The Warriors 1979 – Waaaarrrrrriiiorsss, come out to pla-i-ay!

In 1979, I was drawn to two influential films. Carpenter’s Escape From New York (whose production design leaned into a “feudal” visual style for the prison island) and The Warriors 1979, an ultra-violent and thrilling pulp hit recognizing the crime-ridden New York City of the late 1970s, which were in shambles.

Walter Hill’s 1979 film The Warriors neo-feudal New York has established itself as a cult classic in American cinema, offering an offbeat portrayal of New York City’s urban landscape. Based on Sol Yurick’s 1965 novel, the film presents a dystopian vision of the city where street gangs dominate the nocturnal realm of New York nightlife. Roger Ebert gave it two stars and condemned it as ‘a ballet of stylized male violence.’

The 30-mile odyssey through enemy territory becomes a gauntlet of survival as they navigate through territories controlled by hostile gangs, all of whom are now hunting the film’s protagonists, the Warriors. Hill’s adaptation amplifies the tension and urgency of Yurick’s source material, creating a kinetic thriller that captivates audiences with its unique blend of action and urban mythology.

Walter Hill’s gritty cult classic hit theaters on February 9, 1979, plunging audiences into a nightmarish vision of New York City that eerily mirrored the metropolis’s real-life struggles. The Warriors is notable for its stylized depiction of gang culture, its diverse cast, and its blend of gritty realism with an almost mythic storytelling element. This environment provided a plausible backdrop for the film’s dystopian version of the city. By combining these elements, The Warriors emerged as a unique blend of ancient storytelling, contemporary urban issues, and a high-stylized cinematic story.

The gang the warriors aimed to create a “tribal feeling of going into battle together, of loyalty, of support and shared goals” and to have “the audience’s sympathy as they fight off all the other gangs in the city.”

The narrative follows the eponymous gang, hailing from the seaside amusements of Coney Island, who find themselves falsely accused of assassinating a prominent gang leader. This inciting incident propels them into a perilous journey across the neon-lit city from the northern reaches of the Bronx as they venture deep into enemy territory to their home turf in southern Brooklyn.

The Warriors’ treacherous journey begins when they attend a grand assembly in the Bronx, orchestrated by the charismatic leader Cyrus, portrayed by Roger Hill.

Cyrus, the doomed visionary of the city’s most powerful gang, the Gramercy Riffs, calls a midnight summit of all New York City gangs in Van Cortlandt Park. Each gang is asked to send nine unarmed representatives. During the meeting, Cyrus proposes a citywide truce in order to forge an alliance, suggesting that the gangs could rule the city together as they outnumber the police.

However, the summit takes a tragic turn when Cyrus falls victim to an assassin’s bullet. Luther, the unstable leader of the Rogues, shoots the magnetic leader. In the ensuing chaos, Luther frames the Warriors for the murder.

The Warriors find themselves wrongly accused and are thrust into a desperate fight for survival. Suddenly, these Coney Island outsiders become the most wanted gang in New York.

The Riffs, believing the warriors to be responsible, put out a hit on them through a radio DJ. Now falsely implicated and hunted by every gang in the city, they must fight their way from the Bronx back to their home turf in Coney Island.

During their extremely challenging odyssey, they navigate the street-smart landscape through rival gang territories, narrowly escaping police and other vengeful gangs at every turn.

With a target on their backs, the Warriors must fight their way through a treacherous urban gauntlet, cutting through the heart of Manhattan and Brooklyn to reach their home turf. Their journey becomes a nightlong trial as they dodge cutthroat rival gangs thirsting for retribution. Every subway station, every street corner, and every dark alley poses a potential ambush. The Warriors must summon all their street smarts and combat skills to outmaneuver their pursuers and clear their name, all while the sprawling city seems to conspire against them.

Continue reading “The Warriors 1979 – Waaaarrrrrriiiorsss, come out to pla-i-ay!”

THE PRICE OF DECADENCE AND LIBERATION: Seduction and Isolation: A Dual Journey Through Queens of Evil 1970 and L’Avventura 1960 Part 2

L’Avventura 1960: Antonioni’s Haunting Exploration of Alienation and Desire in Post-War Italy

READ PART 1 QUEENS OF EVIL 1970, HERE

SPOILER ALERT!

Michaelangelo Antonioni made the statement at Cannes: ” Today the world is endangered by an extremely serious split between a science that is totally and consciously projected into the future, and a rigid and stereotyped morality which all of us recognize as such and yet sustain out of cowardice or sheer laziness (…) Moral man, who has no fear of the scientific unknown, is today afraid of the moral unknown.”

“ L’Avventura” created a stir in 1960 when {film critic} Kael picked it as the best film of the year. It was seen as the flip side of Fellini’s La Dolce Vita. Both directors were Italian; both depicted their characters in a fruitless search for sensual pleasure, and both films ended at dawn with emptiness and soul-sickness. But Fellini’s characters, who were middle-class and had lusty appetites, at least were hopeful on their way to despair. For Antonioni’s idle and decadent rich people, pleasure is anything that momentarily distracts them from the lethal ennui of their existence. Kael again: “The characters are active only in trying to discharge their anxiety: Sex is their sole means of contact…

… It was the most pure and stark of several films about characters who drifted in existential limbo. In America, it came at a time when beatniks cultivated detachment, when modern jazz kept an ironic distance from melody, when it was hip to be cool. That whole time came crashing down later in the 1960s, but while it lasted, “L’Avventura” was its anthem.” -FROM ROGER EBERT 1997

L’Avventura and La Dolce Vita, both released in 1960, stand as grand achievements in Italian art-house cinema, each leaving an indelible mark on the cinematic landscape. While both films emerge from the same river of thought, their singular currents have an organic path that flows from the influential waters of Italian Neorealism; where they diverge is in their artistic approaches.

Antonioni and Fellini, though contemporaries offer distinct perspectives on the societal shifts of their era. Fellini strived to draw a distinction between modernity and tradition, using the Neorealist framework as a gateway to his unique vision. However, his style differed from Antonioni’s. While both directors’ leading protagonists were captured in brushstrokes, painting them as flawed men contending with moral ambiguity, Fellini told his story from Marcello Rubini’s (portrayed by Marcello Mastroianni) perspective. At the same time, with L’Avventura, Antonioni centers his tale through the prism of Claudia’s experience, offering a female-centric exploration of existential themes. Antonioni clearly filtered his story through Claudia’s (Monica Viti) eyes. Antonioni, along with screenwriter Guerra, also adopted a more introspective stance, focusing on the internal struggles of their characters.

The arrival of Michelangelo Antonioni’s L’Avventura in 1960 marked a pivotal moment in cinematic history, coinciding with a period of profound transformation in the medium. Its debut at Cannes was met with a volatile response, with some audience members displeased by the revision in filmmaking style.

This turbulent reception reflected the seismic shifts occurring in film at the time. The traditional structure of narrative cinema was being dismantled and reimagined, both within established movements – “ from inside the “ nouvelle vague” (Koehler) by maverick filmmakers.

The French New Wave, exemplified by Jean-Luc Godard’s Breathless 1960, was pushing boundaries, while directors like Agnès Varda and Alain Resnais (Last Year in Marienbad 1961) were charting new territories with their innovative works.

Directed Alain Resnais’s elegantly theatrical masterpiece of cinematic modernism, Last Year in Marienbad 1961.

“ In this exceptional moment, some of cinema’s old props were being kicked away, including Hollywood’s genre formulae, the three-act narrative structure, the privileging of psychology, the insistence on happy and ‘closed’ endings…{…}… What if endings were less conclusive or less ‘satisfying’? These are the questions Antonioni confronted and responded to with L’avventura, the film that – more than any other at that moment – redefined the landscape of the art form, and mapped a new path that still influences today’s most venturesome and radical young filmmakers.” —(SIGHT & SOUND by Robert Koehler -Originally published 27 July 2012-written in anticipation of our 2012 Greatest Films of All Time poll. Updated: 28 September 2023)

Antonioni’s films of the 1950s were, at one time, sentimental melodramas. In Italy, the landscape had already begun to shift dramatically. He had already started playing a role in deconstructing the existing traditions of the Neorealism movement, which gave way to a new era. This post-Neorealist cinema emerged, unshackled from the constraints of melodramatic conventions and political ideologies that had characterized its predecessor. L’Avventura, his 6th feature film, stood at the forefront of this cinematic revolution, embodying the spirit of a medium in flux and heralding a new chapter in film history.

Described as a painter, Michelangelo Antonioni’s groundbreaking 1960 film L’Avventura (English: The Adventure) redefined cinematic storytelling, challenging traditional narrative structures impactful because of how it deconstructs the classic plot formula and undermines audience expectations. The film was developed from a story by Antonioni with co-writers Elio Bartolini and Tonino Guerra. Sam Juliano at Wonders in the Dark had this to say about Tonino Guerra – “ the genius of Guerra, not simply in dialogue, but even more critically, in the marshaling and pacing of manifestation.”

Antonioni came from the privileged upper class, while Guarra was born of illiterate farmers. He chose to become a poet. Part of the strength of Antonioni’s vision can be attributed to Guarra’s contribution to the poetic substance of the film.

L’Avventura unfolds as a provocative exploration of human nature, set against the backdrop of Italy’s affluent society in the 1960s with the enigmatic event: the inexplicable vanishing of Anna (Lea Massari) during a Mediterranean yachting trip to a desolate volcanic island.

Anna’s fiancé, Sandro (Gabriele Ferzetti), and her best friend, Claudia (Monica Vitti), proceed to search for Anna, who is essentially in the wind. What begins as a search for the missing woman evolves into a journey of modern alienation and the emptiness of affluent society.

As their search unfolds, Claudia and Sandro’s initial determination to find Anna gradually wanes, and their pursuit of their missing friend and lover crumbles and is increasingly overshadowed by their growing attraction to each other, replaced by a complex emotional entanglement that neither if them fully comprehends nor resists.

Sandro: You love Anna very much.
Claudia: Yes, very much.
Sandro: Did she ever talk to you about me?
Claudia: Seldom, but always tenderly.
Sandro: And yet – and yet she acted as though our love, mine, yours, even her father’s, in a way, weren’t enough for her, meant nothing to her.

The initial search proves fruitless, and as time passes, Sandro and Claudia’s efforts to find Anna gradually transform into a burgeoning romantic relationship.

ANNA FADES, CLAUDIA EMERGES: When Absence Becomes the Central Character:

Monica Vitti and Lea Massari exchange places in the narrative. Massari is already disappearing in the frame.

Anna’s disappearance recedes into the background, becoming less a focal point of their journey and more a catalyst for her and Sandro’s emerging relationship.

Her absence continues to haunt the narrative, though not overtly. It inevitably evokes Hitchcock, who played with a similar motif in Rebecca 1940 and Vertigo 1958, not to mention how the director also dispatched his heroine early on in his contemporary psychological thriller Psycho 1960.

Anna at L’Avventura’s center dematerializes, in effect, like a ghost; she vanishes without a trace and creates a void at the narrative’s core. Without tangible evidence, her absence is marked only by rumors of sightings. Acting as the catalyst, Anna has been instrumental in bringing Claudia into her social circle, throwing her and Sandro together. Essentially, Monica Vitti is introduced into the role as, at first, the ‘witness’ (often Claudia is captured ‘looking’) and then as the narrator’s visual ‘surrogate.’

L’Avventura is a fleeting story of a woman’s erasure as she becomes increasingly forgotten long before the film is over. The profound uncomfortability lies in the complete absence of resolution—no sign of her, no investigation, and ultimately, no lasting memory of Anna herself. And though we are haunted. Claudia and Sandro are not.

Anna’s vanishing act causes a visual transformation in the film. Suddenly, the scope expands paradoxically through her absence, with Antonioni employing more expansive and lingering shots. The film’s aesthetic becomes more tangible, and the landscape holds greater importance, emphasizing the elemental forces – billowing clouds, falling rain, crashing waves, and an intensified sun.

Anna’s enigmatic disappearance serves as symbolism, a narrative pivot, propelling the characters into a profound exploration of existential nothingness, where her absence becomes that aforementioned haunting presence that permeates the film, symbolizing the void at the heart of modern existence and the characters’ futile attempts to fill it with superficial pursuits and fleeting connections.

Anna embodies existential ennui and disillusionment with modern life. Her disappearance symbolizes a deliberate escape from a reality that brings profound disappointment. Anna is now invisible, and… also felt nothingness while she was still present.

At the same time, Claudia moves from the periphery to the center and, ultimately, by the closing passages, returns to the edges of affluence once again, but much more empowered than in the beginning.

“As Geoffrey Nowell-Smith observes in his essential study of the film, the periphery in Antonioni is of absolute importance, for this is where the sense of drift in his mise-en-scène and narratives resides – a de-centred centrality. No filmmaker before Antonioni, not even the most radical visionaries like Vigo, had established this before as a part of their aesthetic project.” – Koehler from Sight and Sound

Claudia ultimately admits she prefers Anna’s absence, recognizing that her friend’s return would disrupt their evolving relationship.

Unlike Anna, who is always purposeful, Claudia emerges initially as a fragile seeker, desperately pursuing Sandro’s lukewarm affections with a vulnerability that betrays her own emotional uncertainty.

Claudia: Tell me you love me.
Sandro: I love you
Claudia: Tell me again.
Sandro: I don’t love you.
Claudia: I deserve that.
Sandro: [Leaves the room and immediately comes back]  It’s not true. I love you.

The evolution of Sandro and Claudia’s relationship is central to the film’s exploration of human nature. Their inability to fully commit to finding Anna, coupled with their growing attraction, highlights the fleeting nature of human connections and the ease with which people can be replaced in modern society.

Claudia: Because I am convinced you could make really beautiful things.
Sandro: I don’t know. I really don’t know about that. Who needs beautiful things nowadays, Claudia? How long will they last? All of this was built to last centuries. Today, 10, 20 years at the most, and then? Well.

Sicily’s Stark Beauty: Antonioni’s Canvas for Modern Alienation – L’Avventura’s Cinematic Landscape in 1960s Italy- From Neorealism to Ennui:

The film follows their journey through various locations in Italy, including Sicily and Taormina, as they ostensibly continue their search while grappling with their growing attraction to each other.

Shot on location in 1959 across Italy on location in Rome, the Aeolian Islands, and Sicily under challenging conditions, L’Avventura is renowned for its innovative approach to pacing, tone, and visual composition. Antonioni prioritizes mood and character development over traditional plot progression, creating a mesmerizing cinematic experience that lingers in the viewer’s mind. According to an Antonioni obituary, the film “systematically subverted the filmic codes, practices, and structures in currency at its time.”

The tepid reception of Il grido in 1957, both financially and critically, left Antonioni at a crossroads. Disillusioned with cinema, he contemplated a permanent return to his theatrical roots. However, his eventual decision to helm L’Avventura proved to be a tumultuous journey. The production was plagued by misfortune, culminating in a nightmarish scenario on the remote island of Lisca Bianca. As financial backing crumbled with the collapse of Imeria, the film’s producers, Antonioni, and his crew, found themselves marooned in a desolate location, grappling with dwindling resources and the harsh realities of isolation.

Despite the initial controversy – the rhythmic booing of the audience, at its Cannes premiere, L’Avventura went on to receive critical acclaim, earning the festival’s Jury Prize. Upon its international release, it reached a wider audience; the film made Antonioni’s career and is now lauded as a classic, recognized to be #3 of the 10 greatest films of all time. No. 1 is Citizen Kane, and No.2 is Battleship Potemkin.

It also was responsible for catapulting Monica Vitti to international stardom. Monica Vitti’s arrival on screen, wearing her chic black dress and possessing her iconic sensually windswept blonde mane, beckoned the dawn of the 1960s. Her magnetic aura transcends mere fashion, embodying the era’s spirit of liberation. Vitti’s iconic style and captivating aura elevated any film she graced, transforming it into a cultural touchstone that defined the decade’s aesthetic. She also stated that this film changed her life. Monica Vitti’s modernist theater background shines through her nuanced performance as she masterfully conveys complex emotions within Antonioni’s deliberately restrained cinematic framework.

The film’s lasting impact is evident in its consistent ranking among the world cinema’s greatest films of all time by critics and its influence on subsequent generations of filmmakers. L’Avventura’s groundbreaking status stems from its pioneering exploration and advancement of the principle of the ‘open film.’ This innovative approach to cinema had been Antonioni’s primary focus since transitioning from his notable career as a critic to filmmaking, mirroring the path of contemporaries like Godard. Its revolutionary nature lies in its fluid structure, having many of his ideas inspired by impressions of places that were visual epiphanies to the director, constantly shifting focus, and defying traditional narrative conventions, thereby redefining cinematic storytelling.

Michaelangelo Antonioni on the set of L’Avventura 1960.

His early works—from documentary to narrative film—which include The People of the Po (Gente del Po, 1947) and Story of a Love Affair (Cronaca di un amore, 1950), already challenged the constraints of Neorealism, revealing an artist attuned to the post-war world’s constant state of transformation and fluidity.

As the first installment of Antonioni’s acclaimed trilogy, followed by La Notte (The Night) and L’Eclisse (The Eclipse 1960), L’Avventura stands as a testament to the director’s visionary approach to cinema, systematically subverting established filmic conventions and paving the way for a new era of artistic expression in film. All three films in the trilogy are bound by the malaise of the modern world.

By the late 1950s and early 1960s, the Italian economy had already been shaking off the dust from World War II and started getting back on its feet, stabilizing and moving away from the devastating consequences of the war with factories popping up left and right – it saw industrial growth and subsequent economic prosperity took place through rapid and widespread industrialization.

As the economy changed, there began a new era of Italian cinema. Those gritty, down-to-earth Neorealist films from the 1940s and early ’50s were starting to feel a bit… outdated.

Cue the new wave of directors like Antonioni and Fellini, who were looking at Italy with fresh eyes. They’re not so much concerned with showing the struggles of the poor anymore. Instead, they’re zooming in on a different crowd – those actually benefiting from all this economic growth.

