Incubo sulla città contaminata (Nightmare City) (1980)

Essential European cult cinema. I own the landmark 2002 Anchor Bay Entertainment DVD release of Incubo sulla città contaminata (Nightmare City) (1980) and per my usual viewing habits have left the disc in my player and watched it over and over during successive nights. The Anchor Bay Entertainment DVD release not only made Nightmare City more accessible to viewers but marked it as an important film of its era. While the film’s director, Umberto Lenzi, grants the film much more import during his video interview included as a supplement on the Anchor Bay Entertainment DVD, I found this print statement from the director, dated prior to the DVD release, very revealing. Perhaps it is just me, but I find the following statement kind of sad:

In response to the question, “In between MANGIATI VIVI! and CANNIBAL FEROX, you also made the Romero-esque INCUBO SULLA CITTA CONTAMINATA. How do you look back on it?”, Lenzi responds:

“When I shot it, it didn’t really seem to be mine, but now, seeing it again ten years later I think differently about it. Certainly I don’t much like the special effects and the blood flowing in torrents, but, in the film, the whole thing was achieved with a certain style; even Tullio Kezich spoke well of it in issue No. 799 of Panorama, published on 10/8/1981, and Leonard Maltin did, too, in his Movie Guide 1988, while the American Video Movie 1990 publication gives it two and a half stars, in other words, fairly good.” (Spaghetti Nightmares, edited by Luca Palmerini and Gaetano Mistretta, Fantasma Books, Key West, FL, 1996, p, 69.)

Nightmare City is the chronicle of a crisis, the end of humanity via radioactive zombies (d’oh!), told through the eyes of three couples. I have no proof of this but I believe the characterization is the contribution of co-screenwriter, Piero Regnoli, who is certainly the most sensitive and underrated screenwriter in Italian genre cinema. Regnoli masterfully writes dysfunctional characters and often imbues a rich complexity to a narrative. On its surface, Nightmare City is an episodic narrative, like a war film, and each episode is a battle in a different location: in an airport, in a television studio, in a hospital, at a gas station, and at an amusement park with a minor skirmish in a church. Finally, make no mistake, Nightmare City is definitely a horror film.

Dean Miller (Hugo Stiglitz) is a journalist assigned to interview Professor Hallenback (whose work is tied into nuclear energy). There is a malfunction at the state’s nuclear power plant and an alert has been issued regarding radioactive contamination. Miller arrives at the airport with his cameraman (Antonio Mayans, aka Robert Foster) to interview Professor Hallenback. A large, unmarked military plane (large enough to carry a squad of troops, hint, hint) makes an emergency landing on the runway. The police and military arrive to investigate. Professor Hallenback emerges from the plane...

What ensues is one of the greatest sequences in European cult cinema. With amazing energy, contaminated men jump out of the airplane and with knives and guns, they dispatch the military!

Stiglitz’s Miller knows this is bad news. He makes an attempt to warn the public but is thwarted by General Murchison (Mel Ferrer, an excellent actor giving an excellent performance). Miller abandons his duty as a journalist and seeks out his wife, Anna (Laura Trotter), a doctor at the local hospital. Meanwhile, Murchison summons his daughter, Jessica (Stefania D'Amario) and (presumably also) her husband, Bob (Pierangelo Civera) into the safety of the military bunker, where Murchison is formulating a counterstrike to combat the strategic movements of the radioactive raiders. Major Warren Holmes (Francisco Rabal) is summoned by Murchison to help on his day off. Holmes, unwittingly and unfortunately, leaves his beautiful artist wife, Sheila (Maria Rosaria Omaggio) all alone at home.

