On the whole, it all works.Īll of which begs the question: why did Fulci subsequently abandon this mode of filmmaking? He was good at it, and one would assume that it would have provided the director with a more substantial measure of success (I mean, Brian De Palma once made a career of this sort of thing). Finally, Riz Ortolanti contributes an arresting jazz score to the movie. Even shots cribbed from Hitchcock-one in particular involves filming from beneath a glass floor, while another seems to be shot from within a waterbed-are transformed into something uniquely the director's own. Certainly, Fulci shows a superb eye for framing the scene in this movie this is replete with interesting deep-focus compositions, a couple of arresting split screen arrangements, and odd dutch tilts and eccentric camera moves. In a lot of ways, this is the best Jess Franco movie ever made. The movie makes a great deal of the profession of Sorel's mistress, too-she's a fashion photographer-which gives the filmmakers ample excuse to put more naked women on screen, to say nothing of late sixties haute coture. The implication of necrophilia is obvious, but striking none the less. In Sorel and Mell's first coupling-which is WAY sexy-Fulci crosscuts with images of Sorel's brunette wife stretched out on her deathbed. Also unusual for movies like this one, the filmmakers actually make something of the sexual content. And Marisa Mell's willingness to get naked. Unlike most erotic thrillers, this one actually manages to BE erotic, thanks in part to the sheer beauty of its leads. Is it wrong of me that I totally want this outfit? Her entrance as stripper Monica Weston, peeling while draped over a motorcycle, is as iconic in its way as her romp on the bed in a pile of money in Danger: Diabolik. Jean Sorel's lead is a fairly handsome Alain Delon knock-off and is an impressive male fashion plate, but it's Marisa Mell who dominates the movie in her dual role. San Francisco is one of the most photogenic cities in the world and the movie gives a striking tour of the city at a particular place in time. To my untrained eye, this is very much the most attractive of Fulci's movies, one that takes full advantage of its setting and its actors. Perhaps more surprising than the relative coherence of the narrative-relative, I say, because it's still not a particularly linear film-is the fact that the movie doesn't really depend on it. If the connection to Hitchcock's Vertigo isn't obvious enough, the movie is mostly set (and filmed) in San Francisco to boot. This particular story follows shady doctor Jean Morel as he tries to piece together the death of his wife, the suspicious insurance policy she took out before her death, the relationship between her and her doppelganger, stripper Marisa Mell, and his relationship with his mistress (Elsa Martinelli). What's most surprising about it is its coherence as a narrative, something Fulci had no real interest in during his most renowned period. It makes an interesting triptych with A Lizard in a Woman's Skin and Don't Torture a Duckling, though I would argue that it's better than either of those films. This is Fulci's first thriller, made somewhat before the director's appetites turned more visceral. One of those high notes is Una sull'altra (aka: Perversion Story in the USA, or more accurately, One on Top of the Other), a mostly fascinating film noir from 1969. Its mostly crap, but punctuated by high notes. But here's one further thing about Fulci: not only are his movies avatars of the risk/reward nature of crap cinema, so is his whole career! In this respect, he is a true auteur. the shark has showed up in a recent Microsoft ad campaign. Perhaps no other movie summarizes this masochistic relationship better than Fulci's Zombi 2, which brings you not one, but TWO indelible sequences that are memorable out of all proportion to the actual quality of the movie: The zombie versus the shark scene and the splinter in the eye scene. I'm talking about things like Amy Steele's face-off with Jason in the second Friday the 13th movie or the prolonged, Rube Goldberg-esque death of Henry Silva's hit man in Ozploitation vampire movie, Thirst. You'll hear them wax rhapsodic over some outre grace note in an otherwise dreadful film. A dedicated student will sift through the trash hoping for one or two moments of transcendence. Fulci's films sum up the perils and rewards of trash movies. He's THE patron director for anyone who follows lowbrow cinema as a vocation.
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