Guillermo del Toro’s first foray into the realm of film noir, 2021's Nightmare Alley brings all of the Golden Age classic charm of the Studio System along with a classic pulpy story (based off of the novel of the same name by William Lindsay Gresham... as well as the 1947 movie adaptation), which is then fused with his own unique visual style. Following Stanton Carlisle (Bradley Cooper), a drifter, or is it grifter (after all, this is a neo-noir), with a dark past, he aimlessly stumbles upon a traveling carnival... taking a day’s work, he soon after accepts an offer from owner Clem Hoatley (Willem Dafoe) to join the team – seeing it as the perfect way to disappear from his secret history.
The Case of the Scorpion’s Tail – no, not a Hardy Boys’ adventure, rather, another unique giallo, directed by Sergio Martino (Your Vice Is a Locked Room and Only I Have the Key), a 1971 mystery thriller that may have more would-be stalkers than any other film in the annals of history. From a story by Eduardo Manzanos (icon Ernesto Gastaldi came in to build the screenplay, with Mazanos and Sauro Scavolini also getting credit), the twist-filled narrative pulls from both Alfred Hitchcock and Henri-Georges Clouzot’s Les diaboliques, as well as unbelievable real life stories that lined the newspapers . . . Martino imbuing it all with a tense, mile-a-minute pacing.
A perfect example of ‘you can’t outrun your past, present or future’, 1949's Act of Violence, directed by Fred Zinnemann (High Noon; From Here to Eternity), starts with quite the hook: a man, limp noticeable, hurriedly, and with purpose, makes his way through a city in the clutches of the glum night, eventually entering a room that holds a deadly object – a gun. . . hopping onto a bus, it does not bode well. With a deliberate, unyielding presence, Joe Parkson (Robert Ryan – for another one of his great film noirs, see The Set-Up) is the thing of nightmares. . . a stalking figure in trench coat and fedora – the Michael Myers of the noir genre. Ryan, with his lined face, imposing size, and disturbed demeanor, is an ominous heavy – the enigmatic grunt opening a phone book and circling the name of one Frank R. Enley (Van Heflin).
Twenty-first century film studios have a very strict checklist as to which movies they produce. Sequels, spinoffs, crude comedies, reasonably priced horror flicks, animated fare, name/brand recognition, award hopefuls. . . all of this meaning that very few adventurous, risky projects get made anymore. Gone are the days (for the most part), when adult oriented features like Basic Instinct and Body Double graced the silver screen, or edgier family films such as Adventures in Babysitting, The Neverending Story, and Home Alone were made – whether you love them or hate them, they did not fit your prototypical mould. So, when a 2018 motion picture that is so far outside of the stratosphere gets a thirty-two million dollar budget (thank you 20th Century Fox – which may soon be snapped up by Disney. . . a worrisome acquisition for moviegoers, as the bloated studio already owns Lucasfilm, Marvel, The Muppets Studio, and Pixar), it is an exciting day for cinephiles and adventurous moviegoers. So, welcome to the El Royale. Bad Times at the El Royale is an R rated gem written and directed by Drew Goddard (co-scribe and director of Cabin in the Woods; adaptor for the screen of The Martian), the type of dynamic thriller that resembles a sharp British crime flick (one where we do not expect everyone to survive). As twisted as it is twisty, Goddard designs the most fascinating of settings (its own character). . . a neon-glowing, mid century modern gambling den of a motel, hidden on the outskirts of Reno, a building that straddles the Nevada/California border (and has one of those tacky red lines that indicates the boundary between states).
Pushing the boundaries of the Italian giallo, Andrea Bianchi’s aptly titled Strip Nude for Your Killer (1975), which features numerous examples of the seductive art of striptease, oodles of nudity, and a violently high body count, is an example of Eurotrash in its most disturbingly alluring state. . . not for the prudish or weak of heart, but fascinating to be sure. A glossy B movie set in the posh world of a Milanese modelling agency, one of the house’s top photographers, Carlo (Nino Castelnuovo), uses his advantageous position to pull stunning women into his bed (I use this term loosely – a steamy sauna works just as well for the cheeky fellow) with promises that they will grace the cover of the world’s most iconic fashion magazines.
Ah, vacation time. Nothing like getting that call out of the blue – excited to be invited on a golf trip, to be asked to go down south (avoiding the winter blues), or to fly over to Europe. . . alas, this is not the case in today’s feature. Our protagonist, negotiator/arbitrator Mason Skiles (Jon Hamm), is strong-armed into taking a flight over to Beirut (a place he has vowed never to return to again – and also the title of the film) to give a so-called “academic lecture” – as we all know, this supposed job is simply cover for something decidedly more shady. Scribed by Bourne franchise writer Tony Gilroy (his previous effort to this, Rogue One: A Star Wars Story) and directed by Brad Anderson (Transsiberian), the pair actually open the film in Beirut (1972) ten years prior to when our story takes place, a glimpse into the man’s past in the city. Flash forward a decade and Skiles is a shell of the man he once was – a disjointed alcoholic living a fugue state instead of a life.
With a title like Seven Blood-Stained Orchids, you’d probably expect a fascinating nature documentary divulging the secrets of a rare flower. . . but of course not, this is part of the continuing series of giallo films reviewed here on Filmizon.com. Written and directed by Umberto Lenzi (and loosely based upon Cornell Woolrich’s novel “Rendezvous in Black”), the filmmaker immerses the viewer into a sordid tale of bloody revenge. A murderer, dressed (and gloved) in black, is dispensing of women in and around the city of Rome.