Film Reviews by NP

‘Going out of business,’ proclaims the notice on the door as Claire (Sara Paxton) begins her shift. Inside, the other employee of the Yankee Pedlar Inn is Luke (Pat Healy). To fill in their final days in the spacious building, they are determined to see if there is any truth in the rumour that the place is haunted and spend much of their time scanning the internet, as well as observing the security cameras looking for (and usually missing) any suspiciously haunting clues.

Claire is a plucky, funny, asthmatic girl. Needless to say, she’s a million miles away from, and far more likeable than, the painted models that often strut their way through horror films. Equally, Luke is arch, cranky and in his own way, equally likeable. He’s real, and not the slick, slack-jawed beefcake champion of blandness that barely fills a vest on the set of more gratuitous, less compelling chillers.

Events drag on far too slowly, I’m sure, for some viewers until we are reasonably convinced we’re not going to see anything frightening (we are wrong, of course). On one occasion, Claire reacts to something standing behind Luke that we never even see.

We meet two other guests: former actress and spiritually sensitive Leanne (Kelly McGuilliss), and the unnamed Old Man (George Riddle). While the fate of the latter is excellently handled and very shocking, the other glimpses of gore are actually fairly perfunctory, but what makes them effective is the build-up, and the apprehension we are fully acquainted with already. Director (and writer and co-producer) Ti Westhandles his tiny cast and low-budget with expert precision, especially when it comes to the characters.

When horrible things begin to happen to Claire, we are so attached to her at this point that we don’t just care about her, we’re appalled when what happens … happens! Recommended for fans of slow-burners.

This giallo doesn’t mess around: after the opening, the very first scene features police bursting into a room to find a young naked girl hanging. Dead. What makes the scenes that immediately follow so horrifyingly effective is by Director (and co-writer) Massimo Dallamano having his camera observe events from the girl’s height, almost from her point-of-view, and as such, half the screen is filed with her dead face, mouth agape – almost as if she is observing events. She was promiscuous 15 year-old Sylvia (Sherry Buchanan) who promised her mother that if she told her father of her activities, she’d kill herself. And yet Sophia Loren-alike Asst. DA Vittoria Stori (Giovanna Ralli) is sure it was murder.

It was felt at the time that giallo films were not as popular as they once were (which, if true, is understandable; there had been many made during the previous few years), and so this became a fusion of giallo and poliziotteschi, with more attention paid to police procedures than focusing on more ‘standard’ civilian characters. Dallamano made this as part of a trilogy of such films, beginning with 1972’s terrific ‘What Have You Done to Solange?’ and ending with ‘Red Rings of Fear’ in 1978 (sadly, he died before completion).

This slight change in style provides a welcome change in emphasis, as far as I am concerned. I find giallo a highly enjoyable genre, but this works well as an extention of that. Some truly gritty, gruesome set-pieces enlivened with Stelvio Cipriani’s excellent score, ensures that the pace very rarely slackens. There are disturbing scenes too, when the police listen to recordings of intimate events occurring in the teenage prostitute ring that may or may not be behind the death. Even with the dubbed voice artists, it is uncomfortable listening. It gets even more uncomfortable when it seems Inspector Valentini’s (Mario Adorf) own daughter may be involved.

Alongside Vittoria Stori, we have Inspector Sylvestri (Claudio Cassinelli), who is the nearest we get to the staple of most giallos: a tough talking gent who is a bit of a twit. He comes good in the end though, reacting like granite when he helps apprehend and uncover the identity of the miscreant. Getting the authorities to act upon such a major vice ring connected to some very high places, however, is another matter. How little times change.

A big hand too for the blood. Far more realistic than the bright paint used in similar films.

Another enjoyable entry into the Italian giallo genre, although this veers more towards ‘solid’ than spectacular. The locations are less arresting than usual in these films, but there is a fine conveyance of squalor and run-down industrial landscapes which, when located within the rolling landscapes, provides a particularly stark backdrop to the gloomy events.