Nightmare City has quite a bit of bloody violence. In an almost Fulci-esque touch, Lenzi serves up the really sadistic violence towards the women. Almost every naked female breast exposed is one which will be traumatized brutally. This offensive aspect is not uncommon to the genre and is expected. However, horror cinema is not exclusively its violence. A brilliant sequence occurs later in the film when Rabal’s Major Holmes becomes aware of the severity of the crisis. He makes a feeble attempt to call Sheila and warn her of the danger. He commands her to lock her doors but has no idea whether Sheila will be safe. Sheila walks outside to encounter the ridiculous sight of a lawnmower, propelling itself slowly across the lawn. The image of the lawnmower makes no logical sense but that is why the image is so creepy: is everything just out of order?
The episodic structure of the narrative works well towards the pacing. While Dean and Anna engage in quite a bit of ridiculous dialogue regarding a deep-seeded fear towards science and technological progress, most of it can be forgotten. The quiet moments, such as Dean and Anna in a small gas station, are the perfect set-ups for Lenzi’s explosive battle sequences. Stelvio Cipriani’s score for Nightmare City ranks with the best of Fabio Frizzi and Goblin.

What I love about Nightmare City is that it is so ridiculous, so excessive, and so incredibly focused and well-made. Beyond the meticulous and exciting battle sequences, I love the quirky standout sequences. For example, Jessica and Bob ignore General Murchison’s order to come to the bunker. They take a trip in their camper to the countryside. In a single and effective sequence, Bob and Jessica realize the impending crisis and have a fateful encounter with another couple. In another, Sheila, the artist wife of Major Holmes, is making a sculpture. It haunts Warren the first time that he sees it. The second time that he sees it, the sculpture becomes a profound irony, a sequence rendered masterfully by Lenzi in the final act.
Umberto Lenzi is a fantastic film maker. In my opinion, he will always be overshadowed by his cannibal flicks. He made some excellent gialli, especially those with Carroll Baker. In terms of pure entertainment, however, European cult cinema does not get any better than Nightmare City.

The Innkeepers (2011)

I like Ti West. A lot. I think that he's one of the most creative American film makers working today. I watched his recent film The Innkeepers (2011) as an on-demand rental via the Zune application on XBOX Live Marketplace. Twice.

Claire (Sara Paxton) and Luke (Pat Healy) are the sole workers on shift during the last weekend of business for the Yankee Pedlar Inn. An ex-actress, Lea Rease-Jones (Kelly McGillis) is a guest in the hotel. The inn appears very old, and like most old American buildings and institutions, this inn houses a ghost story. There once was a young woman named Madeline O'Malley who suffered a poor fate at the inn. Her corpse was hidden in the basement. Luke has created a website to document the paranormal activity at the Yankee Pedlar Inn, and Claire has agreed to help him this weekend, before the inn closes and everything shuts down.

Today, most horror genres are tired. Supernatural horror is especially tired. This is not to say that viewers do not get enough of it: television shows like Ghost Adventures and film series, like Paranormal Activity, are certainly strong evidence that the supernatural genre can generate a vast amount of income from the populace. There is, however, certainly a dearth of creative and innovative supernatural horror cinema. Is The Innkeepers innovative and creative supernatural cinema? Yes and no. Creative, yes, but innovative, no.

The Innkeepers is really buttressed by Sara Paxton's leading role as Claire. To me, she is a classic 'slacker' from the mold of the early to mid-nineties (trust me, as it takes one to know one.) As an incidental side note, I have no idea what year The Innkeepers is set but am fairly certain that it isn't 2011. It is so refreshing to watch someone so young and so not corporate. Claire tells Lea that she works in the hotel and beyond doing that she has no idea what her future holds for her; and she later asks Luke why does everyone have such high expectations? Today, one would intuitively think that she would be full of fear; and she better start networking, filling her CV with internships and the like, if she wants to have a successful career. She's positive and happy, however, with her station in life. Claire is even kind of goofy.

Hence, connecting with Claire is the key to enjoying to The Innkeepers. If you do not find her endearing, then The Innkeepers will be a chore to sit through, as this is pretty much Claire's film from beginning to end. I have never seen Paxton in any other film nor one that I can remember. She's wonderfully sweet as Claire and I found her energy infectious--so much so that if The Innkeepers were a straight comedy, then she would sell it for me. There's quite a bit of humor in The Innkeepers with a lot of it at Claire's expense. Paxton balances both the humor and the horror fairly adeptly.

