The Killers (1964) and Tenebrae

Clu Gulager and Lee Marvin.

The Killers (1964). Don Siegel's adaptation of Ernest Hemingway's 1946 short story "The Killers" is sadly overshadowed by the 1946 film version that made stars of Burt Lancaster and Ava Gardner. Siegel's The Killers is a lean, fast-paced drama that borrows elements from the 1946 movie, but alters the narrative path. Lee Marvin and Clu Gulager play contract killers Charlie and Lee, who are hired to murder former race car driver Johnny North. The job goes off without a hitch, but Charlie (Marvin), the more experienced hit man, is bothered by the fact that Johnny knew they were coming to kill him--but chose not to flee. Charlie becomes obsessed with finding out why and, as the killers interview people who knew their victim, Johnny's story unfolds in flashbacks. John Cassavetes turns in one of his most likable performances as Johnny, whose once-promising career goes off the rails when he falls for a mobster's mistress (Angie Dickinson). The flashbacks are well done, but The Killers works best when it focuses on the contrasting title characters: the quiet, perceptive Charlie and his younger, more action-minded partner Lee. Marvin's performance foreshadows his ruthless role in the better-known Point Blank (1967), while Gulager is a revelation. It's a shame that his career was mostly limited to TV series such as The Tall Man and The Virginian. The Killers was originally intended as one of the first made-for-TV movies, but its content was deemed too violent and it received a theatrical release. A scene in which Ronald Reagan, as a ruthless criminal, slaps Angie Dickinson is often cited for its violence. However, it pales in comparison to a later scene in which Marvin's hit man brutally slugs her. You can currently stream The Killers on Rumble for free by clicking here.

Tenebrae (1982). After a detour into supernatural horror with Suspiria (1977) and Inferno (1980), filmmaker Dario Argent returned to the giallo genre where he experienced great success in the 1970s (e.g., Deep Red, The Bird with the Crystal Plumage). Tony Franciosa stars as American writer Peter Neal, who travels to Rome to promote his latest mystery, a grisly thriller titled Tenebrae. Following the death of a young woman, Peter receives a letter from the killer who claims to have been inspired by Peter's violent novels. As more murders occur, the author closes in on the identity of the murderer--but all is not what it seems. Stylish and thematically complex, Tenebrae suffers from Argento's desire to pull out all the stops--no matter the costs. There's an incredible tracking shot in which the camera crawls along the side of a building, then up and over it and down the other side. It's an amazing technical feat, but adds little to the scene's suspense. There are also anonymous flashbacks, blood-splattered killings (you've been warned!), and a doozy of a climatic twist. I'm still not sure if the latter plays fair with the audience, but it will grab your attention. Tenebrae is a a moderately-successful return to Argento's roots, but it could have been so much more. Despite starring a well-known American actor, Tenebrae received a limited release in the U.S. two years after its European premiere; it was heavily edited and retitled Unsane. 

Malden and Fraciscus Try to Solve a Cat O' Nine Tails

Karl Malden as Arno.

If you've never seen an Italian giallo film--and have an aversion to movie violence--then Dario Argento's The Cat o' Nine Tails (1971) just might be your cup of tea. It's not a prototypical example of the genre (see Argento's later Deep Red), but it will give you a taste of these movies. It features several familiar giallo elements: a mysterious killer whose identity isn't revealed until the climax, a dark noirish atmosphere, plenty of red herrings, and multiple murders.

Karl Malden plays Franco Arno, a blind former journalist who lives with his young niece Lori.  During an evening walk, Arno and Lori overhear two people in a car discussing blackmail. A couple of days later, Lori recognizes a photo of one of the car's occupants in the newspaper. The man, a scientist who worked at the Terzi Institute for Genetic Research, apparently killed himself by jumping in front of a moving train. 

James Franciscus as Giordani.

Arno suspects foul play and goes to see journalist Carlo Giordani (James Franciscus), who was investigating a break-in at the Terzi Institute. Arno suggests that a photo of the "suicide" be enlarged and Giordano contacts the photographer. The enlargement reveals a hand on the side of the frame, shoving the victim in front of the train. However, by the time Arno and Giordani reach the photographer, he has been strangled and the picture has been stolen.

Could the murders somehow be linked to the Terzi Institute and involve the discovery of a chromosome that makes people prone to violent behavior?

Director Dario Argento is justly famous for his fluid camerawork and dark visual aesthetic. His camera moves less than usual in Cat o' Nine Tails, but his visual design does not disappoint. Shadow-filled streets, hallways lit with a sliver of light, and close-ups of a bloodshot eye create a pervasive atmosphere of unease. As in Val Lewton's pictures, alleys and buildings seem devoid of people--except for the victim and the killer, whose presence is often indicated by a point of view shot.

Catherine Spaak as a suspect.