I think the word ‘gloomy’ covers things really. There are no real standout characters; no Edwidge Fenechs of Rosalba Neris, or even a stubbornly chauvinistic male hero to hiss at. We have instead, nice Lukas, played by Corrado Pani, who attempts to investigate the dark goings on.

Paola Tedesco plays Mara, a young dancer, who witnesses the murder of a local pharmacist. A string of killings then take place, all nicely staged. ‘Watch me When I Kill’ is a decent rather than engrossing giallo that only occasionally captures the sinister atmosphere of others of its type.

Germany, 1941. A handful of Nazis – all the menfolk sporting designer stubble – are hunting a man who presents a threat to national security. Hoffman is his name, and he has apparently stolen a document that threatens ‘national security’. The document takes the form of a book.

The eccentric, elderly Amos Blackwood, Toymaker, gains possession of the book, and the strange powers therein inform his work: he owns a struggling local business, and the toys he makes appear to come to life. This is too much for his sole employee Abigail (Claire Carreno), who leaves and informs the Nazi officers of the document’s whereabouts.

It’s very brave for a low-budget venture such as this to attempt to recreate Nazi Germany, but despite a few lapses into modern dialogue, the results are commendable. For this is from the stable of Andrew Jones, who has quite a history of independent horror films, and this is his most polished. Stalwart Lee Bane labours under some rarely convincing aged make-up as the titular character, but his performance is a good one. Far from creator of monsters, the Toymaker is a figure who earns our sympathy, mainly due to monstrous behaviour of those around him.

As is the case previously, moving killer dolls are as frightening or ridiculous as you want them to be, but there’s no denying that, under the bleak, stuttering lighting, there’s some pretty creepy stuff going on here.

Great fun, well upto the standard of Jones’ previous work, and surpassing much of the early stuff.

Scruffy, intense Maureen (Kristen Stewart) is personal shopper to high-profile celebrity Kyra (Nora von Waldstätten). She wanders unconcernedly through magnificent Parisian and European streets, taking long journeys to spacious shops that sell ridiculously over-priced clothes. Occasionally she feels she is visited by the spirit of her dead twin brother Lewis, who died from a heart defect she also suffers from. This doesn’t dissuade her from smoking though!

She spends a lot of her time alone in Lewis’s former massive, shambling house which proves the perfect place for a haunting. Only two small problems – firstly, it begins to dawn on her that this un-benign spirit might not be her brother. Secondly, the CGI used to show us the apparition, although subtle, is a bit … CGI. Computer cartoon. This is surprising as other, much more subtle effects are expertly handled later on.

The acting is suitably detached. All hesitant and stuttering, awkward and halting, with characters talking over each other. This seems to be an artistic decision, Director Olivier Assayas apparently wanting the demonstrate Maureen’s sense of stylish isolation in this way: it does make some of the dialogue difficult to make out.

After a series of text messages from a stranger, who Maureen believes is her brother, she begins tentatively to break the rules of her employment and wear some of the garments she has procured for Kyra. Clonking around the spacious apartment in haute couture and high heels feels (and looks) alien to Maureen.

It’s difficult to know where this is all heading.

And suddenly, returning to Kyra’s flat after more personal shopping and finding her employer gruesomely murdered, things instantly become very frightening. The addition of strange violent banging sounds somewhere inside don’t help ease Maureen’s nerves, and shortly she is being interrogated by the police. What happens isn’t clear, but it seems to me that Lewis IS the mysterious texter: he appears to help her trap the real killer, Kyra’s former boyfriend Ingo (Lars Eidinger).

Now free, Maureen goes to visit boyfriend Gary (Ty Olwen) in the mountains. Once there, she is again confronted by the ghostly spirit who communicates with her.

‘Personal Shopper’ is a film designed to attract extreme views: you’ll either love it or hate it. I loved it, but I can sympathise with those who complain about drawn-out scenes watching Kirsten Stewart texting. There is a lot of that, but I had no problem with it. As much as anything, I enjoyed the vast, panoramic shots of various cities and locations; there was a definite comparison between Maureen’s self-contained world and the hugeness of everything outside it.

