Fando y Lis (1968)

In January 2019, a planned retrospective of the works of Alejandro Jodorowsky at New York City's El Museo del Barrio, a museum dedicated to Latin artists, was canceled by the venue, the reasoning being provocative comments Jodorowsky made in 1972 regarding shooting a scene depicting rape in his landmark acid western El Topo (1970). The cancellation of the retrospective, cowardly as it was, was all too predictable. A symptom of the pathetic and regressive sociopolitical climate, a period which should be judged harshly by legitimate historians for its anti-art, pro-censorship sentiments. Still, useful idiots are hardly in short supply, ready and willing to be gaslit and marched to the cultural gulag, erasing the works of important artists who were persecuted and at times even prosecuted for their work in the past, so while the canceling of the Jodorowsky retrospective is symptomatic of contemporary culture's failure, authoritarian censorship is ultimately a historical cockroach. In the case of Jodorowsky, the man certainly is a provocateur in the classic sense. The definition of a larger-than-life personality, Jodorowsky stunned unsuspecting audiences with films like El Topo and The Holy Mountain (1973), the outrageous films almost demanding a visceral reaction, so Jodorowsky hardly shied from controversy. This was made clear from the outset at the Acapulco Film Festival where Jodorowsky's overlooked debut feature Fando y Lis had its premiere and subsequently caused a riot to break out.

The roots of Fando y (and) Lis can be traced back to the Panic Movment, an surrealist ensamble formed by Jodorowsky along with Fernando Arrabal, director of Viva la muerte (1971) and I Will Walk Like a Crazy Horse (1973) and chameleon creative Roland Topor, author of The Tenant, later adapted by Roman Polanski in 1976. Originally a play by Arrabal, Fando y Lis, a “Panic film”, has often been described as having been shot with only Jodo's “hazy memories” of Arrabal's play, though the general idea remains the same, that of Lis, a paraplegic and her boyfriend Fando traversing an imposing landscape searching for Tar, a mythical city, encountering a plethora of bizarre characters along the way.

Given that the film was constructed with Jodorowsky working only from his own memories of Arrabal's play, which was keeping with Panic ethos, Fando y Lis the most loose feeling of Jodorowsky's films, playing out very much like titular characters trek to Tar, a strange, random and at times painful, yet unforgettable journey. It's fitting that the Panic Movement was influenced by Henry Becque's Theater of Cruelty, later pioneered by Antonin Artaud, as despite the mythical paradise that is supposed to be Tar, Fando and Lis' journey is fraught with the cruelty of the real world Tar is an escape too. This is perhaps best represented by the change in Fando's treatment of Lis throughout the film. At first loving and care-giving, promising Lis eternal happiness once they reach Tar and pushing and carrying her around everywhere, Fando eventually turns cruel and violent. Lis is a tragic character from the start, with a past trauma being presented by Jorodowsky in a brilliantly realized moment of surreal horror, the multiple religious and spiritual interpretations of the film make it seem as if Lis is a saintly figure of sorts, destined for greater things while suffering a life of torments. The landscape of the duo's journey is also harsh, a desert wasteland that brings with it an ambiance of its own, Jodorowsky also brings out the beauty inherent in the landscape, shooting the film in high contrast black and white using the locations as a backdrop for a barrage of jaw-dropping surreal imagery and scenarios.

Like so many other places around the globe, Mexico in 1968 was in a period of intense civil unrest and social uprising. With large student movements and major protests against the Olympics taking place in Mexico City with the Mexican government spending massive amounts of public funds on the games which would lead to the massacre of many demonstrators, the atmosphere was highly charged when Fando y Lis premiered at Acapulco Film Festival. Unsurprisingly, following the films riotous reception, the film was banned in Mexico. It's damn near impossible not to draw parallels between Fando y Lis and another maverick feature film debut, Jean Rollin's The Rape of the Vampire (1968) which also premiered in the midst of high tensions, tensions which eventually shut down the Cannes Film Festival, and caused an already on-edge audience to physically revolt against the film. Fast-forward to 2019, and while having a museum exhibit canceled might seem like small potatoes compared to causing a riot, it's nevertheless a prime example of the well-worn adage “the more things change the more they stay the same”. Over fifty years after his first feature film was banned and Jodorowsky's work once again found itself hidden from public view because of things he said over forty years ago, which only proves once again that Jodorowsky's work possesses a quality that transcends time. It challenges repressive dogma. We're lucky to have him.