I watched The Innkeepers twice in an attempt to resolve its ambiguities. Quite a bit of the film is vague: there are a lot of clues in the dialogue and elsewhere but there is little revelation. I'm curious as to whether The Innkeepers actually has an overall, unifying theme and I cannot say with certainty that it does. There are lots of interesting ideas within but no persuasive dominate theme stands out. What follows in the next paragraph are undeniably SPOILERS, so discontinue reading now if you have not seen The Innkeepers. During the following paragraph is also where I reveal how The Innkeepers is not innovative supernatural cinema.

After speaking with my brother, who watched the second viewing with me, we are both certain that The Innkeepers is a derivation of the “dead hate the living” theme.  The dead harbor a grudge towards all that are still living, a la Takashi Shimizu’s Ju-on. In the pivotal scene where McGillis’s Lea reveals to Claire that she’s a healer (and a medium), the dialogue supports this. My brother and I believe that the spirits are talking to Lea revealing their plan to kill Claire and that “she,” meaning Lea, cannot help her. Claire, of course, erroneously interprets Lea to mean that Claire cannot help Madeline O'Malley. The only thing that Lea can do is to tell Claire not to go into the basement...of course, Lea doesn’t listen. Twice. Also, Claire’s overwhelmingly positive attitude makes more sense in this regard as a target for vengeful spirits. She’s living life regardless of its future. As interesting as this theme and related ones are, they are ultimately unsatisfying. Ti West makes low-key, slow-burning, and intense films. I think that some film maker in the future is going to have to really kick supernatural cinema in the ass for it to be innovative.

Anyway, I enjoyed The Innkeepers quite a bit and I’m certain that I’ll purchase the eventual Blu-Ray or DVD release. I’d love to hear a Ti West commentary. In any case, I would classify The Innkeepers as light, but it’s still way better than most films of its elk out there.

The Hole (1998)

The Hole (1998) is Tsai Ming-liang's beautiful little film about a small part of the world at the millennium, ending not with a bang but with a whimper. The Taiwanese filmmaker sets his film presumably in a Taipei apartment building in an area where the government has encouraged its residents to evacuate. There is an epidemic in the area which is only second to a water shortage. "People cannot live on rainwater, alone" says a radio voice, mildly, over the opening credits. Two residents, however, have chosen to remain in the area and in the apartment building. Upstairs neighbor, portrayed by Lee Kang-sheng, is visited one day by a plumber who tells him that the downstairs neighbor, portrayed by Yang Kuei-mei, is experiencing a water leak. In order to discover if the leak is originating in the upstairs apartment, the plumber destroys part of the floor to expose the piping, creating a hole in the floor where the two neighbors are able to interact. Allegory is rare in Post-Modern art, because of its often transparent and focal nature. Fortunately, I rarely pay attention to it when its present in either film or fiction, for example, and surely, by reading the short plot set-up above, one can glean, at least superficially, some of the allegory within The Hole. As Tsai Ming-liang has emerged as one of cinema's finest filmmakers, it appears any allegory is wholly created by its viewer. The lithe film is deeper in its emotion and creative rendition, closer to Surrealism or Romanticism than any other school of art. The Hole is an apocalyptic film set in an alternative modern times which, save creative flourishes, looks exactly like our own. In one of the most humorous sequences, the upstairs neighbor goes to work at his stall in a market. The market, which one could presume is extraordinarily busy on any given day, is dead quiet. Kang-sheng's character is not deterred, and he resumes his routine: he opens his stall, prepares his wares, and before the customers hit the market, he feeds a stray cat that haunts the area. Littered around the empty stalls are myriad cans from previous days' feeding. The cat eats heartily. A customer arrives at Kang-sheng's stall and asks for a particular brand of bean sauce. Kang-sheng's character tells him that the brand has been discontinued for some time. The customer is disappointed and chooses to exit Kang-sheng's stall and find another vendor. For minutes, the customer wanders around the empty stalls, like a maze, before exiting the market area into the daylight.
This scene, like many in The Hole, reminds me of a celluloid painting and it makes sense only within its own context. Two later scenes in the market are more affecting as each builds on the other. Kang-sheng's character discovers another vendor within the market whose behavior involves not speaking and crawling on the floor like an animal. When Kang-sheng's character gives chase, the vendor retreats into a dark hole in the wall where Kang-sheng's character lets him stay. (The vendor's behavior is a symptom of the epidemic.) In the following market sequence, a hazmat crew arrives to fumigate the market, unaware or uncaring as to whether anyone is still present in the market. In a foreground, low-key composition, Kang-sheng appears in frame carrying the cat and like a cat, Kang-sheng is scurrying to leave the area. In a particularly sad touch, Kang-sheng loses hold of the cat and is forced to abandon it as the hazmat crew fills the stalls with its chemicals.
The downstairs neighbor, portrayed by Yang Kuei-mei, is incensed by her upstairs neighbor. From the first frame from within her dwelling, Kuei-mei mops up the leaking water in her apartment with dirty rags. The wallpaper is soaked and peeling, and it is quite evident that her dwelling is nearing complete ruin. Yet she stays. In subsequent sequences, Ming-liang shows the two neighbors engaging in similar behavior simultaneously in separate dwellings. In a signature Tsai Ming-liang touch, there is little dialogue within The Hole. In an almost literary touch, Kuei-mei's consciousness is rendered through musical sequences, as Kuei-mei performs song and dances to the music of Grace Chang. Not surprisingly, Ming-liang is able to take the antique songs and their lyrics and wholly and effectively weave them into his narrative. Like many other scenes, these sequences make their sense in their own context. Like Grace Chang's musical style, The Hole is pure and a throwback to cinema before, yet it's firmly rooted in its Post-Modern era. The Hole is the type of film that makes me not think of cinema as a product and instills the belief in the me that there are still artists making films. The Hole, and Tsai Ming-liang cinema in general, shows the beauty of subjectivity. (At the time of this writing, subjectivity in cinema is my current obsession, and films which take subjectivity as its focus are the only ones really getting my attention). The Hole is a lithe, playful film with a very carefree sensibility yet amazingly affecting without ever seemingly intending to be so.

