Virus (Hell of the Living Dead) (1980)

Virus (Hell of the Living Dead) (1980) is Bruno Mattei's contribution to zombie cinema, following the commercial success of Dawn of the Dead (1978) and Zombi 2 (1979).  In the documentary, Hell Rats of the Living Dead (2002), included as a supplement on the Blue Underground DVD release of Hell of the Living Dead, Mattei intimates that Romero's seminal classic was his inspiration but that his take on the story would not be taken as seriously.  (1) Mattei's longtime creative partner and co-screenwriter Claudio Fragasso confirms that the screenplay for Virus changed much during shooting and reveals that, "The first draft was excellent and original, but it got mutilated because it would have been too expensive to make.  I'd conceived the idea of an entire Third World made up of an army of zombies against whom the armed forces of the industrialized nations would have had to fight.  In the end, sadly enough, although it was an excellent piece of work, the film turned out to be little more than an insipid imitation of Dawn of the Dead."  (2)

In its final incarnation, Virus is, at its heart, an episodic road movie, with strong episodes that make the film memorable and worth revisiting coupled with weak episodes that are detracting, boring, and overlong.  Its simple frame narrative involves a power plant in a Third World nation that suffers a contamination leak.  This contamination leak infects the population turning them into flesh-eating zombies.  A squad of four is dispatched (by the powers that be) to quell the menace, with Franco Garofalo's Zantoro character standing out.  Towards their mission destination, the four encounter a pair of foreign reporters, one of whom is comely Margit Evelyn Newton, who are in country studying the native culture and the subsequent outbreak virus currently infecting the people.  They reluctantly team up for the adventure.

The weakest episode of Virus begins promising.  Newton reveals to the group that she studied the locals for about a year and knows their customs very well.  She volunteers to scout the happenings at the local village to see if their group is welcome for some needed rest and relaxation.  Newton strips and covers herself in body paint.  At first blush, I thought this was an opportunity to see lovely Ms. Newton in her birthday suit, but unfortunately, as the sequence unfolds, Mattei utilizes the sequence to exploit one of his best commercial tools:  stock documentary footage.  "That movie [Virus]," explains Mattei, "was made in Spain and as there aren't any jungles there (laughs), we bought footage from a Japanese documentary."  (3)  The use of the documentary footage is almost Ed Wood-ian in its power, as it appears Mattei and company may have built the entire production of Virus around this footage.  The documentary footage is composed mostly of cultural rites, and most of the footage has a vintage, "Mondo Cane" feel to them.  A judicious use of this footage would have been welcome, but the sequence is beyond overlong.  One will easily nod off in between the cuts of Newton as observer and the various cultural rites unfolding in exacting detail.

The most famous sequence of Virus, perhaps, involves Franco Garofalo (a frequent collaborator with Mattei, see for example, La vera storia della monaca di Monza (1980) and L'altro inferno (1981)).  A group of zombies are seen by the group, shuffling down a hill and blocking the navigable path.  For whatever reason, the entirety of the group freezes and becomes oblivious as to what to do next.  Garofalo as Zantoro becomes ridiculously animated and begins to bait the group of zombies with nonsensical dialogue to entice the group to actually eat him.  As the group of zombies encroach upon Zantoro and get ready to feast, he reveals his baiting is a ploy and begins shooting the heads of the zombies at point-blank range.  For the first-time viewer of Virus, take note when Zantoro starts losing his shit and acting crazy, as the film is about to take a giant leap into quality entertainment.

The best sequence of Virus is a classic one of zombie cinema.  The group, closer to their destination yet have grown increasingly weary, find a dilapidated house and enter to take shelter.  The group splits up to search the house, and one of the soldiers finds a closet full of costumes.  The soldier mockingly puts on a ballerina’s tutu and a top hat and begins to dance around the house, alone.  No shit.  While he is playing alone, the soldier fails to note the rather sizable group of corpses on the ground in the basement:  a critical and fatal error in judgment.  Of note also in this sequence is a kitty cat found feeding with her previous owner (a scene which defies written description).  In between this beautiful nonsense, Mattei makes effective use of the classic setup:  the zombies begin a siege upon the house and the survival horror kicks in.