It’s a long ‘un: 105 minutes - and it moves very slowly. I have a love for this approach to horror films anyway, and so would strongly recommend it. You could get gloriously lost in Maureen’s strange world, but you have to give it a chance.

This is an anthology film of the type prolific during the 1970s, which became something of a speciality for Amicus Productions. Five fairly lightweight stories feature an exceptional cast including Terry-Thomas as the meticulously house-proud Arthur Critchit (“Can’t you do anything neatly?”), his wife Eleanor played by Glynis Johns; Daniel and Anna Massey as brother and sister Harold and Dona Rogers; Curd Jürgens as a magician on holiday in Amicus’ cut-price India doing dodgy business with a terrific Dawn Addams; Michael Craig in a grave-robbing tale alongside Robin Nedwell, Geoffrey Davies and Arthur Mullard, who were comedy actors popular at the time; finally, future Doctor Who Tom Baker as Moore, a cash-strapped painter who falls victim of voodoo magic in Haiti and gets revenge on scammer Denholm Elliot and Terence Alexander.

The framing device features Thomas, Jürgens, Baker, Daniel Massey and Craig who enter an elevator, a scene which opens the film. The loud bombastic music jars with this scene in my view. Five men, all methodically ignoring each other as people do in lifts as the soundtrack bangs and crashes around them – how much more effective it would have been if the music had been low and sinister. Anyhow, their joint destination, although none of them could foresee it, is an elaborate chamber bedecked with food, seemingly at the basement of the building. It is here they recount their stories and dreams to one another. All of them are revealed to be hugely flawed.

The final twist in the story, and just where they are, is not massively surprising, but the success lies in the way in which their fate is revealed. Never a company for lavish theatrics, Amicus nevertheless had an occasional knack of delivering something truly spine-chilling (Moore’s protracted revenge is a case in point).

The cast are uniformly excellent, never betraying their worth for the occasional silliness of the stories in which they feature. One of Amicus’ trademarks was that their films were tinged with a sense of humour that assured its audience that the horror was not to be taken too seriously. Sometimes this approach worked, and sometimes to the detriment of the tales being told, yet with such a lot going on, the pace never falters. When the comedic elements were not successful, it seemed as if the horror itself was being ridiculed.

The music of the magnificent Bruno Nicolai ushers us into a busy street scene in which young blond is travelling across town to meet a friend. An elevator. A gloved figure dressed in black. A knife. A spattering of bright blood. And we’re off …

Lots of scantily clad girls. A camp photographer. Edwige Fenech. An audience of men politely denying a challenge from a dominating model Mizar (Carla Brait): “Let’s you and I do it.” She’s issuing a challenge for a 3-minute wrestling match, of course, and naturally, she wipes the floor with any who accept her challenge. She is not quite so successful when pitted against the mysterious murderer, however …

Fenech plays Jennifer Lansbury, estranged wife of aggressive swinger Adam, who demands she returns to him and his polygamous lifestyle. Too obvious to be the killer, attention then turns to Lansbury, who is used as bait to trap the killer by Commissioner Enci (Giampiero Albertini).

There are some effective set-pieces, my favourite of which is the demise of playful scamp Marilyn (Paola Quattrini) in the middle of a bustling street. As she clutches at the blood gushing out of her stomach, no-one appears to take any notice, or are too busy to care, before she collapses in the arms of handsome Andrea (George Hilton) – who becomes yet another suspect.

There’s an elderly eccentric (and horror comic addict!) who is discovered to be hiding her deformed son David. Naturally, being scarred, he is also a sex fiend (!) with designs on Lansbury. Could he be a further possible felon?

