“Everybody asks me what things mean in my films. This is terrible! An artist doesn’t have to answer for his meanings. I don’t think so deeply about my work—I don’t know what my symbols may represent. What matters to me is that they arouse feelings, any feelings you like, based on whatever your inner response might be. If you look for a meaning, you’ll miss everything that happens. Thinking during a film interferes with your experience of it. Take a watch to pieces, it doesn’t work. Similarly with a work of art, there’s no way it can be analyzed without destroying it.” (“Tarkovsky’s Translations” Sight and Sound 50, no.3, Summer 1981, 152-53, Reprinted in Andrei Tarkovsky Interviews, ed. John Gianvito, University of Mississippi Press, Jackson, Mississippi, 2006, p.71) 
I didn’t like the looks of that cover. Its shadow wasn’t right. The sun was at our backs, yet its shadow was stretching towards us. Well, all right, it was far enough away from us. It seemed OK, we could get on with our work. But what was the silvery thing shining back there? Was it just my imagination? It would be nice to have a smoke now and sit for a spell and mull it all over—why there was that shine over the canisters, why it didn’t shine next to them, why the cover was casting that shadow. Buzzard Burbridge told me something about the shadows, that they were weird but harmless. Something happens here with the shadows. But what was that silvery shine? It looked just like cobwebs on the trees in a forest. What kind of spider could have spun it? I had never seen any bugs in the Zone. The worst part was that my empty was right there, two steps from the canisters. I should have stolen it that time. Then we wouldn’t be having any of these problems now. But it was too heavy. After all, the bitch was full, I could pick it up all right, but as for dragging it on my back, in the dark, on all fours…If you haven’t carried an empty around, try it: It’s like hauling twenty pounds of water without a pail. It was time to go. I wished I had a drink. I turned to Tender. (Roadside Picnic by Arkady and Boris Strugatsky, 1977, Macmillan Publishing Co., 2007, Great Britain, p.25)
“What does ‘Stalker’ mean?”
I didn’t like the looks of that cover. Its shadow wasn’t right. The sun was at our backs, yet its shadow was stretching towards us. Well, all right, it was far enough away from us. It seemed OK, we could get on with our work. But what was the silvery thing shining back there? Was it just my imagination? It would be nice to have a smoke now and sit for a spell and mull it all over—why there was that shine over the canisters, why it didn’t shine next to them, why the cover was casting that shadow. Buzzard Burbridge told me something about the shadows, that they were weird but harmless. Something happens here with the shadows. But what was that silvery shine? It looked just like cobwebs on the trees in a forest. What kind of spider could have spun it? I had never seen any bugs in the Zone. The worst part was that my empty was right there, two steps from the canisters. I should have stolen it that time. Then we wouldn’t be having any of these problems now. But it was too heavy. After all, the bitch was full, I could pick it up all right, but as for dragging it on my back, in the dark, on all fours…If you haven’t carried an empty around, try it: It’s like hauling twenty pounds of water without a pail. It was time to go. I wished I had a drink. I turned to Tender. (Roadside Picnic by Arkady and Boris Strugatsky, 1977, Macmillan Publishing Co., 2007, Great Britain, p.25)“What does ‘Stalker’ mean?”“It’s a made-up word that comes from the English verb ‘to stalk’: to approach furtively. In this film this word indicates the profession of one who crosses the borders and penetrates a forbidden Zone with a specific objective, a bit like a bootlegger or a smuggler. The Stalker’s craft is passed on from one generation to the next. In my film, the forbidden Zone represents the places where desires can be satisfied.
“The spectator may doubt its existence or see it merely as a myth or a joke…or even as the fantasy of our hero. For the viewer this remains a mystery. The existence in the Zone of a room where dreams come true serves solely as pretext to revealing the personalities of the three protagonists.” (From “Stalker, Smuggler of Happiness” Telerama, no. 1535, June 13, 1979, Translated by Deborah Theodore, Reprinted in Andrei Tarkovsky Interviews, ed. John Gianvito, University of Mississippi Press, Jackson, Mississippi, 2006, p. 50)
"The perception of colour is a physiological and psychological phenomenon to which, as a rule, nobody pays particular attention. The picturesque character of a shot, due often enough simply to the quality of the film, is one more artificial element loaded onto the image, and something has to be done to counteract it if you mind about being faithful to life. You have to try to neutralize colour, to modify its impact on the audience. If colour becomes the dominant dramatic element of the shot, it means that the director and camera-man are using a painter’s methods to affect the audience. That is why nowadays one very often finds that the average expertly made film will have the same sort of appeal as the luxuriously illustrated glossy magazine; the colour photography will be warring against the expressiveness of the image.
