissario powerfully misunderstands the dynamics of his current situation and is equally powerfully misguided as to how to solve it. A familiar theme within polizieschi cinema plays out in a very polarized way in Mario Gariazzo's The Bloody Hands of the Law (Le mano spietata della legge) (1973).

The local syndicate, led by Vito Quattroni (Klaus Kinski), picks up an international passenger at the airport and takes him to a hideout. Donning a disguise and infiltrating some high security, the international passenger reveals himself a very slick hitman upon an unsuspecting mark. The hitman's vacation is over in Italy, and as seemingly quickly as the syndicate picked the hitman up, they coolly drop him off at the airport for his flight home. The local police, led by Leroy's de Carmine, catch a break with the airport's security video and identify the perpetrator. They put a picture of the suspect in the newspaper, hoping to catch another break in the case. A young woman working at an information kiosk at the airport saw the perpetrator and can identify the man who picked him up. The police begin to build their case with witnesses and collect evidence, yet the local crime syndicate is able to erase any trace of evidence and dispatch any witnesses before any real information is collected. Gariazzo, who also penned the script for Bloody Hands, presents the police and the criminal organization as mirror images. Both are evolved. Both are state of the art. Both use information as their primary tool. The police are able to use video, criminal identification databases, the media, criminal informants, and the like to help in their investigation. Although the film is set in Italy and focuses on the local crime syndicate, Gariazzo presents his criminal organization as part of a worldwide network with access to myriad funds, hitmen, hideouts, and informants of their own to perpetrate their crimes. This use of information has perhaps presented a stalemate for both sides, with one side inevitably about to break.

The portrayal of the actions by the criminal syndicate are rendered by Gariazzo with a mathematical precision. The opening sequence, presided over by a sinister-looking and brooding Kinski, without words, are efficient: airport pick-up; hideout drop-off; prep; and execution. A later sequence at a disco with Pia Giancaro, as Lilly Antonelli, the roommate of the witness at the airport, is even more meticulous and calculated (and cleverly rendered). The criminals with pinpoint precision attempt to remove Antonelli's keys from her purse while she's with her date, make the hit at the apartment upon her roommate, and put the keys back into her purse with no one the wiser. Kinski's character performs the hit in the apartment, and the killing is as cold as the scheme.

The police, however, are unable to get beyond the first step in their investigation, only to have to start over when a critical witness is murdered. De Carmine believes "meeting force with force" is the solution, the use of violence against the criminals, and he gets the approval of his superiors for this method. His decision to become aggressive is somewhat successful in his investigation, but ultimately, de Carmine decision becomes his tragic and fatal flaw. What de Carmine fails to recognize is that the violence is constant and ever-present. (In a purely exploitative scene, Luciano Rossi, playing to the hilt in a familar role as the depraved, unhinged henchman, attempts to rape one of the witnesses who has been kidnapped by the local crime group. Kinski, again with few words and his trademark piercing, intense looks, kills the witness and ruthlessly takes to Rossi's character with a blowtorch.) De Carmine's character isn't necessarily as he confesses later in the film, intolerant and violent but impatient. In his overwhelming desire to put an end to organized crime, Leroy's de Carmine fails to recognize his own limits and abilities and what he's capable of truly achieving.

Gariazzo's script and direction are worthy of praise with The Bloody Hands of the Law. He's able to keep some fairly provocative and interesting themes constant in the foreground of the film side by side with the typical motifs of the genre, such as shootouts, car chases, and disco scenes. Even if the viewer just wanted to passively watch the action unfold, Bloody Hands doesn't disappoint in this arena. Leroy is quite intense in his role, and his scenes with Silvia Monti were always welcomed, as showing his vulnerability made him a more human character. Klaus Kinski appears in what seems another role performed presumably quickly and for the cash but Kinski always brings to his roles something undefinable. A true presence, any director was fortunate to have him on screen, as he often gave intense performances. He doesn't disappoint Gariazzo, here, and is quite good. Monti and Giancaro are terrific as Linda and Lilly, respectively. Stelvio Cipriani delivers another brilliant score. The Bloody Hands of the Law is definitely worth seeing.