One can also clearly notice a shift in the sensibilities in the Italian films that were made during these years by acclaimed filmmakers like Antonioni, Fellini, and Ermanno Olmi. Antonioni’s L’Avventura, is worlds apart from the Neorealist films. Instead of focusing on the working class trying to make ends meet, it’s all about the rich and privileged. The very first line of the film is about nature being replaced by houses. It is a commentary on industrialization.

While Neorealist films were all about showing the harsh realities of post-war Italy, movies like L’Avventura were tackling a whole new beast: the emptiness and disillusionment that come with rapid economic progress.

Their films moved away from the concerns of Neorealist films of the 1940s and early 50s. In this context, it is very interesting to note the dissimilarities between a typical Italian Neorealist film and a post-Neorealist film like L’Avventura. While Neorealism dealt with the economic fallout of WWII, L’Avventura deals with a sense of disillusionment in the midst of rapid technological advancement (the very first line of the dialogue revolves around how houses are replacing the natural woods). While Neorealism focused on the poor working-class Italians, L’Avventura focused on the privileged upper class or the bourgeois section of Italian society. Antonioni masterfully portrays the spiritual and emotional emptiness of the modern bourgeoisie.

Patrizia: I never understood islands. Surrounded by nothing but water, poor things.

 

Corrado: Giulia is like Oscar Wilde. Give her all the luxuries and she will manage without the little necessities.

Patrizia: My childhood was like a merry-go-round, now here, now there.
Claudia: Mine was a very sensible one.
Patrizia: What do you mean by “sensible”?
Claudia: I mean without any money.

Sandro: Did you know that when I was a boy I wanted to be a diplomat? Can you imagine that! Me, a diplomat? It’s strange but I never thought I’d be rich. I saw myself living in a rooming house, full of geniuses… Instead, I have two apartments, one in Rome and one in Milan. As far as genius goes, it’s a habit I’ve never formed. What do you think of that?

Raimondo: To think that if there ever was a woman deliberately created, actually custom-made for every kind of promiscuity and betrayal, of sordidness and debauchery, it would be her. Oh, well. She’s faithful, a faithfulness born from a sort of apathy.
Patrizia: [laughs] It amuses me. It’s the only amusement I know besides my dog.

There is an irony to progress: Italy finally got its economic miracle, but these filmmakers are saying, Is this reality what people wanted or needed? They’re questioning whether all this progress is actually making people happier or just… emptier, more detached, and alienated.

We see a shift from films that show the struggles of poverty to ones that critique the very progress that was supposed to solve those problems. Italian cinema grew up alongside the economy, but instead of celebrating, it started asking some pretty tough questions.

Antonioni’s Lens: a New Visual Language of Silence and Emotion in Modern Cinema:

Antonioni’s L’Avventura is a masterclass in cinematic language, where every camera movement feels deliberate and profound. His film’s visual language breaks away from traditional cinematography, using long, carefully composed shots that transform the landscape into an emotional character.

His genius lies in his ability to convey these abstract concepts through visual storytelling. The film’s languid pacing, stark landscapes, and carefully composed shots all contribute to a pervasive sense of unease and emptiness. In essence, L’Avventura is a cinematic exploration of nothingness – not in the sense of lack, but as a powerful force that shapes our lives. It challenges viewers to confront the uncomfortable truths we often avoid: the fragility of our beliefs, the transience of our relationships, and the constant specter of oblivion that haunts our existence.

Antonioni juxtaposes human transience with the elemental world’s permanence. He contrasts characters against enduring landscapes and then frames their fragile relationship, capturing their faces in silhouette against ancient architecture, symbolizing humanity’s futile attempt to achieve immortality. This visual technique, skillfully employed in L’Avventura, became a hallmark of Antonioni’s distinctive cinematic style throughout his career.

The director’s meticulous eye for detail shines through in L’Avventura, particularly in the interior scenes. The film’s frame compositions are intricate puzzles, each element carefully placed to convey meaning beyond mere aesthetics.

As the story deviates – as it follows the two lovers (Claudia and Sandro) in their indifferent search, they travel through surreal spaces: deserted villages or, in stark contrast, the frenzied spectacle of lustful Southern Italian men, their gazes fixed intently as they stalk  Monica Vitti in the street.

This precision isn’t just about looking good; it’s a deliberate choice that echoes the film’s themes. The movie’s austere tone isn’t accidental. It’s a reflection of the changing Italian society of the time, grappling with rapid industrialization and a shift toward consumerism.

Antonioni makes a banquet out of his quiet, stark visual aesthetic to critique the emptiness creeping into people’s lives as traditional values give way to materialism. By stripping away warmth and emphasizing geometric, often cold spaces, Antonioni creates a world that feels devoid of genuine human connection. He tells the story through images – it’s almost a re-envisioning of ‘Silent Cinema.’ (Youngblood)

Antonioni’s artistic vision evolved to emphasize temporality and minimalist framing, balancing precision with a broad perspective that equally values human figures, architecture, and landscapes, emphasizing the characters’ connection (or lack thereof) to their environment. This approach created a unique cinematic discourse that challenged traditional visual hierarchies.

By placing images, atmosphere, and emotion at the core of the film, Antonioni creates a new cinematic voice that abandons traditional storytelling in favor of a more visually driven narrative. The barren island where Anna disappears becomes a metaphor for the characters’ emotional isolation.

Novelist and screenwriter Alain Robbe-Grillet (Last Year in Marienbad) notes that several shots in the film’s continental section are presented from the perspective of an unseen observer, suggesting that Anna is silently shadowing Sandro and Claudia to witness their actions. When Robbe-Grillet asked Antonioni about the missing scene, which depicted Anna’s body being delivered from the sea, Antonioni revealed that it had indeed been scripted and filmed but was ultimately excluded from the final cut due to timing constraints. The effect of the mystery of Anna is way more potent in the not knowing.

The extended takes are long, uninterrupted shots that force viewers to confront the characters’ inner turmoil. The symbolic settings, desolate islands, and foggy landscapes become metaphors for the characters’ isolation.

Antonioni’s framing – setting up extreme long shots that diminish and overwhelm characters against vast backdrops, emphasizes their insignificance and alienation. Meanwhile, urban isolation places them in empty streets or imposing architecture, highlighting their loneliness, boredom, emotional detachment, and disconnect from society.

Anna’s unsolved disappearance has sparked considerable discussion, with Roger Ebert linking it to the film’s affluent, entitled, and disenchanted characters, all of whom struggle with unfulfilling relationships. Ebert argues they are all “on the brink of disappearance.”

Claudia: Did you sleep well?
Anna: So-so. Last night I went to bed intending to think about lots of things–and then I fell asleep.

Shortly afterward, in the first stages of the film – Anna dissolves into the ether.

Through the overt existential emptiness, the meaningful dialogue is often replaced by pregnant silences and enigmatic glances, highlighting the characters’ inability to connect genuinely.

The characters’ affluent lifestyles fail to fill the void in their lives, leading to a pervasive sense of ennui. Through his direction, Antonioni transforms what could have been a straightforward mystery into a penetrating critique of modern society. The film’s languid pace and ambiguous narrative serve to amplify the sense of disillusionment and moral ambiguity that permeates the characters’ world. The film carries religious undertones through images of empty churches, emphasizing the institution of marriage, fidelity, and the ideal of everlasting love.

When this ideal remains unfulfilled, it leads to misery, yet people cling to it out of cowardice or complacency.

In a pivotal scene at the convent at Chiesa del Collegio in Noto, Claudia (Monica Vitti) turns to Sandro and says, “ I want to see clearly!” and she rings the church bells, creating a haunting moment of connection as the bell’s poetry surrounds the lovers its resonance echoes across the landscape.

L’Avventura presents a deceptively simple premise that unfolds into a complex meditation on human existence. Anna’s enigmatic disappearance during the yachting excursion to a barren Italian isle serves as a catalyst, exposing the fragile relationships and moral ambiguity of the characters and the unraveling of their relationships, setting in motion a narrative that’s less about finding Anna and more about exposing the existential void at the heart of modern life. As Sandro and Claudia embark on the search that gradually loses its urgency, their own relationship takes an unexpected turn.

Their growing attraction, tinged with guilt and uncertainty, becomes a lens through which Antonioni examines the fickle nature of human connections and the ease with which we replace the absent. Yet, beneath the surface plot, L’Avventura grapples with weightier themes: the omnipresence of the unknown, the futility of seeking meaning in a seemingly indifferent universe, and the hollowness of social conventions and materialism and impermanence. As fleeting as human bonds, an ancient vase unearthed from the island is dropped by one of the group, and it shatters carelessly, its destruction met with indifference—a poignant metaphor for the characters’ disregard for both history and intimacy.

From the outset, the dramatic setting feels raw and primal: an island surrounded by crashing waves against rugged inlets, with ancient rock formations and the wind howling as a storm brews. The people on this pleasure cruise along the southern Italian coast, privileged travelers, drift restlessly across Mediterranean waters off the coast of southern Italy, their relationships fraught with unspoken tensions and quiet desperation. Once Anna (Lea Massari) goes missing, the search begins.

It’s as if the characters are lost in their own emotional oasis, mirroring the barren landscapes of the Aeolian Islands, where part of the film is set. The barren island where Anna disappears becomes a metaphor for the characters’ internal emotional states, emphasizing the isolation and disconnection they feel.

This visual austerity serves a dual purpose. It not only represents the characters’ inner emptiness but also challenges us to confront the dehumanizing aspects of modern life as part of the film’s commentary. Antonioni isn’t just showing us beautiful imagery; he’s asking us to question the cost of progress and the nature of human relationships in this increasingly materialistic world.

Antonioni’s L’Avventura presents a profound exploration of human vulnerability in the face of life’s unpredictability. Anna’s sudden vanishing act serves as a stark reminder of our tenuous grip on existence, jolting Sandro and Claudia into a heightened awareness of life’s fragility. This abrupt confrontation with mortality and the arbitrary nature of fate catalyzes a complex emotional response in the two lovers.

Faced with the void left by Anna’s absence and the unsettling realization of their own mortality, Sandro and Claudia gravitate towards each other. Their burgeoning relationship can be seen as a reflexive attempt to find meaning and connection in a world suddenly revealed as chaotic and indifferent. However, this comfort is shaded by remorse and doubt and our often misguided attempts to fill the existential void. Their liaison becomes both a lifeline and a burden in the face of life’s fundamental uncertainties. Yet Sandro is incapable of a meaningful connection to any woman, while Claudia ultimately finds a connection to herself.

L’Avventura captivates with its visual splendor, offering a mesmerizing Mise en scène of monochromatic imagery by cinematographer Aldo Scavarda. This singular collaboration between Scavarda and Antonioni yielded a breathtaking visual feast despite their brief creative partnership.

Aldo Scavarda was an Italian cinematographer behind L’Avventura’s breathtaking cinematography, transforming what could have been a simple narrative into a visual poem. His lens captured landscapes and human emotions with almost painterly precision, making empty spaces and characters feel equally alive. Working closely with Antonioni, Scavarda essentially rewrote the visual language of cinema, turning each frame into a canvas that spoke volumes beyond dialogue. He collaborated with numerous notable directors, including Bernardo Bertolucci on Before the Revolution (1964), Mauro Bolognini on From a Roman Balcony(1960), and Luigi Comencini on On the Tiger’s Back (1961).

For L’Avventura, he created the film’s distinctive visual style, which emphasized mood and composition over traditional narrative techniques. In 1969, Scavarda won the Silver Ribbon prize for his cinematography on Salvatore Samperi’s Come Play with Me, and he also directed his own film, La linea del fiume, in 1975.

L’avventura showcases a cast of irresistibly alluring performers who exude sensuality. Monica Vitti, in her breakout leading role, captivates with her magnetic and quietly simmering screen presence. Her portrayal, along with those of her equally intelligent, sophisticated, and worldly contemporaries, redefined the archetype of the European actresses who shaped the perception of the new, sensually charged European film goddess. This reimagined persona of the Continental actress played a pivotal role in the triumphant infiltration of foreign cinema into English-language markets, drawing a new audience with a potent blend of intellect and sexuality. For cinephiles, the blend of artistic depth and erotic beauty was an irresistible combination.

The Faces Behind the Enigma: L’Avventura’s Defining Ensemble

Monica Vitti in Antonioni’s Red Dust 1964.

Alain Delon and Monica Vitti in L’Eclisse 1962.

Monica Vitti (Claudia): was a prominent muse in Italian cinema, particularly known for her collaborations with Antonioni. Besides L’Avventura, she starred in other Antonioni films like L’Eclisse (1962) and Red Desert (1964). She also showcased her versatility in comedies such as The Girl with a Pistol (1968).

Like Vitti, actresses who redefined the cultural zeitgeist of the 1960s were Anna Magnani’s with her intense portrayal of Mamma Roma in Pier Paolo Pasolini’s 1962 film of the same name. In this powerful performance, Magnani played a former prostitute striving to create a better life for her teenage son. Giulietta Masina for her whimsical performance in Juliet of the Spirits 1965, Claudia Cardinale emerged as a major star, known for her roles in acclaimed films like Federico Fellini’s 8½ (1963) and Sergio Leone’s Once Upon a Time in the West (1968), Jeanne Moreau became an iconic figure of French New Wave cinema, particularly for her incandescent, mercurial, and transcendent performance in François Truffaut’s Jules and Jim (1962) Sophia Loren solidified her status as an international star, winning an Academy Award for Two Women (1960) and starring in notable films like Marriage Italian Style (1964) Catherine Deneuve rose to prominence with her “cool, frigid femme fatale” persona in films like Repulsion (1965) and Belle de Jour (1967) Anouk Aimée gained recognition for her roles in La Dolce Vita (1960) and A Man and a Woman (1966) Romy Schneider became a defining figure in European cinema, acclaimed for her performances in films such as The Things of Life and L’Enfer.

Vitti, like these wonderful actresses of the decade, played a crucial role in shaping the landscape of European art cinema during the 1960s, contributing to its artistic and cultural significance.

Lea Massari

Lea Massari (Anna): Massari gained recognition for her role as the missing Anna in L’Avventura. She also appeared in notable films like Clara Chevalier in Louis Malle’s Murmur of the Heart (1971) and Christ Stopped at Eboli (1979). Gabriele Ferzetti (Sandro): had a long and varied career in Italian and international cinema. He appeared in other acclaimed films like Once Upon a Time in the West (1968) and On Her Majesty’s Secret Service (1969). Renzo Ricci (Anna’s father) spent his lengthy career in Italian theater and cinema. Apart from L’Avventura, he appeared in historical epics like Nero and the Burning of Rome (1953) and Garibaldi (1961).

Fusco’s score features “ the sounds of creaky nostalgic ‘Italian’ music(Koehler). The film’s evocative, at times, primal musical score, dissonant atonalities composed by Giovanni Fusco, was uniquely described by Antonioni as “jazz. The soundtrack features a variety of musical styles, including rhythm-centric, Jazz elements, dramatic themes, and variations, including Swing tunes and repetitive and jarring, offbeat rhythms.

Fusco’s music that appears in the film after the intro comes back in when they are all on the rocks looking for Anna. The composer worked on Red Desert 1964 and Resnais’ Hiroshima. Mon Amour 1959. Antonioni disliked the use of music in films – later, in his films, such as La Notte and L’Eclisse, he used very minimal music. Fusco wrote the beginning and ending music over the credits only.

Film historian Dr. Elena Marini argues that Michelangelo Antonioni’s approach to music in his films was revolutionary, particularly in his collaborations with composer Giovanni Fusco. Antonioni asked Fucso to infuse L’Avventura with a jazz mood but do it like the Hellenic era, which is monophonic using instruments like lyres or mandolin. Antonioni famously disliked traditional “commentary music”—scores that dictate emotional responses or serve as mere background noise, often referred to as “furniture music.” Instead, he sought to strip away such conventions, relying on imagery, actor choreography, and facial expressions to convey emotion and atmosphere. Marini emphasizes that Antonioni’s rejection of conventional film scores introduced a new cinematic language. His minimalist use of music ensured that the visuals remained dominant, preserving the contemplative and ambiguous tone of his work. This innovation has since become a hallmark of modern filmmaking, with many directors adopting similar approaches to avoid overtly manipulative soundtracks.

The film deftly navigates the liminal space between a fading era and an emerging zeitgeist still finding its footing. Giovanni Fusco’s opening score audaciously introduces this delicate balance, where wistful Sicilian melodies intertwine with edgy, prowling percussion. This auditory dance sets the stage for the film’s expansive exploration of tangible environments and psychological space.

Adrift: A Fateful Voyage: Anna’s Vanishing Act:

The film opens with Anna saying goodbye to her father with all the detachment of strangers meeting. Within the juxtaposition of the modern with the old world, Anna’s father is aligned with the architecture of the past. They live in the shadow of a neoclassical church that stands as a hidden gem in the landscape, unnoticed by this father and daughter due to their preoccupation with their own personal troubles.

He is in the middle of a cold business deal to sell off their sweeping property, which will be turned into low-cost housing. Anna (Lea Massari) and her friend Claudia (Monica Vitti) — who had, in her words, “a sensible childhood . . . without any money” meet at Anna’s father’s villa before embarking on a yachting trip along the Mediterranean.

Her father, a conservative diplomat, complains about her frequent travels away from home. “ I should have grown used to it by now.” For him, it is an ongoing issue, implying his displeasure about her struggle to conform to these expectations. She will not be domesticated, as shown by her intense inner life that overwhelms the ordinary aspects of her existence, leaving no room for conventionality.

Il padre di Anna: How long will you be away?
Anna: Four or five days.
Il padre de Anna: Well, I suppose I’ll spend the weekend alone. I’ll rest. I should have grown used to it by now.
Anna: Used to what, father?
Il padre di Anna: To rest, not only from my diplomatic duties but as a father.
Anna: Why do you say such things?
Il padre di Anna: It’s the truth. Allow me at least this much: after 30 years of never telling the truth, I might as well speak truthfully to my own daughter now.