“Perhaps the effect of colour should be neutralized by alternating colour and monochromatic sequences, so that the impression made by the complete spectrum is spaced out, toned down. Why is it, when all that the camera is doing is recording real life on film, that a coloured shot should seem so unbelievably, monstrously false? The explanation must surely be that colour, reproduced mechanically, lacks the touch of the artist’s hand; in this area he loses his organizing function, and has no means of selecting what he wants. The film’s chromatic partitura, with its own developmental pattern, is absent, taken away from the director by the technological process. It also becomes impossible for him to select and reappraise the colour elements in the world around him. Strangely enough, even though the world is coloured, the black and white image comes closer to the psychological, naturalistic truth of art, based as it is on special properties of seeing as well as of hearing.” (from Sculpting in Time Reflections on Cinema, by Andrei Tarkovsky, translated by Kitty Hunter-Blair, University of Texas Press, Austin, 1986, 2008, p. 138)
“Redrick walked in his bare feet to the entry hall, took the basket and brought it to the storeroom. Then he looked into the bedroom. Monkey was sleeping peacefully, her crumpled blanket hanging on the floor. Her nightie had ridden up. She was warm and soft, a little animal breathing heavily. Redrick could not resist the temptation to stroke her back covered with warm golden fur, and was amazed for the thousandth time by the fur’s silkiness and length. He wanted to pick up Monkey badly, but he was afraid it would wake her up—besides he was dirty as hell and permeated with death and the Zone. He came back into the kitchen and sat down at the table.” (Roadside Picnic by Arkady and Boris Strugatsky, 1977, Macmillan Publishing Co., 2007, Great Britain, p.59)
“What matters to me is that the feeling excited by my films should be universal. An artistic image is capable of arousing identical feelings in viewers, while the thoughts that come later may be very different. If you start to search for a meaning during the film you will miss everything that happens. The ideal viewer is someone who watches a film like a traveler watching the country he is passing through: because the effect of an artistic image is an extra-mental type of communication. There are some artists who attach symbolic meaning to their images, but that is not possible for me. Zen poets have a good way of dealing with this: they work to eliminate any possibility of interpretation, an in the process a parallel arises between the real world and what the artist creates in his work.
“What then is the purpose of this activity? It seems to me that the purpose of art is to prepare the human soul for the perception of good. The soul opens up under the influence of an artistic image, and it is for this reason that we say it helps us to communicate—but it is communication in the highest sense of the word. I could not imagine a work of art that would prompt a person to do something bad…Perhaps you have noticed that the more pointless people’s tears during a film, the more profound the reason for these tears. I am not talking about sentimentality, but about how art can reach to the depths of the human soul and leave man defenseless against good.” (“Against Interpretation: An Interview with Andrei Tarkovsky “, Framework, no. 14, 1981, Reprinted in Andrei Tarkovsky Interviews, ed. John Gianvito, University of Mississippi Press, Jackson, Mississippi, 2006, p.68-69)
While I am typically long-winded in writing about films, I felt that writing about Andrei Tarkovsky’s Stalker (1979) was, at least for me, an exercise in futility. I began with the intention of writing a very academic post, detailing production history and the like, before realizing that I was heading into the Dissertation Zone before I knew it. Instead, I thought a collection of some thought-provoking quotes from Tarkovsky and from Stalker’s source novel would be far more interesting. I selected them, and the images from the film, based upon primarily the emotions that they elicited from me. Stalker is a cinematic masterpiece from one of cinema’s masters. Here’s a final quote from Roadside Picnic (also a beautiful work of art), and quite possibly my favorite:
“He had never experienced anything like this before outside the Zone. And it happened in the Zone only two or three times. It was as though he were in a different world. A million odors cascaded in on him at once—sharp, sweet, metallic, gentle, dangerous ones, as crude as cobblestones, as delicate and complex as watch mechanisms, as huge as a house and as tiny as a dust particle. The air became hard, it developed edges, surfaces, and corners, like space was filled with huge stiff balloons, slippery pyramids, gigantic prickly crystals, and he had to push his way through it all, making his way in a dream through a junk store stuffed with ancient ugly furniture…It lasted a second. He opened his eyes, and everything was gone. It hadn’t been a different world—it was this world turning a new, unknown side to him. This side was revealed to him for a second and then disappeared, before he had time to figure it out.” (Roadside Picnic by Arkady and Boris Strugatsky, 1977, Macmillan Publishing Co., 2007, Great Britain, p.67)