Mad Max (1979)

It had been years since I have watched Mad Max (1979), and thanks to Netflix Instant Viewing, I was able to revisit it. I originally saw the film close to the North American VHS release of its sequel, The Road Warrior (1981), which would have made me a lad of six or seven years old. Needless to say, I missed quite a bit of the text of the film, as I was mostly enthralled with both films' kinetic action sequences. My parents never censored anything from me, and for that, I am grateful. In any case, seeing Mad Max, today, it is the quintessential Post-Modern film, before being Post-Modern was hip. It's clearly a fantastic exploitation picture, rooted firmly in its genre, and clearly a milestone in "Ozploitation Cinema," the unique brand of genre cinema from Australia, which is now enjoying a renaissance. Mad Max is also a brilliant science fiction film which owes a clear debt to Stanley Kubrick's A Clockwork Orange (1973), for example, and provocative science fiction literature, such as the work by J.G. Ballard. In terms of visuals, director George Miller's seminal film was really only topped by Miller, himself, with the film's sequel.

Almost all science fiction, whether literature or film, needs a context. The viewer or reader needs to know what are the rules of the world: what is the year? how has technology advanced? And how has it affected the culture? In a brilliant subversive touch, Miller dispenses with the comforting science fiction exposition. "A few years later," as on-screen text, is all that is delivered. So what is shown? A suicidal, psychotic madman, known as the Nightrider (Vince Gil) is blazing through the countryside in his suped-up muscle car. Leather-clad men, who operate with methods a lot like the police, are bored. Over their walkie-talkies, they hear of the Nightrider's escapades. A leather-clad pair starts their vehicle. The vehicle is eerily similar to a modern NASCAR model. Jim Goose (Steve Bisley) interrupts his meal to hop on his motorcycle and join in on the action. One of their number remains silent in his vehicle, waiting for the Nightrider to pass his way on the road. If this leather-clad group is the police, one would intuitively think that they would attempt to subdue the Nightrider and end his reign of terror. Nope. They're going to kill him. The silent one, waiting in the shadows, is Mad Max (Mel Gibson), and he kills the Nightrider. The Nightrider's death becomes Mad Max's Pandora's Box: it invites the Toecutter (Hugh Keays-Byrne) and his violent crew and their wrath. Whoops.