Whoever the murderer is, and I’m not telling, Fenech is the star and quite rightly her character is central throughout (Producer Luciano Martino and Fenech were an item at the time). She is not only a sublime actress that oozes a genuine charisma, but alongside Rosalba Neri, I would say she is one of the faces of giallo. When the tension is ratcheted up toward the end, there’s genuine concern for her. My favourite giallo featuring Fenech continues to be ‘The Strange Vice of Mrs Wardh (1971)’, but ‘The Case of the Bloody Iris’ occasionally approaches a similar standard.

Down the main road that runs alongside the home of pompous local Civil Servant and critic George Maxwell (Michael Hordern) runs a delivery van – Shakespeare’s Deliveries, of course. Maxwell is immediately a caricature of authority; self-important, arrogant and very easy to manipulate. His ego is massaged sufficiently by a call from the local police to help rid a doomed warehouse of a gang of meth drinkers and vagabonds. The first glimpse we see of the mighty Vincent Price is behind a heavy moustache and police uniform, as he ushers Maxwell towards the unsightly crew of grubby tramps. Clipping them with his umbrella and advising them to leave the vicinity immediately, Maxwell finds the atmosphere quickly turns sinister as bottles are broken and the sneers and gurgles of the incapacitated characters are directed towards him. The two policemen stand by as the vagrants rip him to shreds. An exaggerated establishment figure he may be, it is nevertheless very satisfying to see his pomposity pricked like a balloon as it slowly dawns on Maxwell he is beyond help.

Maxwell is part of a group of similarly snotty art critics who have all savaged the career of hopeless Shakespearian ham Edward Lionheart (Price), who apparently killed himself as a result of their hostile reviews. Even his apparent suicide is an embarrassing over-the-top performance (the final goodbye to his critics is greeted by cruel sneers and jibes as, tortured by his own madness, he throws himself into the sea). Yet, he still lives, and with the aid of his daughter Edwina (Diana Rigg, unconvincingly disguised as a male throughout – I mention that not as a criticism; she is an extension of her father’s lack of subtlety after all), aims to kill every one of the group utilising scenes from Shakespeare’s finest.

It is difficult to name a favourite film from Vincent Price’s incredible career. For my money it comes down to his restrained performance as the cruel Matthew Hopkins in ‘Witchfinder General (1968)’, and this, the opposite extreme and a gift of a part for Price’s finely honed excesses. Often caked in the grotesquery of theatrical make-up, his playing of OTT Lionheart allows him every opportunity to give the largest of performances, whilst always remaining in character. And yet such is Lionheart’s self-belief and misplaced dignity, he becomes far more than a hopeless ham: he is a truly tragic, misunderstood figure, so engulfed in his theatricality that he is little else without it. His loyal daughter adds to this awful nobility, as do his audience of the meth-drinkers we saw at the start (they pulled him from the stagnant waters after his elaborate suicide). They applaud his over-acting in return for the coins he throws benignly toward them. Douglas Kickox’s tremendous direction adds further colour to this, closing his cameras tightly on Lionheart’s performances, barely containing them, and then zooming out slowly to find it being paraded in the isolation of an abandoned and ramshackle theatre. What an incredible creation Lionheart is.

With a cast including further veteran stalwarts as Joan Hickson, Arthur Lowe, Ian Hendry, Arthur Lowe, Robert Morley, Jack Hawkins, Dennis Price and Diana Dors, this is as great a horror film as Lionheart perceives himself. The finale is spectacularly sliced grand-guignol, with Rigg imploring the band of stoned vagrants to help her doomed father before being killed herself, leaving him trapped, totally deranged and beyond hope, in his burning theatre. This time, there is no mockery or sneering at his final performance. Hendry’s admiration for him is so grudging, however, it makes us wish he too had been one of the victims. An outstanding film.

Possibly a little groovier than many giallo films from this period, thanks to Maria Bava’s direction fused with an exotic score by Piero Umiliani, ‘Five Dolls’ opens with a swinging, debauched party culminating with a delightfully dishevelled Edwige Fenech (as Marie Chaney) faking her own bloody death. Those crazy kids.