“The spectator may doubt its existence or see it merely as a myth or a joke…or even as the fantasy of our hero. For the viewer this remains a mystery. The existence in the Zone of a room where dreams come true serves solely as pretext to revealing the personalities of the three protagonists.” (From “Stalker, Smuggler of Happiness” Telerama, no. 1535, June 13, 1979, Translated by Deborah Theodore, Reprinted in Andrei Tarkovsky Interviews, ed. John Gianvito, University of Mississippi Press, Jackson, Mississippi, 2006, p. 50)
"The perception of colour is a physiological and psychological phenomenon to which, as a rule, nobody pays particular attention. The picturesque character of a shot, due often enough simply to the quality of the film, is one more artificial element loaded onto the image, and something has to be done to counteract it if you mind about being faithful to life. You have to try to neutralize colour, to modify its impact on the audience. If colour becomes the dominant dramatic element of the shot, it means that the director and camera-man are using a painter’s methods to affect the audience. That is why nowadays one very often finds that the average expertly made film will have the same sort of appeal as the luxuriously illustrated glossy magazine; the colour photography will be warring against the expressiveness of the image.“Perhaps the effect of colour should be neutralized by alternating colour and monochromatic sequences, so that the impression made by the complete spectrum is spaced out, toned down. Why is it, when all that the camera is doing is recording real life on film, that a coloured shot should seem so unbelievably, monstrously false? The explanation must surely be that colour, reproduced mechanically, lacks the touch of the artist’s hand; in this area he loses his organizing function, and has no means of selecting what he wants. The film’s chromatic partitura, with its own developmental pattern, is absent, taken away from the director by the technological process. It also becomes impossible for him to select and reappraise the colour elements in the world around him. Strangely enough, even though the world is coloured, the black and white image comes closer to the psychological, naturalistic truth of art, based as it is on special properties of seeing as well as of hearing.” (from Sculpting in Time Reflections on Cinema, by Andrei Tarkovsky, translated by Kitty Hunter-Blair, University of Texas Press, Austin, 1986, 2008, p. 138)
“Redrick walked in his bare feet to the entry hall, took the basket and brought it to the storeroom. Then he looked into the bedroom. Monkey was sleeping peacefully, her crumpled blanket hanging on the floor. Her nightie had ridden up. She was warm and soft, a little animal breathing heavily. Redrick could not resist the temptation to stroke her back covered with warm golden fur, and was amazed for the thousandth time by the fur’s silkiness and length. He wanted to pick up Monkey badly, but he was afraid it would wake her up—besides he was dirty as hell and permeated with death and the Zone. He came back into the kitchen and sat down at the table.” (Roadside Picnic by Arkady and Boris Strugatsky, 1977, Macmillan Publishing Co., 2007, Great Britain, p.59)“What matters to me is that the feeling excited by my films should be universal. An artistic image is capable of arousing identical feelings in viewers, while the thoughts that come later may be very different. If you start to search for a meaning during the film you will miss everything that happens. The ideal viewer is someone who watches a film like a traveler watching the country he is passing through: because the effect of an artistic image is an extra-mental type of communication. There are some artists who attach symbolic meaning to their images, but that is not possible for me. Zen poets have a good way of dealing with this: they work to eliminate any possibility of interpretation, an in the process a parallel arises between the real world and what the artist creates in his work.“What then is the purpose of this activity? It seems to me that the purpose of art is to prepare the human soul for the perception of good. The soul opens up under the influence of an artistic image, and it is for this reason that we say it helps us to communicate—but it is communication in the highest sense of the word. I could not imagine a work of art that would prompt a person to do something bad…Perhaps you have noticed that the more pointless people’s tears during a film, the more profound the reason for these tears. I am not talking about sentimentality, but about how art can reach to the depths of the human soul and leave man defenseless against good.” (“Against Interpretation: An Interview with Andrei Tarkovsky “, Framework, no. 14, 1981, Reprinted in Andrei Tarkovsky Interviews, ed. John Gianvito, University of Mississippi Press, Jackson, Mississippi, 2006, p.68-69)