The first act of Mad Max is totally disorienting. If the action sequences weren't enough, that is. There is almost nothing for a contemporary audience to reference to their own world. In a humorous touch, the leather-clad crew of enforcers reside in a decrepit and littered building, titled "Hall of Justice." However, they act like a crew hanging around a motor pool. The local mechanic, in one scene, shows Goose and Max the car that he built piecemeal. It's called an Interceptor, and it's decked-out to the max. Like little kids, they just want to joyride. The small towns that litter the countryside look like old Western towns, with dusty streets, tumbleweeds, and saloon-doors swinging in the wind. The Toecutter and his motorcycle gang pull their bikes up to the building, like they are hitching their horses. Hospitals are like garbage dumps, and ambulances are like tow trucks. WTF?

The essential premise of Mad Max is that men are violent creatures, and they quite enjoy their violence. Chaos is the norm, and civilized behavior is precious and rare. In melodramatic scenes, with accompanying melodramatic music, perfectly appropriate for an exploitation picture, maternal Jessie (Joanne Samuel), Max's wife, shows Max nothing but love. She attempts to sway Max out of his lifestyle. She's very patient, and eventually, Max sees the grotesque end result of violence. When Jessie is out of his life, however, Max returns to the life to which is he familiar. With excellent exploitation results. The final twenty minutes of Mad Max are exhilarating and totally satisfying.

There are also myriad, beautiful surreal sequences in Mad Max. In one scene, Goose has a wince-inducing, high speed crash on his motorcycle. Clearly disoriented (I'm guessing serious head trauma), he calls for help on his CB, but it is not connected. Goose begins to wander on the road as if being on the road gives him comfort. He commandeers a pick-up truck from a local to haul his bike back into town. Is he all right? No. In a charming way, he's bent and crazy.

In a hundred-and-eighty degree turn, Miller can also be haunting. When the Toecutter and his crew hound a couple down the road and subdue their vehicle by force, Miller cuts away from the inevitable carnage. Max and Goose hear of the exploits and go to investigate. When they arrive at the accident scene, they see the male of the couple running in a wind-shook field, half-naked and full of fear. One of the Toecutter's crew, Johnny (Tim Burns) is still at the scene, completely inebriated. Johnny has lassoed the female of the couple with a long steel-link chain, like an animal. She's been traumatized beyond belief. Later a local remarks that the couple's car looks like "it's been chewed up and spit out." Miller's aftermath scenes rival in power most filmmakers' depiction scenes. These surreal, trippy sequences are the heart of Mad Max: they flow from their own logic and are their own chaos.

Mel Gibson, regardless of what one thinks of him today, was immediately captivating and charismatic from his first scene. The youthful Gibson is amazingly handsome and virile. He's a very credible badass as Mad Max. Gibson plays Max as youthful, playful, and innocent, especially in his scenes with Jessie, and when he's behind the wheel, he's like a man possessed. The rest of the cast deserves further praise, as all are quite good. Miller's action sequences are all about speed. The viewer really feels as if he/she is literally riding shotgun on the action. Cars are presented as powerful tools of breathtaking violence. Is Mad Max thought-provoking? Certainly. However, it's one of those films which takes center stage here at Quiet Cool: it's too playful to be taken seriously, yet it's too serious to be taken lightly. Mad Max has many allusions and influences, too many to name here. A definite must-see for all serious thrill-seekers of cinema.

Diabolicamente... Letizia (1975)

Diabolicamente... Letizia (1975) arrived at my doorstep on DVD, unexpectedly. The film, released under English-language title, Sex, Demons and Death, is a One 7 release. I must have dumped the film into my Amazon basket, ordered it, and forgot about it. I’ve given it a spin and am here to tell you all about it.

Architect Marcello Martinozzi (Gabriele Tinti) is married to Micaela (Magda Konopka). They are unable to conceive a child, and as a result Micaela suffers from depression with occasional bouts becoming severe. Micaela wants to remove her sister’s daughter, Letizia (Franca Gonella), from her boarding school and locate her to Marcello and Micaela’s villa. Micaela wants to raise Letizia as their daughter, despite Marcello noting that Letizia is no longer a child. The teenage girl arrives as the Martinozzi ward to the villa, and immediately, the entire household embraces an open dysfunction—everyone, including the servants, have almost sex (a term explained below), and Micaela’s depression worsens to madness.