Renato Polselli's The Reincarnation of Isabel (1973)

The narrative of The Reincarnation of Isabel (1973) is either incidental, non-existent, or totally supplanted by Renato Polselli's rendition of images. Its acting is non-naturalistic and theatrical to accompany its lighting, special effects, and compositions. As to whom this film is designed to appeal is unknown; but it is a certainty that its result is not for mass consumption. It's an arthouse film in feel, not appealing to the intellectual set, like a grindhouse exploitation flick wrapped in gold paper, served on silver sterling, and fed to few.

Isabel (Rita Calderoni) was branded a vampire and a witch by the townspeople hundreds of years ago. As she was tied to the stake and before she was set aflame, a townsperson with a mallet and sharp wooden stake impaled her heart. Her lover (Mickey Hargitay) watches as the townsfolk cheer during the lynching. After she dies, the heartbroken lover pulls her body from the stake with the help of a local (Raul Lovecchio). Cut to modern times at an ancient castle where the same three actors appear in different roles: Calderoni is Laureen, who is marrying Richard (William Darni); Hargitay is her stepfather and he has purchased the castle; and the local from history is a resident of the castle and an occultist. Isabel's corpse was never destroyed and it needs the eyes and hearts of young virgins, so the Devil can plant his seed of immortality within her and bring Isabel back to life...again.

The narrative of The Reincarnation of Isabel possibly does not start until about halfway through the film; and that's okay: the viewers still watching at that point are more than likely not to notice or are not interested in traditional narratives. Polselli, in addition to directing, wrote and edited Reincarnation, is not interested in a rendering a traditional narrative, either. From its kaleidoscopic, psychedelic opening title sequence to its modern score, it is obvious that despite its ancient castle location and backstory set in history, Polselli's Reincarnation is not a traditional Gothic horror film from its inception.

As Isabel needs the "eyes and hearts of young virgins," her corpse also needs some servants to acquire and feed these to her. Some young virgins are also required. Reincarnation has plenty of unrealistic (yet bloody) gore, as wildly-dressed, theatrical Satanists perform rituals in Isabel's name. Polselli shoots his Satanic ritual sequences in pure, unfiltered, and solid-colored light: the colors blue, green, and red flash like a marquee sign on the ritual's participants who are dressed more like superheroes than Satanists. At another point in the film these same Satanists take to the young virgins of whom there are quite a few around the castle and reveal themselves also as vampires, dressed in solid black with Dracula's capes (the legendary Count also appears in Reincarnation, adding another level to this production). When two characters have a normal, rational conversation within Reincarnation, this is the scene that stands out as odd.

Calderoni's Laureen intuitively should be focal in Reincarnation. She's a dead ringer for the dead witch and seemingly her body is going to be the modern home for Isabel. Not quite. During Laureen's engagement party, Polselli takes an innocuous sequence which would have traditionally been used by film makers to introduce characters and backstory and reveal character conflicts and uses the party as an opportunity to confuse the viewer by blending backstory and characters and character conflicts with flashbacks, subjective shots, close-ups on actors' faces (revealing each either has some link to the past, is becoming possessed by something from without, or is just plain sinister-looking and hiding a dark secret). Laureen's party becomes a psychedelic experience without a pill in sight. Muscleman Hargitay as the modern Jack Nelson begins crying at the party. Is he remembering the emotions of long ago when his lover was being killed? Does he remember the ancient incident or just feeling overwhelming emotion? Cute Steffy (Stefania Fassio, whose character is both the catalyst and the vehicle for the film's slapstick humor) sees something unusual at the party, also. She falls down quite a bit of stairs and Polselli reveals her character at the bottom as not genuinely injured with no one really caring.