While I am typically long-winded in writing about films, I felt that writing about Andrei Tarkovsky’s Stalker (1979) was, at least for me, an exercise in futility. I began with the intention of writing a very academic post, detailing production history and the like, before realizing that I was heading into the Dissertation Zone before I knew it. Instead, I thought a collection of some thought-provoking quotes from Tarkovsky and from Stalker’s source novel would be far more interesting. I selected them, and the images from the film, based upon primarily the emotions that they elicited from me. Stalker is a cinematic masterpiece from one of cinema’s masters. Here’s a final quote from Roadside Picnic (also a beautiful work of art), and quite possibly my favorite:“He had never experienced anything like this before outside the Zone. And it happened in the Zone only two or three times. It was as though he were in a different world. A million odors cascaded in on him at once—sharp, sweet, metallic, gentle, dangerous ones, as crude as cobblestones, as delicate and complex as watch mechanisms, as huge as a house and as tiny as a dust particle. The air became hard, it developed edges, surfaces, and corners, like space was filled with huge stiff balloons, slippery pyramids, gigantic prickly crystals, and he had to push his way through it all, making his way in a dream through a junk store stuffed with ancient ugly furniture…It lasted a second. He opened his eyes, and everything was gone. It hadn’t been a different world—it was this world turning a new, unknown side to him. This side was revealed to him for a second and then disappeared, before he had time to figure it out.” (Roadside Picnic by Arkady and Boris Strugatsky, 1977, Macmillan Publishing Co., 2007, Great Britain, p.67) 
"Now take your hands off my butt, asshole, and bring me to the exit." The hands from this line belong to Paolo (Claudio Cassinelli), and the butt belongs to Marisa (Patrizia Castaldi); and they are a dancing couple. Paolo is flirting with pretty Marisa and asks for a dance; and Marisa reluctantly agrees, because she is scared of the mirrored-sunglassed party guest who has taken an intense infatuation with her. Marisa bolts from the party, knocking Paolo's eyeglasses from his head, and rushes to safety within a seedy boardinghouse. She is killed, and after the police discover her corpse, two police officers chat about the case outside of a cafe. Paolo, playing a game of pinball, overhears the two police officers and decides to begin an investigation, himself, of Marisa's murder.
Since there was a lack of actors those days who represented the poliziesco genre except for Giuliano Gemma, Franco Nero and few others maybe--I had the idea to cast Claudio Cassinelli who had shot several movies to that date but no poliziescos. He was an actor who didn't fit the current beau ideal but who embodied a certain sympathy and who was very believable. Claudio was a very versatile and good actor who, in my opinion fit himself into the role very well. I remember that he was in great shape, and when I watch the film today I can't see any failing in his performance or a non-identification with his character. In the following years, we shot several films of other genres together and therefore I consider him as a friend who became very dear to my heart--unfortunately he passed away--and who I hold in high regard especially from a human factor standpoint and because of his delicacy of feeling.
Cassinelli as Paolo is the biggest attraction of Morte sospetta di una minorenne (1975). In a representative sequence of events, Paolo arranges a meeting with a young prostitute (Barbara Magnolfi) at a hotel in order to uncover the source of the prostitution racket. Paolo plays it cool, but she's even cooler and blows him off. With the help of his young associate, Cassinelli's Paolo is able to follow the young woman through the city to a dilapidated tenement across town. In a bolder move, Paolo walks directly through its front door and is forced into a violent confrontation with its inhabitant. The confrontation does not go well, but Paolo regains his composure and patiently waits at the building. His patience is rewarded with a big score and huge lead in his investigation. The sequence of the narrative events are familiar, yet its Cassinelli who is unique. His character lacks the complete tough-guy quality of the typical poliziesco and also the obsession of the amateur sleuth of any giallo. There is a lot more humility to his character. Martino has Paolo wear eyeglasses in Morte sospetta di una minorenne, and they become his signature. Whenever Paolo gets into an intense situation or when a character remarks upon his eyeglasses, these motifs are subtle symbols of Paolo. Cassinelli's performance follows suit: his character is certainly unorthodox and quirky but very sympathetic. Despite a strong narrative (another well-written script by Martino and Ernesto Gastaldi) in Morte sospetta di una minorenne, it is Cassinelli's performance which stands out.