Malden and Franciscus don't really mesh with the Italian supporting cast, but that doesn't detract from the story. Malden fares best as the curious former journalist who jumps at the chance to unmask the murderer ("I like solving puzzles"). However, he disappears for a long middle section as the plot focuses on Franciscus and his relationship with one of the suspects (Catherine Spaak). Their awkward lovemaking scene is the film's low point. Well, that plus placing little Lori out of harm's way only to have the killer nab her near the climax.

The title refers to an metaphor used by Malden, in which the cat is the crime and the nine tails are the leads that should result in solving it. That may not quite make sense, but then Cat o' Nine Tails is not a movie that can withstand close scrutiny. Watch for the visuals and the atmosphere. If you're intrigued--and not squeamish--then look for Deep Red (1975). It stars David Hemmings (Blow Up) as a pianist who witnesses the murder of a telepathic woman who sensed the thoughts of a killer during a parapsychology demonstration in a theater.

A Bloodthirsty Killer is a Good Reason for “StageFright”

Michele Soavi’s 1987 StageFright (original Italian title: Deliria) opens with a woman being attacked in an alley. As onlookers gather, a man donning a giant owl headpiece leaps from the darkness and begins to dance to sax music. It’s all a rehearsal for The Night Owl, a trashy and rather vulgar theatrical production set to open in a week. The director, Peter (David Brandon), desperately tries to polish the show, while a financier, Ferrari (Piero Vida), nervously stands by, hoping to protect his investment. When one of the crew is murdered just outside the building, Peter decides to work the tragedy in his favor.

Crazed actor-turned-killer Irving Wallace (Clain Parker) has recently escaped from a nearby institution. Believing that the murder was committed by Wallace (which the audience knows is true), Peter reworks the play to give his anonymous killer a name. The director convinces Ferrari to invest additional funds, pushing the opening by several days to fully take advantage of the headlines. Peter furthermore persuades the remaining cast to stay all night, promising more money and, for good measure, locking them inside the building. Unfortunately, one of Wallace’s first victims is the actor who’s hidden the key, trapping former lead actress, Alicia (Barbara Cupisti), and the others with a homicidal maniac.

Soavi’s feature film debut is an energetic and thrilling cinematic venture. A fan of Dario Argento’s films, Soavi asked the director for a job and worked as assistant or second unit director on movies from Argento and Lamberto Bava, occasionally appearing in small roles. He made a documentary, Dario Argento’s World of Horror, in 1985 and was then offered the chance to direct with the help of producer/director Joe D’Amato (born Aristide Massaccesi), with whom Soavi had previously worked. Despite frequently working with other directors, Soavi displays a fresh, original style and directs a film that thrives on its claustrophobic setting.

Though StageFright does have its share of gory moments, many sequences boast a high level of suspense. The cast and crew are often searching for weapons or means of escape, and one scene is particularly well done, as a set of keys is finally discovered, and each key is tested in the deadbolt. Wallace’s face is initially shown, as he is rolled in a gurney at the hospital. Once at the theater, he’s only seen in shadow, behind a mask, or with just an arm or hand(s) visible. He begins as a man but ultimately becomes a presence. Even when he’s clearly shown (at one point literally in the spotlight), he’s still in costume and seems less than human.

Soavi intensifies the film by proficiently fusing the stage and theater into the plot. During a rehearsal, Wallace walks onstage dressed in the owl costume, and Peter, yelling directions, unwittingly demands a killer to kill someone. Wallace then moves from actor to director, shutting off the lights and turning up the music. The survivors hide in the dressing room, emerging later to face Wallace, almost as if he were awaiting their performances. One of the most terrifying scenes is near the end, when only one person is left alive, and Wallace poses all the bodies onstage like props. Then he simply sits and taps his foot, having jammed the missing key into the stage’s floorboards. It’s a revealing moment, a reminder that, not only does he quite literally hold the key to freedom, but also that he has spent much of the film simply waiting for the people to come to him (like an audience to a show).

Soavi manages comic relief with a gleefully cynical view of the authorities. When the police arrive to investigate the first murder, they leave a couple of officers to watch the theater, oblivious to the fact that Wallace has already gained entrance. The comedy comes in the form of the two cops, seated in their patrol car, having trivial conversations, from their late-night dinner to the younger officer expressing his belief that he looks a little like James Dean. In the pouring rain, and with the theater walls so dense, the cops are unable to hear the people screaming for help. What’s even more amusing is that Soavi plays the young officer, so while the narrative’s director locks everyone inside, the director of the film won’t unlock the door.