We are introduced to a plethora of characters involved in a confusing myriad of affairs and casual romances, all acting like moustache-twirling villains. Taking time out from their lives to relax on a sumptuous, sun-kissed island, their vacation is marred only by the presence of a murderer in their midst. As they try unsuccessfully to find out about the mysterious Professor Farrell and his secrets in a series of playful, titillating asides and clandestine meetings, things become pretty complicated fairly quickly. Murders, missing money and ‘formulas’ … it all gets a bit much. In fact, it’s tempting not to worry about all that and concentrate instead in the visuals which are often breath-taking. There are various scenes held on the beach at night; I’m tempted to think a blue filter was applied to the camera during a sunny day to achieve the effect, but whatever, the results are visual indulgence – stunning. Umiliani’s bossa-nova score, with thick and chunky organ rhythms enhancing scenes in which characters search amidst lowing palm trees on the isolated beach for the latest corpse – rarely has the macabre looked and sounded so incredible.

Whilst I think it is fair to say the result is definitely a case of style over substance (lots of people you don’t really like coming to blows in very sixties’ locations reminiscent of the model sets used in Gerry Anderson’s puppet series), there is much to enjoy. The images of the growing number of corpses being bagged up and hung in the cooling room amongst the animal cadaver food supply is delightfully sinister.

This reminds me very much of the Nancy Drew television series from the late 1970’s, but with a sprinkling of sporadic gore. Panic sets in in a small town when a little girl is taken from her bed late one night. Legends of a witch (Cassie Keller) living in the woods abound, so it probably isn’t wise to go searching for that very house – especially if you’re ‘a group of friends’ who think it might be a good idea to throw stones through the windows.

The teenage ensemble are less obnoxious than similar teen-casts, and the performances are quite good. There’s even a suggestion of diversity, when one girl (Sammy, played by Diana Weston) is rumoured to be a lesbian – she isn’t. The ‘scares’ are pure cut-price CGI Disney, despite some spookily set-up scenes.

Late on, when the witch captures some of the youngsters, their fate is more than faintly bizarre and might succeed in raising a smile rather than have you fearing for their lives. Looking like a cowled Darth Maul before slowly becoming more beautiful (and far more effective) the more her victims are drained, her reveal coincides with events succumbing to the familiar slasher format.

It’s a very odd project, is ‘The Wicked’. It’s a horror film, but seemingly made by people who have no idea what makes horror work. It isn’t down to a lack of budget, as apparently $1.5 was spent on this. It’s a world where the law enforcers are blatant pantomime bad boys, where there is plenty of dry ice and sinister music but absolutely no atmosphere and despite the characters screaming and panicking enthusiastically, it isn’t in the least bit frightening. Not without merit, this doesn’t really deliver the goods as the horror film it sets out to be.

This giallo features more cigarette smoking than in any other I’ve seen. Never a scene goes by without someone lighting up, putting one out or going about their business with a casual ciggie clinging determinedly to their lips. Also, as is often the case for this genre, the females are not only the victims, but are also far more decent and respectful than the men – certainly Stefano (Pietro Martellanza) is brazenly patronizing and awful to Valentina (Nieves Navarro, or Susan Scott for English audiences) at every opportunity, and his male co-stars aren’t much better. I really hoped I wasn’t going to be asked to believe in him as any kind of hero. The best of this rotten bunch is probably Gio (Simón Andreu), another chain smoker notable for constantly running out of matches.

Valentina, with her incredible mane of red hair, whilst under the influence of an experimental drug, has a vision of a young woman being brutally murdered by a villainous-looking character with a spiked glove. This shades-sporting felon appears to her from then on, many times. Is it a product of her addled mind, as bone-headed Stefano arrogantly suggests, or is the truth more sinister? One thing is certain – any answers don’t come easily in this convoluted, beautifully shot Italian thriller.