The initial scenes of L’avventura illustrate a generational divide, as Anna – who first appears to be the film’s central character – informs her affluent father of her plans to get away on holiday in Sicily with her friend Claudia , who remains largely in the background, merely following along.

Anna first wants to spend a solitary moment and go for a coffee. “ I’m thirsty,” she tells her friend, who cannot believe she’d take such a detour from her lover, “ While a man you haven’t seen in a month has been waiting for you?” But the very serious Anna assures her, “ I’d happily give up seeing him today.”

However, she sacrifices her true desires in order to maintain a polite facade. She tries to make her case, “ It’s torture being apart. It’s difficult keeping a relationship going with one person here and the other there… But it’s convenient… Because you can imagine whatever you like. Whereas when somebody’s right in front of you, that’s all you get. Let’s go back. Come on!”

In the beginning scene with Claudia and Sandro, Antonioni introduces characters who indulge in the pleasure principle. First, Anna wants to abandon the idea of the boat trip; next, they are engaging in aimless sex. Antonioni had stated, ‘Eros is sick.’ Their sexuality fills the void of banality as a replacement for meaningful work and the unremarkable quality of a daily emotional life. That is part of what L’Avventura is about.

In the film’s initial moments, as Anna meets up with Sandro and they set out on their holiday boating adventure, Vitti’s heroine, Claudia, finds herself largely sidelined. She appears to be on the edges of the earliest scenes, her presence seemingly inconsequential. Still, her anxious gaze and subtle body language draw our attention, particularly when Anna’s palpable and pervasive angst is ever-present on screen —a discontent that remains unarticulated, even in her quiet moments with Claudia.

However, after Anna mysteriously vanishes during their boat trip to a deserted island, it is Claudia who steps into the spotlight —capturing the attention of Anna’s architect boyfriend, Sandro (Gabriele Ferzetti)—as the search for Anna gradually fades.

Claudia,is from a less privileged background, she hitches a ride with Anna. This act serves to emphasize the separation from the opulent lifestyle that Anna and her friends lead.

They travel to Rome to meet Anna’s fiancé, Sandro, near the Pans Fabricius. Not wanting to go through with their tryst, a broken attempt to stay away from her lover. Anna’s gesture falls short of her intended plan, and she winds up going to see Sandro.

One of the Antonioni close-ups is the abstraction of the frame; Sandro’s face falls out of the frame, nearly vanishing from the camera. Also, Anna is not truly there. She’s not passionate. She’s somewhere else while making love to him.

While Claudia waits downstairs, Anna and Sandro make love in his flat. [Anna starts to undress] –

Sandro: Your friend is downstairs, waiting. Anna: Let her wait!

Anna reveals early on that she is an indifferent lover. Although she is not truly captivated by her partner, Sandro, she impulsively makes love to him. But her body language signals her displeasure.

Sandro drives the women to the coast, where they join their wealthy friends, two Italian couples who plan to cruise the sea near Sicily on a yacht.

Reaching out of Sandro’s car with her hand, Claudia finds the impulse to engage the motion of the air as the convertible moves along the road. She connects with the environment as they travel. She reveals a sense of astonishment that is unfamiliar to her, as if experiencing something profound. This suggests the lightheartedness or spontaneity that she begins to feel, setting the stage for their journey.

The group takes a boat to an isolated island, and on the way, it becomes clear that each is involved in a loveless marriage, with each of them barely able to tolerate each other, if not outright loathe, their partner. Yet they choose to stay together, driven by weakness or simple inertia.

On the boat, we meet characters who show how hard it is for people to connect with each other—the idle rich who are lackadaisical and self-absorbed. And though Sandro comes across as arrogant, who must always have a woman in his life, he’s actually empty inside.

The people on the boat are adrift.
Antonioni has a unique ability to transform ordinary images into something psychologically impactful. In some instances, Claudia observes various scenes, including cliffs reflected in shimmering water. While these are simply rocks of an island, the director’s artistic choices imbue them with a deeper meaning. The rocks possess a striking presence. The director creates a subtle yet powerful emotional resonance through careful framing, lighting, and context.

The next day, while on their voyage, the group reaches the Aeolian Islands; they lay the anchor near the island, and Anna jumps into the water for a swim. Soon, Anna puts herself at the center of the stage again, as she did while she kept Claudia waiting while making love upstairs. Sandro follows her as she swims in the ocean after she cries in distress claiming to have seen a shark—only to discover later that it was a lie.

After creating chaos, Anna deliberately lies about the shark and then casually confesses to Claudia that she completely invented the story: “ You know, the whole shark thing was a lie.

There is a subtle undercurrent of eroticism in the scene where Anna confesses to Claudia about fabricating the shark incident. This moment ignites a palpable tension between the two women, their exchange charged with unspoken desire. Antonioni’s deliberate ambiguity has led many critics to speculate about Anna’s sexuality, particularly her potential lesbianism. They point to her restlessness and eventual disappearance as possible indicators rather than simply dismissing her as a capricious socialite.

The scene’s composition, with their bare backs turned to the camera in the cabin, reflects Antonioni’s idea of escaping one’s identity. His characters often are shot with their backs turned to the camera. The symbolic imagery hints at an impending shift as one is about to take the other’s place.

After Patrizia (Esmeralda Ruspoli) toys with her puzzle – life’s a puzzle – Raimondo (Lelio Luttazi) makes sexual overtures to her. They are not lovers, but he pursues her. Her rebuff stems not from a sense of marital fidelity or morality. Instead, they are born from a profound ennui that permeates her being.

The group arrives on a craggy island, where apples are casually shared among them. Anna and Sandro ascend to a higher point. They both go ashore, along with her friend Claudia and the others begin to explore.

Anna quarrels with her lover, expressing her growing discomfort with his absence, and she confides in him about her unhappiness with his frequent business trips, “ I got used to being without you.” but he dismisses her concerns as typical unease, assuring her it will pass. Sandro tells her, “ It’s the usual awkwardness. It will go away.” She answers, “It’s a little more this time.”

Anna, in the frame, emphasizes the gravity of their current situation. Meanwhile, Sandro dismisses her concerns with a tone-deaf suggestion that any serious issues will simply take more time to fade away, revealing his complete lack of understanding of Anna’s emotional state. Sandro – “ It’ll take a little longer to go away, then.”

Claudia –“Well, I think we should talk about it. Or do you think we won’t be able to understand each other?” Sandro – “ We’ll have time to talk. We’re getting married. What’s longer than a lifetime?” She walks away from him under the far-reaching sky. Isolated and melancholy, she sits on a rocky ledge, preparing to argue further., “ In that case, getting married would mean nothing. Aren’t we already acting like we’re married?” He asks, “ Why are we arguing… talking? Believe me, Anna, words are more and more pointless.

In Anna’s final, faltering attempt to reach out to Sandro on the rocky shore, she struggles to convey her sense that something is amiss. This moment illustrates Antonioni’s exploration of disconnection, as evidenced by their two-shot composition, where they face away from each other, embodying the essence of non-communication. The imagery of their turned backs symbolizes a profound alienation; they speak over their shoulders or into the void, highlighting the futility of their dialogue. Antonioni often depicts characters turning away from one another, suggesting that attempts at connection are ultimately pointless in a world marked by emotional detachment.

Sandro as he tries to kiss her, – “ I care for you, Anna. Isn’t that enough?”

Anna- “ No, it isn’t enough.” He tells her, “ I’d like to spend more time alone.” She insists, “ But you just had a month!” He tells her, “ More time!” She shouts. “ Two months, a year, three years!”

Sandro says – “ I know it’s absurd,”

She realizes he will never understand her pain, Anna tells him, “ I’m distraught. The idea of losing you makes me want to die… And yet, I don’t feel you anymore…”

Sandro smuggly – “ Even yesterday, at my place? You didn’t feel me?”

Anna says, “ You always have to dirty everything.” She watches as he leans back on his rock and covers his face. She is overheard saying she wants to be left alone as he takes a nap on the rocks.

This is the moment Anna truly vanishes. After the dissolve, there is a trace of a small boat off in the distance, leaving the smallest crest of waves. Could it be Anna leaving? What we will come to find out is that Anna will not be seen again. Their exchange highlights the growing disconnect between Anna and Sandro, foreshadowing the impending crisis in their relationship and setting the stage for Anna’s mysterious disappearance. After the argument, Claudia and is met by waves at her feet. Anna is gone.

We now see Claudia amidst the waves as if she is surrounded by turbulence.

The group becomes aware that Anna is missing and searches for her.

Guila watches Corrado as he walks far ahead of her. They are distant and lost to each other in their marriage. They are walking together yet separately in the scene.

Antonioni’s use of seemingly extraneous scenes, such as the old man in his cramped dwelling showcasing him pointing out his family photographs, serves a purpose beyond conventional plot advancement. While not directly contributing to the search for the missing Anna, these moments imbue the film with a profound sense of authenticity and depth. By traditional narrative standards, the director’s deliberate inclusion of such meaningless sequences initially bewildered and frustrated the Cannes audience, resulting in their notorious booing. However, these prolonged scenes where ostensibly “nothing happens” are, in fact, rich with subtle significance. These moments exemplify what film historian Seymour Chatman termed “the open text,” inviting viewers to engage in personal interpretation rather than passively consuming a predetermined narrative. What historian Gene Youngblood referred to as “found objects.” For example, the pharmacist and the young couple on the train.

Claudia, Sandro, and Corrado search an empty stone dwelling. Claudia stands by the window, looking out at the sunset. Another use of the camera to capture an open window.  Claudia wears Anna’s shirt like a skin. In this way, she is becoming her – taking her place and poised to transition to a pivotal moment. Now, with Anna’s absence on the island, the sexual attraction between Claudia and Sandro is about to be revealed.

In an atmospheric composition within a tight interior scene, Claudia awakens from a nap. Antonioni begins her arousal with a long contemplative shot. It is a beautiful portrait. Corrado is kind and gentle to Claudia yet is distant and cold to his wife Guilia – – it goes to the substance of marriage and to the relationships he has made in his own circle of friends. Claudia calls for Anna on the cliffs.

Between these two lovers, a volcano of sexual tension will eventually erupt.

The eloquent visual montage intensifies, embodying the emotional weight of the next defining, grand romantic moment. These two figures are framed against an infinite sky and a restless ocean. On the cliff’s edge, Claudia and Sandro stand in stark relief against the neverending sky; they remain motionless, silhouetted against the horizon. They hear a boat off in the distance.

There is a jagged rock in between Claudia and Sandro.

After a while, Anna is nowhere to be found. The others scour the island, which consists mainly of rocky terrain and sparse scrub trees, offering few hiding spots, and she remains elusive. We are left uncertain about whether she left intentionally, took her own life, hid away, or simply disappeared. While there are a only a few subtle clues that emerge upon multiple viewings, the truth remains ambiguous.

After Anna’s disappearance, Sandro shrugs it off as just her usual behavior.

They search the island, but their efforts don’t turn up any answers. Sandro, one of the vacationing friends – Corrado, and Claudia remain behind to continue searching while the others alert the police. As they look for Anna, Sandro becomes defensive when Claudia implies that he is partly responsible for Anna’s disappearance because of his neglect.

Anna’s vanishing act and the initial search on the island is notable as it takes up a third of the way into the film. At the time, it was a groundbreaking notion to shift away from such a central plot point so drastically and never return to it.

Antonioni executes a bold cinematic manipulation by abruptly flipping the switch in L’Avventura; it turns the primary narrative on its head—the search for Anna—dissolves, leaving us adrift in a narrative vacuum. This shift reflects the characters’ own internal void as they struggle with a sudden loss of purpose. What’s left is a group of individuals sleepwalking through their lives without any clear sense of direction.

A yacht is sent to get help. While Anna’s friends search the island, Aldo Scavarda’s cinematography creates a haunting atmosphere: the characters are positioned off-center in the frame, suggesting that the rocks have stood for ages and these visitors might easily fall into the sea—or fade into the sky or swallowed up by the camera. Even the moment on the rocks when the emergence of Claudia and Sandro’s attraction comes to life, by the end of the sequence, Claudia falls off the edge of the frame as if Antonioni obliterates her from the scene. They hear a boat in the distance, and there’s a cryptic shot where we catch a glimpse of it—or we think we almost see it like a ghost. Is it an illusion? And we wonder: Did Anna leave on it?

“These phantom boats are like the dead body that was or wasn’t on the park grass in Antonioni’s (Blow Up 1967). The 1975 Australian film Picnic at Hanging Rock is also about a person consumed by a landscape. The effect of Anna’s disappearance is disquieting; we want to know there either was a boat or wasn’t a boat, and Anna either did or didn’t leave on it. The film remains slippery.” (EBERT)

Eventually, the yacht returns to the island, bringing with it the police and Anna’s father, who seems like he can’t be bothered and appears displeased to be pulled away from his business having to come and try to find his missing daughter.

Sandro reports, “ Nothing, nothing…” Claudia brings two of Anna’s books from the yacht. Anna’s father feels encouraged as he considers his daughter’s fate. He takes note of both – Tender is the Night and the Bible. “ This is a good sign. I think someone who reads the Bible wouldn’t do anything rash because it means they believe in God.”

When the police conducted a search of their own, they found nothing. There is no need to wonder why the police aren’t questioning Sandro or Corrado, who had gone off in a boat to wander on a smaller island right before Anna went missing. You might go in expecting the film to be all about the search for Anna. In essence, all of its characters are on the brink of disappearing. ” Their lives are so unreal, and their relationships so tenuous that they can barely be said to exist.” (ROGER EBERT) But L’Avventure is not a mystery… it is a visual poetic reflection on the intricacies of human existence and the abyss of meaninglessness.

It has only been hours after his lover has gone missing, yet he follows Claudia onto the Yacht and tries to kiss her.

Sandro decides to investigate nearby smugglers, but first comes a scene that is startling because it feels almost ephemeral—like the phantom boat that may or may not have been there. Once the group returns to the yacht before Sandro leaves to continue his search, he suddenly seizes Claudia and kisses her. Taking her off guard, Claudia instinctively recoils from his embrace, and the moment quickly evaporates into thin air. What is going through her mind? Is she repulsed by his willingness to betray Anna so quickly? Like Anna’s mysterious disappearance, the truth remains an open question for the time being.

Sandro makes a report at police headquarters and follows Claudia to the station.

Claudia and Sandro share another closed-in space, while a bright window – one of many windows, to the right of screen is yet another means of escape.

Claudia and Sandro convince themselves that Anna might still be in the same area and possibly attend the next social gathering. Their search for Anna is represented as ineffective; Claudia becomes someone like Anna who begins to question things, while Sandro is the embodiment of weaknesses. As Claudia boards a train heading to Palermo, just as it starts to pull away, Sandro leaps on board and tells her that he loves her. She is annoyed by his impulsiveness.

As they head to Milazzo, they mock a working-class couple’s conversation at the train station. Their obliviousness overshadows this sentiment of the stunning coastal scenery along the train route. The rolling swells of the sea, which they ignore, symbolize a new world emerging, one that Claudia is beginning to sense despite her previous lack of awareness.

Claudia questions the wisdom of their attraction, but Sandro sees no reason to let it go. Meanwhile, Claudia is unsettled by how fleeting life is and how easily things can change. Ultimately, Sandro decides to step off the train at Castroreale. Sandro decides to bribe the journalist Zuria to write a false report that Anna has been spotted in Troina. Claudia winds up at Patrizia’s palatial Villa.

This turn of events allows Antonioni to take a closer look at the superficiality and emotional distance that often characterize the upper crust of society, holding up a mirror to the broader malaise of the times. The film dives into the inner lives of its characters, exposing their deep emotional isolation. Even though they are always surrounded by one another, there’s a striking sense of disconnection among them.

Claudia decides to search other islands by herself, and she and Sandro agree to meet up later in Palermo. The police conducted a thorough search but found nothing. And Sandro discovers the smugglers have nothing to tell him about Anna’s disappearance.

Claudia arrives at the estate, where the gravity of Anna’s disappearance is met with indifference. At Patricia’s villa in the South, there’s cynical talk about aging and loss of sensation.“ When you’re past 50, My Darling, you only feel cold.” Someone makes a dig at Patricia; a sarcastic suggestion is made to turn the villa into a clinic for nervous disorders. This is an allusion to Anna’s earlier awareness of the illness of the soul deeply rooted in society. “ Why don’t you sell this villa to a lovely clinic for nervous disorders?”

To Antonioni’s melodramatic style with Guerra’s added nuance.  “nervous disorders” are a long-standing human condition dating back millennia. The fline suggests that Anna was aware of these deep-seated issues in society.

The stunning tropical landscape surrounding the property goes unnoticed by its inhabitants, symbolizing their disconnection from natural beauty.

Claudia has entered a beautiful netherworld or dreamscape where people idle around for a living.

Claudia tries on a black wig the second time she takes on Anna’s identity. She has become a surrogate for Sandro, within a seemingly real space revealed as fantasy.

In the witness role again, Claudia catches Guilia coming up the stairs with the young boy she was flirting with. In his book, writer Seymore Chapman points out that it’s more about a moral and legal sense than passive observation. Claudia makes judgments about what she sees – Guilia takes the young artist to his room while Claudia watches them embrace – Claudia’s disapproval vexes Guilia, and she closes the door on her. Claudia gives a revealing smile as she exits the door. She has turned her back on this way of life. Claudia keeps herself emotionally and psychologically withdrawn from the pretext of the search for Anna while remaining on the periphery.

Claudia, however, is portrayed as someone capable of appreciating this beauty, with a hidden understanding of the need to counteract the venomous superficial lifestyle.

Claudia’s initial ignorance is seen as potentially constructive, suggesting her naivety might lead to growth. Giulia’s questionable indiscretion after she encounters the young artist painting nude women drawing a comparison to Titian’s early work. The young artist’s response of feeling “a shiver” while painting is highlighted as significant, even in an otherwise trivial context. Guerra’s intention is to show that even small moments of genuine feeling or inspiration can be meaningful.