The final act of Virus is strong; and if Mattei had taken a serious approach to the subject matter, then I believe the final act is representative as to how it would have looked.  The group arrives at their mission destination.  The camerawork is strong as there is an overwhelming sense of dread over the location.  Mattei effectively uses the quiet atmosphere of isolation to heighten the subsequent (and inevitable) siege of horror by the zombies.  The use of Goblin’s score, here, also deserves mention.  By the way, does it sound familiar?  Mattei states that the production had no problem using Goblin’s score(s), “because we paid for the rights.  We have utilized music not only from Dawn of the Dead, but also Buio Omega/Buried Alive and the Luigi Cozzi film, Alien Contamination.”  (4)

I quite enjoy Virus but not as much as other Mattei cinema.  There is quite a bit of brilliancy within yet there is also a lot of boring bits as well.  For any student of the maestro, Bruno Mattei, however, Virus is essential viewing.

1.  Hell Rats of the Living Dead.  Directed by Gary Hertz.  9 minutes.  Included as supplement on DVD release of Hell of the Living Dead.  Blue Underground Entertainment.  Documentary date, 2002.  DVD date, 2007.
2.  Spaghetti Nightmares.  Ed. Luca M. Palmerini and Gaetano Mistretta.  Fantasma Books. Key West, Florida.  1996:  p. 55.
3.  “An Interview with Bruno Mattei.”  European Trash Cinema.  Vol. 2, No. 5.  Ed. Craig Ledbetter.  Kingwood, TX.  1992:  p. 10.
4.  Ibid.

Los ojos siniestros del doctor Orloff (1973)

"Ah yes, I remember," says William Berger.  "I had very little time to make this one.  All my scenes were done in a row, in a very short period of time, three days or so.  I haven't seen the movie."  (1)


"I worked intensively with Jess," says Edmund Purdom.  "It was very stimulating.  He was such an incredibly prolific mind; it seems to be going in several directions at once.  I never saw [THE SINISTER EYES OF DR. ORLOFF].  In fact, I've never seen any of Jess's movies.  All I can tell you is the way he worked, which was very impressive indeed."  (2)

Despite the fact that its two leading actors have never seen the film, Los ojos siniestros del doctor Orloff (1973), I have seen the film.  It was given a DVD release a couple of years ago by Intervision Picture Corp.  The disc had been collecting dust in some nook of my room, and I had an itch to watch some Franco, so I gave it a spin.

Like most Jess Franco films, Los ojos siniestros del doctor Orloff (1973) has a curious history.  The authors of Bizarre Sinema:  Jess Franco El sexo del horror write that subsequent to Soledad Miranda's death, Franco was searching for another actress to replace her.  (3)  Montserrat Prous was the sister of Juan A. and Alberto Prous, two cameramen who had been working for Franco.  (4)  She had had a small role in a previous Spanish comedy and was assisting her brothers during the shooting of various movies.  (5)  Franco convinced Prous that she was going to be a star, and she was going to be the lead in the first film of Franco's new production house, Manacoa.  (6)  Along with Berger, Purdom, Robert Woods, and another new recruit, Kali Hanza, the first film of this new production company was Los ojos siniestros del doctor Orloff.  (7)

Prous plays Melissa Comfort, and she is the ward of her uncle, Sir Henry Robert Comfort (Jaime Picas).  Her immediate care is handled by her aunt, Lady Flora Comfort (Hanza) and her sister, Martha (Loretta Tovar), as Melissa is disabled and unable to walk.  Recently, Melissa has been haunted by nightmares which she believes involve an event ten years prior when she was a child concerning her father's death.  Flora and Martha consult Dr. Orloff (Berger) to examine Melissa about her nightmares.  Dr. Orloff reveals to Melissa that he knew both her father and her mother.  He tells her that he loved her mother very much and her father was a close friend.  He agrees to treat her by giving her medicine to help her sleep.

After her first dose, Melissa awakens in a somnambulistic state and reveals that she can walk.  She enters her uncle's study and murders him.  The following morning, Melissa awakens to learn that her uncle is gone from the house to go hunting (without knowledge of her behavior the night before).  Melissa believes something is amiss.  When his body is found by the side of the road, Inspector Crosby (Purdom) is assigned to the case.  Dr. Orloff, coincidentally, performs the autopsy upon Melissa's uncle.  Hmm...

I enjoyed Los ojos siniestros del doctor Orloff.  It's well-paced (short, too, at about seventy-five minutes); features good performances, with Prous and Berger standing out; and Franco indulges a particularly favorite theme, subjection/domination of the will by another.  Against the backdrop of Franco's other work, especially his work during this period, Los ojos siniestros del doctor Orloff is far from distinguishable.  The camerawork is clean for the majority and missing are those beautiful, subjective Franco shots, often leering at its ladies in provocative poses.  The mystery-cum-police-procedural story is very conservative and well-rendered, and there are no diversions or frolics from the action.  Frolics and detours from the plot would have been very welcome.