Beautiful Christa (Christa Barrymore) is the focal character within Reincarnation. Polselli's camera eyes have the strongest affection for her as she becomes both the victim and the killer. Every initial shot of the actress lingers upon her, and as Reincarnation progresses, the camera becomes more intense upon her. For example, when she receives the vampire's kiss, Polselli could care less to reveal that her attacker is a vampire or to show her attacker's face at all: what is essential to Polselli is focusing on the ecstasy in Christa's face and delivering one of Reincarnation's most audacious compositions: a subjective, P.O.V. shot from the attacker at her neck. While presumably his fangs are sunk in her neck through his eyes, Polselli looks down upon Christa's chest whose blouse is now open and the attacker's hand is roaming freely. When Christa takes on her second life as a killer herself, Polselli is all the more excited, as he is able to indulge his desires further. Christa becomes a seductress upon a willing young female; and Polselli is able to render this seduction with as much flesh and theatrics and odd compositions as he can imagine.

The ending of The Reincarnation of Isabel wraps the narrative in a neat, tidy package, so neat and tidy that it would seem Polselli had no problem wrangling it. Wrangling the narrative of Reincarnation for anyone else, however, would be an exercise in futility.

Hasan Karacadag's D@bbe (2006)

Historically, Turkish cinema has only produced a handful of horror films. However, in the last decade, a few more have appeared, and within that few, some have been successful at the box office. One of the successful productions to emerge from recent Turkish horror cinema is Hasan Karacadag's D@bbe (2006), which attracted, according to Giovanni Scognamillo, six to seven hundred thousand viewers in its native country. Karacadag was educated in cinema in Japan, and according to his biography at the IMDb, he was successful in the Land of the Rising Sun. D@bbe shows a strong influence from Japanese horror cinema fused with Islamic culture, especially its mythology and religion.
Karacadag's film is clearly influenced by Japanese horror director, Hideo Nakata, whose film The Ring (1998) attracted a wide international audience and created a huge boom in Asian horror cinema. Perhaps the best film to come from this boom is Kiyoshi Kurosawa's woefully underseen and underappreciated Kairo (2001), and it would be an understatement to say that Karacadag was influenced by Kurosawa's masterpiece. The narrative of D@bbe is nearly identical to Kairo with Karacadag mimicking Kurosawa's cinematic style and tone, even reproducing some of Kurosawa's compositions.Hande (Ebru Aykac), Cem (Serdar Ozer), and Sema (Fulya Candemir) are three young friends who work together at a pottery store. Their friend, Tarik (Serhat Yigit), has become suddenly withdrawn from work and their company. Sema has recently rebuffed his advances, yet Hande and Cem think something deeper is going on. Tarik has been locked up in his house for the last four days, since he installed an internet connection. Hande decides to visit Tarik to retrieve her digital video camera that she loaned to Tarik and to check up on him. At his home, Tarik is withdrawn and sullen. His home is in a shambles, with newspaper taped all over the walls. Before leaving Tarik, Hande looks into his room, where Tarik has killed himself by putting a large butcher knife through his throat. Kairo is an aloof film and is filled with aloof characters: a perfect style for a film about loneliness and shyness and the lack of human connection (Kairo, also known as Pulse, literally means circuit). Karacadag mimics Kairo's aloofness with his characters and his style, yet his narrative lacks the richness and subtle complexity of Kurowsawa's. Karacadag opts for a more traditional, linear, and focused narrative, focused primarily upon Hande and her investigation behind Tarik's death and the mysterious circumstances involving the internet and a recent outbreak of suicides all over the world. Hande's storyline is intercut with a sometimes intersecting storyline involving a homicide detective, Suleyman (Umit Acar), who is officially investigating Tarik's suicide (?). The story plays out like a traditional deductive mystery (with the biggest clue being the symbol, "388@0"), so D@bbe's detached style does not add to any depth or complexity to the narrative. Rather, it only slightly enhances a more arty, contrived style of filmmaking and enhances, at times effectively, the ethereal horror scenes. The horror scenes within D@bbe are where the film excels, as Karacadag is able to conjure quite a bit of infectious fear from his characters (and in the viewer) with his supernatural scenes. The source of the supernatural comes from the Koran, specifically the Dabbe and the Jinni. Like Kairo, as D@bbe progresses, all of the supernatural occurrences lead to something darker, cataclysmic, and, hence, apocalyptic within the world. Creatively, Karacadag ties it to the religion of his native country. Whereas Kurosawa went for a disorienting and fearful effect with his supernatural scenes, the demon jinni within D@bbe are more confrontational and aggressive. When characters encounter the jinni within D@bbe, the scenes are oppressive and overwhelming. Cem's encounter with a spirit within a abandoned building is effective (despite it being evocative and a predictable rendition of a scene within Kairo); and Hande's journey through the streets at night as dark spirits materialize around her, although a short glimpse of a scene, is well rendered and in its way, quite beautiful.