Sandro and Claudia head to Troina, where they manage to find the chemist who claims he sold tranquilizers to a woman who matches Anna’s description. In their search, Sandro and Claudia learn that the woman identified by the chemist had taken a bus to Noto in southern Sicily. They drive there together.

As they journey south, they pause at an abandoned village, where they embrace on a hill that overlooks the town. Unexpectedly, Claudia and Sandro engage in passionate lovemaking near a rural train track. Claudia exclaims possessively, ” Mine. Mine. Mine…” Another beautiful montage – they are elevated above the landscape – the camera gets close up on their faces as the sounds of a train echoes in the distance. As film historian Gene Youngblood points out in his extraordinary commentary for Criterion, you would never see in a traditional Hollywood film the back of someone’s head obscuring their lover’s face while they were kissing. ” The camera shares the diegetic space of the story itself. When they leave it, the frame is empty. This seemingly random cutting against the action gives you a sense more of you being there.”

They quickly resume their journey. A fast train rushes by; its thunderous passage leaves a lasting impression. As they continue their hasty walk, Claudia admits to Sandro, ” What I’m doing is ugly…”

Continuing on to Noto, they search for Anna at the Trinacria Hotel but fail to get any answers. Throughout this journey, Claudia remains conflicted by her emotions—torn between her growing feelings for Sandro and her sense of betrayal of Anna.

He and Claudia’s connection to architecture is intricately linked to their physical presence as they navigate spaces that alternately elevate them above the Italian structures and nearly swallows them up; their shared intimacy begins in open spaces but gradually closes in on them, framing their confinement.

They reach Noto, drawn by whispers of Anna’s presence. As the journey unfolds, Claudia’s character undergoes a transformation. Initially introverted and hesitant, she gradually emerges from her shell, gaining confidence with each passing scene. In Noto, she assumes the role of witness once again, becoming acutely aware of the men’s intense gazes. The sequence takes on a surreal quality, with the town seemingly populated entirely by lustful men. Their exaggerated behavior, following Claudia and overtly ogling her, stands out as a theatrical element in a film otherwise known for its de-theatricalization (Youngblood).

Sandro is constantly placed against architectural edifices.

They climb up a church steeple reminiscent of Hitchcock’s Vertigo. Claudia engages with the beauty of her surroundings by pulling on a church’s bell rope, whose sound resonates with pure natural effect. The sound rings out to someone else who answers the call, creating a moment of connection through the bell’s song. Yet the emotional impact of Claudia’s stirring is undermined by Sandro’s absence of romantic intuition. Instead of appreciating the beauty and meaning of the heavenly sound, Sandro becomes distracted by his career and the architectural aspects of the church rather than connecting with Claudia or the moment.

She says to him, “ Such imagination, such movement.” Sandro,  “ I used to have ideas, you know.” She asks, “ Why did you stop?” He tells her, “ It isn’t easy to admit that a red floor suits a room when you think exactly the opposite, but the lady wants it red. So I give estimates…”

Claudia tells him, “ You could make beautiful things.” But lazily, he asserts, “ Who needs beautiful things nowadays? How long will they last? But then they built for the ages…”

At the Chiesa del Collegio, Sandro proposes to Claudia, but she turns him down. The next morning, despite the undeniable chemistry between them, Claudia feels uncertain and suggests they part ways. Ultimately, she comes to terms with her feelings for Sandro, allowing her thoughts of Anna to fade.
Neither of them mourns her absence; Anna, as a friend and lover, is now gone, and they move on without a second thought.

He changes the subject, “ Shall we get married?” She says, “ Not yet, anyway,” He tells her, “ I don’t know… Why can’t things be less complicated? I’d like to be clear-headed. I’d like to have clear ideas.”

She tells him, ” I want to see things clearly.”

Sandro voices his discontent. “ I’ve never met a woman like you who needs to see everything clearly.”

Near the Cathedral in Noto, while waiting for it to open, Sandro, distracted while observing a student sketching an old doorway, deliberately knocks over the artist’s ink maliciously, causing a black swath to spread across the drawing. He then boasts about his past street-fighting experiences and walks away, joining a church procession. His actions appear to be both accidental and intentional, symbolizing Sandro’s tendency to destroy or disrupt.

In their hotel room, Claudia continues to emerge more assertive, autonomous, and aware of her sexuality. She hears the music from a truck out on the street. She is now embracing something genuine and authentic in herself. But Sandro is preoccupied; no sooner does Claudia seem to be his, he is already pulling away.

When he returns to the hotel room, he is still distracted – Claudia exuberantly sings along to a pop song playing from a truck in the street as she lingers in her bedroom. Her performance is filled with joy and abandon. However, her elation quickly fades when she notices Sandro’s indifference cast a shadow over the room; particularly by the evocation of the church and its architecture across the way. He looks out the terrace and feels the emptiness of his failure. He closes the shudders and wants the only thing he knows  – sex. Claudia, first open to his embrace, becomes hesitant – there’s subtle uncertainty as she tries to ward off his rough advances. It speaks of how desperate Sandro is to stay detached. His silence lingers until it becomes an aggressive sexual advance toward her. After partially freeing herself from his unwanted attention, Claudia expresses her disillusionment, saying, ” I feel as though I don’t know you.”

The atmosphere shifts dramatically, from the euphoria atop the bell tower and the light-hearted melody echoing in the streets. Suddenly, it descends upon the scene, the sense of unresolved ambivalence.

They travel to Taormina and rejoin ‘the party’ and book a room at the San Domenico Palace Hotel. They check into a hotel room together, and while the bellboy looks on, Sandro attempts to kiss Claudia. However, once the bellboy leaves, Sandro refrains from trying again. At the same time, Sandro’s boss and his wife Patrizia are busy preparing to host the extravagant party in the hotel.

The mise-en-scène evolves, evoking a sense of decadent excess. This visual shift from uncluttered compositions underscores the scene’s emotional complexity, blending caprice and pathos while hinting at an underlying emptiness.

Claudia repeats the question, ” Tell me you love me.”

In this montage, Claudia is now a witness to herself. To her own internal reflections. Gene Youngblood points out that many critics have referred to this as revising the internal monologue, the close-up, and the voice-over off-screen. There are no words spoken as she looks out from under the covers, her eyes seeking answers. It is up to us to consider what she is thinking. She moves about the room, restless. She looks in the mirror. She looks at fashion magazines and scribbles over model’s faces. But Antonioni had said he would never do an internal monologue. He once visited painter Mark Rothko’s studio and told him, “ My films are like your paintings. They’re about nothing with precision.”

He criticizes Claudia for being sleepy and boasts about his ability to stay awake. For her, it seems like a good way to escape from the wealthy elite. When Claudia chooses not to go, Sandro decides to go without her. Claudia later wakes up, unable to sleep, and browses a magazine featuring a model who doesn’t interest her.

Joined by his other friends, mingling with the guests, he recognizes a striking woman named Gloria Perkins (Dorothy De Poliolo)—a beautiful 19-year-old aspiring actress who, in reality, is a high-end escort masquerading as a writer.

In L’Avventura’s concluding sequence, Antonioni, with Guerra’s writing, subverts expectations by eschewing a dramatic confrontation. Instead, he crafts a nuanced tableau of emotional betrayal.

The transgression unfolds in hushed tones, with Sandro’s infidelity manifesting not as a public spectacle but as a private wound; when Claudia discovers Sandro entangled with Gloria on the sofa the morning after the party. Her heart is shattered. She flees to the outside.

As Sandro runs off behind her, Gloria asks Sandro for a memento, and Sandro coldly throws money at her, their intimate moment reduced to a crude exchange.

In the morning, there is a long take as Claudia wanders through the empty hotel, now desolate from the night before, with the regaling of the very rich. She stumbles onto Sandro and Gloria on the couch. Sandro reveals what we’ve known about him all along and that he has become a pitiful figure – like a child.

Once again, she steps through yet another archway or portal. It is Claudia’s context to emerge through portals.

As she stands by the bombed-out church, her back to us, the sound of the trees rustles, perhaps to signify her quiet turbulence. Sandro follows after her. She weeps but also has a breakthrough, which we can see on her face. Antonioni brings in a collection of natural incidental sounds. From far off, a dog barks, an echoing train whistle, and the wind and uncanny waves. Antonioni uses sound strategically in L’Avventura to mark emotional shifts and remind characters of reality. Two key examples are the motorboat’s engine that interrupts Claudia and Sandro’s self-focused conversation in another scene, reminding them of Anna’s unresolved disappearance, and the train whistle, which breaks the intimacy after Claudia and Sandro’s lovemaking, disrupting their momentary escape and refocusing their attention.

After that initial shock, Claudia’s forgiving nature takes over. Sandro tells her, “ You know I wanted to be a diplomat, like Anna’s father. It’s strange, but I never saw myself in a rented room, a man of genius. Instead, I have two houses, in Rome and Milan. As for genius, it’s a habit I never picked up.” Now Claudia sees him as he truly is and questions whether their romance is a dead end.

Sandro’s moment of reckoning arrives through the mirror of Claudia’s response. As he witnesses the profound transformation in her, the weight of his actions finally sinks in.

In the final moments of L’Avventura, Antonioni paints a scene of profound emotional complexity on the terrace of the San Domenico Palace Hotel. Sandro weeps as they share a wordless, emotionally charged moment before the San Domenico church’s ruined tower, with Mount Etna’s looming silhouette etched against the horizon.

Ancient ruins… love in ruination.

It is ironic that the structure to the left of his close-up is a phallic symbol, ironic because he is a very impotent man.

To the right of Sandro, a blank wall … to the right of Claudia…  a potential volcano.

This wordless exchange becomes a powerful tableau of human frailty and emotional erosion. Claudia’s gesture—placing her hand on Sandro’s head—is layered with ambiguity, simultaneously conveying compassion and contempt.

This nuanced action brings full circle the film’s exploration of the intricacies of human relationships and the corrosive nature of modern ennui. The scene subtly suggests Claudia’s transformation. Once vibrant and hopeful, she now mirrors the jadedness of her lost friend, Anna.

This metamorphosis underscores the film’s themes of existential malaise and the struggle for authentic connection in a world of shifting moral landscapes.

Antonioni’s artful direction transforms this simple terrace into a metaphorical stage for his denouement, using the physical space to distill the film’s exploration of alienation. We are left watching the characters’ emotional journey, with Mount Etna’s distant presence serving as a silent witness to their internal struggle.

Love, Longing and Moral Ambiguity: The Unraveling Threads in L’Avventura:

L’Avventura is renowned for its deliberate use of vagueness, which contributes significantly to the film’s exploration of alienation. The film presents ambiguous character behaviors and motivations, particularly in the relationship between Sandro and Claudia: Their swift romantic involvement after Anna’s disappearance raises questions about their true feelings and moral standing. And their actions often contradict their expressed emotions, creating a sense of uncertainty and the suggestion of alienation.

The question of the film’s moral ambiguity is that it resists clear moral judgments, instead presenting situations that invite multiple interpretations and at times, reflect the characters’ spiritual and emotional emptiness in post-war Italian society.

It can be interpreted that Anna’s palely implied suicide is a significant event that stands out in the film’s bleak atmosphere and emphasizes the overall pessimistic tone of the film, suggesting that Anna’s possible death is one of the few moments that offers any form of meaning or possibility for change. She is the one “ opening a door that needs to be opened.” (Sam Juliano: Wonders in the Dark) She is the one who breaks from societal constraints or escapes from the existential ennui that pervades the film.

Anna’s father assumes when he discovers the two books in her room only focusing on the Holy Bible and not her copy of F. Scott’s Fitzgerald’s Tender is the Night, a complex novel set in the 1920s, that deals with a glamorous American couple and explores themes of love, mental illness and the decay of the American dream. He interprets the presence of the bible to draw away from any conclusion that Anna has committed suicide. The characters’ apparent lack of concern for Anna’s fate challenges viewers’ expectations of appropriate behavior, and the film’s treatment of relationships and fidelity blurs traditional moral boundaries.

Morality is at the heart of the film. Most of the characters are immoral and lust-crazed. This includes Claudia and Sandro, but also the supporting characters. Guilia and Corrado are terrific examples of this. They exchange barbs during the island vacation, even after Anna goes missing, showing that their marriage is fractured. Guilia is tempted by a youngster and succumbs to his advances, obstinately telling Claudia to leave and tell Corrado that he can find her there. It is as if she is wishing to be found and have their marriage ended. These two characters represent the future of relationships, painting a bleak picture and helping Claudia reach a level of understanding. If things worked out between Claudia and Sandro, this could be their future. (AARON WEST-from Criterion Closeup 2006 essay: L’Avventura, Michelangelo Antonioni, 1960)

Antionio’s film is daring because of its rejection of the traditional plot structure and cinematic storytelling. It doesn’t maintain a fixed central focus, with no predictable or linear pathway to an ending. There are multiple centers. It is fluid and changeable. As Robert Koehler’s Sight and Sound article suggests, It moves from one center to another; there is continuous renewal. This implies that different characters, themes, or events take precedence at various points in the film, which is also ambiguous as it doesn’t have a clear-cut beginning or end. This unconventional structure challenges our expectations and reflects the film’s themes of uncertainty and existential drift.

He also forges a path through visual ambiguity: Antonioni’s use of composition and framing creates visual uncertainty and often places the film’s characters in vast, empty landscapes, emphasizing their isolation and smallness in the world. The use of negative space and prolonged shots after the action has ended creates a sense of unresolved tension.

” The fluidity of Antionio’s full range of symbolism for instance, the sense of new possibilities (new towns, new relationships) seen in the curve of a highway, a train hurtling down the tracks and through tunnels, the insistence on the Old World in the hulking presence of churches, formal dinner parties, rigid bodies against Claudia’s free and easy one, always in motion.” -Koehler Sight and Sound

One of the director’s compositions – the Old World, represented by the three nuns and the modern young women driving up in their sports car.

The images in the film are not traditional symbols or metaphors but integral elements of the narrative. They create a visual density that directly tells the story. The characters’ movements within the composition, such as frequently passing through archways, are not symbolic transitions but literal ones. This approach to visual storytelling made the film distinctive, blending imagery and narrative into a cohesive whole.

Anna’s disappearance while perhaps the central mystery of the film is never resolved. This ambiguity serves multiple purposes: It reflects the characters’ inability to find meaning or closure in their lives, and it acts as a catalyst for exploring the characters’ relationships and inner turmoil, symbolizing the broader theme of disconnection in modern society.

The idea that the ending might be the “beginning of something new” implies that the film’s themes and questions persist beyond its formal conclusion, inviting continued reflection.

Antonioni’s revolutionary approach reflected the film’s themes of alienation, uncertainty, and the shifting nature of modern life, which held a mirror up to the characters’ internal states and the ambiguities of their experiences.

Antonioni allows Anna to fade from Claudia and Sandro’s lives; while they search for her, their connection holds more importance over the quest for finding out where she is or if she’s even still alive. The film leaves that open for interpretation. It only emphasizes the significance of Claudia and Sandro’s shared moments rather than Anna’s fate.

Ultimately, L’Avventura is a meditation on nothingness.

This has been part 2 of The Journey to Italy Blogathon hosted by Gil at Realweegiemidgetreviews and Kristina at Speakeasy!

 

THE PRICE OF DECADENCE AND LIBERATION: Seduction and Isolation: A Dual Journey Through Queens of Evil 1970 and L’Avventura 1960 Part 1

Le Regine 1970 (Queens of Evil) : A Psychedelic Descent into Darkness in 1970’s Euro-Horror

READ PART 2 L’AVVENTURA HERE

SPOILER ALERT:

Seduction and Surrealism: Unraveling Queens of Evil:

Queens of Evil (1970), directed by Tonino Cervi (Today We Live, Tomorrow We Die 1968, Nest of Vipers 1978), is an atmospheric Italian horror film that blends elements of psychedelia, eroticism, and supernatural horror. The film, also known by its Italian title Le Regine, or Il Delitto del diavolo presents a thought-provoking allegory on the clash between counterculture ideals and traditional societal norms that is an infusion of high fashion – psych-folk horror- pastoral fantasy and dreamlike isolation, much like Tam Lin 1970, The Wicker Man 1973 and Psychomania 1973.

The film is part of a niche cinematic sub-genre that blends pastoral fantasy with elements of folk horror, set in the late 1960s to early 1970s. These films juxtapose high fashion with mature fairytale narratives, featuring unconventional behavior and a darkness of spirit, creating a unique atmosphere that merges glamour with nature’s mystique.

The narrative follows a young motorcyclist named David (Ray Lovelock) who encounters three mysterious and seductive women living in a secluded house in the woods. As David becomes entangled in their world, the film explores themes of temptation, freedom, and the darker aspects of human nature.

As part of obscure cult cinema – Cervi’s Queens of Evil (1970) is a beguiling cinematic oddity that makes it hard to define. This dark adult allegory, often categorized as Italian horror, is closer to a gothic fable of dark enchantment. A hypnotic sojourn into a world of counterculture critique, psychedelic imagery, and gothic fairy tale elements; at its core, it presents as a cautionary tale wrapped in the guise of a surreal nightmare, much like Bava’s 1973 fantasy horror – Lisa and the Devil in its broad chimerical brush strokes and its use of vivid hallucinatory illusion rather than a conventional narrative.

Tonino Cervi, a versatile Italian filmmaker who straddled the worlds of directing and producing, left his mark on cinema from the 1960s through the early 2000s. While his directorial efforts like the middling spaghetti western TODAY WE KILL…TOMORROW WE DIE! and the provocative nunsploitation film THE NUN AND THE DEVIL were notable; his true legacy lies in his exceptional work as a producer. He collaborated with some of Italy’s most celebrated directors, including Bernardo Bertolucci on THE GRIM REAPER and Michelangelo Antonioni on RED DESERT, released in 1964, premiering at the Venice Film Festival. He also worked on the landmark anthology BOCCACCIO ’70.

