“For every surreally beautiful set piece, Blood and Black Lace contains at least one equally dull and conventionally photographed sequence whose function is to advance the story – most scenes involving the police, who are ineffectually looking into the matter fall into this category”
“Like Blood and Black Lace [...] the visual style of The Bird with the Crystal Plumage is conspicuously inconsistent. Scenes involving the police are tolerable at best, tending towards wooden exposition”
While I agree with Maitland McDonagh that the police sequences in Bava and Argento's films are less visually interesting than the set-pieces, I don't know this necessarily makes them uninteresting.
Rather, I would ague that in sequences like these the conventional nature of the mise-en-scene might be considered as a more “poetic” way of intersubjectively externalising and expressing the mindset of the professional investigator as it is characteristically presented within gialli, that way in which, as the line in The New York Ripper puts it, he thinks “according to fixed patterns.”
It is, of course, these fixed patterns that the plots of both films, with their multiple maniacs and confusions of identities – perhaps particularly gender identities – confound; what both film-makers are telling us, perhaps, is that we need to perceive the world afresh.
They are also patterns which, we might argue, are paralleled in the way the work of these directors and the filone more generally tend to be approached with that familiar concentration upon spectacular visuals at the expense the rest – the swinging sign and telephone receiver that bookend Bava's film or the choreographed to-ings and fro-ings around the handbag containing the coveted diary seem perfect examples, along with the parallel investigation into enigmatic sound accompanying that into sight in Argento's – and of all-encompassing psychoanalytic interpretations as to what they are 'really' about.
A remark by Merleau-Ponty seems apposite here, getting to the heart of why I find a phenomenological approach to the giallo film truer to my experience:
“[T]he question is not so much whether human life does or does not rest on sexuality, as of knowing what is to be understood by sexuality. Psychoanalysis represents a double trend of thought: on the one hand it stresses the sexual substructure of life, on the other it 'expands' the notion of sexuality to the extent of absorbing into it the whole of existence. But precisely for that reason, its conclusions [...] remain ambiguous. When we generalize the notion of sexuality making it a manner of being in the physical and inter-human world, do we mean, in the last analysis, that all existence has a sexual significance or that every sexual phenomenon has an existential significance? In the first hypothesis, existence would be an abstraction, another name for the sexual life. But since sexual life can no longer be circumscribed, since it is no longer a separate function definable in terms of the causality proper to a set of organs, there is now no sense in saying that all existence is understood through the sexual life, or rather this statement becomes a tautology.”
Showing posts with label Mario Bava. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Mario Bava. Show all posts
Saturday, 7 July 2007
Tuesday, 3 July 2007
Schock poster
Or, look what arrived this morning: an original, unused, rather large poster for Bava's Schock.
Monday, 26 February 2007
A Bay of Blood
Is it possible to say anything new about A Bay of Blood? Chances are that, if you are reading this you have seen the film, or at least know of its importance: You will know that it was released on a double-bill on the US drive-in and grindhouse circuits with Wes Craven and Sean S. Cunningham's Last House on the Left, before itself being opportunistically re-released as Last House on the Left: Part II, and that Cunningham drew liberally from it in the first two Friday the 13th films.
And, if you are familiar with both Bava's giallo and Cunningham's slashers, you will also know that the former is by far the superior film, not just at a technical level - with the possible exception of Carlo Rambaldi's make-up effects when set up against those of Tom Savini; not however a criticism of Rambaldi's work as much as a recognition of the massive advances that took place in the area over the course of the 1970s - but also for what it does and, equally importantly, does not do elsewhere.
Take, for example, the ironies of the opening sequences:
Following a series of leisurely shots suggesting the tranquility of the Bay, accompanied by Stelvio Cipriani's elegant yet trashy theme, the camera frenetically follows the flightpath of a buzzing insect on its fatal plunge into the bay. The message seems clear: this place, supposedly a haven for wildlife, is in fact inimical to it as well. There is fundamentally no point to the slaughter that is about to ensue.
Like the swinging sign and telephone receiver that bookend Blood and Black Lace, we have an end (“Gee, they're good at playing dead, aren't they”) that answers the beginning: each scene might be complete in itself, as set piece or little experiment in tone and technique, but they all work together to produce something that is more than the sum of its parts.
Now compare such intricacies to Crazy Ralph warning the kids not to go to “Camp Blood” or the sudden shock re-appearance of Jason Vorhees, supposedly dead all these years, and the difference is clear.