Diabolicamente... Letizia seems a hybrid of two films which take aim at boo-gee values, The Exorcist (1973) and Pasolini’s Teorema (1968). Letizia becomes a willing catalyst for destruction of the family, exposing middle-class values as a house of cards. Unfortunately, Diabolicamente... Letizia does not have quite a film grasp on its own execution. The film is not campy nor is it sensational (unless nudity bothers the viewer). All of the would-be sensational material results in teasing: Letizia possesses a diabolical power which allows her to control others. She only uses this power temporarily. Her typical scheme is to engage say the manservant, Giovanni (Gianni Dei), or the maid into a sexual scenario with Micaela. When the two are about to have sex, she ends her power. Micaela pushes the other way, incensed, and summons the other away. Letizia does this herself with Giovanni and the maid (I apologize I do not know this actress’s name). She begins to seduce one or the other and immediately stops and scolds the other for trying to take advantage of her. I do not understand director Salvatore Bugnatelli’s motivation in this regard. It appears as if he wants to make an erotic film yet does not want to make Diabolicamente, a film of the erotic ghetto. I believe Bugnatelli admired Friedkin’s film in its ability to show shocking sensational material yet still retain its credibility as a drama. Pasolini, of course, was not concerned with such labels. Save Tinti, none of his actors are quite capable of making Diabolicamente the drama that Bugnatelli wants it to be. To the actors’ credit, the script is poor. So the almost sex makes it an almost genre film, and the lack of direction and poor script make it an almost drama.

Gabriele Tinti, as Marcello, is the only actor with whom I am familiar. Despite the fact that I must have seen hundreds of Italian genre films, none of the other participants are as memorable as Tinti. The handsome actor left quite a legacy in film. Within Diabolicamente, he shows his obvious talent and charisma, despite the ridiculous scenario. Not surprisingly, his character arc is the most interesting. Letizia is able to successfully seduce Marcello (they do not have almost sex). Not only does she seduce his body, but Letizia is able to influence his spirit. She convinces him to rethink his conservative lifestyle: she drags him to a dance club to his dismay and convinces him to purchase a prize of male virility, a hot motorcycle. By the beginning of the third act, it appears that Marcello is ready to embrace the coquettish young lady and forget his ailing wife. Of course, the plot of Diabolicamente will not let him do so, because the young lady is actually diabolical, and Marcello genuinely loves his wife.

Diabolicamente is quite boring, because it exists on a liminal plane: it’s too afraid to be erotic and not capable of being dramatic. The filming style does not appear to be professional, either. However, this is not a deterrent. Despite the fact that most of the compositions are not classical, some arresting ones are included. Of note are the compositions which play with the foreground and background. Overall, the visual style flows more from fear or conservatism, just like its narrative.

I have to give kudos to One 7 for releasing Diabolicamente on DVD. If I had to speculate, the lack of English audio on the disc makes me believe an English audio track was never recorded. Perhaps the film saw no export sales which led to its obscurity. Perhaps, also, the lack of notable participants, save Tinti, led to its obscurity. Perhaps, finally, Diabolicamente is just shitty and no one wanted to see it. Except me. However, anyone that reads Quiet Cool regularly knows that I like to take risks on curious cinema. It just didn’t pan out successfully this time.