An Italian counterculture gem that will resonate with fans of the surreal and absurd, Queens of Evil is a vibrant and flamboyant film. It offers an enjoyable experience in its own eccentric way as Cervi’s direction blurs the lines between reality and fantasy, guiding viewers through a labyrinth of seductive illusions and hidden dangers.

The film’s hypnotic atmosphere, punctuated by moments of startling beauty and unsettling horror, serves as the connective tissue that binds its disparate elements into a cohesive whole. The surreal, phantasmagorical quality, coupled with its exploration of masculine desires and fears, elevates Queens of Evil beyond mere Euro-exploitation/horror, transforming it into a mesmeric journey through the subconscious. The languid pacing and oblique storytelling may alienate viewers seeking more conventional thrills. However, for those willing to surrender to its peculiar rhythms, its calm before the storm, the film offers a rich synthesis of ideas and images that linger long after the credits roll.

Queens of Evil is a cult classic for a reason. It invites us to rewatch with fresh eyes and sparks conversation, which is what cult films often do best. It manages to deviate from the trend of gothic horror by focusing on a more contemporary setting and themes, finding its place within counterculture cinema. Though the film does blend some aspects of gothic horror, its ruthless psychological gamesmanship elevates Queens of Evil beyond mere psychedelic pastiche and counterculture themes, which sets it apart from the more traditional Italian horror film.

In the context of Italian horror cinema, Queens of Evil emerged during a transitional period in the 1970s as it saw a decline in the pure gothic Italian horror genre, with the industry shifting towards Giallo films and occult-themed movies inspired by international successes like Rosemary’s Baby and The Exorcist.

Italian horror cinema significantly evolved during this period, moving from traditional gothic horror narratives to more contemporary, psychologically complex, and socially relevant themes. This shift reflected the rapid changes in the late 1960s and early 1970s cultural landscape.

The Vietnam War, social unrest, the rise of the counterculture, a lot was happening. People started to question those old systems of power and authority—complex ideas about society, power, and the human condition.

Queens of Evil reflected this transition, blending traditional gothic elements like the eerie villa and isolated setting but retaining a very contemporary look and feel. The film explores the era’s anxieties surrounding the prevalent counterculture and societal upheaval, mirroring the turbulent zeitgeist of its time.

The film draws parallels to fairy tales, with David comparing the house to “Snow White’s house,” setting up a dark fairy tale account. This comparison enhances the symbolic nature of the women as enchantresses or witches.

Along with the essence of an intensely bleak tale, it definitely possesses a duality. Queens of Evil manages to be both beautiful and repulsive. Echoing everything from ancient Greek myths to classic literature and the Bible. The dark hypnotic twist makes this film unique and trippy, as David is supposed to be the symbol of freedom, but then he falls under the Queens’ spell so easily. Maybe those hippie ideals were a little naive.

David represents the young idealists who rebel against the status quo yet remain vulnerable to corruption when his deepest longings are awakened.  Ray Lovelock stars in this enigmatic tale as the lone hippie, David. Lovelock is a charismatic bad boy with a sculpted physique. As David, he is lavished with adoration by the sisters within an idyllic setting until he is ultimately led as a lamb to the slaughter.

The French actress Haydée Politoff during the filming of the movie El gran amor del Conte Dracula’, directed by Javier Aguirre, 1972, Madrid, Spain. (Photo by Gianni Ferrari/Cover/Getty Images).

Among his co-stars are Haydée Politoff, of the Eric Rohmer films THE COLLECTOR (1967) CHLOE IN THE AFTERNOON (1972), and also Count Dracula’s Great Love (1973). His other co-stars are Silvia Monti of A LIZARD IN A WOMAN’S SKIN (1971) and THE FIFTH CORD (1971); and Ida Galli, whose credits include LA DOLCE VITA (1960), HERCULES IN THE HAUNTED WORLD (1961), THE LEOPARD (1963), THE WHIP AND THE BODY (1963), THE PSYCHIC (1977) and many others.

At the heart of the film, Lovelock’s David is a mix of naivety, angelic beauty, and charm. David embodies the ideals of the hippie movement – freedom, non-conformity, and a rejection of materialistic values. His motorcycle journey through the Italian countryside serves as a metaphor for the counterculture’s quest for enlightenment and escape from societal norms. However, David’s idealism is quickly put to the test when he encounters the titular “Queens.”

Imagine David, the story’s doomed protagonist; he’s a free-spirited cruising through the Italian countryside on his motorcycle. It sounds idyllic, but we know there’s a twist coming. Like David in Queens of Evil, riding his steel horse down open roads, it draws a clear parallel to Peter Fonda’s iconic role as Wyatt in Easy Rider (1969). The open road becomes a metaphor for the search for personal freedom and meaning. Both films feature protagonists who embody the late 1960s and early 1970s counterculture ethos, using motorcycles as symbols of their desire for freedom and rebellion against conventional society.

In Easy Rider, Wyatt (Peter Fonda) and Billy (Dennis Hopper) embark on a cross-country motorcycle journey, encountering various aspects of American culture and facing hostility from those who oppose their lifestyle. Similarly, David in Queens of Evil encounters mysterious and potentially dangerous characters during his travels who also oppose what he stands for.

A striking parallel exists between the archetypal narratives of wayward, virile ‘princes’ or studs ensnared within a pastoral paradise and the insatiable, evil Queens (i.e., Ava Gardner in Tam Lin) and seductive sirens who seek to possess them. This clash of archetypes, the untamed masculine spirit versus the ruthless feminine intellect, reflects the deep-seated cultural anxieties and preoccupations surrounding the nature of power, desire, and the fear of women’s primacy in particular, as with Tam Lin, older women’s primacy.

TAM LIN 1970 & BABA YAGA 1973 – Ava Gardner & Carroll Baker: THE FAERIE QUEEN"¦ & VALENTINA'S DREAM: Two Hollywood icons in search of mythology. Part 1

Tam Lin and Queens of Evil feel akin to the psychedelic folkloristic cinema, which captures that brief moment when fashionable trends were turning towards folklore motifs. Films thrive on a strong narrative, and legends are fed by things that are false and things that are true.

From the mythic sirens to folkloric temptresses, male protagonists throughout literary and cultural narratives have repeatedly found themselves ensnared by seductive forces that promise liberation but ultimately threaten destruction.

For example, the Sirens from Greek mythology in Homer’s Odyssey are creatures who lure male sailors to their doom with their enchanting songs. Odysseus had to be tied to his ship’s mast to resist their temptation. The story of Pinocchio features a place called Pleasure Island, where boys are lured with promises of fun and freedom, only to be transformed into donkeys. Some versions of Sleeping Beauty depict the prince being lured into danger by the sleeping princess’s beauty. In certain folklore, creatures like Succubi or some interpretations of vampires specifically target and lure men.

These stories often serve as cautionary tales, warning against the dangers of temptation, curiosity, or naivety. They reflect the consequences of unchecked desires.

Continue reading “THE PRICE OF DECADENCE AND LIBERATION: Seduction and Isolation: A Dual Journey Through Queens of Evil 1970 and L’Avventura 1960 Part 1”

The Dark Side of Christmas: Exploring Bob Clark’s Pioneering Slasher Black Christmas 1974

“This moody depiction of the Christmas slayings… is as murky as the script, which dotes largely on obscenities that are no more pointed than the violence, dull direction and pedestrian performances.” — A.H. Weiler, New York Times, October 20, 1975, page 45.

Released in the U.S. on December 20, 1974, just in time for the holiday season, Black Christmas 1974 creates an authentically unsettling atmosphere. It features one of the earliest and most compelling portrayals of the Final Girl archetype.

While Black Christmas 1974 was initially embraced in its country of origin, Canada, it did not fare as well in the United States. Its transformation into a cult classic is attributed mainly to home video releases and revival screenings. For its American debut, the film was retitled Silent Night, Evil Night.

Black Christmas features an interesting cast, including Olivia Hussey, Keir Dullea, Margot Kidder, Andrea Martin, Lynne Griffin, and John Saxon. The film draws inspiration from the well-known urban legend “The Babysitter and the Man Upstairs” and a series of real-life murders that occurred in Montreal, Quebec. Filmed in Toronto, Canada, in 1974, it was produced on a modest budget of $686,000, comparable to Halloween’s $325,000.

Despite the financial constraints, Bob Clark artfully managed to use the limited resources to create a memorable, deeply disturbing narrative of isolation and terror set against the backdrop of what should be the most joyous time of the year!

Black Christmas 1974 is a groundbreaking horror film that laid the foundation for the slasher genre. It is often credited as the proto-slasher, predating and provoking an abundance of conversations about its influence on later classics like Halloween 1978.

Set during the festive season, the movie follows a group of sorority sisters who become targets of a mysterious and deranged intruder who terrorizes them as they prepare to leave for winter break.

The sorority house begins to receive a series of disturbing, vulgar phone calls that use sexually explicit language to threaten the girls. After one of the sisters goes missing, and the police finally agree to investigate, each of the women is brutally murdered.

Continue reading “The Dark Side of Christmas: Exploring Bob Clark’s Pioneering Slasher Black Christmas 1974”

Under the Radar: The Unseen Side of Film Noir – Part 3 – It Always Rains on Sunday (1947)

Darkness Without Escape: British Noir’s Bleak Horizons

It Always Rains on Sunday 1947

In director Robert Hamer’s masterful film It Always Rains on Sunday, the relentless downpour that drenches nearly every scene serves as both a symbol of psychological downpour as it is one of torrential weather. This persistent rain reflects the bleak, oppressive atmosphere of postwar London, mirroring the emotional turmoil and shattered dreams of its characters.

A bleak, numbing damp seeps through the air, a haunting echo of the shattered, bombed-out dreams of the various characters navigating a single gritty Sunday on the rain-drained streets of postwar East End London where Googie Withers offers a safe haven to her former lover, the escaped felon Tommy Swann (John McCallum).

In a commanding performance as Rose Sandigate, Googie Withers embodies the frustrations of a disillusioned housewife from Bethnal Green trapped in a monotonous marriage.

Boxed in by good-natured yet intrusive neighbors, she grapples with the bitter feelings of envy toward her stepdaughter’s vibrant social life. When her mundane existence is abruptly disrupted by her ex-lover resurfacing, it forces her to confront her longing for the past and the constraints of her current reality.

Susan Shaw as Googie Wither’s stepdaughter Vi.

Concealed in the sanctuary of her bedroom, Tommy stays out of sight while the ordinary rhythm of domesticity plays out just beyond the walls. Meanwhile, outside the house, the relentless threat of police and journalists at her door looking for him will disrupt their plans.

“ But with that desperate situation as its emotional and narrative core, It Always Rains on Sunday fans out into a sprawling, Altmanesque tapestry of East End life.” ( from Film at Lincoln Center)

Condensed into a gripping hour and a half, the film unfolds with relentless intensity, where every moment is imbued with meaning. As day gives way to the nighttime realm, the despair and alienation culminate in a surreal Stratford train-yard finale. Here, elongated shadows dance amidst swirling smoke and intricate rear projections, creating a fever-dream landscape where all narrative threads converge.

It Always Rains on Sunday is a 1947 British film adaptation of Arthur La Bern’s novel of the same name. Arthur La Bern also wrote the story that became Hitchcock’s psycho-sexual thriller Frenzy.

Robert Hamer, who directed the film, also helmed the irreverent Kind Hearts and Coronets (1949), The Spider and the Fly (1949), Dead of Night (1945) sequence – the eerie and disturbing “The Haunted Mirror,” Pink String & Sealing Wax 1945, The Detective (1954) starring Frank Sinatra which dealt head-on with then considered deviant subject matter, To Paris with Love (1955), The Scapegoat (1959), and School for Scoundrels (1960).

The British writers Robert Murphy and Graham Fuller compared It Always Rains on Sunday to the poetic realism movement in French cinema a few years earlier.

The film features a screenplay By Angus Mcphail, Robert Hamer, and Henry Cornelius, with moody cinematography by Douglas Slocombe, who began his career as a photojournalist. Slocombe also shot Kind Hearts and Coronets 1949, The Lavender Hill Mob 1951, The Man in the White Suit 1951, The Servant 1963, and the taut psychological thriller starring Stephen Boyd, Jack Hawkins, and Pamela Franklin The Third Secret 1964.

It Always Rains on Sunday marked the first significant success for Ealing Studios in Britain, one of the oldest film studios in existence. It opened its doors in 1905 and is still operating today.

Googie Withers and John McCallum met while filming It Always Rains on Sunday. They married the following year and remained together until McCallum’s passing in 2010 at the age of 91.

In a striking scene, Rose notices scars on Tommy’s back, remnants of the flogging he endured with cat-o’-nine-tails during his time in prison. This brutal form of punishment was a practice in British prisons dating back to the 19th century and was only abolished in 1948, the year after this film’s release.

Damian Murphy at The Sydney Morning Herald referred to Googie Withers as dubbed the Best British bad girl with a ‘haughty sexuality.’ Read this wonderful article here:

Googie Wither’s performance as the independent, hungry, and disillusioned Helen Nosteros in Jules Dassin’s masterpiece Night and the City was nothing short of extraordinary. Night and the City was Googie Withers’s last film for Ealing Studios, and thanks to her striking performance as a woman trapped in claustrophobic domesticity, it is perhaps one of her best.

31 Flavors of Noir on the Fringe to Lure you in! Part 2

Hermione Baddeley has a minor role as the proprietor of a flophouse. She is perhaps best remembered for her portrayal of Mrs. Naugatuck in the television series Maude or as the maid in Mary Poppins (1964).

British actress Hermione Baddeley as Mrs. Spry.

The film depicts events occurring on a Sunday, specifically March 23, 1947, as noted on a blackboard at the local underground station. The setting is Bethnal Green, an area in the East End of London that had endured significant devastation from bombings and the hardships of post-war life.

It Always Rains on Sunday unfolds over a single, dreary Sunday in post-war London’s East End. The story revolves around Rose Sandigate, whose mundane life is upended when her former lover, Tommy Swann, appears at her doorstep.

Rose Sandigate is a former barmaid who is now married to a middle-aged man with two teenage daughters from his previous marriage. Having stepped into the role of a housewife and stepmother, she navigates the challenges of post-war rationing and a bleak environment, supported by her kind husband (Edward Chapman) as he heals from past emotional wounds.

Googie Withers, Susan Shaw, and Edward Chapman.

Gladys Henson.

Edie Martin.

Alfie Bass, John Carol, Fred Griffiths, and Jimmy Hanley.

Meier Tzelniker.

Surrounding this central couple, Hamer crafts a richly intricate picture of the post-war East End. The community teems with a variety of characters, lively markets, and the story of a Jewish immigrant family.

We also encounter the philandering saxophone player navigating his romantic entanglements, there’s a small-time petty criminal, and his gangster brother, Lou (John Slater), who has eyes for Vi Sandgate’s (Susan Shaw) sister, Doris (Patricia Plunkett), and a group of hapless thieves and idlers whose recent warehouse robbery yielded nothing more than a bunch of children’s roller skates. All trying to make ends meet.

These diverse storylines intertwine, creating a vivid portrait of working-class life in post-war Britain, all set against the backdrop of relentless rain that mirrors the characters’ gloomy circumstances. The film’s atmospheric sense of doom overshadows the characters’ lives with a palpable tinge of noir-fatalism as it offers an intimate glimpse into the gritty underbelly of London’s working-class existence.

Rose learns from the newspaper about her former lover, Tommy Swann, who while serving four years of a seven-year sentence for robbery with violence, has escaped from Dartmoor prison and is on the run.

Tommy Swann, now an escaped convict, seeks shelter from the authorities, forcing Rose to conceal him from both the law and her unsuspecting family.

In noir fashion, there are a series of flashbacks reflecting on the time Rose and Tommy were engaged to be married. Tommy gets arrested for a robbery, and it is quite possible that he may actually be the father of Rose’s young son.

John Slater as Lou and Patricia Plunkett as Rose’s stepdaughter Doris.

The woman-driven narrative offers some unforgettable performances, richly layered and completely captivating. Among them is Rose’s beautiful daughter, Vi Sandigate (Susan Shaw), Rose’s elder stepdaughter; while stunning, she is also somewhat mercurial and entangled in an affair with occasional lover Morry Hyams (Sydney Taffler), the sax player who is very much married.

There’s also Doris, Vi’s younger sister, portrayed by Patricia Plunkett in her first film role. Despite her gentle demeanor and kind heart, Doris possesses quiet strength and is unafraid to voice her opinions or stand firm when the situation demands it. In contrast, we have Sadie, Morry’s wife, played by Betty Ann Davies. Sadie is no fool; she’s acutely aware of her husband’s infidelities.

Sidney Tafler as Morry and Betty Ann Davies as Sadie.

In a particularly poignant scene, Sadie confronts Morry with a mix of resignation and defiance, declaring, “ I know all about you and your little shiksas. I’ve known a long time, even if I haven’t said anything. But I’m not going to have them come here into my house.”  

[Morry has just told off Sadie for buying retail]
Morry: Where are you going?
Sadie Hyams: To get some fresh air. Don’t worry; I’ll get it wholesale.

Rose’s stepdaughters — Doris and Vi.

The film introduces us to Rose in a subtle yet intriguing manner. We first hear her voice through the wall, rousing her stepdaughters with a request for tea on their father’s behalf. This initial verbal introduction cleverly piques our curiosity about her identity and her role within the household. Soon after, we’re granted an intimate glimpse into Rose’s world as she begins her day. The camera follows her through a cramped bedroom shared with her husband, George. We observe her mundane morning rituals – reluctantly drawing the curtains to reveal yet another dreary, rain-soaked day, methodically unraveling the pin curls from her hair that give the impression of shadowy night.