The objective facts within the first paragraph, except where noted within, are from Cine-historian, Giovanni Scognamillo's interview on the Onar Films DVD release of Oluler Konusmaz Ki/Aska Susayanlar Seks ve Cinayet. Scognamillo also co-authored with Pete Tombs the essay on Turkish cinema in the latter's essential Mondo Macabro.

Fernando di Leo's Vacanze per un massacro (Madness) (1980)

Mario Gariazzo at Cineproduzioni Daunia 70 directed two films under their banner, Acquasanta Joe (1971) and Il venditore di palloncini (1974). Cineproduzioni Daunia 70 also housed Fernando di Leo who directed several works under their banner including the famous trilogy of Milano calibre 9 (1972), La mala ordina (1972), and Il boss (1973). Di Leo offered advice to Gariazzo on his script for his film La mano spietata della legge (1973) and towards the production of both Acquasanta Joe and Il venditore di palloncini. Their paths were to cross again as Gariazzo had prepared the story for the film Vacanze per un massacro (1980) which he would also direct. At the insistence of the producers, Fernando di Leo replaced Gariazzo as director and is credited also with its screenplay (Gariazzo has a story credit on Vacanze).

Vacanze per un massacro opens with Joe Dallesandro's character escaping from prison. Later, it is revealed that he served five years of his sentence for committing the crime of murder and theft of a sum of three hundred million lira. The money was never found. Immediately after escaping, Dallesandro's character (named Joe Brezy) kills two farmers and steals their car. Off to the countryside and to a small vacation cottage in the mountains. Joe arrives at the cottage and prepares to break in. Married couple, Liliana (Patricia Behn) and Sergio (Gianni Macchia), is from Rome and arrives at the cottage for a weekend getaway. Accompanying the couple is Liliana's younger sister, Paola (Lorraine De Selle). Joe hides in the bushes in wait. The next morning, Sergio goes hunting and Liliana goes shopping. Paola is all alone at the cottage, and Joe takes the opportunity to take control of the cottage and find what he has come for.