Subsequent to Los ojos siniestros del doctor Orloff, Franco attempted to make three films back-to-back with the Manacoa production house.  (8)  Two of the films were never finished and the other did not do well.  (9)  Franco would make much better films during the immediate period, such as La comtesse perverse (1973), Al otro lado del espejo (1973), and especially, Sinner (Le journal intime d'une nymphomane (1972).  The latter was produced by Robert de Nesle and features both Prous and Hanza.

I would definitely recommend Los ojos siniestros del doctor Orloff for those looking for a more restrained Franco film or for those, like me, who have seen a lot of Franco and are now looking for obscure titles from the filmmaker.  I have seen well over a hundred of his films and I know there are still plenty out there to uncover.  Los ojos siniestros del doctor Orloff isn't a hidden gem but it's very entertaining Franco.

1.  Obsession:  The Films of Jess Franco.  Ed. by Lucas Balbo and Peter Blumenstock.  Graf Haufen & Frank Trebbin.  Berlin, Germany.  1993:  p. 218.
2.  “International Man of Cinema:  An Interview with Edmund Purdom.”  Chartrand, Harvey F.  Shock Cinema.  No.  24/Spring 2004.  Ed.  Steven Puchalski.  New York, N.Y.  2004:  p.  31.
3.  Bizarre Sinema Jess Franco El sexo del horror.  Ed.  Carlos Aguilar, Stefano Piselli, and Riccardo Morrocchi.  Glittering Images.  Firenze, Italy.  1999:  p. 104.
4.  Ibid.
5.  Ibid.
6.  Ibid.
7.  Ibid.
8.  Ibid.
9.  Ibid.

Nosferatu a Venezia (1988)

Nosferatu a Venezia (1988) is a rare film which can successfully sustain claims of both total incompetence and artistic genius.  Both claims have strong merit.

Professor Catalano (Christopher Plummer), a renowned expert on vampirism, is summoned to Venice, Italy at the request of Princess Helietta Canins (Barbara De Rossi).  The princess resides in her familial manor with her aged mother, younger sister, and spiritual advisor, Don Alvise (Donald Pleasence).  She is convinced that an evil curse has overtaken the manor and has infected the entire family.  Below the manor and below the canals of Venice, a tomb is located, bound completely in chains.  The princess believes this tomb houses the source of the evil and wants Professor Catalano to help her open the tomb and end the curse.  He says no.

The ancient evil residing in the tomb might actually be the legendary vampire, Nosferatu (Klaus Kinski), to whom Professor Catalano has devoted his life’s study.  Opening the tomb, the professor argues, would be unleashing too great an evil.  He presents evidence supporting his claim:

Two hundred years prior to the present day, Nosferatu’s last known appearance occurred in Venice while a plague was overtaking the populace.  Specifically, Nosferatu was last seen in the princess’s palatial manor and had given one of her ancestors the vampire’s kiss.  Nosferatu disappeared thereafter, never having been seen again.

The princess is adamant.  The family and the house are cursed, and the curse must be lifted.  She schedules a séance at her home where a medium successfully summons Nosferatu from his slumber.  Interestingly, it appears that during the séance, the ancestor of the princess channeled her spirit through the body of the princess.  Nosferatu, in effect, must have been called back to the world of the living by his last victim who is also clearly in love with the creature.  Shit is about to go from bad to worse.

Among real cult-film aficionados, Nosferatu a Venezia is a curiosity, known for its troubled production history.  The IMdB, as trivia, lists these facts, which are mostly corroborated by Luigi Cozzi, an assistant to the production, here (especially pages five and six).  Given the production problems, it is unsurprising then that Nosferatu a Venezia appears disjointed and poorly-structured.  The film is totally unengaging on an emotional level and extremely difficult to follow, despite a very simple narrative.  Producer, and subsequent director, Augusto Caminito failed to make a film equal in praise to its predecessor, Werner Herzog’s masterful Nosferatu: Phantom der Nacht (1979).  Instead, at its most superficial level, Nosferatu a Venezia is a travelogue of the beautiful city of Venice and of Klaus Kinski traversing its streets, alleys, and canals.  In between the sequences of the city and of Kinski, some story unfolds.  This is not say that there are not brilliant sequences which are very memorable.