Next consider the introduction of the Countess, whose murder will set the whole chain of events into motion. Cipriani pushes the romantic piano theme to the point of near-parody as the wheelchair-bound woman looks out mournfully on the bay, culminating in a shot of the hut within which, retrospectively, we learn her illegitimate son and legitimate heir Simon lives – an attention to detail that rewards careful and repeat viewing – before she is unceremoniously dispatched by the familiar black gloved hands.
But, wait a minute. Rather than introducing a traditional giallo enigma – who is the assassin? - Bava then pans up to reveal the man's face, before he is then in turn dispatched by a second, this time unidentified, killer. Clearly, we are playing by a different set of generic rules to those Bava had himself earlier established with The Girl Who Saw too Much and Blood and Black Lace.
True, an element of mystery is introduced at this point, as the body of the Count – for it is he – is dumped in the bay and his daughter, wondering what might have happened to him, is amongst those who converge on the slayground, but it always remains secondary to more purely cinematic considerations. Bava, that is, is now visibly less interested in the mechanics of plot and suspense than he is in those of composition and editing.
And here the way he constructs things at the level of shot – racking focus from the abstract streaked blue of the raindrops on the window overlooking the bay to the bay itself here, for example – and sequence, or manages the transitions between them – a sudden cut; zoom out / in on an associative detail or abstracted form; now some inserts of the bay, still utterly indifferent and implacable – that makes all the difference. Though it is the murder set pieces that conventionally get all the attention, in truth almost every moment has that bit more to it. Again, then, the contrast with the typical American slasher film, as something that typically does little more than go through the motions, nothing more, nothing less, is remarkable.
Nevertheless, the most obvious – and commented on – difference between A Bay of Blood, as giallo, and Friday the 13th, as slasher, is of course their respective moral senses. In simple terms, Cunningham's film exhibits a dubious puritanism that is alien to Bava's. Thus, the four party-hearty youths are killed here not because of any particular transgression but rather because they happen to be in the wrong place at the wrong time and are in way of “progress”. Morover, their killer is less the self-appointed moral avenger or sexually confused monster – qua two slasher types that are too easy to keep at a safe distance; as safely “other” – but rather normal men and women much like us, whether marked by avarice or simply a desire to have a better life for themselves and their loved ones.
And, if you are familiar with both Bava's giallo and Cunningham's slashers, you will also know that the former is by far the superior film, not just at a technical level - with the possible exception of Carlo Rambaldi's make-up effects when set up against those of Tom Savini; not however a criticism of Rambaldi's work as much as a recognition of the massive advances that took place in the area over the course of the 1970s - but also for what it does and, equally importantly, does not do elsewhere.
Take, for example, the ironies of the opening sequences:
Following a series of leisurely shots suggesting the tranquility of the Bay, accompanied by Stelvio Cipriani's elegant yet trashy theme, the camera frenetically follows the flightpath of a buzzing insect on its fatal plunge into the bay. The message seems clear: this place, supposedly a haven for wildlife, is in fact inimical to it as well. There is fundamentally no point to the slaughter that is about to ensue.
Like the swinging sign and telephone receiver that bookend Blood and Black Lace, we have an end (“Gee, they're good at playing dead, aren't they”) that answers the beginning: each scene might be complete in itself, as set piece or little experiment in tone and technique, but they all work together to produce something that is more than the sum of its parts.
Now compare such intricacies to Crazy Ralph warning the kids not to go to “Camp Blood” or the sudden shock re-appearance of Jason Vorhees, supposedly dead all these years, and the difference is clear.
Next consider the introduction of the Countess, whose murder will set the whole chain of events into motion. Cipriani pushes the romantic piano theme to the point of near-parody as the wheelchair-bound woman looks out mournfully on the bay, culminating in a shot of the hut within which, retrospectively, we learn her illegitimate son and legitimate heir Simon lives – an attention to detail that rewards careful and repeat viewing – before she is unceremoniously dispatched by the familiar black gloved hands.
But, wait a minute. Rather than introducing a traditional giallo enigma – who is the assassin? - Bava then pans up to reveal the man's face, before he is then in turn dispatched by a second, this time unidentified, killer. Clearly, we are playing by a different set of generic rules to those Bava had himself earlier established with The Girl Who Saw too Much and Blood and Black Lace.
True, an element of mystery is introduced at this point, as the body of the Count – for it is he – is dumped in the bay and his daughter, wondering what might have happened to him, is amongst those who converge on the slayground, but it always remains secondary to more purely cinematic considerations. Bava, that is, is now visibly less interested in the mechanics of plot and suspense than he is in those of composition and editing.