Vacanze is perhaps the purest exploitation film from Fernando di Leo. After five years in prison, Dallesandro's Joe didn't learn patience. Although Di Leo attempts to heighten the tension as if his eventual capture is imminent by police with radio reports of his escape and a front-page newspaper story detailing his murder of the two farmers, Di Leo also shows scenes of Joe coolly avoiding the police at a cafe in the beginning and making his way to his destination with little getting in his way. In fact, in an expository dialogue scene in the beginning, Joe asks a local at the side of the road as to whom lives in the cottage. Joe learns before the couple unexpectedly arrives that they are from Rome and are weekend visitors. Joe could wait nearby for the weekend to pass and for the couple to leave. The cottage and surrounding area would all belong to Joe. "There are no thieves, here," says the local on the side of the road. Well, there is now at least one, and there's an exploitation film that needs to play out.Joe seemingly doesn't have a propensity for violence, and when he does become violent, it's as a protective measure to ensure his own survival. However, Di Leo crafts the opening evening events and the events of the following morning in a subtle and provocative way. As Joe sits in wait outside the cottage, he becomes an observer of Paola, Liliana, and Sergio. Paola and Sergio, together and alone by the car, very near in time to the three's arrival, begin to scheme as to when the two will have an opportunity to screw. Later, after night falls, the three have dinner, and Joe watches from a window (with Di Leo's camera directly over his shoulder). Liliana listens as Sergio and Paola playfully bicker and complain about mundane events back in the city (Paola's university studies, it would seem, mean little to her for her future.) As Sergio and Paola play antagonistic brother- and sister-in-law (in an ineffectual manner), Paola takes the opportunity to play footsie with Sergio under the table. Liliana and Sergio retire to the back bedroom after dinner to make love before sleeping, while Paola hears the two's lovemaking. Joe watches from the window as she pleasures herself on the couch. The following morning, Sergio in hunter's garb and rifle in hand, awakens Paola who demands Sergio make time today for sex. Sergio takes the time to go down on Paola right there after she commands him, but she violently pushes him away and laughs in his face. Paola knows she controls Sergio. When Sergio goes outside and does some ridiculous, quasi-Tai chi moves, Joe knows he can control this trio also: Sergio isn't going to use his literal or metaphorical rifle at all; Paola is just a provocateur; and Liliana is clueless. Vacanze takes a turn into the Last House on the Left territory, as terror, humiliation, degradation, and violence ensues. As the typical terror film, of which Wes Craven's Last House on the Left (1972) is representative, middle-class fears are exploited: in all of their economic comfort and created world of self-control, there is an overwhelming fear of the outsider at the fringes of society who is secretly jealous of that comfort and self-control. In the terror film, that outsider does more than terrorize and violate his victims--he completely removes that comfort and created self-control. This idea was obviously an attraction for Di Leo with Vacanze, as the events of the film play out in unexpected way for a terror film. Paola doesn't play victim when confronted by Joe: she's still very much the provocateur: she begins to seduce him as soon as the two have a quiet moment. Joe forces her to work at digging a hole in the fireplace (take a guess as to what's hidden there). After Paola works for quite a while, she demands a break; and Di Leo begins to blur the characters' motives. As she wipes the sweat off of her chest, is she still seducing Joe? or is she genuinely tired? When Joe