Adrian Luther-Smith, author of Blood and Black Lace: The Definitive Guide to Italian Sex and Horror Movies, writes:
It is really Cassinelli's performance and character within Morte sospetta di una minorenne which does not fit within either strictly a poliziesco or a giallo. There are giallo elements within the film, primarily the murder scenes: these are not prominent yet are very evocative of Argento's Profondo rosso (1975) (the scenes are also less intricate and orchestrated). During Marisa's murder, the viewer gets treated to a loving shot of the killer holding his knife, and Martino shows the blade in close-up (with the Argento signature "flash" of the blade). Another murder in the film is eerily similar to a famous one with in Profondo rosso. Sergio Martino in his interview included as a supplement on the Region 2 DVD from 
First, who is the main character? There are only two characters within Torso who give a persuasive answer to this question: Jane, portrayed by Suzy Kendall, and Dani, played by Tina Aumont. For the viewer who has seen Torso subsequent to viewing slasher films, such as John Carpenter's Halloween (1978) and its progeny, then intuitively, Jane is the main character. She holds a very iconic position within the third act. However, if Torso is viewed as a mystery or more specifically, a giallo (which its first half certainly appears to be), then Dani is the main character. Dani is the one character who has seen the mysterious killer within the film, and the killer knows it. Hence, the viewer intuitively knows that Dani is the next prospective victim for the killer. In the most uninteresting way, minutes on screen can determine who is the main character, and even a by a few seconds, the viewer can determine its protagonist. Even if Torso does not have a main character, it is not a film driven by an ensemble cast. Some characters are red herrings for the mystery, some are eye candy, and some serve plot devices, such as a victim for a brutal killing, for example. By and far, Torso is a plot-driven film, rendered creatively in sequences with different characters, like a collage.
One of the boldest and most creative moves by Martino and company within Torso occurs at the halfway mark in its violent shift in setting. The expansive setting within the city, which houses the university where Jane and Dani attend, is removed to a villa secluded atop a hill, overlooking a small village below. This one change in setting completely fractures the narrative of the film. The isolated villa with Dani and her two friends, Ursula (Carla Brait) and Katia (Angela Covello), kills any of the mystery within Torso. The narrative becomes focused on this small group of characters at the setting, and the viewer knows as these characters unwind and relax (the narrative also unwinds and relaxes), the more likely they are to become victims of the killer. To be fair, it is fairly obvious to identify the killer by deduction right before the beginning of the third act, so it did not seem that Martino nor his co-screenwriter, Ernesto Gastaldi, really saw this fracture in the narrative as a deficiency in their plot. By the way, when the killer's identity is revealed and in the classic moment where the killer reveals his/her motive, it is truly irrelevant to whom the killer is revealing.