All the while, her husband George’s voice provides a backdrop of newspaper headlines, to which Rose responds with perfunctory interest. However, the mention of an escaped convict named Thomas Swann suddenly breaks through Rose’s apparent ennui. Though she quickly masks her reaction from George, her momentary lapse in composure speaks volumes. It’s a masterful bit of storytelling, instantly conveying to the audience that Rose’s connection to Swann runs far deeper than her outward indifference suggests, hinting at the hidden depths of her character and setting the stage for the drama to unfold.

A poignant flashback transports us to Rose’s past, revealing a vivacious young woman with hair the color of burnished gold, tending bar at a local pub. We witness pivotal moments: her first encounter with the charismatic Tommy Swann, his heartfelt proposal, and Rose eagerly packing for their wedding.

However, her dreams are shattered when news of Tommy’s arrest for robbery reaches her. The contrast between Rose’s former self, full of passion and life, and her present existence is striking. She now inhabits a world of quiet desperation. Her cramped sardine can of a house, shared with two grown women, a rowdy teenager, and a respectable yet uninspiring husband, stands as a testament to her diminished circumstances. The home’s dilapidated state, with rain seeping through broken windowpanes and taking baths in the kitchen next to the stove, further underscores the stark difference between the possibilities of her past life and the nihilism of her present one.

Rose’s first shocking encounter with Tommy Swann is when she finds him hiding in her family’s air raid shelter. He asks her to help him hide out until nightfall. Though she suffers from an oppressive feeling in her life, despite her initial shock when he puts his hand over her mouth to silence her, Rose’s unresolved feelings and lasting affection for Tommy quickly surface. Her concern for his sodden state, “You’re soaking!” she says and fears that he might fall ill betray a deep-seated yearning for their past connection that persists despite the years apart.

Rose’s actions speak louder than words. Though Tommy merely requests food, she goes above and beyond, orchestrating a moment when the house is empty to smuggle him inside and feed him. Her insistence that he rest in her bedroom while she tends to his wet clothes illustrates the years of domesticity that have prepared her, though it cannot conceal the restlessness that plagues her.

 

Throughout the day, Rose consistently proves herself to be resourceful, street-smart, and remarkably composed under pressure. Consider the moments of Rose’s cunning: when her stepdaughter Doris unexpectedly returns home, Rose swiftly conceals Tommy’s drying trousers with a towel. Later, when the police arrive at her doorstep, she brazenly declares she would never assist a ” Cheap crook like Tommy Swann.”

While the constable’s fleeting visit brings with it a stark warning: harboring a fugitive could result in a two-year sentence. It doesn’t deter Rose from continuing to conceal Tommy within her walls. But Rose is no fool; she doesn’t fancy herself running off with him. “ It’s too late . . . ten years too late,” Rose tells Tommy with an expression tinged with regret. “Just send me a postcard, that’s all.”

Rose is a truly sympathetic and relatable character, as Tommy’s sudden reappearance has awakened a part of her that has been buried; this re-emergence of her former lover has reunited the old passions she hasn’t felt since he went away to prison. The scene subtly hints at unresolved feelings and yearning for her past that contrasts sharply with her current life.

She successfully keeps his presence hidden from the family, but it’s Sunday, and she must prepare lunch. She scolds the girls about their misbehavior from the previous night while the husband heads out to the pub as he typically does.

Rose’s most emotionally resonant moment—and Withers’s finest acting—occurs when Tommy confesses that he needs money to get away. Initially, she offers him the last of her housekeeping funds, a gesture that underscores her willingness to sacrifice for him.

When Tommy indicates that this amount won’t be enough, Rose fetches the engagement ring he once gave her, which she has stowed away in the back of the drawer, away from George’s eyes. She gives it to Tommy so he can either sell it or take it to a pawn shop.

However, as he admires the ring, he comments that it’s a “ Nice stone” and that he’ll get a good price for it. Rose realizes with a wave of sadness that he doesn’t remember it as the symbol of their past love. She says nothing to him about its meaning.

Withers masterfully shifts emotions. In the flash of a moment, her expression transforms from love to sadness, ultimately settling into a steely acceptance as she simply replies, ” Had it given,” revealing the profound emotional weight of their shared history.

Jack Warner as Lt. Fotherfill and Frederick Piper as Det. Sergt. Leech.

As the rainy Sunday moves on, the police drawer nearer. While Tommy is preparing to flee, a newspaper reporter acting on a tip shows up at the house, enquiring about her past relationship with Swann. When he catches wind of the situation, he tries to tip off the cops, but not before Tommy assaults him and escapes.

In a moment of sheer desperation, Rose finds herself engulfed in panic, contemplating a tragic way out; she tries to commit suicide by gassing herself.

Meanwhile, the police are hot on Tommy’s trail, pursuing him to the railway sidings. After a tense chase, Detective Inspector Fothergill (Jack Warner), who has been relentlessly tracking him down, finally apprehends him.

As the film draws to a close, we see Rose in a hospital bed, surrounded by her husband’s comforting presence. He eventually leaves the hospital alone, stepping out into a serene sky that contrasts sharply with the turmoil that was.

This is your EverLovin’ Joey sayin’ save a little bit of time to visit The Last Drive In for a rainy day!

Under the Radar: The Unseen Side of Film Noir Part 2: Criss Cross 1949

Fate, Desire, and Inescapable Will: The Noir Aesthetic of Robert Siodmak’s Criss Cross 1949

Robert Siodmak is the unheralded master of noir, and Criss Cross 1949 can be considered his crowning achievement.  Eddie Muller called the above shot where De Carlo looks directly into the camera ” noir’s defining moment.” They have the potential to be happy, and Lancaster is willing to forget the money if they can be together, but she just can’t let it go. Their fate is irrevocably sealed as they drift towards the nihilistic ending, and despite a handful of playful moments, Siodmak never lets up on the heavy, oppressive atmosphere.

“ Its pleasures are so subtle and so sublime you almost have to earn your way to this film, which deserves its place on any list of top 5 noirs of all time. The structure is complex and engrossing. Every facet of the filmmaking is superb. The cast is perfect, from stars to bit players – it has one of Miklós Rózsa’s most haunting scores, and the whole thing is realized by director Robert Siodmak in a way that makes the viewers feel they’re dreaming the story rather than having it told to them. “ – Eddie Muller

Criss Cross 1949 stands as a testament to Robert Siodmak’s mastery of the film noir aesthetic. One of the genre’s most influential stylists, honed from his German Expressionism roots, Siodmak fashions a visual language of composition and camera work that is, as Eddie Muller calls it, ‘ominous yet graceful.’

His expert manipulation of light and shadow, a hallmark of his expressionistic style, transforms ordinary settings into suspenseful landscapes. Consider Phantom Lady 1944, The Killers 1946, and Cry of the City 1948. Three of his most potent noirs, which are on my list of the best film noir, helped define the visual vocabulary of the American crime thriller.

Ella Raines in Robert Siodmak’s Phantom Lady 1944.

Victor Mature and Richard Conte in Siodmak’s Cry of the City 1948.

Phantom Lady: Forgotten Cerebral Noir: It’s not how a man looks, it’s how his mind works that makes him a killer.

31 Flavors of Noir on the Fringe to Lure you in! Part 2

According to French film critics Raymond Borde and Etienne Chaumeton, who wrote the influential book A Panorama of American Film Noir, Siodmak’s complex understanding of human nature “ demonstrates… that even within the framework of film noir, we’re in the presence of one of the finest psychologists of the screen.”

Robert Siodmak’s ability to infuse each scene and weave complex, non-linear stories with a sense of unease and moral ambiguity through purely visual poetry demonstrates to me why he should be considered one of the most influential directors of the noir era.

Siodmak’s films, like Criss Cross, reveal a keen awareness of what drives his characters. They often examine themes of obsession and betrayal within the gritty context of urban decay, and his brazenly bleak Criss Cross represents the height of a fertile and vibrant moment in film noir during the 1940s.

“ Criss Cross should have been the crowning achievement of producer Mark Hellinger, the flashy Broadway columnist who’d come to Hollywood in the late 1930s and taken the place by storm, producing some of the toughest and hard-boiled pictures of the early 40s – things like They Drive By Night, and High Sierra.”– Eddie Muller

Continue reading “Under the Radar: The Unseen Side of Film Noir Part 2: Criss Cross 1949”

Under the Radar: The Unseen Side of Film Noir – Part 1

Dennis O’Keefe and Marsha Hunt in Anthony Mann’s Raw Deal 1948.

While iconic film noirs grab our attention, films like Out of the Past, where Jeff Bailey’s (Robert Mitchum) past catches up with him lured by the complex and dangerous Kathie Moffet (Jane Greer), and while there’s nothing hotter than the steamy affair between Frank and Cora (Garfield and Turner) in The Postman Always Rings Twice, or watching Walter Neff’s (Fred MacMurray) descent into murder and deception lured by the wiley Phyllis Dietrichson (Barbara Stanwyck) in Double Indemnity. It’s no wonder these masterpieces have rightfully earned their place in cinematic history, yet there’s a whole alleyway of shadows, both literally and figuratively, that have flown under the radar. Well worth watching, these lesser-known noir gems are waiting to be discovered.

Films like The Sniper (1952), Raw Deal (1948), and Act of Violence (1948) offer gritty and challenging narratives and are begging for a bit of attention. These overlooked classics showcase the genre’s versatility, exploring themes of psychological torment, moral ambiguity, and the consequences of violence. The Sniper delves into the twisted psyche of a disturbed war veteran turned killer. Raw Deal presents a gritty tale of escaping the past, desire in flux, and redemption.  Act of Violence examines the lasting impact of wartime choices on civilian life. These underappreciated noirs prove that the genre’s shadowy allure extends far beyond its most celebrated titles. I wanted to celebrate Noirvember by peering into the more obscure corners of the genre!

SPOILER ALERT ?

1-The Sniper 1952


The Sniper is a dark psychological film noir that explores the troubling story of Eddie Miller, a disturbed delivery man with a deep-seated hatred of women. Directed by Edward Dmytryk and shot on location in San Francisco, particularly in the Telegraph Hill area, the film was written by Harry Brown and based on a story by Edna and Edward Anhalt. The cast features Adolphe Menjou, Arthur Franz, Gerald Mohr, and one of noir’s finest femme fatales – Marie Windsor, who Eddie thinks played him for a poor sucker.

The Sniper unfolds like a fever dream in the burning, daylit streets, and shadowy streets of 1950s San Francisco. It is a haunting exploration of a fractured psyche teetering on the edge of madness and the manhunt that ensues.

Arthur Franz plays the unbalanced Eddie Miller, who feels compelled to kill women. When he tries to get help for himself, he is met with a lack of interest and sent back out into the world. Miller is a man whose inner demons have twisted his view of women and, evidently, a mother who is hinted at as someone he despises so severely that he finally breaks down and begins a killing spree, targeting them from rooftops throughout the city.

Adolph Menjou plays Lt. Kafka, a gruff and unmerciful policeman who is assigned to the case. As he investigates the killings, Lt. Kafka begins to see the full picture as he tracks down the troubled Miller, figuring out that the murders are not just sexually motivated but stem from a profound psychological fracture and a desperate cry from a mind splintering under the weight of unresolved trauma. Finally, cornering Miller in a cheap hotel, the cops close in. They force their way into his lightly barricaded room and find him surrounded by a small arsenal of weapons. The look on his face shows that he’s relieved it’s finally over. Dmytryck shows his visual flare reminiscent of his earlier noirs, including Murder My Sweet 1944, Cornered 1945, and Crossfire 1947.

Edward Dmytryk’s obscure noir masterpiece plunges us into the tortured world of veteran Miller, who harbors a darkness that threatens to consume him. His voyeuristic gaze, windows to a soul in turmoil, flickers with barely contained rage when he glimpses couples in intimate moments It’s as if their happiness is a personal affront; each romantic glance is itself a gunshot wound to his fragile ego. He perceives every woman he comes in contact with as being untrustworthy and brash.

In a moment of anguished self-awareness, Miller presses his hand to an electric stove, a desperate attempt to cauterize the emotional wounds that fester within and keep himself from projecting his rage outward. But the pain of other’s apathy only fuels his descent into madness, and soon, the city trembles under the shadow of his M1 carbine. As bodies fall and panic grips the streets, Miller’s twisted game of cat-and-mouse with his anonymous notes sent to the police takes on a surreal quality as he begs to be caught before he commits more murders, aware of his sins but powerless to stop himself.

Dmytryk, fresh from his own battles with the Hollywood blacklist, testifying before the House Un-American Activities Committee, infuses the film with a palpable sense of paranoia and urban alienation.

Miller’s crimes reflect the moral ambiguity of a society grappling with hidden threats. The Sniper  delves into the murky waters of criminal psychology, pioneering profiling techniques that would become staples of the genre. Yet it’s the film’s unconventional ending that truly subverts expectations with the after-the impact of its structured violence and ends with the non-violent denouement of Miller’s surrender and society maintaining the status quo. More than just a thriller, The Sniper stands as a chilling indictment of a society ill-equipped to deal with mental illness, its streets teeming with walking wounded like Miller, in the shadows of post-war America in the 1950s.

“The characters found in The Sniper exist in a netherworld that permits humanitarian speculation to surface through scenes of humiliation and angst.” – (from Film Noir an Encyclopedia Reference to the American Style edited by Silver & Ward)

Los Angeles was experiencing their own version of a lone male ‘phantom sniper’ Evan Charles Thomas, stalking female victims, targeting them at random from a sniper’s vantage point the previous summer.

This must have heightened audiences’ fears when watching an eerily similar serial killer-themed film noir. While The Sniper was not directly inspired by the Thomas case, its release coincided with a real-life sniper incident in Los Angeles, creating an eerie parallel. The film’s story had been acquired by Stanley Kramer Productions from writers Edna and Edward Anhalt several months before Thomas began his shooting spree. Interestingly, Arthur Franz was cast as the sniper on August 27, 1951, the same day as Thomas’s first shooting. Despite the film’s independent origin, its producers recognized the potential to leverage the public’s interest in the ongoing sniper case. They capitalized on this coincidence in their marketing efforts, emphasizing the film’s relevance to recent events.

This strategy, aimed at drawing audiences by highlighting the film’s timeliness and apparent realism, was too close for comfort even though its conception predated the actual crimes.

“L.A. saw it happen!” the local ad for the film blared. Chief of Police Bill Parker was said to have signed a letter praising the film’s realism in its “handling of intensive methods” to track down the killer. In his review, Scheuer noted, “The parallel is too close for comfort, but even without the similarity between Eddie Miller and an alleged local “sniper” the picture would be distasteful.” (Source J.H.Graham)

E.R. doctor: Were you ever in a mental hospital?
Edward Miller: Only when I was in prison.

 

Police Lt. Frank Kafka: All I have to do is catch him.
Dr. James G. Kent: You’ll catch ’em, and they’ll kill ’em, and everyone will forget about it. . . that is until the next one comes along. Then it will start all over again.

Continue reading “Under the Radar: The Unseen Side of Film Noir – Part 1”

A Tale of Two Spirits- The Haunting of Windward House: A Study of Gothic Horror in The Uninvited 1944

Retrospective reviews have continued to hold the film in high regard, with Carlos Clarens calling it ” the best and most unusual” horror film of 1944 in his book An Illustrated History of the Horror Film.

“ The supernatural is dealt with seriously in this dynamic, suspenseful melodrama, chock full of fine acting that will hold audiences glued to their seats for its entire 93 minutes…
Once in, they’ll like it, but getting audiences into the seats to stay “glued” there was less than a dead cert due to the film’s “unusual and controversial subject.” — Review from the 5 January 1944 issue of Variety.

In his review of The Uninvited for The New York Times, Bosley Crowther remarked that while the film features a “glaring confusion in the wherefore and why of what goes on,” it effectively showcases the talents of its cast, particularly noting that Ray Milland and Ruth Hussey “do nicely as the couple who get themselves involved” and praising Gail Russell as “wistful and gracious” in her role.”

Paramount’s The Uninvited 1944, MGM’s The Haunting 1963, and Twentieth Century Fox’s The Innocents 1961 stand as the finest examples of achievements in the realm of sophisticated supernatural cinema to come out of Hollywood in the forties. Horror in the 1940s were overwhelmingly monster movies, considering Universal’s trend, which was characterized by a blend of classic literary monsters and folktales and their more modern reinterpretations, such as Dracula, Frankenstein, and werewolves. The Gothic ghost story has had quite a resurgence in the past few decades and has become its own genre.

All three of the aforementioned Gothic supernatural films are ‘gravely’ serious and refined visions that tell a subtext or deeper meaning about inner psychological conflict and the path of self-discovery, which is effectively brought to life by the presence of ghosts and spirits. Therefore, while on the surface, the films appear to haunt the screen as a well-crafted ghost story, they also delve into meaningful themes that reach beyond their supernatural framework and their sense of the otherworldly.

These films represent a departure from typical ghost stories, offering nuanced, psychologically complex narratives that delve into the human psyche. These narratives are particularly powerful when amplified through the Gothic aesthetic.

With its cold earnestness, Lewis Allen’s stunning prototype of an authentic cinematic ghost story doesn’t expose the uncanny happenings as a mere gimmick perpetrated by human design to misdirect and obscure mischief. These ghosts are very real and dangerous.

Right off the bat, the movie gained attention for being above other horror films —as an early example of “elevated horror” or “higher bracket horror pictures,” as Jack Cartwright wrote at the time.

Hollywood normally sprinkled its ghost stories with a generous dose of comedy or as a subterfuge devised to cover up some criminal operations. Four years earlier, Paramount released the Bob Hope comedy classic The Ghost Breakers; the horror/comedy subgenre shifted to a lighthearted tone characterized by antics with the ‘it can all be explained away by the end of the picture’ flare. We can see this type of over-the-top carnival horror in pictures pulled off by showman William Castle in the 1950s & 60s, with House on Haunted Hill and 13 Ghosts.

Paulette Goddard and Bob Hope in The Ghost Breakers 1940.