makes an advance upon Paola, is her pulling away just an ineffectual move? Are Joe's advances an act of violence? Why would he choose now to make a move upon Paola with Liliana and Sergio still outside the cottage with either arrival unknown? Di Leo forces the viewer to answer these disturbing questions (and for the remainder of the film), and the filmed proceedings aren't pretty.Despite Vacanze being Di Leo's purest exploitation film, its attraction lies in watching an immensely talented director apparently slumming with this film. The film appears extremely low-budget: four actors in total drive the narrative. The cottage appears tiny and is sparsely furnished in a very Spartan manner. Humorously, there is a poster of John Travolta on the wall above the couch in the living room. Even Luis Bacalov's score is recycled from another Di Leo flick (although not all of the music is recycled within Vacanze). Dallesandro still has his signature Adonis-like physique yet his youthful, boyish good looks are fading as the Seventies close and he is getting older. Most of the film is shot in harsh light (both the natural exterior and the artificial interior light) and the bruises and blemishes on the actors' skin are not covered with makeup. Everything about Vacanze is stripped down. Enrico Lucidi's cinematography is quite good yet minimal: Di Leo's compositions are an effective mix of hand-held camera, medium shots, and close-ups, increasing the claustrophobic atmosphere. While all of the actors have a limited range in their performances, Di Leo plays to their strengths and charisma, especially Dallesandro. He's effective when menacing and effective when manipulative. Lorraine De Selle appeared in several curious (and often nasty) Italian exploitation films. She always gives enthusiastic and energized performances and doesn't disappoint in Vacanze. What really shines is Di Leo's talent above all, and Vacanze is a true curiosity in his filmography. The above objective facts from the first paragraph come from the English-language liner notes included in the Raro DVD release of Vacanze per un massacro. Within the foldout insert, the same text, presumably, in Italian is on the left side with the English text on the right. The English language text is rather cryptic (as to whether this results from translation or otherwise is unknown). For example, the text reads that "Fernando di Leo 'lent a hand' by offering advice for his script--for his good detective film, The Bloody Hands of the Law (La mano spietata della legge)." I have no idea what "lent a hand" means in this context. Is the liner notes author insinuating that perhaps Di Leo scripted the film or had a larger role than offering advice? or is he making a joke towards the film's title? Also, the English text reads "at the producers' insistence, he (Gariazzo) was finally replaced by di Leo." Armando Novelli is the credited producer on Vacanze according to the film print on the Raro DVD. Interestingly, Gariazzo's two directed films for Daunia and Di Leo's trilogy under their banner, for example, were all produced by Novelli. Novelli, in addition to producing Vacanze, would also produce Gariazzo's Occhi dalle stelle (1978) and his nasty, Play Motel (1979) around the same time. If Novelli is the sole producer, then why write "producers'," insinuating that more than one exists. Is it a typo? Does this mean the film's financiers? Besides whom, the more important question is "why?" The choice of the word "insistence" implies something more intense than the "producers" preferring Di Leo over Gariazzo to direct. What did Di Leo possess that Gariazzo did not which would make him a more suitable director for the film? Finally, the text reads that Di Leo considered Vacanze per un massacro a "minor entry in his filmography," so perhaps all this questioning is for naught. Regardless of any mystery, Vacanze is a curiosity waiting for the unsuspecting.