While a number of Italian horror films have multiple titles and various running lengths due to edits, StageFright is an anomaly. Firstly, most such movies, in spite of the many alternate titles, generally have just a title or two that fans know best. StageFright, on the other hand, is commonly known as Aquarius, StageFright: Aquarius, Deliria, Sound Stage Massacre, and Bloody Bird (its title in France). Even StageFright is written as one word or two, or with only the first letter capital. (In Germany, it was released as Aquarius: Theater des Todes (“theater of death”), and its Brazilian title was O Pássaro Sangrento, which can be translated as “bloody bird.”) Italian horror features, such as Mario Bava’s Bay of Blood (1971), were often released in the U.S. initially in censored form. Soavi’s film, in contrast, was released domestically in an edited version and uncut in other countries, such as America. Soavi blames the editing, dubbing and score’s mix on the lackluster returns during its Italian theatrical run, and he has stated that he prefers the English version.

Soavi followed StageFright with The Church (La chiesa/1989), originally conceived as a second sequel to Lamberto Bava’s Demons (1985), The Sect (aka The Devil’s Daughter; La setta/1991), and Cemetery Man (Dellamorte Dellamore/1994), a zombie horror/comedy starring Rupert Everett. His films have found little success in his native country but have garnered him international acclaim, especially Cemetery Man. Soavi left the film industry to be with his family, but, by the end of century, returned to direct Italian TV productions and, more recently, theatrical films.

The Aquarius title is not so much a reference to the astrological sign as it is, most likely, to its meaning of “water bearer.” Early in the film, at the hospital, a nurse is feeding small fish to a much larger lionfish. It almost foreshadows the people confined to the theater building with a killer inside. Some of the promotional materials for StageFright (as Aquarius) featured an axe smashing into a glass box (perhaps a fish tank) with the victims’ faces inside.

John Morghen (born Giovanni Lombardo Radice), who stars in StageFright as one of the actors, is well known among Italian horror fans for a number of his characters having memorable deaths, such as Lucio Fulci’s City of the Living Dead (1980) and Umberto Lenzi’s Cannibal Ferox (1981) -- StageFright isn’t one of those films. Screenwriter Lew Cooper’s real name is Luigi Montefiori, but he is better known under the pseudonym of George Eastman, best remembered as the lanky man with the visceral denouement in Joe D’Amato’s Antropophagus (1980).

At face value, Michele Soavi’s StageFright belongs to a subgenre of horror known as slasher films. Slashers are typically written off as exploitative rubbish, but one should not forget that renowned directors have made slasher films, such as Alfred Hitchcock (1960’s Psycho) and Michael Powell (Peeping Tom of the same year). These movies are at their best when they rely on suspense. Viewers may witness a killer’s work, but the most frightening scenes are ones of anticipation, knowing that he/she is out there and is prone to seek more victims. The varying titles of Saovi’s film reference the location (Sound Stage Massacre or trapped like fish in Aquarius), the killer (Bloody Bird) or his insanity (Deliria). Perhaps the best title, StageFright, refers to anxiety or fear. The murders are over quickly. But the trepidation of the claustrophobic theater and the panic of knowing that there’s an insane killer somewhere in the building -- these are feelings that don’t go away so easily.

The Five Man Army: A Spaghetti Western Variation of "Mission: Impossible" Courtesy of Dario Argento

The CBS Late Movie was a viewing staple during my high school years; I watched it every Friday night during the school year and every week night during summer vacation. Its diverse menu of films ranged from Hammer horrors (always shown on Friday) to action programmers (like Darby’s Rangers) to obscure Westerns.

Among the latter was The Five Man Army (1969), a low-budget Spaghetti Western made by American journeyman director Don Taylor. Its biggest stars were veteran TV performers Peter Graves (on vacation from Mission: Impossible) and James Daly (Chad Everett’s boss on the TV series Medical Center). In short, there was no reason to harbor any expectations for The Five Man Army…and yet, I thoroughly enjoyed the film. I’ve seen it twice since—including an uncut, letterboxed version on TCM—and it holds up remarkably well.

Parts of its appeal for me is the old “rounding up the gang” theme. As in The Adventures of Robin Hood and The Magnificent Seven, we meet our protagonists one by one as a young thief informs them that “The Dutchman” (Graves) has a job requiring their services. Frankly, anything seems better than their current occupations: The Colonel (Daly) is a low-rent gambler; the Samurai (Tetsuro Tamba) throws knives in a traveling roadshow; and the massive Mesito (Bud Spencer) performs menial chores like feeding chickens.

The Dutchman’s “job” is a daunting one: These five men will rob a Mexican train carrying $500,000 in gold—which is guarded by a troop of soldiers, a machine gun, and a cannon. Except for an unlikely capture and escape sequence, The Five Man Army is basically a heist film masquerading as a Western. It’s this unlikely mixture of genres that makes the film so surprisingly diverting.