In a way, you hope that the villain is purely in her mind. The alternative, of a highly suspicious mac-wearing effeminate looking man in outsize sunglasses always lurking in an almost pantomime manner, not being seen by anyone but Valentina, becomes absurd.

Also absurd, in a thoroughly appealing way, is the somewhat formulaic way the villain (or villains), when unmasked, then take the time to gloat and explain how they got away with their fiendish plan. Here, these revelations precipitate a glorious climactic physical fight that only ends after a series of last-minute, life-saving shocks and surprises.

A little slow in places, and possessing some appallingly chauvinistic behaviour, this is nevertheless great fun and another pleasing addition to the genre.

Seven friends venture into the wilderness for a hunting trip. They are fairly dour bunch most of the time, which is something of a relief when one considers a young ‘group of friends’ are usually represented as permanently drunk/stoned/horny, obnoxious and arrogant. Their world, as represented here, is small-town Florida, full of local stores and local outskirt communities, gatherings, cheroots and respectable upbringings. Sonny (Glen Powell) is the only character who seems to have his own agenda.

As their collective hunt continues, it seems there is ‘something’ out there in the Everglades, leaving a slew of butchered animal cadavers in its wake. One of their number, wistful soldier Sean (Zane Holtz) remains troubled by his experiences during active service, and the sense of impending doom isn’t exacerbated when his friend Matty’s mother senses the ‘call of the wind walker’ through what appears to be the spirit of her son, who is currently missing.

I am no expert on Native American history or culture, but there are suggestions of a wendigo spirit, of a shaman, as well as a generous sprinkling of subtle gore. The threat seems to be deliberately vague anyway, which will frustrate some. A mix of ‘The Thing (1982)’ styled spiritual possession and cannibalism is skilfully scattered throughout the mystery – unfortunately laced with an unnecessary rock music score which often succeeds in undermining the mood – but it works for me, mostly. It is good, spooky, potent, slow-burning story-telling.

When Sean promises Lexi (Castille Lanon), “I can kill this,” no-one is hugely confident because, whereas we meet several carriers of the virus itself, we witness nothing tangible controlling them. However, a hurried explosive climax delays – rather than destroys – the problem.

Intriguing rather than essential, a mixture of certain styles and inspirations rather than focussed, this is a recommended horror.

Directed with assurance by writer Damon Vignale, ‘The Entrance’ is a true gem. To review it in any way, it is unavoidable to include some spoilers which will affect your enjoyment!

Ryan James (Michael Eklund), drug dealer, is alone and afraid in a multi-storey car-park. With the aid of the Janitor (Ron Sauvé), he flees. He is interviewed by Detective Porhowski (Sarah-Jane Redmond), who explains he has been kidnapped with four others. The others have been killed, all of them having dark secrets (rapist, child abuser etc). Porhowski, meanwhile, is considering quitting the police force to work with her businessman father (Bernard Cuffling).

Driving home, the detective is held at gunpoint by an escaped James who explains he had been set free by ‘the Janitor’ only if he provides another life to take – and Porhowski will be his replacement. Soon, she is in the thrall of the possessed Janitor and the Devil (one assumes), where they try to convince her to shoot the man who raped her six years before. It seems she needs to have a dark secret of her own to join them. She resists.

Later, she is once more confronted by Ryan James, now possessed by the same spirit that inhabited the Janitor (revealed by the passing on a circular tattoo on the hand). It seems James has caused her father to succumb to a fatal heart attack. As the spirit within James laughs hysterically, Porhowski aims her gun at him, seemingly intent on killing him.

This is where the story ends. My take is that the action of her shooting James would provide the spirit with the means of possessing or recruiting her to his minions. The whole production is left beautifully open ended in a way that is purely open to speculation.

Made on a low budget, ‘The Entrance’ is compelling, a series of twists and turns every step of the way. Some are explained, some left deliberately vague. The cast are superb throughout, especially Redmond. It has a similarity to parts of the ‘Saw’ franchise, but is a superior horror/thriller in its own right, and strongly recommended.