After Nosferatu has entered the manor a couple of times, one time committing murder and the other assaulting the princess, the professor and company realize that Nosferatu may be coming back again.  In a daylight sequence in an enclosed garden behind the manor, the professor feels a climate change and knows that Nosferatu is coming.  With a shimmer in his eye, the professor realizes that his entire life study is about to come to its fruition:  an ultimate confrontation with Nosferatu.  (Plummer deserves a lot of praise for his performance, as it is quite good.)  Kinski appears in dramatic fashion.  Nosferatu rebuffs two powerful shotgun blasts from the local doctor (and also, incidentally, the princess’s would-be paramour).  Plummer’s professor grabs his cross and begins a litany, one it appears that he has been preparing for a while.  Kinski, in an essential Kinski moment, seems slightly perturbed at the sight of the professor.  (One of the best emotions that Kinski could faithfully and inimitably produce is that of contempt.  He is in top form, here.)  De Rossi appears at the stairs and beckons for Nosferatu.  Kinski now sees Plummer’s character as inconsequential and with an unforeseen incendiary ability, violently heats the cross in Plummer’s hands.  The professor drops to the ground with his wounded hands (and even more so, wounded pride), and Nosferatu nonchalantly steps over him to take the princess’s hand.  An amazing sequence.

The subsequent sequence rivals its predecessor, where Plummer, thoroughly defeated, packs his bags to leave the manor.  Plummer gives this wonderful speech about failure while Don Alvise follows behind him, shaming him by yelling at the top of his lungs.  (Pleasance gives a bizarre, emotional performance.  His character has almost no narrative weight in the final film.  This anomaly quality of his character just heightens the disjointed nature of the film.)  Plummer crosses a pedestrian bridge across one of the canals and a gulf of fog overtakes him.  When the fog clears, his character is gone, while his suitcase floats in the canal below.  Unbelievable.

Anyone who has had the pleasure of reading Klaus Kinski’s autobiography, Kinski Uncut, is well aware that Kinski quite enjoyed fucking or at the minimum, quite enjoyed writing about fucking in descriptive detail.  Unfortunately, I could decipher little in its text about Nosferatu a Venezia, but the final act of the film seems as if it could have come from pages from his autobiography.  Describing the final act, here, would be a disservice, but I hope that I have hinted towards its content sufficiently.  The final act is ridiculous, over-the-top, and much like the final film, totally incompetent or artistically brilliant.

Nosferatu a Venezia has a DVD release from Germany, available here.  It is well worth seeing, if you are a serious fan of the antiquities and curios of European cult cinema.

Zeder (1983)

Italian director Pupi Avati's contributions to the genre have been few but they have been potent, and quite often brilliant, contributions.  His atmospheric mystery starring Lino Capolicchio, La casa dalle finestre che ridono (1976), subverted the mechanics of the standard giallo formula and boasted rich characterizations and a meticulous and satisfying story.  Its visuals, like the iconic image of the titular house, have few equals from his contemporaries in the genre.  Within the last few years, I was treated to a viewing of a much later Avati contribution to the genre, L'arcano incantatore (1996), a wonderful period-piece mystery with a strong occult theme.  L'arcano incantatore plays out like a beautiful and cautious fairy tale, and again, boasts a strong performance by its richly-drawn protagonist, portrayed by Stefano Dionisi.  Over the last few months I have kept my eye on several copies of the out-of-print, Image Entertainment DVD of Zeder (1983) with hopes a seller would reduce the price, so I could purchase it.  With luck I was able to secure a copy and was again treated to Avati’s cinema.  I haven’t seen Zeder in years, and this recent viewing was extremely satisfying.

Zeder begins with an odd flashback sequence, set thirty years before its present, in Chartres where an old lady is killed in the shadow of a dilapidated maison by an unknown assailant.  Enter Dr. Meyer (Cesare Barbetti) who accompanies the police to the maison crime scene.  After a preliminary investigation, Dr. Meyer believes that there is something unusual about the location.  He brings a young patient to the location, named Gabriella, and during one evening he escorts her to the basement of the maison.  Gabriella is violently attacked by an unknown force.  After her attack, Dr. Meyer believes that he has identified what is unusual about this location.  He summons some workers who begin digging up the floor in the basement.  Little is yielded from the dig, save a wallet with an identification card with a name that reads Paolo Zeder.  Dr. Meyer believes that Paolo Zeder had his corpse buried on the premises for a specific reason:  Zeder knew that he would be resurrected, because of an unnatural power located within the area.

Cut to the present in Bologna, where Stefano (Gabriele Lavia) and Alessandra (Anne Canovas) are celebrating their one-year wedding anniversary.  Alessandra gives Stefano a rare model of an electric typewriter that she purchased at an auction.  As an aspiring novelist, Stefano begins giving his new gift some use.  When his typewriter ink ribbon becomes dislodged, he removes the ribbon to discover the words of the typewriter’s former owner:  a man named Luigi Costa who has written some very bizarre material.  Apparently Costa knows of Paolo Zeder’s work and the ability for the dead to resurrect at selected places, denoted as “K” zones.  Stefano, with reluctant Alessandra’s help, sets out to find Luigi Costa and uncover the mystery.