Torso has an interesting history. Adrian Luther Smith, author of Blood and Black Lace: The Definitive Guide to Italian Sex and Horror Movies, writes: "The American release proved to be extremely popular on the drive-in circuit and along with Bava's A Bay of Blood probably had a significant part to play in the development of the stalk 'n' slash genre." (p.120, Stray Cat Publishing Ltd., England, 1999.) Craig Ledbetter, editor of European Trash Cinema, writes, "Like most Americans, I first saw this on the lower half of a double-bill with The Texas Chainsaw Massacre. While the former went on to fame and fortune, poor Torso still gets no respect. The ironical thing is that "Society" would have you believe that TCM was the goriest of the two, NOT!" (European Trash Cinema, Vol. 2, No. 6, Kingwood, TX, 1992.) The authors of Violent Italy, Daniel Dellamorte and Tobias Petterson, write: "His [Martino's] last giallo, Torso, is mostly remembered for its brutality. None of the previous leading actors [from his previous gialli] take part in this film and it is obvious that Martino had lost interest in the genre at this point. The film lacks the flair and visual style that is so evident in his previous films, and he left the genre for other projects." (p.43, Tamara Press, Malmo, Sweden, 2002.) (Interestingly, the Violent Italy authors note that the giallo peaked in 1972 with twenty two released in theatres in Italy (p.39). According to the 
If Torso is truly influential upon the subsequent slasher genre, then it is not solely because of its brutality but also its boldness and creativity. As to whether its boldness and creativity was borne from hearing the death knell of a dying genre and attempting to be as shocking and provocative as possible to draw in the genre's last viewers is unknown. Torso is, however, a terrific film and like a lot of Martino's cinema, it is beautifully and elegantly photographed (by Giancarlo Ferrando) and populated with beautiful people. By far not a shy film, Torso is very provocative and very playful. In a wonderfully lurid sequence, Carol, friend and classmate to Jane and Dani, portrayed by Conchita Airoldi, upon hearing of the murder of her friend, becomes overwhelmed with both fear and grief. She takes a ride from the open-air piazza at the university with two friends to a dingy den somewhere in the city to get high. Carol wants some comfort; her two friends want to sleep with her; and Martino has a beautiful and scantily-clad woman dancing alone in the center of the den. After a fairly bold composition of the woman dancing, Carol tires of her two friends' fondling and she bolts from the den. Martino gets a laugh from the viewer when one of Carol's shunned suitors stupidly crashes his motorbike into the mud. Poor Carol, both dejected and disoriented, continues into the ash-colored and mud-soaked forest alone, where Martino delivers one of his most effective atmospheric sequences. It becomes quite brutal as well. Like most of Torso, there is no consistency in tone to the sequence, but this lack of consistency is not borne from carelessness but playfulness. Torso is daring, perhaps in its creative impetus but definitely in its execution. A personal favorite. Ernesto Gastaldi's contribution cannot be overstated: his screenplay is essential to Torso's success. Gastaldi's body of work is astounding, and he deserves wider praise in subsequent entries. The music by Guido and Maurizio De Angelis is an excellent accompaniment.
By this point in his career, Delon was developing his own projects and he reunites with screenwriter, Christopher Frank (who penned the previous Parisian crime thriller with Delon, 
The simple missing-person case doesn't stay simple in Pour la peau d'un flic, as it grows much wider in scope, implicating a bigger conspiracy, only growing slightly incredulous at times. Delon's Choucas enlists his good friend, Haymann (Michel Auclair) to help him in the investigation when Choucas becomes a target himself. The two veteran French actors feel like close friends, and the intimacy the two share is genuine. The majority of their scenes are dialogue,as each bounces ideas and questions off the other as to how to proceed in the investigation. Then there are really clever scenes with the two, as when Choucas has a subdued suspect before him, he tells Haymann to get a hammer. Haymann just slightly nods, well-familiar as to what Choucas is going to do to the man. When Choucas has a gun pointed at him and looks as if his adversary has the upper hand, it is Haymann who pops in right on time in aiding Delon's character.
The real attraction besides Delon, in my opinion, in Pour la peau d'un flic is the character Charlotte, Choucas's secretary, played by Anne Parillaud. About a decade later, she would blow cinema's door off the hinges in Luc Besson's nearly pitch-perfect La Femme Nikita (1990). Her screen presence is quite powerful, and one gets the impression while watching Pour la peau d'un flic that she is underused, despite appearing in nearly the entire picture. The romantic subplot involving Delon and Parillaud is well developed, as the events become more intense in the picture, the two begin to reveal their feelings for each other. A lot of the humor in the film comes from these scenes, and unfortunately her character's English-dubbing (of the version that I saw from an HK DVD) is terrible and most of it is lost. Delon adeptly knows how charismatic and beautiful the young actress is and doesn't spare her close-ups. Parillaud is a fantastic actress and she brings more energy to the film than the action scenes. The classic romantic comedy is dated, yet both Delon and Parillaud are able to carry it with their charisma and chemistry alone.
I've seen seemingly a million crime films, and despite the familiarity of the narrative of Pour la peau d'un flic, I really cannot tire watching Delon acting super cool and taking on the bad guys. Even dubbed in English, when he makes smart-aleck remarks during a high-speed car chase, Delon is cool. When sitting in a cafe and having coffee and smoking Gitanes, Delon is cool. He's so cool that he cast this beautiful young actress in a small and welcomed part:
Pour la peau d'un flic shows a lot of the magic of the waning days of this cinema. A must-see for Delon fans (and Parillaud fans and don't be surprised when it's her that stays with you after viewing). 