I wasn’t expecting to like this. In my view, the original Amityville film was a distinctly average entry into the haunted house trend that seemed to be prevalent in 1979. Several sequels later, I wasn’t hoping for much. Usually under such circumstances, I’m more predisposed to find merit, especially when the reviews seem particularly harsh. However, watching 'Amityville Playhouse' - and there's no getting away from this - is a chore.

As grieving Fawn Harriman, Monèle LeStrat injects her role with a consistent disinterest. The flatness of her every delivery is Gielgud-ian when compared to ‘bad boy’ boyfriend Kyle (Linden Baker) and the other three young people who accompany Fawn to investigate the abandoned playhouse she has been left by her recently deceased parents. As a plus, the wooden performances at least aren’t assured enough to adopt the posturing swagger the script seems to want them to possess, and some of the put-downs between the alpha-males might, in more capable hands, be quite amusing.

Interestingly, this is filmed in Canada and the UK, giving at least a feel of variety in location. The conversations between all the characters we meet is purely to provide backstory for each other. With the preliminary scenes so clumsy and hackneyed (much conversation seems to concentrate on the peaks and troughs of being a ‘douche’), one would hope when the scares begin – because there have to be scares don’t there? – that things might improve.

Things don’t improve. In addition, nothing of any note occurs. A spirit appears to be in possession of the playhouse and the kids meander throughout it all, listless and bored. Any sliver of atmosphere or creepiness is completely out of the question, but while the location is shot quite well, ‘Amityville Playhouse’ is guilty of the worst crime of any sub-par production – it is rather boring.

Unhappily for urine fans, about three quarters of the film elapses before someone has to inevitably ‘take a pee’ (although as it’s butch Jevon (Logan Russell) who is caught short, he’s taking a ‘p**s’). You would hope this might sign-post as if often does, something creepy happening. You would hope. Meanwhile, Fawn’s English geography teacher spends the entire running time haplessly researching Amityville’s local history. By the time he makes any progress, sadly, I had long since lost interest.

How can there possibly be anything comforting about a giallo film, that cold, ruthless and brutal world in which ‘Lizard in a Woman’s Skin’ is a shining example? Could it be the haze of nostalgia for the period in which such films were made, the lush and vivacious production values that belies the lack of a huge budget? Could it even be the game of spotting the actress uncomfortable with cigarettes playing the part of an awkwardly casual smoker? Whatever it is, ‘giallo’ is a fairly stylised genre that straddles murder/thriller/horror with much success.

Familiar British face Stanley Baker here plays Inspector Corvin. Baker gives his usual exemplary performance (Corvin’s habit of – dubbed - whistling isn’t convincing, however), despite this being a period in his life when his own financial challenges required him to appear in films that diminished his star-billed status. His son Glyn later described ‘Lizard…’ as ‘a movie which makes absolutely no sense whatsoever.’ Stanley himself declared that he enjoyed everything he worked on, ‘including the bad pictures’.

I love the look Director Lucio Fulci gives this. Trippy psychedelia contrasts with some very sombre, often rainy locations to great effect: the false sense of safety in the warmly lit indoors, fighting with the sinister frostiness outside. The comfort of sex against some truly disturbing, if not always convincing, special gore effects (a shocking sequence involving dismembered canines required the makers to prove no real animals were hurt at the time). These things conspire to transport the audience into a dangerous world that is rarely quite real, and all the more effectively unnerving for that. This dreamy, druggy atmosphere doesn’t serve to make the complex plot any clearer, however!

As is often the way, revelations come thick and fast during the latter moments, and whilst it is true to say that another viewing may well help me make total sense of developments, the finale is a visual tour-de-force and stays in the mind for a good while after the credits have rolled. A word too for Ennio Morricone’s score; whilst it is a given that he produces some incredible melodious soundtracks, this has certain similarities to my favourite of all his works, that of his music for ‘Maddalena (1971)’. Beautiful.