Zeder contains elements of the paranoia/conspiracy thriller (popular the decade before); the tried and true (yet very much dead) Italian giallo; and atmospheric horror (mostly akin to haunted-house theatrics).  At times, Zeder appears confused, only because Avati doesn’t strictly adhere to any of the mentioned formulas.  Avati is a master filmmaker, however, so the patient viewer will very much rewarded at the end.

At first blush, I thought that the exposition, the opening flashback sequence at Chartres, was too contrived to introduce the character of Zeder and the concept of the “K” zones.  What is later revealed, in a storyline parallel to Stefano’s investigation, is that Dr. Meyer and Gabriella, now a grown woman, have not abandoned their search from almost thirty-years previous.  They are not alone, either, as it appears they have recruited quite a staff and have secured serious financial backing in uncovering the existence of a “K” zone.  When Stefano makes a little headway in his investigation, he usually becomes thwarted by some mysterious figures who knows exactly what Stefano is up to.  These mysterious figures appear to be working for a larger group engaged towards the same goal.

By the end of Zeder, it is apparent that the central relationship of the film is between Stefano and Alessandra.  Stefano becomes obsessive towards uncovering the truth, even putting his life in danger at times, while Alessandra wants him to abandon his search and come home to her.  In a particularly endearing scene, Alessandra reunites with Stefano in a hotel room after a fight.  She reveals to Stefano that one of their close friends is dead, and they both realize, despite their previous spat, that they need each other for consoling.  The emotions of the scene never feel forced, and Zeder is really benefited by Lavia’s and Canovas’s performances.

If you have watched a lot of gialli, as I have, then you’re well prepared for Avati’s death scenes.  Avati effectively uses the tried-and-true method of the unsuspecting victim encountering a menacing figure emerging from the darkness.  The menacing figure gives a little chase, before the flash of the blade and the bloody killing.  Avati excels far better with his atmospheric set pieces, nearly all of which come in the final act.  When Stefano learns that an old building, near a necropolis ruin, is being occupied by a mysterious scientific group, he undertakes several clandestine trips into the old building.  All of his trips are revelatory and nearly all are extremely creepy.

Riz Ortolani’s score for Zeder is memorable, primarily because it is tonally inconsistent with the images (as is his score for Cannibal Holocaust (1980)).  It is a heavy-synth score, far more evocative of John Carpenter’s score for Halloween (1978) with shades of Harry Manfredini’s score from Friday the Thirteenth (1980).  Ortolani’s score is kind of amazing in a singular sense for adding a true unreal vibe to the entire film.

I can find little fault with Zeder.  It is truly a film to be appreciated by adults.  It’s storyline always assumes that its viewer is intelligent and thoughtful and rewards that viewer in the end.  Zeder easily ranks as one of the best Italian genre pictures in its waning days.

L'ossessa (1974)

L'ossessa (1974), or its bizarre English-language title, The Eerie Midnight Horror Show, is part of a genre of Italian cult cinema of which I am very fond:  post-Exorcist possession flicks.  Some of these films are reverent towards the source material, like L'anticristo (1974), while some are more sensational and sleazy, like Malabimba (1979).  L'ossessa definitely falls in the middle of this spectrum.  It’s totally uneven in entertainment value, suffering from primarily poor characterization despite its casting of actors of note, but it does have some marvelous set pieces and sequences.

Stella Carnacina plays Dani, a talented art student with an eye for uncovering forgotten works of art.  At an old church, she convinces her professor to purchase a life-size crucifix as a restoration project.  The crucifix is notable, for the body appears to be carved out of a single piece of wood; and the artist was successfully able to render the agony and emotion of its model.  Once the restoration project is begun, Dani returns home to attend a party hosted by her parents, portrayed by Chris Avram and Lucretia Love.  Avram’s character is staid and conservative, but Ms. Love is quite the swinging chick:  she takes to handsome paramour, played by Gabriele Tinti.  The two skip out of the party to fuck in the back bedroom where Ms. Love reveals that her kink is to be whipped with a handful of thorny roses.  Dani witnesses her mother and lover through a window and either despondent, disappointed, or shocked, she returns to the school to work on her painting.  While sitting at her easel, the crucifix resting behind Dani begins to animate.  The model comes to life revealing himself as Ivan Rassimov who, without hesitation, rips off Dani’s clothes and takes her upon the floor of the studio.  Enter the Devil.