Jess Franco's La Mansion de los Muertos Viventes (The Mansion of the Living Dead) (1982)

"Damn you and bless you. Bless you and damn you. May your sins never be forgiven."

Jess Franco does not like the films of George Romero, which he finds "primitive," and he finds the idea of the living dead, as reanimated corpses without rational thought, "silly." Franco does like, however, Amando de Ossorio's La noche del terror ciego (Tombs of the Blind Dead) (1971), which he thought was creative and had a great atmosphere, and Franco's 1982 Spanish production, La Mansion de los Muertos Viventes, is certainly inspired by de Ossorio's essential Euro-cult horror film. "The living dead of this film," Franco relates, "are people who were dead, but in some ways, they're still alive." With La Mansion de los Muertos Viventes, Franco prefers a depiction of a literal living dead: people who are existing yet dead inside (soulless) and unable to feel genuine pleasure in life (or life), condemned to commit acts of violence in the service of another. Candy (Lina Romay), Mabel (Mabel Escaño), Lea (Mari Carmen Nieto), and Caty (Elisa Vela) are topless dancers from Munich who come to a resort hotel in Gran Canaria for a vacation. The hotel appears expansive yet deserted. "Maybe they're all at the beach," says one. They encounter the hotel's manager, Carlos (Robert Foster), who gives the four two rooms. The four split into couples; and after Candy makes love to her roommate, Candy goes to sleep. Her roommate decides to take an evening stroll with her camera, and under a sheet of fierce wind, she encounters a quiet convent. The convent's inhabitants are a brotherhood of cursed priests. Save some of the anonymous hooded priests, La Mansion has only seven characters (Albino Graziani and Eva León appear as eccentric and standout characters), and they are the sole people who inhabit La Mansion. It's a lonely and secluded film with a strong presence of atmospheric horror with some intense violence combined with some seriously playful sex and nudity: La Mansion is an odd mix of elements from seemingly two different films; yet this clashing creates a phenomenal disorienting and uniquely Franco effect. The sexual situations are joking, uninhibited, and come from a liberated culture in Spain. "For Spanish cinema it was a boom," says leading woman, Lina Romay. "There had been a complete opening. From not being able to to show even a breast, we had moved to where almost everything was allowed." (A more detailed discussion of sex in Spanish culture and cinema during this time is included in my review of El Sexo here.) Franco paints his four actresses as fun and thrill-seeking topless dancers who not only enjoy taking their clothes off but feel completely comfortable in the nude. Their openness feels celebratory, and the actresses' energy is infectious. Franco takes the opportunity when the four actresses as friends are split into two rooms as couples to reveal each pairing as exactly that--a couple in a romantic relationship, ready to reveal all to whomever is watching. These characters, like the culture, no longer has to hide behind closed doors with their sexuality. The sex scenes are comedic and light and create an overall sense of fun. Not all is light, however, in La Mansion. One of the more provocative relationships within the film is with Foster's Carlos and his prisoner, Eva Leon as Olivia. Olivia is bound in "the best hotel room" to her bed with a chained dog collar. Carlos brings her food but puts her tray just out of reach in order to torture her. Even more bizarre are Olivia's reactions to Carlos's behavior: it's a love/hate relationship with Olivia always attempting to seduce Carlos when he enters, despite his degrading words to her, and then her immediate resentment when he leaves. Leon's Olivia tells Romay's Candy the origins of the relationship, and it's an odd tale. This story is tied into Carlos's character and his relationship with the brotherhood at the convent. The best scenes of La Mansion come with the goings on at the convent. The ritualistic acts of violence by the priests are amazingly effective and well-written. Their prayers are as haunting and disturbing as are their acts of violence. The convent and its inhabitants feel ancient and from another world. Franco, during his interview included on the Severin DVD of La Mansion, speaks of the convent (a genuine location near Las Palmas in Gran Canaria) and tells of its fantastic atmosphere. The strong wind in this location, Franco continues, cuts the island in half and permeates the landscape. Franco notes how the ringing of the convent bell by the wind is pervasive in the area. The lonely convent feels trapped by the wind in its location. Franco is able to channel this unique atmosphere with his photography. He is able to make the convent other-worldly and take the secluded area and create a fantastic atmosphere of dread (and quite successful also at creating an atmosphere of dark seclusion at the resort hotel despite the comedic goings on.)The final act of La Mansion is dark, both literally and thematically. The mystery with Foster's Carlos is revealed as Romay's Candy delves deeper into the area's secrets. The playfulness of the first two acts dissolves and its absence intensifies the third. La Mansion de los Muertos Viventes is a great Franco film: it's another Franco experimental work, seemingly shot spontaneously, yet quite successful in its final result. Robert Foster really stands out and gives one of the best performances that I've seen from him. Franco also deserves a lot of praise for this work here. It was only after the third or fourth time that I had viewed La Mansion that I had realized that Franco had used this location before. Juan Soler Cozar's photography was able to transform the location to fit the atmosphere, and Franco's compositions were fantastic. The film is filled with myriad beautiful wide shots, emphasizing the seclusion, loneliness, and dread of the location. All quotes and remarks from Franco and Romay and objective facts about the production are taken from their interviews included on the Severin DVD release of the film. Buy this essential purchase here.

Joe D'Amato's Caligola: La storia mai raccontata (1982)

"[Why did you make] your subsequent film Caligola: La storia mai raccontata?" asks an interviewer to Joe D'Amato in Spaghetti Nightmares. To this question, D'Amato tersely and succinctly responds, "That was commercial exploitation of the successful film by Tinto Brass."As such, only a cursory knowledge by the viewer of the history of Roman emperor Caligula is required, and perhaps more importantly, at least in terms of cinematic exploitation, the viewer gets treated to a depiction within Caligola: La storia mai raccontata (1982) of the traditional traits associated with the emperor's reign: egomania-cum-insanity, sexual deviancy, and indulgence. Caligola is a conduit film, leading its viewer to a long, indulgent orgy sequence in its middle from which its exposition inevitably leads. The orgy sequence buttresses the film, as D'Amato circuits Caligola's beginning and final act with a thin revenge plot line against the titular ruler.

