Not That Hitchcock

A bit like Rosemary’s Baby on Viagra – well, not really. . . there’s no way this quickie production could afford anything other than no name brand, 1978's Satan’s Blood, written and directed by Carlos Puerto (uncredited direction comes from producer and horror auteur Juan Piquer Simón), brings horror sexploitation all the way to a bloody climax. It's also a wonderful guide in what not to do in a horror movie:

Building upon ages of vampiric lore whilst finding its own creative place in a lengthy fang toothed oeuvre, Spain’s Count Dracula’s Great Love (1973), co-written and directed by Javier Aguirre, aims for fusing sensuality and sensitivity with a mesmeric gothic atmosphere. . . and let’s not forget some 70s era gore (for good measure). Following a group of four women: Senta (Rosanna Yanni), Karen (Haydée Politoff), Elke (Mirta Miller), and Marlene (Ingrid Garbo), and a male friend, Imre Polvi (Víctor Barrera), they are unfortunate enough to have carriage trouble whilst traveling through the Carpathian Mountains (though, at least, the women all seem to have a ridiculous amount of lingerie – priorities, right?).

Only Bong Joon Ho’s second movie, 2003's Memories of Murder already shows the masterful brush strokes of a confident young artist, writing a thought provoking, multi-layered script (based upon a series of real life murders as well as Alan Moore’s graphic novel “From Hell”) that is paired with a mesmeric visual onscreen presence. Set in a rural town in South Korea, this is a location that has been left behind. Usually a peaceful, quiet place (except when the trains pass through), October 1986 has brought with it the dead body of a young woman – both raped and murdered. Riots and protests routinely pop up in this fractured time and setting.

Perhaps the most wild and audacious opening ever seen in a giallo, 1975's Autopsy, co-written and directed by Armando Crispino, starts with a rotisserie of people committing suicide in both shocking and outlandish ways. . . only for the camera to then take us into one of the last taboo places in film, the morgue, to show us the bodies piling up in the life of half American/half Italian Simona Sanna (Mimsy Farmer) – this is clearly not the Rome we normally see in movies. Now, you may be wondering what all these bodies have to do with her. . . well, she is a young doctor working on a research project revolving around the difference between suicides and well hidden murders made to look like the former. As you might imagine, it is grave subject matter. . . so much so that she is struggling in her romantic relationship with photographer Riccardo (Ray Lovelock) and is even hallucinating that those dead bodies are coming back to life.

Walking a narrow tightrope between giallo and horror, 1972's Murder Mansion, by then first time director Francisco Lara Polop, pulls from films like The Cat and the Canary (either the 1927 or 1939 edition) and House on Haunted Hill (1959), as well as sources like Agatha Christie’s “And Then There Were None” and maybe even Scooby-Doo, to create a bizarre concoction that mostly works. Opening in a most unexpected way for either a giallo or horror feature, motorcycle meets sports car in a blistering country road race, the former driven by calm, cool, and collected Fred (Andrés Resino), while the latter is floored by cocksure Mr. Porter (Franco Fantasia – talk about a name). Only fueling the fire, sultry fashionista Laura (Lisa Leonardi) is spotted hitchhiking. . . the motorist winning the pick-up over the biker, the chase continuing as they weave in and out of sporadic traffic. . . only for the biker to convince her to join him at their next gas station stop (as Mr. Porter is a tad too handsy).

Introducing us to what would normally be our main protagonist in a gialli, Umberto Paradisi (Francesco Di Federico) – an insurance investigator turned amateur sleuth who has hired a two bucketed backhoe to dredge up some unknown clue from a murky quarry pond, is unceremoniously nabbed by the two pronged machine, hoisted up, legs dangling, before his neck finally gives way and he is no more – talk about an introduction! The movie title, which is a rare near perfect translation of its original Italian, is My Dear Killer (1972), directed by Tonino Valerii, a slightly lesser known giallo with some influential moments.