L'alcova (1985)

If La chiave (1983) is D.H. Lawrence, then L'alcova (1985) is Henry Miller. Well, not quite. Joe D'Amato's L'alcova found its commercial inspiration in Tinto Brass's film, and while the film lacks poetry, it certainly does not lack a charming vulgarity, visual beauty, and purity in an exploitative sense. L'alcova oscillates from latent offensiveness to patent offensiveness with the film being continuously offensive. Joe D'Amato's period piece begins in holy-shit territory and never leaves. For this film to exist and to be one of his most successful films (Spaghetti Nightmares, edited by Luca M. Palmerini and Gaetano Mistretta, Fantasma Books, Key West, Florida, 1996, p. 80), I am simultaneously offended and impressed. Whenever these conflicting emotions from me are elicited from art, I don't fight it. I also relish the opportunity to see my favorite Italian actress, Lilli Carati, in just about anything.L'alcova stars four titans of European Cult Cinema. Elio (Al Cliver) returns home to his indulgent wife, Alessandra (Carati), after a military campaign. Having won a victory over a tribe during his campaign, the tribal leader awarded Elio his daughter, Zerbal (Laura Gemser) as a prize. (Yes, you're reading this correctly.) Elio has brought Zerbal back to his lush villa to live. While Elio was away Alessandra kept herself busy with secretary, Velma (Annie Belle). Neither Alessandra nor Velma are happy to see Zerbal. Elio begins to produce income for the household by writing a book. He gives Zerbal to Alessandra as a servant, much to the disapproval of Velma.

D'Amato dispenses with lofty ideals for his narrative of L'alcova and employs various soap-opera trists. Someone is having sex with someone during almost the entire duration of the film, and D'Amato stayed with his strengths--handsome photography and production while delivering quite a bit of sensational material. L'alcova's singular setting, the villa, intensifies the action, so these characters are going to create their own traps and pitfalls. The notable character arc is with Gemser's Zerbal and Carati's Alessandra. Indulgent Alessandra enjoys being dominant, but as the film unfolds she becomes more seduced by Zerbal. By the end of the second act, it is Zerbal who is in command and Alessandra who is doing her bidding. L'alcova has a genuine point of no return. Elio's book plans to produce income do not come to fruition. Therefore, he embarks upon a journey to see a woman whose identity Elio learned from a man within his company. This woman is in possession of two films, what modern audiences would later call "stag" films. Elio negotiates a price and takes them. He also purchases a camera and tells Velma and Alessandra upon arrival at the villa, that they are "going into the motion picture business." With Elio's statement, D'Amato begins his third act with all the participants collecting together to watch the films, become aroused, and convinced that they can make a better one. The film becomes, unsurprisingly, more outlandish and patently offensive.

D'Amato had just finished filming Anno 2020 - I gladiatori del futuro, The Blade Master, and Endgame, and seemingly, he still had action movie mentality running through his veins. The plot of L'alcova is like an action film, building upon its action sequences, leading to bigger and better explosions. No pun intended, L'alcova works in the same way: the plot is a vehicle for a series of sexual escapades and episodes, each growing a little steamier or a little kinkier along the way. Unfortunately, all of the characters are rather repellent, so what the viewer is left with is a soft-to-hard core film. It's sensational, exploitation cinema, handsomely filmed, and filled with participants, each giving especially erotic performances. Lilli Carati gave one of my favorite performances in Fernando di Leo's Avere vent'anni (1978). In that film, she radiated energy and beauty. Her character personified the themes of the film and without her performance, it would not rank as one of di Leo’s best. Seeing her in L’alcova is quite different. Carati seems very cold and sophisticated and detached. This role almost appears as the beginning of the end for Carati’s career. When I watch her adeptly draw a line of cocaine to share with Gemser’s Zerbal, I shudder a bit. She would never replicate the energy from Avere vent’anni, again. Cliver and Gemser give perfunctory performances. Belle stands out from the others. She seems to have embraced her role of Velma. In all of her scenes, she imbues her performance with emotion and she works the dramatic range. Unsurprisingly, Belle gives the best performance. To D’Amato’s credit, L’alcova is a pretty hot film. It’s memorable for its participants and its overtly non-”politically correct” stature. D’Amato’s photography is in its top form. L’alcova would be followed by three films, all period pieces, and each features Carati. As L’alcova stands, it’s only for fans of its participants.