Following Dani’s connubial scene with the Devil, and seemingly against the wishes of the director, Mario Gariazzo, L'ossessa quickly moves into the “possessed girl” sequence: Avram and Love witness spastic behavior from their daughter; Dani makes an inappropriate sexual gesture towards Avram; Love and Avram call the family doctor; Dani’s condition worsens to prompt the family doctor to consult specialists; and the specialists, in their infinite wisdom and knowledge, suggest an exorcism.  Gariazzo delivers this sequence almost as mechanically as my prose.  Gariazzo doesn’t want to keep his Dani character boringly bound to a bed (a la Linda Blair) to await the arrival of the exorcist in the final act.  In a ridiculous, yet almost sublime, dream sequence, Dani sees herself in a underground cavern (a fine cinematic substitute for Hell) where Rassimov’s Devil is accompanied by three witches.  The plan, here, is for Dani to be the puppet of the Devil to commit blasphemous and nefarious acts in his name.  Rock on, then.

Dani commits some minor Satanic acts before the local priest arrives to examine her.  (Indeed, as I write this review, pop-up advertisements play in the background of my PC that are far more Satanic than Dani’s acts.)  It is not long, then, in L'ossessa that Dani is whirled away by her parents to a mountain-top convent where in a remote section lives a reclusive yet famous exorcist, played by genre stalwart Luigi Pistilli.  The exorcist knows why he has been summoned and is sort-of ready to do battle with evil.

L'ossessa cannot be taken seriously as a drama, as the little details reveal.  For example, when the family doctor comes to examine Dani, he never once questions or speaks to her.  I cannot fathom why an experienced doctor would not talk to his adult patient about her symptoms.  In fact, when the specialists convene at Dani’s bedside to finally to decide upon her exorcism, none of the four specialists even notice that Dani is completely at rest behind them.  To top it off, Pistilli’s exorcist is quite capable of waving a cross in front of Dani when she is writhing in the violent throes of the Devil, but when Dani switches to a seductive pose to entice the priest, Pistilli’s character runs from her bedside, like a frightened adolescent.  Why does a cinematic exorcist have to be trained for solely overt, theatrical spiritual matters and not spiritual matters common to all?  The answer, perhaps, is that Gariazzo didn’t want to make a straight, Exorcist rip-off, but his hand was forced into completing one.  The best sequences are when Gariazzo and company completely divert from the source material.  For example, in one of L'ossessa’s best scenes, possessed Dani lays in a convent bed and the church bells begin to ring in a deafening manner.  The sounds are too much for her, and Dani bolts from her bed while her agonizing screams emit, competing with the sounds of the bells.  She runs through the convent and through the mountain-side village, whereupon Avram and some kind souls give chase to her.  Carnacina gives an emotional performance during this sequence, conveying true agony through her flight.  This one sequence is more frightening than any of the previous ones combined.

Despite its adept casting, L'ossessa fails to draw memorable performances from its actors.  For example, the extremely-talented and handsome Tinti is sorely underused as Love’s lover.  He performs the one fuck scene with her and appears later in one scene where Love rebuffs him (as she apparently feels guilty for her behavior after Dani becomes ill).   Rassimov is quite good and he has the fun role as the Devil:  he’s given the opportunity to let go and be indulgent and grasps the opportunity mightily.  Carnacina and Love appear to be cast for their seductive charm (and it works, as both are incredibly sexy).  However, Carnacina really transcends her cosmetic casting and devotes real emotion to her character, despite the weak screenplay.  Pistilli would have been a perfect cinematic exorcist in another movie.  He’s a wonderful actor with an emotive face, like Tinti, and with richer characterization, his performance would have been better.

L'ossessa is truly an average movie in the sub-genre of post-Exorcist films which places it fairly high on the obscurity scale.  However, I know that there are fans like me who will be attracted to it.  If one can appreciate its imaginative and sensational moments, then it’s worth seeing.  Otherwise, give this one a miss.

10.000 dollari per un massacro (10,000 Dollars for a Massacre) (1967)

One can tell within the first few minutes of 10.000 dollari per un massacro (10,000 Dollars for a Massacre) (1967) that it has the potential to be a doozy of a Western.  Django (Gianni Garko, billed here as "Gary Hudson") lays on the beach at sunset, laughing and celebrating with a corpse.  The corpse is a lucrative bounty, and Django is tickled pink to cash it in.  Crossing the valley, Django spies Manuel Vásquez (Claudio Camaso) on horseback, and the two pass each other by quietly and without incident.  It's a fateful meeting, and the two meet several times during the duration of the film.  However, only one of the two gunslingers is going to survive this picture.