Kay Hammond, Rex Harrison and Constance Cummings in Blithe Spirit 1945.

The Uninvited is an innovative approach to the supernatural Hollywood horror formula. It takes a bold stance by presenting these elements as genuine occurrences rather than comedic devices or plot misdirections and was considered “unusual and controversial” at the time, setting it apart from lighter iterations like Blithe Spirit or Topper, refraining from the campy theatrics typical of its predecessors. Allen’s film can be regarded as the first major Hollywood motion picture that transformed ‘ghosts’ into something malignant and threatening.

Gary J. Svehla’s The Uninvited essay in Cinematic Hauntings states: Hollywood’s glib attitude toward ghosts – perhaps they quickly became the caricature of human beings wearing a white sheet in two-reel comedies or the comical howling spirits of Disney cartoons, the ghost in Hollywood has never been taken seriously enough. Hollywood’s attraction to the ghost movie genre has largely been tongue-in-cheek with early thirties encounters between spooks and Laurel and Hardy, the Three Stooges, and the robust, demented Little Rascals. Even the MGM late thirties version of A Christmas Carol, featuring disembodied spirits of the spookiest nature, still managed to keep the proceedings moralistic, tidy, and safe (even fun).

Svehla cites the Halperin Brothers’ deadly serious pre-code horror Supernatural 1933, starring Carole Lombard, as one of the first mature ghost movies. It is still an obscure gem barely remembered today.

The Uninvited emerged as a pivotal work in the supernatural thriller canon, marking a significant shift in the genre’s trajectory, opting for a nuanced exploration of spectral phenomena that would redefine the genre.

This 1944 Paramount picture starred Ray Milland, one of its top stars, and Ruth Hussey, best known for her Oscar-nominated performance as Best Supporting Actress in The Philadelphia Story 1940.

Directed by the English-born Lewis Allen, with over thirty West End productions to his credit and several successful Broadway shows as well, he established himself as a prominent figure in theatre until he went to Los Angeles and joined Paramount.

In his directorial debut, Allen masterfully adapted Irish writer and activist Dorothy Macardle’s 1941 novel Uneasy Freehold, renamed The Uninvited, for its U.S. publication.

While his repertoire includes films like The Unseen 1945 (also a Dorothy Macardle adaptation which made it to the screen a year later), Desert Fury (1947), the atmospheric noir So Evil My Love (1948), and the tense thriller Suddenly (1954), it’s The Uninvited (1944) of all his moody offerings; it’s the film that stands out as his crowning achievement. Paramount allocated a substantial budget and assembled a talented cast for the production, resulting in a successful hit!

Joel McCrea and Gail Russell in The Unseen 1945.

Though more of a continuation of the theme rather than a literal sequel, Lewis Allen directed the follow-up, The Unseen (1945), also starring Gail Russell, this time playing a governess – echoing the Gothic themes of The Innocents (1961).

“As we think about The Uninvited today, its production tells us a lot about why it remains so culturally significant. When producer Charles Brackett bought the rights to Dorothy Macardle‘s 1941 novel, he had Alfred Hitchcock in mind to direct. Hitchcock had made Rebecca a year earlier in a similar fashion to what Brackett imagined The Uninvited could be: moody, gothic, and haunting. Brackett met with Hitchcock, who read the book but could not direct it due to scheduling conflicts. Hitchcock did give some suggestions to Brackett, but whether or not he used those suggestions is unknown.” – from The Original Ghostly Thrills of ‘The Uninvited’ published October 26, 2021, by Emily Kubincanek, senior Contributor for Film School Rejects.

The Uninvited will certainly resonate with admirers of Hitchcock’s adaptation of Daphne du Maurier’s Rebecca 1940, sharing some of its elements of psychological suspense and haunting ‘spirits’ from the past. Both stories explore parallel themes that center around the ‘afterlife’ influence of the idealized woman/wife revered as the epitome of perfection who casts a long, malevolent shadow over a pure-hearted girl.

Dame Judith Anderson and Joan Fontaine in Alfred Hitchcock’s Rebecca 1940.

It’s a complex blend of a psychological thriller and the obvious supernatural horror, blurring the lines between the tangible and the specters of the afterlife. It’s also a harmony of melodrama and Gothic romance, drawing inspiration from films like Rebecca; The Uninvited utilizes gothic elements such as a foreboding mansion and a sense of lingering past trauma. In addition to that, the murder mystery structure is a story in which Ray Milland and Ruth Hussey uncover clues about past events and dark family secrets as they investigate the haunting.

Allen clues us in on the uncanny phenomena by using sound, melancholic sobbing is particularly powerful, and other unseen forces to suggest a supernatural presence—such as intense cold, the lingering scent of perfume, and an overwhelming sense of oppressive sadness. This likely had a significant impact on another iconic film about a haunted house: Robert Wise’s The Haunting 1963.

Ray Milland was cast as the sophisticated Rick Fitzgerald, who seeks to lighten the tense atmosphere with his comedic flair—a skill playing the charming everyman he frequently showcased in his roles as a romantic lead. That same year, he co-starred with Ginger Rogers in the romantic musical drama Lady in the Dark and Fritz Lang’s spy thriller Ministry of Fear.

“He’s been described as an existential Cary Grant, and his performance here captures that sentiment perfectly. Ultimately, though, the comedy here feels more like genre residue, the persisting remnants of a past cycle that championed comedy over horror in a film pushing new boundaries of otherworldly terror. It’s in the film’s most haunting, stylized moments that it feels most grounded and self-assured.” — from Caleb Allison from the 2021 essay Erotic and Esoteric : The Uninvited as Queer Cult Film.

In her debut role, Gail Russell’s performance as the twenty-year-old Stella Meredith is the driving force of the film, making her character a pivotal element of the story. In her first leading role, Russell masterfully embodies Stella’s complexities; her portrayal captures the essence of a true Gothic heroine, as she combines vulnerability with courageous spirit, gentility with a rebellious heart throughout the picture. She is ideal – haunted and consumed.

She brings a feverish intensity as a waif longing for her mother, who spirals into a state of desperation as a young woman under a spell.

The role of Stella Meredith is widely regarded as one of her best and played a significant role in establishing her as a star in Hollywood. With The Uninvited, and for a brief time during the 1940s, Gail Russell’s spellbinding, ethereal beauty, which trade magazines compared to Hedy Lamarr, the film captured the essence of what might have been for the talented actress, showcased in films like Frank Borzage’s Moonrise 1948. The Western, Angel and the Badman (1947) featuring John Wayne and once again alongside Wayne in the South Seas adventure Wake of the Red Witch (1948). She also starred in John Farrow’s noir/psychological horror film Night Has a Thousand Eyes 1948, co-starring Edward G. Robinson.

Gail Russell and John Lund in Night Has a Thousand Eyes 1948.

From the time she started out at the age of 19, Gail Russell fell victim to the ravages of the Hollywood star factory and descended into a tragic life of alcoholism. Withdrawn, anxious, and out of place for the Hollywood hustle, she drank to calm her nerves while on the set of this movie.

Russell suffered from pathological shyness, preferring to have lived a reclusive life as an artist. Her mother pushed her into an acting career, wishing to exploit her sensual good looks to move the family up in class. It is an ironic twist that she plays a young woman in the grip of her mother’s controlling influence.

By the time she appeared in Budd Boetticher’s Seven Men from Now in 1956, alcoholism had taken a toll on her once-stunning looks, and her career was nearly at an end. Tragically, she passed away in 1961 at the age of thirty-six due to complications related to her drinking.

The screenplay, brimming with intelligence and wit, was written by Frank Partos, a staff writer for both Paramount and RKO, and Dodie Smith, the established playwright and children’s author known for The Hundred and One Dalmatians, which itself was infused with a few Gothic elements. Partos had often worked with Paramount Producer Charles Brackett, who often collaborated with Billy Wilder.

According to Emily Kubincanek, Partos was “ Only available because he’d turned down co-writing Double Indemnity 1944 because he felt the morally challenging plot of that classic noir was too ‘sordid’ and bound to violate the Hays Code.”

Continue reading “A Tale of Two Spirits- The Haunting of Windward House: A Study of Gothic Horror in The Uninvited 1944”

A Trailer a Day Keeps the Boogeyman Away! Darkness Unleashed!

Dark Intruder 1965

Dark Intruder is a 1965 television movie directed by Harvey Hart and written by Barré Lyndon. Set in 1960s San Francisco, the film follows a series of gruesome murders that leave the police struggling to solve the bizarre crimes that appear to be linked to dark occult rituals. They enlist the help of Brett Kingsford, an urbane occultist/criminologist played by Leslie Nielsen, who is as charismatic as he is roguish. Kingsford poses as a wealthy playboy and encounters a mix of interesting characters, including Peter Mark Richman and Judi Meredith (The Night Walker 1964, Queen of Blood 1964), uncovering dark secrets connected to the city’s history and a demon that emerges from a mystical statue left at each crime scene

Devils of Darkness 1965

Devils of Darkness is a 1965 British horror film that uses vampire lore and satanic ritual themes. Lance Comfort directs with an atmosphere typical of the 1960s British vibe. It stars William Sylvester as Paul Baxter, Hubert Noël as Sinistre, and Carole Gray as Tania. It was written by Lyn Fairhurst and was Comfort’s last feature film.

A group of British tourists on holiday finds themselves in a perilous situation when Count Sinistre, a vampire who leads a secret Satanic cult in a small French village executed in the sixteenth century for his profane acts, rises from the grave. He unleashes his cult upon the unsuspecting tourists, killing three of them. Sinestre resurrects a gypsy girl named Tania, whom he has killed and taken as his bride.

One of the survivors, Paul Baxter, becomes suspicious of the supernatural nature of the deaths and decides to investigate. During his search for answers, Baxter acquires a bat-shaped talisman belonging to Count Sinistre. This prompts the Count to pursue Baxter back to England in an attempt to recover the talisman, murdering anyone connected to him.

And Soon the Darkness 1970

In And Soon the Darkness, a 1970 British thriller directed by Robert Fuest and written by Brian Clemens, is the taut story of two beautiful young English nurses, Jane (Pamela Franklin) and Cathy (Michele Dotrice), who embark on a cycling holiday touring the picturesque rural French countryside.

They stop at a cafe to chart out their next destination when Cathy catches the eye of the mysterious presence of a Frenchman named Paul (Sandor Elès). They hop on their bicycles and continue on their journey when Paul zooms past them on his motor scooter, only to park and wait for them on the side of the road up ahead.

After they peddle along their way, he stops to visit the grave of a young girl, a lovely young tourist who had been murdered three years ago.

The girl’s adventure takes a dark turn when they disagree about their plans. Jane wants to get going before it gets dark, and Cathy hopes to meet up with Paul again. The two quarrel and decide to split up. Jane stops at the local Cafe San Rivo, owned by Madame Lassal (Hana Maria Pravda), who warns Jane that the road is ‘bad,’ though she briefly waits for Cathy to catch up. When Jane returns to the spot where they last took a sojourn, she discovers that Cathy has vanished without a trace, having left her camera behind a trace. A menacing stranger has attacked and killed her. Paul suddenly shows up and becomes the prime suspect in Cathy’s disappearance.

As Jane frantically searches for her friend, she faces language barriers and growing paranoia in an unfamiliar rural community. The hostile locals and Paul’s suspicious behavior heighten Jane’s sense of dread. As she is being stalked, it is hard to know who to trust. The beauty of the unease Fuest creates is that it all takes place in broad daylight, creating an atmosphere of ironic, expansive claustrophobia amidst the vast open spaces of the French countryside. And Soon the Darkness is a suspenseful little psycho-sexual masterpiece penned by British fantasy television writer who created The Avengers and the cheeky little Daleks’ and – Doctor Who. And Fuest manages to attain a level of restrained 1970s shivers, a Hitchcockian landscape, though devoid of the campy, vividly colorful, psychological butterflies that Fuest saved for The Abominable Dr. Phibes duet and The Devil’s Rain in 1975.

Daughters of Darkness 1971

Daughters of Darkness is a 1971 erotic melancholic horror film directed by Harry Kümel (Malpertuis 1971); it is a German/French/Belgian production photographed with exquisite detail by Eduard van der Enden and art direction by Françoise Hardy. The story follows a newlywed couple, Stefan (John Karlen) and Valerie (Danielle Ouimet), who, after having a passionate love-making session on a train, head back from Sweden. Valerie is apprehensive about Stefan’s mother meeting her for the first time, so he suggests taking a room somewhere until he can make a call and prepare for his domineering mother, to whom he is newly married. They arrive at a nearly empty, opulent old hotel in Ostend, Belgium, while en route to England. learning they are the only guests except for two glamorous beauties. The sophisticated image of pure elegance – Countess Elizabeth Battori ‘Bathory’ (Delphine Seyrig) and her traveling companion, the sensuous, full-lipped nymphet Ilona (Andrea Rau).

The clerk is baffled by Battori’s appearance because she poses a remarkable resemblance to a woman who visited the hotel thirty years earlier, yet she hasn’t aged a bit. The couple takes an adjoining suite next to the mysterious pair while there is a series of gruesome crimes: four local girls who are found slaughtered. Also, Stefan seems to be fixated on the murders, while his taste for violent sex rises to new heights.

Stefan and Valerie’s stay takes a sinister turn once they encounter the enigmatic Countess, who is actually a modern-day incarnation of the infamous historical ‘Bathory,’ known for her gory torture of young girls.

While celebrating the luxuriations and pleasures of life, the four share drinks in the hotel lounge, where the Countess relates the story of the ‘Scarlett Countess’ and her sadistic appetites for the blood of hundreds of chained virgins. She not only drank their hot-flowing blood but bathed in its glorious crimson nectar after committing vile atrocities on these poor, helpless maidens. Stefan becomes fascinated and aroused by the details of slit throats… and worse. Valerie is deeply disturbed by the grim conversation.

As the couple becomes entangled with the Countess and her alluring secretary, Ilona, their dark secrets are revealed. They finally learn the truth about the two women who are actually vampires: Elizabeth, the ‘Scarlett Countess,’ and Ilona, one of her lovers. When Stefan beats Valerie with his belt after having sex, she leaves him but is met by the Countess at the train station.

Stefan makes love to Ilona and accidentally kills her when he drags her into the shower. Running water is lethal to vampires. When Valerie and Elizabeth return from the train station, they help Stefan dispose of Ilona’s body, and finally, the Countess seduces Valerie, whom she’s had her eye on from the beginning. Countess Elizabeth now has her new companion. The struggle over Valerie ensues til the climatic, poetic finale—a mesmeric tableau.

With its stylish cinematography and haunting atmosphere, Daughters of Darkness remains a cult classic in the genre. This is another film that calls to me to do a right full-length, The Last Drive In treatment. So stay tuned.

Don’t Be Afraid of the Dark 1973

Released on October 10, 1973, Don’t Be Afraid of the Dark led with the tagline: Now you see them… now you don’t… now you die!

Tiny demonic imps living in a Victorian house terrorize Sally (Kim Darby), married to up-and-coming advertising executive and workaholic Alex Farnham (Jim Hutton), who have just moved in. Sally has inherited the house from her grandmother. The secret of this Victorian portal to the bowels of a hellish domain, the entrance, which is a bolted fireplace in her grandfather’s dingy study, is linked to his volatile relationship with the sadistic little creatures – before he disappeared. Sally is hell-bent, literally, on redecorating with garish appeal, insisting on opening up the locked room, which leads to all the trouble.

Only when Alex is out of the house do the little menacing prune-faced imps play head games, taunting and threatening her while they impatiently wait for the time when she will truly come home. Handyman William Demarest, as cantankerous as ever, continues to urge Sally not to meddle in things better left locked away, but she does not heed his warning. “Some things are better left unopened.”

She hires Pedro Armendariz to tear open the bricked-up fireplace, but he soon pays for it when these horrific little creatures rig up a chord on the stairs meant to break Sally’s neck. The atmosphere of paranoia sets the mood, as no one else sees them, though they pop up everywhere while taking a shower, at a dinner party, and through the staircase. Alex angrily suggests she see a doctor. Barbara Anderson, who plays her best friend, doesn’t even believe her until the very end when it’s too late. Their little Greek chorus, calling her name in whispered tones, “free free free… set us free!” haunt the shadowy darkness as they hate the light—even flash bulbs and lit candles.

Sally is a frustrating, stubborn sort of person who just doesn’t leave when she knows she’s not imagining things, and her dismissive husband refuses to listen. I love to watch this every Halloween, and I can’t resist calling, sitting on my couch, yelling at Sally, the idiot, for just not getting out of the house. Even at the end,… taking sleeping pills and taking a nap on the bed when she is an inch away from being dragged down the darkened hole to nowhere, only to become a whispering tone in the shadows… herself. There’s a great score by composer Vic Mizzy, and one of the imps was played by Felix Silla, who was The Addams Family’s hirsute little character who squeaks and tribbles – ‘Cousin It.’

The Dark Secrets of Harvest Home 1978

Leo Penn directed, and Jack Laird produced this NBC miniseries, The Dark Secrets of Harvest Home. It’s a very atmospheric, folksy horror tale about an urban family who relocates to a seemingly idyllic rural community with unsettling undercurrents. Much like the tranquility of rural life known by Hammer, the surroundings belie the dark secrets beneath its surface. Bette Davis, in a role she was determined to play ever since she had read Thomas Tryon’s (The Other) novel, delivers an unambiguous bond to her Hammer days with films like The Nanny; wearing a pastoral high-neck black dress, white bonnet, and owlish glasses, she captures the essence of the Widow Fortune. Sage and world-weary, outwardly benevolent, yet there is a trace of malice lurking beneath. The Widow presides over the quaint and provincial village of Cornwall Coombe, acting as many things. As their medicine woman, the elder, and the matron who guides the villagers with her strict council. It is this isolated way of life that appeals to the Constantines, who are the perfect archetypal disaffected city people, Nick (David Ackroyd) and Beth (Joanna Miles). Beth has a regular gig with her psychiatrist to help her deal with Nick’s straying, and their daughter Kate (Rosanna Arquette) suffers from anxiety-driven asthma attacks. Once the family is taken into the Widow’s matriarchal bosom, her spell seems to be the nostrum the family needs. Beth is free of her therapy, and Kate’s asthma is cured. But Nick starts to feel the tremors of something corrupting at its core and the facade of their cloyingly charming new life, and the residents of the Coombe are a bit too obsessed with exalting their traditions that make you wonder about the sacred self-reliance and hints – with a rather sinister tone – that no one ever leaves the Coombe. Note: the recordings that blind Robert Dodd listens to are voiced by Donald Pleasance.