La chiave (1983)

Despite its "erotic" moniker, Tinto Brass's La chiave (1983) is about freedom inasmuch as it is about sex. Based upon the novel, The Key, by Junichiro Tanziaki, La chiave is about a husband and wife who explore their sexual relationship through each other's diary. One spouse reads the other's and vice versa, leading to an awakening for both. Brass sets his film in 1940s Venice (for reasons that he states in his interview included as a supplement on the Cult Epics DVD release) to imagine a time when there was formalism in a marriage. That is to say, Brass sets his film during a time when sexual matters were not spoken of openly between spouses. Second, and most interestingly, Brass was intrigued by the idea of this matter of privacy between a husband and wife set during a very public moment. The resulting intimacy of the film is heightened, and the quest for freedom, undeniably, takes on more power. The professor (Frank Finlay) is married to Teresa (Stefania Sandrelli). They have a daughter, Lisa (Barbara Cupisti), and their close friend is Laszlo (Franco Branciaroli). Lisa is taken with Laszlo, but by all appearances, Laszlo is attracted to Teresa. The professor is very attracted to his wife, yet he cannot create a satisfactory sexual life with her. He begins to imagine her and create her in a different way: with the aid of Laszlo's camera, the professor begins photographing his wife in various positions. This leads him no closer to any intimacy yet only fuels his imagination. Subsequently, he fills his diary with his desires and leaves the key to his locked desk in the open. Teresa finds his diary and reads it and is in turn inspired to open up her life. Teresa begins a courtship with Laszlo, much to the dismay of her daughter, Lisa. Teresa awakens sexually while the professor grows ill.One of the key aspects of La chiave is that there are risks, limits, and sacrifices in attempting to obtain freedom. The professor does eventually reach an emotional intimacy with Teresa at the cost of the realization that he always loved her intensely yet was never going to be able to express those emotions towards her physically. The end result is that Teresa, upon her sexual awakening, finds love in the arms of another with Laszlo. As the professor grows ill and wastes away, Teresa comes to terms with the love for her husband. By the end, she has a new life waiting for her with Laszlo. Intuitively, one must think that the result is irony, but perhaps not. Freedom is presented in La chiave as a foreign concept with its results being unknown. This uncertainty is borne from fear. In one scene, Lisa, Laszlo, and Teresa are spending an afternoon together and decide to stop in a cafe to wait out the rain. Lisa is summoned away so Laszlo and Teresa are left alone. Teresa becomes frightened and wants to go home. Why? She's afraid of her desires which have now become stronger. She's afraid to let go. Likewise, as the professor grows ill (Finlay gives a very tragic performance), he realizes that his attempts to create his wife into someone she is not, he has lost precious time in appreciating and loving who she is. There is a particularly tender moment after the professor suffers a seizure. One of the reasons that Tinto Brass's cinema, especially his erotic cinema, is appreciated is that, like a horror author who indulges his/her own fear, Brass is in touch with what he finds sexy. In his interview included as a supplement on the Cult Epics DVD, Brass reminisces on the 1940s and why they are an important period in his cinema. There's an innocence and secretive nature to sexuality, almost incidental. Garters and stockings and high heels are some of his fetishes. In the film's best erotic scene, the professor is imagining a coupling between Laszlo and Teresa. While Laszlo undresses, Teresa teases Laszlo with a series of poses. None of Teresa's positions are vulgar, and if one looks closely, she is mimicking many a classic pose of paintings of centuries past. The professor grows jealous of Laszlo seeing a private and intimate moment of beauty from his wife. All of Brass’s trademark fetishes are present. The viewer gets very close to the intimacy of the film, and perhaps this is where Brass is most successful with La chiave. Cupisti as Lisa gives a subdued and sad performance, as her character eventually watches her father succumb to his illness and also watches her mother steal the heart of the man whom she loves. In the hands of a less adept actress, this role might be over shadowed, but Cupisti shines. Finlay is perfect as the professor. At times he seems a dry and staid academic, while at others, Finlay is animated and vibrant. He has a wonderful expressive face, so those Tarkovsky-ian tragic moments, like the professor sitting alone in a cafe, are really felt with his performance. Sandrelli literally and figuratively bares all in La chiave in a high risk performance which she executes with the utmost certainty. She is undeniably amazingly beautiful and she easily conveys her inner beauty and transformation as La chiave unfolds. La chiave is a turning point in Tinto Brass cinema and an important film in the evolution of erotic cinema.