In an introduction to Westerns All'Italiana:  The Wild the Sadist and the Outsiders, Gianni Garko writes:

"In 10.000 Dollari per un massacro and Per 100.000 Dollari T'Ammazzo, I used the assumed name of Gary Hudson,.  I impersonated two romantic revenge-driven bounty killers with all the frailties of the common man.  In both movies Claudio Camaso, the younger brother of Gian Maria Volonté, portrayed my opponent.  I still remember him fondly." (1)

I love Garko's description of his character.  The title of the film is ironic.  It is clear from the outset of 10.000 dollari per un massacro that above all Django loves money.  When Django goes to the sheriff to cash in his latest bounty, the sheriff remarks that Manuel Vásquez's bounty is currently at three thousand.  Django scoffs, because he knows that the bounty will get higher.  Later that evening at a saloon, Django enters and finds Manuel at a card table.  They play an uneasy hand, and Django remarks that the fellow who beat the two at poker cheated.  Manuel knifes him in the back and gets his earnings from the corpse's pocket.  He splits the take with Django.  Pretty saloon owner, Myanou (Loredana Nusciak), chides Django for his violent actions and notes that Django and Manuel are just alike:  there is little evidence that she is wrong.

Manuel kidnaps a wealthy landowner's daughter, and the father later goes to see Django who offers him five thousand to retrieve his daughter and kill Manuel.  Django scoffs at the offer, again.  Django gets critically injured by two of Manuel's gang, and it is pretty Myanou who nurses him back to health.  Django has a change of heart and professes his love to the woman.  She returns his love and asks him to accompany her to San Francisco, away from the violent life on the frontier.  He agrees.  The father of the kidnapped daughter appears again and this time offers Django ten-thousand to find his daughter and kill Manuel.  Django accepts.

Much of the script of 10.000 dollari per un massacro, penned by Franco Fogagnolo, Ernesto Gastaldi, and Luciano Martino, focuses on the theme that Django, killing criminals for the law for money, and Manuel, a criminal killing anyone for anything, are the same.  Wisely, director Romolo Guerrieri focuses his drama on this theme.  Guerrieri, incidentally, also helmed two excellent films scripted by Fernando di Leo, the Western, Johnny Yuma (1966), starring Mark Damon and Rosalba Neri, and the crime drama,

Liberi armati pericolosi (1976), starring Eleonora Giorgi and Tomas Milian.  At a pivotal point in the film, Django and Manuel agree to commit a stagecoach robbery.  Django stipulates that no one is to be harmed.  Manuel agrees but reneges on the deal by killing everyone.  Why should Django care, if the score from the robbery is the same?  The romanticism of Django, which Garko adeptly observes, dies at that moment.  It is time for revenge.

There are quite a few attempts at humor in 10.000 dollari per un massacro but most of them fail to inspire laughs and inadvertently, perhaps, make the film a lot more disturbing.  I’ve never quite admired Gianni Garko’s acting range, but here, he is quite good.  There is a boyish charm to his character which creates a sense of innocence about him, despite the fact that he is a confident gunfighter.  When his reality comes crashing down upon him, Garko follows suit and becomes the cold, stoic fighter to whom I am most accustomed.  Good-looking Claudio Camaso looks quite a bit like his brother and plays his character of Manuel much as his brother does in the Leone Westerns:  very much charismatic yet wholly impulsive and cruel.  The action sequences are excellent, and save some plodding scenes, the pacing and tone is well-done.

While 10.000 dollari per un massacro is very much traditional and not quite innovative, it is traditional cinema done exceptionally.  I also believe, but am uncertain, that this film is one of the first films to capitalize on the Django character from Sergio Corbucci’s landmark film.  Gianni Garko would later cement his own legacy in the Euro-Western as Sartana in multiple films.  10.000 dollari per un massacro is well-worth seeing for fans of the genre.

1.  Garko, Gianni,  “Introduction.“  Authors, Bruschini, Antonio and Federico de Zigno.  Western All’Italiana: The Wild the Sadist and the Outsiders.  Glittering Images.  Firenze, Italy.  2001:  p.  15.

Una pistola per cento bare (A Pistol for a Hundred Coffins) (1968)

Jim Slade (Peter Lee Lawrence) is imprisoned by the Army for his refusal to kill anyone during wartime, citing religious reasons for his refusal.  The Civil War ends, and he is pardoned.  Jim returns home to his parents' ranch in Tucson, Arizona and comes home to find his parents murdered.  Jim abandons his religious pacificism to exact revenge upon his parents’ murderers.  He buys a pistol and quickly learns to use it.  Four bandits were witnessed at his parents’ ranch, and Slade sets out to find them.