And here the way he constructs things at the level of shot – racking focus from the abstract streaked blue of the raindrops on the window overlooking the bay to the bay itself here, for example – and sequence, or manages the transitions between them – a sudden cut; zoom out / in on an associative detail or abstracted form; now some inserts of the bay, still utterly indifferent and implacable – that makes all the difference. Though it is the murder set pieces that conventionally get all the attention, in truth almost every moment has that bit more to it. Again, then, the contrast with the typical American slasher film, as something that typically does little more than go through the motions, nothing more, nothing less, is remarkable.
Nevertheless, the most obvious – and commented on – difference between A Bay of Blood, as giallo, and Friday the 13th, as slasher, is of course their respective moral senses. In simple terms, Cunningham's film exhibits a dubious puritanism that is alien to Bava's. Thus, the four party-hearty youths are killed here not because of any particular transgression but rather because they happen to be in the wrong place at the wrong time and are in way of “progress”. Morover, their killer is less the self-appointed moral avenger or sexually confused monster – qua two slasher types that are too easy to keep at a safe distance; as safely “other” – but rather normal men and women much like us, whether marked by avarice or simply a desire to have a better life for themselves and their loved ones.
Sunday, 14 January 2007
The Weekend Murders / Concerto per pistola solista
Released internationally by MGM, this 1970 giallo from the underrated Michele Lupo marks his only contribution to the genre. It is a shame because, while certainly not the most serious example of the form, it is a well-made and thoroughly entertaining film that deserves wider recognition and availability.
Drawing obvious inspiration from Agatha Christie, the plot sees the members of an aristocratic family gather for the reading of Sir Henry's will.
Amongst those assembled are the beautiful, brittle Isabelle (Ida Galli, here credited as Eveline Stewart) who is estranged from her father and recently lost the child she was carrying; the prim and proper Aunt Gladys (Marisa Fabbri; the maid in Four Flies on Grey Velvet) and her emotionally confused, practical-joke playing son, Georgie; and playboy Ted Collins (Giacomo Rossi Stuart), complete with sports car and new wife who, for added scandalousness, also happens to be black.
Following a shooting party that seems to allude to Renoir's The Rules of the Game in its bunny carnage and more general theme that “everyone has their reasons,” the will is read.
With the exceptions of Sir Henry's old friend Sergeant Thorpe (Gaston Moschin), to whom he leaves his prized azaleas, and Barbara Worth (opera singer turned actress Barbara Moffo), who cared for him in his final days and is left pretty much everything else, they are disappointed.
As the family discuss the situation left them by “the damned miserable rotten cheating old bastard,” as Ted puts it, Thorpe discovers the body of the butler in the greenhouse – “For once nobody will be able to say the butler did it!”
The first / third body is found buried in one of the golf-course bunkers
Little visual gimmicks abound in the film
Superintendent Grey from Scotland Yard is called in to investigate, only to prove less effectual than the dim-looking Thorpe when an attempt is made on Barbara's life and Ted is found dead, the victim of a faked suicide...
With a key aspect of the filmmakers' strategy throughout being to draw attention to and play with cliché – we can also note, for instance, the sequence where Georgie, clad in giallo killer black coat and gloves and wearing a stocking mask, stalks the maid only for her to summarily unmask and disarm him – the film The Weekend Murders most obviously resembles is Five Dolls for an August Moon, coincidentally released in the same year.
But while Bava's film is certainly the better-known riff on Christie, I would submit that it is not the better film.
A suicide that isn't
A rabbit gives its life for the sake of the film
Adverse production circumstances combined with Bava's avowed disinterest in the source material and its conventions – the array of suspects and red herrings; the isolated setting; genteel Englishness; the “locked room” situation etc. – resulted in a film that has its moments of brilliance – one thinks of the spilled balls whose roll down the stairs reveals another corpse – but does not hang together terribly well. Here, by contrast, one senses that Lupo had a solid script to start from; a cast and crew he was comfortable with; and sufficient time and resources to realise his vision. Thus, for example, whereas the zooms in Five Dolls... frequently have an element of the purely functional to them, in terms of saving on camera setups or simply trying to keep things visually interesting for the spectator, those here emerge as more of an integral part of the whole, being deployed as conscious rhetorical devices that underscore (or perhaps more critically overstate) key points in the narrative.