Director Bennati penned the script of L'assassino ha riservato nove poltrone with Paolo Levi and Biagio Proietti, set in a single location with ten characters. Patrick is quite correct when he says that each character has a motive for murder: nearly every one is either related to, romantically involved, or in financial debt/dependence to Patrick. Hence, since every one is a potential killer (at least until becoming a victim), most are depicted as passive/aggressive or contemptible people. While motives are essential for murder mysteries, watching these characters bicker and backstab (metaphorically) for ninety minutes is far from entertaining; so this familiar plot gets one interesting and unfamiliar addition, a supernatural element, and the sensational elements of the script get pushed to the foreground. L'assassino ha riservato nove poltrone is a fairly successful mix of classical mystery and 70s-style sex and violence. 
One of the notable features of L'assassino ha riservato nove poltrone is the inclusion of several notable actresses of the period. Janet Agren appears as Kim, a would-be actress and fiance of Patrick, who every one knows is marrying Patrick for his money; Paola Senatore is Lynn, Patrick's daughter who in initial scenes appears as if she has romantic feelings towards her father; and Lucretia Love plays Doris, who is involved in a romantic relationship with Patrick's sister, Rebecca (Eva Czemerys). Bennati goes to some lengths in depicting Doris and Rebbeca's relationship as not only secret but also very taboo and decadent. In addition, all the actresses mentioned perform at least one nude scene, and of the actresses mentioned, those who are victims suffer more terribly as the film progresses. The first murder in L'assassino ha riservato nove poltrone is less graphic and ornate than the subsequent one, as the murders increasingly become more brutal and contrived. 
Bennati does not rival his script, despite any attempts to do so, with his sensational scenes in L'assassino ha riservato nove poltrone. Rather, the sensational scenes afford a more judicious use of character-driven scenes, keeping the bickering and backstabbing to a minimum. By far not a character-driven film with depth, there is enough background to each character to keep the viewer intrigued. Among the sex and violence and exposition, Bennati, to his credit as each are quite effective, is able to compose more than one odd and unreal sequence. One of the ten characters is named, at least in the English-dubbed version, "the man in the Nehru jacket" (Eduardo Filipone). None of the other characters knows who he is, and when he appears, his character brings an appropriate theatrical feel to the film as his dialogue feels scripted. It is not as if his dialogue feels contrived but rather when he speaks it feels as if he knows something about someone or something is about to happen. Keeping the theatrical motif, Bennati lets "the man in the Nehru jacket" serve as a sort-of commentator on the drama, as from some classical Greek play. Very nice. It is always welcome when a character takes a violent shift in character by performing some nonsensical, non-violent act: subsequent to a murder, which intuitively one would think would instill grief or some accompanying emotion, Senatore's Lynn takes a moment in a dressing room for some disrobing and dancing. At a couple of minutes, the scene goes on too long for the narrative, but Bennati uses multiple angles to lovingly capture the actress. The scene is not completely sensational and has little narrative weight. Just disorienting and lithe. L'assassino ha riservato nove poltrone benefits from these scenes' inclusion.
Carlo Savina delivers a beautiful score, a mix of funky-70s and classical composing. The film was shot by Giuseppe Aquari, and he captures the classical mix of old-school mystery and 70s sensationalism: the authentic theatre location goes a long way in creating its own atmosphere. It is a beautiful location and has enough claustrophobic settings and shadows to create its own tension and fear. Beyond that, Aquari shows an adept eye at the subjective, giallo-style P.O.V. from both victims and killer. There are classically-composed shots from wide, medium, and close-up angles side by side with more innovative camerawork, like his handheld shots. Low-budget and certainly now obscure, L'assassino ha riservato nove poltrone benefits from its talent and energy, focused and directed for its duration.
During the first act of Los asesinos de otros mundos, the machine-gun-toting criminals attempt to lift some contraband from a parked plane on a runway. Both well-armed and well-numbered the criminals begin to remove their booty, while Santo hides in the cargo area of the plane. The cargo hold is tight and cramped, and Santo is able to funnel most of the criminals into the small space for a beating. Santo eventually takes the fight from the plane to the runway, giving everyone a beating until the boss decides to flee in his vehicle. Santo stands in the way of the criminal boss's oncoming car and waves his arms but is subdued. Having hit our hero with a large vehicle, rendering him unconscious on the runway, the boss points a gun at his head. With one bullet, the world could topple with the death of Santo.