Umberto Lenzi only directed two Westerns, and Una pistola per cento bare (A Pistol for a Hundred Coffins) (1968) is his most notable.  Una pistola begins promising.  Slade finds the first bandit in a town’s square with a noose firmly around his neck, seconds before he is to be hanged for murder.  Slade rescues the bandit and escapes the town.  In a remote section of the desert, Slade forces the bandit to dig his own grave and reveal the identities and locations of his accomplices.  Once the bandit supplies the information, Slade guns him down in cold blood.  Slade’s bloodlust continues.  In the next village, he finds the home of a bandit where his wife and two children prepare for a meal.  Slade kills the bandit whose corpse falls upon the kitchen floor.  His wife and children are forced to witness his death.  Wasting no time, Slade tracks the third bandit to a crowded saloon.  Slade announces his presence to the crowd and demands the bandit present himself.  The bandit, well-dressed and at a card table, identifies himself.  Seemingly oblivious to the onlookers around him, Slade guns him down.  This mean-spirited killing spree by Slade occupies only the first fifteen minutes of Una pistola.  Amazing.

Unfortunately, the energy created during the first act cannot be sustained.  Jim has little information on the fourth bandit, as he only knows his last name, “Corbett,” and the state where he last seen, “Texas.”  He moves through the counties and checks the local bounty boards.  During one afternoon, he rides into a sleepy town and stops in the saloon.  He meets a traveling preacher, like Slade also fast with his gun, named Douglass (John Ireland).  Soon after introductions, the town is under siege by a group of bandits who attempt to rob the local bank.  The bandits are positive that two-hundred thousand dollars are located on the premises.  No money is found and the bandits retreat, not before killing the local sheriff.  The mayor of the town offers Slade and Douglass five thousand dollars each to stay and protect the town.  Slade refuses but accepts the deal when he learns that the bandit leader is none other than Corbett (Piero Lulli), the final man upon whom Slade wants to exact revenge.

During the second act of Una pistola per cento bare, the pacing slows and the plot becomes slightly too convoluted.  Slade’s plan to catch and then kill Corbett involves learning the location of the two-hundred thousand dollars, manipulating the location of the cache to lure Corbett back into town, and finally, enacting a plan to subdue Corbett once he arrives.  This latter aspect of Slade’s scheme involves myriad phases and Lenzi and his scriptwriters employ several plot and character twists.  The exposition of this scheme takes too long, so most of the ninety-minute runtime becomes bogged down.

Despite the meandering second act of Una pistola per cento bare, it does contain the most notable sequence of the entire film.  The local asylum has burned down, and the asylum’s patients have been relocated to a single cell in the town’s jail.  Within the cell are a pyromaniac, a rapist, and a murderer to name a few and there is nowhere to safely put them besides the jail.  Both Douglass and Slade, presumably because of their religious backgrounds, see the group as unfortunates and take pity upon them.  In the most well-known sequence of the film, the group escapes the cell and lays siege upon the town:  burning buildings, murdering townsfolk, and two attempt to rape the lovely beauty who sings at the local saloon, before being thwarted by Douglass who appears at the last second.  This sequence is not nearly as menacing as some of the early sequences in, say,  Condenados a vivir (Cut-Throats Nine) (1972) but it is unsurprisingly sickening and unnerving.  The inclusion of the group of psychotics in Una pistola appears, at first blush, solely to create an overtly exploitative sequence.  (However, one of the group involves himself in the plot in a pivotal scene.)  Certainly this sequence in Una pistola has created a lasting legacy and notoriety for cult and Western film fans.

When Una pistola per cento bare ended, I had this overwhelming feeling that I’ve just watched an average western, despite several strong sequences.  In the first instance, the film feels transitory, as if its meandering and convoluted plot was warming up for the giallo. (Lenzi would release his sinful Orgasmo subsequent to Una pistola.)  Also the mean-spirited and tension-filled opening act would foreshadow Lenzi’s later work with his masterful crime flicks, such as Milano odia: la polizia non può sparare (1974).  Ultimately, I believe the absence of a central and focal villain is the biggest flaw of Una pistola.  The opening sequence of the film establishes that Slade is willing to abandon his religious beliefs of pacificism (and face hard labor for this belief) for the sake of revenge.  Having Slade relentlessly and coldly follow this path of revenge only to stall the path to become a scheming, substitute lawman feels artificial.  Perhaps a simpler plotline would have made Una pistola a strong, exploitative, mean-spirited Euro-Western.  As it stands, Una pistola per cento bare is more of a cult oddity for Euro-Western and Lenzi completists.