Caligula (David Brandon) is having nightmares about his assassination. Domitius (Michele Soavi) attempts to murder him while the emperor is sleeping. Caligula's killing is thwarted by his bodyguard, Ulmar (Sasha D'Arc). While horseback-riding on the beach one day with Messala (Luciano Bartoli), Caligula sees a group of young people at the shore, one of whom is beautiful Livia (Fabiola Toledo). Livia belongs to a religious cult who do not worship the divine emperor as god. Caligula and Messala ambush Livia and her lover, and during Caligula's rape of Livia, she kills herself with a dagger. Caligula summons the senators, later, and tells them of his new architectural plans, so fitting for an emperor-cum-god. Unfortunately, Caligula does not have the funds to construct his opulent design, so an orgy is planned to raise the capital. Miriam (Laura Gemser), fellow cult member and friend of Livia, sees the orgy as an opportunity to avenge Livia's death so she decides to infiltrate. "What about the Caligula movie that you did?" asks an interviewer (from Flesh and Blood, Number Six, FAB Press, 1996). "I mean, half that movie is hardcore..." D'Amato responds [as to whether D'Amato shoots the hardcore inserts within some of his films]: "Yeah. Sure, sure, but Caligola was done like this--there are two versions, one soft version and one hardcore version...Yeah, I shot the hardcore version. In Caligola, yes. [note--The hardcore version, running at approximately one hundred and twenty five minutes is the version of the film here under review.]" While Caligola is not composed of half hardcore footage, the film certainly appears that way, as the viewer is led to its focal, middle orgy sequence by the emperor's violent and sexually deviant acts (and led out of the orgy sequence into another series of the same). Brandon's Caligula presides over D'Amato's most meticulous sequence: excessive wine-drinking and gluttonous eating are only the beginning. The sex acts begin with laughter, teasing, and fondling. A juggler walks in with fire batons. D'Amato heats the sequence up as the orgy truly begins. Two fighters enter and begin a fight to the death on the floor, donning spiked gloves. As the two punch and beat on each other, the blood sprays on the party guests. D'Amato relishes the close-up shots of the guests wiping the blood off of their faces to continue eating and drinking, as if the spraying blood was a minor party foul and totally expected. After one warrior dies at the fists of the other, after Caligula giving the thumbs-down sign, a horse and a woman are escorted in. "Watch this," says Caligula to Miriam. "It's a wonderful performance." It's an offensive scene. D'Amato finishes the sequence with his hardcore footage (Mark Shannon's inclusion is unsurprising here). A completely repellent and unerotic sequence.The commercial success of Tinto Brass's Caligola (1979) created a temporary market for films made in its wake, hoping to seduce more viewers by providing (and pushing the limits) of the sensational elements of the original. D'Amato's Caligola appears exactly that way--almost as if it's a temporary film awaiting completion, with a better narrative or more powerful compositions and visuals. To his credit, save the weaponry (which obviously look like costume props), the detail to the historic look of the film feels genuine. The costumes, the sets, and the armor, for example, all appear credible. D'Amato's own cinematography is professional and competent and sees little flare (save the middle sequence). Caligula's relationship with Soavi's Domitius is an engaging side plot and one of the more interesting touches of the film, as it really the most representative of Caligula's insane cruelty. (Soavi would cast Brandon as an ego-maniacal and somewhat cruel theatre director in his excellent directorial debut, Stage Fright (1987), a D'Amato Filmirage production). Brandon gives a very over-the-top performance as the emperor. Caligula's dream sequences contain D'Amato's best visual work. The masked, helmeted assassin is effectively haunting. D'Amato's signature hand-held camerawork is brilliant, as Brandon's Caligula wanders from the seashore of the beach, around the littered bodies of dead senators, up to a dune to encounter his killer. Carlo Maria Cordio's score is beautiful.Woefully underused are Laura Gemser and especially Gabriele Tinti, as the senator Agrippa. Tinti has a wonderfully emotive face and is an extremely talented dramatic actor. Tinti appears in few scenes (with two notably offensive scenes near the end, one involving torture). Gemser has never been an exceptional actress but is very charismatic and often brings an alluring air to her roles, adding a flare which only she can spark. She is not given much to do but to carry the thin revenge plot line, while her sex scenes with Brandon are completely unerotic (surprising from Gemser). Again, Caligola feels temporary, as if D'Amato and company wanted to shock its viewers into the theatres quickly before they forgot about Brass's original. Well, D'Amato succeeded in creating a forgettable film, himself.