However, in supervillain fashion, one bullet is cinematically boring, so a contrived and cinematically sublime death scenario is envisioned. Los asesinos de otros mundos moves to another setting, another planet, where Santo is greeted by the supervillain at his throne. Santo, unarmed, is forced into gladiatorial combat with two really big dudes with medieval armory and weaponry. Santo has no fear and dispatches one, and another one appears. After Santo thwarts both opponents, the supervillain summons Santo's final opponent: a large man in a hazmat outfit armed with a flamethrower. As opposed to the previous two opponents, this one is state of the art and this character is where director Galindo impresses. While nearly everything during this sequence is theatrical, (the painted walls of starry space, the dirt ground arena mimicking the surface of another planet, the gladiator apparel and weaponry, and the supervillain throne) the final opponent looks both alien and familiar. While I assume safety guidelines were strictly adhered on the set and camera tricks employed to create tension, when the final opponent fires real streams of fuel and fire at Santo, it is quite scary. Santo, in rare fashion, displays a modicum of fear: I would not be surprised with every tumble he took, Santo hoped if an accident did occur, then his wrestling gear was flame-retardant. 
El tesoro de Moctezuma is late-60s spy cinema. Santo has a partner, the extremely handsome Jorge Rivero. Santo and Jorge perform the duties of one secret agent, but each character has to be present to perform the respective secret agent duties: Santo is both the muscle and the brains, while Jorge seduces the women. That's not an entirely fair description as Jorge does help with strategy, and Santo, I'm certain, was grateful for his help. That description of the two's duties is more or less apt. In a standout sequence, Jorge brings his lady to a bullfight, and the two are notable guests, as the matador greets them. The bullfight ensues, and during his date, Jorge notes the gentlemen with sunglasses and suits around the bullpen look suspicious. Jorge leaves his date to investigate. The gentlemen in suits and sunglasses pull their pistols and are going to kill Jorge. Jorge runs around the arena, firing the occasional shot at the bad guys, but he is outnumbered and takes a bullet in the shoulder. Santo appears, unarmed (and in a very stylish turtleneck sweater), and gives a beatdown to the bad guys. Above the bullpen, Santo lifts one of the gentlemen in a suit and sunglasses and raises him in the air. Santo tosses him into the bullpen, and the man is trampled and gored by a bull. Santo saves Jorge, and with a bullet in his arm, Jorge returns to his date. This scene is representative.
When Santo finishes his gladiatorial combat in Los asesinos de otros mundos, despite the drama, the film more or less ends midway. A new supervillain appears, who dominates his subjects with neckbands and can explode them on command, and Santo still has to save the word but has a more immediate task: helping gorgeous Karen (Sasha Montenegro) and her scientist father, Dr. Bernstein (Carlos Suárez). The one constant in the narrative, besides Santo, is the blob. The blob is menacing, and in the film's opening sequence, it looks unstoppable. With accompanying throbbing audio, the blob absorbs its victims. On the street or in the comfort of the bedroom, no one is safe. One could say it looks like a cover of latex rubber with five or six people underneath, decorated to look like a chocolate malt, but I'm not. Interestingly, Santo cannot dispatch the blob with his hands and must use his cunning to subdue it. 
El tesoro de Moctezuma has a beautiful sequence, shot very well by both Cardonas, at an Aztec pyramid. The authentic location provided quite the background for Santo to give the villains an ass whipping. Structurally, the Aztec pyramid has several levels, creating steps to its top; and it provides an excellent opportunity for Santo to pick up an opponent and throw him to his death. I seriously cheer whenever Santo performs this move in combat. Rivero is a nice addition to the film: he's good-looking and brings a youthful energy. All the sexy sequences with the actresses are welcome. In a humorous and clever flourish, the Cardonas have Santo and Jorge meet two beautiful twins in very different scenarios. Both Santo and Jorge hold one of the twins in his arms, simultaneously, yet events leading up to this act are radically different for both. El tesoro de Moctezuma has some wonderful compositions and is well-paced and exciting. 
Both films in El Santo fashion, two out of three falls, end in a draw. Too much infectious fun. And a blob.