The caper, which comprises about a third of the running time, smartly blends tension and humor. A little boy almost gets The Dutchman captured before the heist even begins. An unexpected accident results in one of the five falling off the top of a speeding rail car. The arrival of unexpected visitors threatens to throw off the split-second timing required to pull off the elaborate heist.

The always likable Graves, though probably not the best choice for the main role, is believable as the never-flustered leader. The other four performers acquit themselves nicely, especially Bud Spencer in a role similar to his Bambino in the Trinity films. The memorable music score by the famed Ennio Morricone ranks among his three best (topped by Once Upon a Time in the West and The Good, the Bad and the Ugly). The screenplay, co-written by future horror maestro Dario Argento, wisely keeps dialogue to a minimum.

The Five Man Army will never be mistaken for a genre classic. But it’s smartly-made escapist fare and, like the Western mystery Five Card Stud, deserves kudos for stretching the six-shooter formula. Stripped of its Western trappings, the intricate heist sequence could have been lifted from an episode of Mission: Impossible…which I suppose justifies why Peter Graves was cast as the unlikely action hero.

31 Days of Halloween: Painting with Black Gloves in Dario Argento's The Bird with the Crystal Plumage

Sam Dalmas is an American writer looking for inspiration in Italy. After two years of writing very little, he is nearly broke and planning a return to the U.S. Passing by an art gallery one night, he sees a woman struggling with a man in black. The woman is stabbed, and the man runs away. Sam is inadvertently locked between giant glass doors and is unable to help the wounded woman. The police arrive, and Sam is questioned all night, but he cannot recall much about the man in black. In spite of this, the police consider the writer an important witness, and his passport is taken from him. Apparently, someone else believes Sam knows more, as an unknown assailant swings a cleaver aimed at his head while on his way home. When other young women start being murdered, and realizing that the killer may very well be the one who wants him dead, Sam begins investigating the killings on his own. This leads to a mysterious painting and a close examination of a recorded phone call from the killer, with a strange sound in the background (and an explanation of the title).

Director Dario Argento was a screenwriter for some years (including co-writing Sergio Leone's classic, Once Upon a Time in the West (1969), and Don Taylor's 1970 Western, Five Man Army). The Bird with the Crystal Plumage (1969) was his directorial debut and marked the beginning of what would become his trademarks. These include: a killer who threatens people with a creepy, whispering voice; focusing on the killer's weapon(s) of choice with extreme close-ups; and frequent point-of-view shots of the killer donning black leather gloves (Argento has stated that, in his films, the killer's hands always belong to the director himself, who believes that no one else can move the hands the way that he wants). One of the more significant and original trademarks that Argento first employed in his debut is a character who believes that he/she has seen something that may be important, but cannot be recalled at the present time. Sam says just that in The Bird with the Crystal Plumage, that there was something about the attack that was a little "off." Argento did this again in films such as 1975's Deep Red (aka The Hatchet Murders), 1982's Tenebrae (aka Unsane), and Trauma (1992). In each film, the character invariably remembers what exactly he/she was seeing, and it eventually leads to the killer's unmasking.
With this movie, Argento proved adept at combining scenes of suspense with humorous sequences. There are many instances of the killer stalking potential victims, and one attack in particular is truly terrifying, as the murderer tries to force a way into Sam's loft, while Sam's girlfriend, Julia, is alone. But comic relief abounds, as Sam visits a man in prison who tackles a speech impediment by saying "So long" (initially making Sam believe the interview has prematurely ended), as well as tracking down the artist of the aforementioned painting, a burly man surrounded by cats who lives on the second floor of a remote cottage, accessible only by a rickety stepladder.

The unveiling of the murderer is shocking and quite clever, and it's important to note that Argento never cheats in hiding the killer's identity. He is fair in his presentation to the audience. Much like the protagonist, Sam, the viewers see what they need to see and are allowed to form their own conclusions. Although many Italian horror films are mocked for weak and illogical stories (as well as shoddy English dubbing), The Bird with the Crystal Plumage has a solid plot with strong, likable characters. Tony Musante is very good as Sam, but he is outshined by Suzy Kendall portraying Julia. The real star, however, is Argento's camera, which simply refuses to sit still, creating beautifully fluid shots.

The Bird with the Crystal Plumage is reportedly an uncredited adaptation of Frederic Brown's novel, The Screaming Mimi (officially adapted in 1958 in the U.S. as Screaming Mimi). This movie is the start of a reputed "Animal Trilogy," as the director followed this with The Cat o' Nine Tails (1970) and Four Flies on Grey Velvet (1971). Many Italian directors, hoping to achieve similar success, began including animals in the titles, such as Sergio Martino's The Case of the Scorpion's Tail (1971), Paolo Cavara's Black Belly of the Tarantula (1971), and Lucio Fulci's A Lizard in a Woman's Skin (1971) and Don't Torture a Duckling (1972).