The Dark 1979

Tobe Hooper and John ‘Bud’ Cardos direct The Dark 1979, starring William Devane, Cathy Lee Crosby, and Richard Jaekel, who are fighting some kind of monster who goes on a killing and mutilation spree only in the dark of the night. Frustrated by the clueless police, the father (Devane) of the first victim goes looking for answers.

Dark Night of the Scarecrow TV movie 1981

This made-for-TV chiller aired on CBS on October 24, 1981. The dapper burlap fellow above is Bubba (Larry Drake), an innocent, kindly man with an intellectual disability who is befriended by a little girl (Tonya Crowe). In a small Southern town, four vigilante farmers (including Robert F. Lyons) wrongfully execute him when they think he has harmed Marylee, who he actually saved from a dog attack.

But after the court sets them free, Bubba seemingly returns from the grave to exact revenge as inextricable accidents begin to kill them off one by one.

Writer/director Frank De Felitta (Audrey Rose 1977, The Entity 1982) directed this pretty nifty small television production. It is pretty drenched in atmosphere during its nighttime sequences, in particular, the scene where Bubba is hiding in a field disguised as a scarecrow, which will become the haunting embodiment of Bubba’s return. While I agree clowns are terrifying, scarecrows can have a similar effect on me!

Dark Night of the Scarecrow also features Jocelyn Brando as Bubba’s mother and Charles Durning as a postman who delivers more than the mail; he brings a special kind of nasty, viciousness, and bloodlust who instigated the torturous death against Bubba in the first place and adds more murder to cover his tracks.

Alone in the Dark 1982

First, here’s a quick note: I met with director Jack Sholder (who also wrote the story) a while back and will interview him once we both have the opportunity. As part of my feature on Sholder, I’ll give more of my commentary on this special horror film as well as some of his other work, The Hidden (1987), A Nightmare on Elm Street 2: Freddie’s Revenge (1985), and 12:01 (1993).

Alone in the Dark is perhaps one of the most iconic representations of the best of 1980s horror with the finest of genre veterans who are the perfect hosts to entertain us with this bitingly satirical film!

In this superb horror thriller, down is up, and up is down – madness blurs as chaos reigns and the lunatics run the asylum. Dr. Daniel Potter (Dwight Schultz), a psychologist, arrives at the mental asylum known as “The Haven” to work under the eccentric and overindulgent Dr. Leo Bain (Donald Pleasence).

Potter is unaware that the most deranged of the inmates there—”Preacher” (Martin Landau), Colonel Hawks (Jack Palance), “Fatty” (Erland Van Lidth), and “The Bleeder” (Phillip Clark)—are convinced that Potter killed his predecessor and their friend, Dr. Harry Merton (Larry Pine).

This experimental hospital seeks to create a sanctuary for the insane where the rooms don’t have bars on their doors. The head doctor, Pleasance, is himself unhinged, and his fellow patients are referred to as voyagers.

Paranoia grips the violent inmates as they fear Potter might turn on them next. When a power outage strikes, these crazies seize their chance; they break out – arming themselves during a riot and looting before heading to the Potter’s white-bread suburban Springwood, New Jersey home.

Preacher — who likes to burn churches and people — kills a bicycle messenger en route and, gleefully, takes his hat! The group makes it to Potter’s house, where they set siege on the family.

Fatty, a psychotic child murderer, is mistaken as the babysitter of Potter’s daughter, Lyla, whom the sinister Colonel has murdered.

As part of the sharp cynicism of the film, the teenagers in Springwood worship a band called The Sick Fucks as they wield prop axes at their concerts. It’s a commentary on the normalization of violence in American pop culture.

The Dark Crystal 1982

From the magnificently prolific minds of Jim Henson and Frank Oz On comes the story of another planet in the distant past and a Gelfling who embarks on a quest to find the missing shard of a magical crystal and restore order to his world.

This is your EverLovin’ Joey saying: just keep those lights blazing. We’re not ready to audition for the next horror flick!

Grease To Grit: The Unforgettable Journey of Adrienne Barbeau -Part 1

READ PART 2 HERE:

From Rizzo to Scream Queen – Adrienne Barbeau’s Candid Memoir There Are Worse Things I Could Do Reveals the Woman Behind the Role of Icon:

I have been a huge fan of Adrienne Barbeau since she appeared on television in the role of Bea Arthur's daughter Carol on the hit 1970s sitcom Maude. Maybe it was her raw authenticity that transcended the TV role; maybe it was her natural sensuality, her sharp jawline, glass-cutting cheekbones, and deep brown eyes. Growing up in the sixties and "˜70s, Adrienne Barbeau’s energy immediately drew me in. I care and recognize the contribution of her work across her long career.

I'm also one of those fans who is still steaming over HBO's cancellation of the dramatic and surreal series, Carnivàle. Adrienne's portrayal of Ruthie was not at all surprisingly captivating and jaw-dropping, watching her channel the grit of a wise and weathered soul who dances with Boa constrictors. Adrienne Barbeau's vivid presence embraced the curiosity of this extraordinary show and its transformative storytelling. And there is nothing more evocative and stirring than the sound of Stevie Wayne's smokey tones over the airwaves of KAB in John Carpenter’s The Fog. She sets the mood for one of cinema’s most haunting visions rolling in from the sea.

All I can say is that I'm beyond excited and extremely grateful to Adrienne Barbeau"”this legendary actress, performer, vocalist, author, and now trapeze artist! for granting me an interview amidst her busy schedule while on location shooting her latest project. She is so incredibly gracious with her time to answer my involved questions and sharing with us her perspective on life and her extensive career.

First of all, I can't urge people enough to read Adrienne Barbeau's memoirs There Are Worse Things I Could Do. She is a richly talented storyteller. Her memoir had reached No. 11 on the Los Angeles Times bestseller list in 2006.

In a cheerful, whimsical way, Adrienne Barbeau narrates her life story not only of her wandering existence as an all-around performer but as a versatile, strong, and self-possessed woman.

Her memoirs are witty and self-effacing; it is a lively, joyous, hilarious, intimate account of this genuine actress's life. She shares her adventures, not only her journey as a talented performer (acting & singing) & writer but also the authenticity and raw honesty with which she relates her funny, at times poignant experiences in the search for self-reflection and self-confidence. She boldly talks about her romantic relationships and her long-lasting friendships, both professional and private, putting a hilarious spin on her intelligent, personal narrative. I devoured the book in just two days, captivated by her vivid anecdotes, and it also offers a fascinating glimpse into the industry.

"Wow!! Adrienne, like Mame, has LIVED!!!! And like Candide, she emerges unscathed, as dear as she was when she began. But what a wild ride!!!" – Bette Midler

"There Are Worse Things I Could Do, says Adrienne Barbeau, but she couldn't do anything better than writing this delightful memoir." – Norman Lear

"I've rarely read a "˜Show Biz' autobiography that made me feel as much affection for the speaker." – George Romero

There is so much to take in, from growing up on a farm in California to life at 15 when she unriddles in the dramatic entries of her journals the depth of her teenage angst, philosophizing, and the deep thoughts of a young dreamer with intellectual wanderlust.

Adrienne Barbeau and cast in the Broadway production of Grease, 1972 photo courtesy of Playbill.

Adrienne reflects on her time in the original Broadway production of Grease as Rizzo, a role that helped launch her career. The book offers candid details about her relationships, the tumultuous romance with Burt Reynolds, and her second marriage to Billy Van Zandt in 1992. The couple divorced in 2018. It also tells the story of having twins when she was 54, giving birth to her sons Walker Steven and William Dalton Van Zandt.

Adrienne Barbeau Avoriaz, le 20 janvier 1980. (Photo by Jean-Louis URLI/Gamma-Rapho via Getty Images)

Adrienne Barbeau recounts with her readers, behind-the-scenes stories from various productions, including The Fog, Escape from New York, her work on Carnivàle, and more, including her working relationship with director and ex-husband John Carpenter that lasted from 1979 to 1984, working with directors George Romero and Wes Craven, and the grueling physical challenges due to budget cuts that forced constant script changes and challenging shooting conditions that she faced during the filming of his sci-fi fantasy Swamp Thing. All three films and HBO’s TV series have attained cult success.

Adrienne Barbeau and Swamp Thing 1982 courtesy of Embassy Pictures.

Adrienne also discusses her voice acting work in animated features like Catwoman in Batman: The Animated Series and shares a few hilarious misadventures, such as filming on location for the low-budget Burial of the Rats 1995 in war-torn Russia.

Adrienne Barbeau also talks about her debut album released in 1997, the self-titled Adrienne Barbeau, showcasing her versatility further. It's a great collection of country, blues, jazz, and pop tunes she performs in her concert appearances across the country. She went on tour, performing in concerts across the West Coast and Vegas.

She rounds out the book by discussing how prolific she’s been with her series of urban fantasy novels, the first of which was Vampyres of Hollywood, published in 2008.

Her official website is here. Her Instagram is here

The Accidental Scream Queen:

“You get typecast in Hollywood,” she said. “I think ‘Maude’ got everyone thinking I could only play comic women’s libbers. So in my TV work after ‘Maude,’ I did only drama. Now maybe ‘The Fog’ will help people think of me as slightly more versatile.”

The fluidity of labels. Labels are not fixed. The mutable nature of professional labels is challenging for actors who seek to redefine their artistic identities. In the dynamic landscape of the entertainment industry, an actor's perceived typecasting is often a transient construct, subject to evolution and redefinition. Actors are capable of transcending initial labels and reshaping industry perceptions. You can be many things all at once. It's what I call the; ‘Art of being many.’

She is considered a horror legend, yet she doesn’t have a strong affinity for the genre. She doesn't like to be scared, so it is ironic that she became a Scream Queen. It's also interesting that she wound up working with horror director royalty, the likes of John Carpenter, George Romero, and Wes Craven.

Adrienne Barbeau with director John Carpenter on the set of The Fog in 1979.

One reason she earned the title: “Also, because I was identified emotionally and socially with John Carpenter and because the first couple of films were "˜horror films.' Then I've got another label started out. (at first) Oh she's a musical comedy girl, then she's a comedienne. – TV wouldn't even see me for drama until I finally cracked that nut. Oh she's a TV actress, oh she's a film actress, oh but it's horror queen.” (interview with Ernie Manhouse 2015)

"I never set out to act in horror films specifically. I wasn't even aware of the genre, really. But I was offered the role of Stevie Wayne in The Fog, and in those days, if you were known for your work on television, you couldn't get hired to do movies. So when The Fog came along, I jumped at the chance. None of us knew, back in 1979, that the film would still be as much loved today as it was then." And as far as the 2005 remake goes? "I haven't seen the remake. Probably never will." (Jesse Striewski in an interview for Rewind It Magazine interview Oct 28, 2021)

Adrienne Barbeau’s career trajectory is a testament to her versatility and resilience in an industry often quick to pigeonhole its talent. She first captivated audiences on Broadway, showcasing her theatrical chops before pivoting to the small screen, where she honed her comedic timing in one of Norman Lear’s crucible sitcom television series – Maude. Because of her fluid ability to adapt – the series catapulted her to prominence as a feminist standard-bearer and "˜sex symbol' in popular culture.

Adrienne – On the set of The Fog in 1979 with director John Carpenter.

"The Fog was my first feature film. And I think in part because I was married to John by that time and in part because The Fog was a horror film or a fantasy or whatever you call it, ghost film that then the label came. Oh, she does genre movies. They didn't even say genre in those days. She does horror movies. She's a Scream Queen. But it hasn't followed me all the way through. I ended up doing comedies Back to School and Cannonball Run and a lot of stuff that god forbid anybody should see. Which I took for various reasons." – (from the Rue Morgue interview)

As she made the leap to cinema and throughout her journey commanding attention on the silver screen, Adrienne Barbeau’s vibrant presence defies simple categorization. Adrienne’s career arc saw her evolve from a feminist icon in television comedy and drama to a captivating film siren and serious actor who embodies sensuality, resilience, and strength always – with apparent ease. Yet, among the myriad roles she’s inhabited, one label has clung to her from her die-hard fans who have fueled her her image with particular tenacity: is that of Scream Queen. Being the symbol of the genre, far from being a limitation, has become a crown she wears with distinction, a lasting emblem that resonates with fans and cements her status in the pantheon of horror cinema.

However, her career is a vibrant legacy of reinvention, proving that an actor’s essence can be simultaneously multifaceted and as well as iconic.

When she arrived in Los Angeles after her Broadway success, she faced the challenge of industry typecasting. Her theatrical background led to her being labeled primarily as a stage actress. Her transition to television with her role in the sitcom Maude at that time further narrowed perceptions of her as she became widely recognized as a comedienne.

This pigeonholing created significant obstacles for Adrienne when she sought artistic growth and expanding talents to embrace dramatic roles. Yet once again, her success in comedy paradoxically became a challenge to overcome, as she tried to be taken more seriously for dramatic parts and not be limited by a perceived lack of range.

"Maybe I was typecast – I had labels put on me right from the beginning because I started as a musical comedy actress on stage on Broadway.”

Adrienne Barbeau proudly welcomes the designation of Scream Queen with pride; though she has openly acknowledged that she has no interest in watching horror films, I do not have a hard time imagining Adrienne Barbeau in a recurring role as an action hero or badass cop brandishing a formidable weapon. Or having her own television show playing a woman cop like Angie Dickincon's Police Woman.

Adrienne has recognized that she’s more geared toward action movies and thrillers, citing an appreciation for the psycho-sexual suspense masterpiece Alan J. Pakula's Klute 1971, which starred Jane Fonda as high-price call girl Bree Daniels.

Adrienne has stated that she believes part of the reason she winds up exploring the horror world is the volume of offers that keep coming her way, in contrast to other genres. These projects have enabled her to play an emotional spectrum and women survivors who wind up being the heroine and not the victim.

“Those are the kinds of roles I’m drawn to and that I tend to play better than the victim, who knows. Although I didn’t start out doing them. I started out on Broadway doing musical comedy. I was the original Rizzo in Grease, and so, that’s a far cry from where I ended up. But because my first feature was The Fog and it was a genre film, I identified with that genre and I love doing them when they’re good, when they’re well written.” (2020 interview with Coming soon.)

Rob Zombie, Malcolm McDowell, and Adrienne Barbeau on the set of his reiteration of Halloween 2007.

While she has an affection for the horror movies she has a relationship with, she turned down a role in Rob Zombie's The Devil's Rejects in 2005, voicing her opinion that it was just "˜too much' for her. Zombie's film has a hyper-violent and grotesque vision for the genre that has evolved through a very anti-philosophical lens. The genre’s evolution in contemporary terms has adjusted the mechanisms that constrain its focusing range on the relentless assault on our senses. There are classical horror films that have successfully balanced psychological terror and raw, visceral impact for the audience. If Adrienne Barbeau didn't like being scared before, she certainly wouldn’t want to be involved with a film that disturbs beyond mere catharthis of our collective fears.

Note: Zombie has cast notable, extremely talented classic actresses in his film The Lords of Salem, the other notable Scream Queens – Meg Foster, Dee Wallace, and Judy Geeson. While the casting coup of having Adrienne sign on to the project might have sweetened the pot for me, I still couldn’t bring myself to watch it.

Adrienne, as Stevie Wayne, warns Antonio Bay about the menacing fog.

Nothing about horror film narratives drew Adrienne to the genre initially. Aside from the horror films she had starred in, Adrienne never watched scary movies, not even Hitchcock's seminal thriller, Psycho, in 1960. So, in a big way, the genre sort of found her.

It wasn't until she starred in The Fog that she was offered these types of films. Adrienne has graciously come to embrace the title and has said that she is incredibly grateful and enjoys doing them when they're well-written. She even incorporated a Scream Queen character – Ovsanna Moore, the 500-year-old vampire. into her novels, showing her appreciation for the title.

Adrienne Barbeau poses on the red carpet at Scarefest in Lexington, Ky. Pablo Alcala 2010.

Even if she's not a horror aficionado herself, Adrienne Barbeau's impact on the horror genre is unmistakable. Her nuanced performances, intelligence, versatility as an actress, willingness to take on challenging roles, and commitment to her characters have established her reputation as one of the most respected and enduring, formidable presences as a Scream Queen in the history of the horror genre.

Adrienne Barbeau as Ruthie, the snake charmer in HBO Carnivàle.

"The characters have gotten older. That’s about it. I’m still attracted to strong women’s roles, sometimes the villain, sometimes the heroine, rarely the victim."

Regardless of whether she sought to attain the honored title or not, Adrienne Barbeau's reputation as a queen of horror is cemented across the cinematic and television landscape, from scholarly discourse to popular culture. There's a diverse array of voices in film scholarship and fandom consensus among a chorus of film critics, historians, journalistic critiques, aficionados, genre enthusiasts, and grassroots horror communities alike – affirm that Adrienne Barbeau fervently ranks high on the level of Scream Queen. Her credentials as horror royalty are unassailable, garnering unanimous recognition from the highlights of pop culture.

Whether by design or chance, Adrienne Barbeau has emerged as a celebrated figure of the realm.

Now that we got that out of the way, let's talk about the "˜art of being’ ‘many' other things.

Continue reading “Grease To Grit: The Unforgettable Journey of Adrienne Barbeau -Part 1”