The detourment of a typical giallo moment
An impressive ensemble cast is assembled in the film
The same can be said of Francesco De Masi's score here as compared with Piero Umiliani's in Bava's film. Much as I love Umiliani, his work in Five Dolls... is simply there, the vocal refrain of “five dolls” notwithstanding. Here, however, the bizarre rendition of Tchaikovsky's famous Piano Concerto Number One, complete with gunshots referencing the Italian title Concerto per pistola solista / Concerto for a Pistol Soloist, over the in medias res opening sequence, provides a sense of integration from the outset. (Gianni Ferrio's use of the same piece in The Bloodstained Butterfly accomplishes something similar, with its segue from Tchaikovsky's opening bars into an easy listening lounge theme perhaps signifying something of the difference between its tortured pianist protagonist and the more blasé world in which he finds himself.)
All told, an enjoyable way to spend 98 minutes.
Drawing obvious inspiration from Agatha Christie, the plot sees the members of an aristocratic family gather for the reading of Sir Henry's will.
Amongst those assembled are the beautiful, brittle Isabelle (Ida Galli, here credited as Eveline Stewart) who is estranged from her father and recently lost the child she was carrying; the prim and proper Aunt Gladys (Marisa Fabbri; the maid in Four Flies on Grey Velvet) and her emotionally confused, practical-joke playing son, Georgie; and playboy Ted Collins (Giacomo Rossi Stuart), complete with sports car and new wife who, for added scandalousness, also happens to be black.
Following a shooting party that seems to allude to Renoir's The Rules of the Game in its bunny carnage and more general theme that “everyone has their reasons,” the will is read.
With the exceptions of Sir Henry's old friend Sergeant Thorpe (Gaston Moschin), to whom he leaves his prized azaleas, and Barbara Worth (opera singer turned actress Barbara Moffo), who cared for him in his final days and is left pretty much everything else, they are disappointed.
As the family discuss the situation left them by “the damned miserable rotten cheating old bastard,” as Ted puts it, Thorpe discovers the body of the butler in the greenhouse – “For once nobody will be able to say the butler did it!”
The first / third body is found buried in one of the golf-course bunkers
Little visual gimmicks abound in the film
Superintendent Grey from Scotland Yard is called in to investigate, only to prove less effectual than the dim-looking Thorpe when an attempt is made on Barbara's life and Ted is found dead, the victim of a faked suicide...
With a key aspect of the filmmakers' strategy throughout being to draw attention to and play with cliché – we can also note, for instance, the sequence where Georgie, clad in giallo killer black coat and gloves and wearing a stocking mask, stalks the maid only for her to summarily unmask and disarm him – the film The Weekend Murders most obviously resembles is Five Dolls for an August Moon, coincidentally released in the same year.
But while Bava's film is certainly the better-known riff on Christie, I would submit that it is not the better film.
A suicide that isn't
A rabbit gives its life for the sake of the film
Adverse production circumstances combined with Bava's avowed disinterest in the source material and its conventions – the array of suspects and red herrings; the isolated setting; genteel Englishness; the “locked room” situation etc. – resulted in a film that has its moments of brilliance – one thinks of the spilled balls whose roll down the stairs reveals another corpse – but does not hang together terribly well. Here, by contrast, one senses that Lupo had a solid script to start from; a cast and crew he was comfortable with; and sufficient time and resources to realise his vision. Thus, for example, whereas the zooms in Five Dolls... frequently have an element of the purely functional to them, in terms of saving on camera setups or simply trying to keep things visually interesting for the spectator, those here emerge as more of an integral part of the whole, being deployed as conscious rhetorical devices that underscore (or perhaps more critically overstate) key points in the narrative.
The detourment of a typical giallo moment
An impressive ensemble cast is assembled in the film
The same can be said of Francesco De Masi's score here as compared with Piero Umiliani's in Bava's film. Much as I love Umiliani, his work in Five Dolls... is simply there, the vocal refrain of “five dolls” notwithstanding. Here, however, the bizarre rendition of Tchaikovsky's famous Piano Concerto Number One, complete with gunshots referencing the Italian title Concerto per pistola solista / Concerto for a Pistol Soloist, over the in medias res opening sequence, provides a sense of integration from the outset. (Gianni Ferrio's use of the same piece in The Bloodstained Butterfly accomplishes something similar, with its segue from Tchaikovsky's opening bars into an easy listening lounge theme perhaps signifying something of the difference between its tortured pianist protagonist and the more blasé world in which he finds himself.)
All told, an enjoyable way to spend 98 minutes.
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