Love (2015)

One of the most exciting filmmakers to emerge during the resurgence of boundary-pushing cinema in the 90's and early 2000's, Gaspar Noé is both celebrated and dismissed for his confrontational and provocative works like I Stand Alone (1998) and Irreversible (2002). Noé's films have become synonymous with many things, but if there's one descriptor that could accurately be attributed to each of his films, it would be “intimate”. Though referring to a visceral gut-punch like Irreversible as “intimate” will no doubt have some gasping in horror, intimacy is most commonly associated with closeness and that's exactly what Noé does, gets up close and extremely personal, often in unpleasant scenarios. I Stand Alone, Noé's first feature and companion to his earlier short film Carne (1991) earns the tag with the nearly non-stop interior monologue of The Butcher driving the film, something Noé would take even further in Enter the Void (2009) by literally going inside the head of it's main character Oscar, having the entire film play out in first person. Irreversible may focus on multiple characters, but Noé's presentation of a night out gone horribly wrong in reverse order is unflinching. Noé's third feature, Love, is perhaps his most intimate yet. Just as challenging as his other works albeit in a slightly different way, the film is also Noé's most underrated and one of the most accurate and affecting portrayals of a relationship gone wrong.

Murphy, an American filmmaker living in Paris with Omi, the mother of their young sun Gaspar, wakes on New Years morning to a voicemail from the mother of his ex-girlfriend Electra asking if he knows her whereabouts as she's been missing for months and was feeling suicidal prior to her disappearance. Having never gotten over his tumultuous split with Electra, caused by his impregnating of Omi who was their neighbor at the time, Murphy is extremely concerned about Electra's well-being and after taking some opium he'd been saving given to him by Electra, Murphy reflects back on his impassioned romance with Electra while lamenting his current life situation.

Considering what came before it, Love probably seems downright subdued and to a certain extent it is, with Noé trading visceral, physical violence for emotional turmoil and a much more calm filming technique following the hand-held mania of Irreversible and innovative acrobatics of Enter the Void, but it would be hard to mistake Love for the work of another filmmaker. Returning to the first-person narration of I Stand Alone, one of the most common criticisms of the film is Murphy's unlikability which is funny seeing as Noé has him repeatedly criticize himself during his voice-overs, referring to himself as a literal “dick” and owning up to his past mistakes which led to his current unhappiness. Noé is also once again playing with time, but rather than have the film play out in reverse like in Irreversible, Noé scrambles the entire timeline of Murphy and Electra's romance with an approach that is similar to Nicolas Roeg or Atom Egoyan. Much like Irreversible, this approach to time works in the films favor, giving the flashbacks to the happier moments between Murphy and Electra added weight and making the final moments of the film incredibly powerful. It's also appropriate that opium is is the catalyst for Murphy's flashbacks. Just like DMT was the influence behind Enter the Void's metaphysical head trip, Love plays out like an opium induced stream of regrets, very slow and ponderous with the scenes of the early stages of Murphy and Electra's romance representing blissful high with the inevitable crash being debilitating.

Much like Lars Von Trier's Nymphomaniac (2013), Love was another film featuring unsimulated sex scenes not regulated to the adult marketplace and predictably that aspect of the film became the most talked about during it's per-release hype phase and after the fact. A bit surprising, seeing as Noé had used hardcore in the past with a scene in I Stand Alone featuring a clip of a hardcore adult film and Noé's short We Fuck Alone (2006) was part of the Destricted (2006) series of shorts which explored the seemingly eternal art/pornography question. Noé was also inspired to use Erik Satie on the soundtrack for Love by the use of Satie music in Stephen Sayadian and Francis Delia's Nightdreams (1981), a landmark adult film. One of the more unusual things regarding the film is Noé's choice to shoot the film in 3D, hence “Love 3D” moniker on some posters, which does seem a bit mischievous when the format had become cliché for mega-budget blockbusters, though one scene in particular really stands out and it's fairly obvious why Noé would shoot something like it in 3D. With the brilliant Climax (2018) added to his oeuvre, Love holds an interesting place in Noé's filmography and whether viewed in 2D or 3D, Love shows a slightly different side of Noé while still retaining his distinct personality and like all of Noé's films, will cause a strong reaction.

Sun Scarred (2006)

The Japanese have always been filmmakers who've had their cake and eaten it, too. While Japanese genre and sex films have understandably gained an international reputation for transgressive extremities, the strong handling of drama many Japanese films are known for is ever present in sometimes even the most outlandish Japanese genre work. The entire filmography of Takashi Ishii springs to mind, with Ishii delivering the expected pink film exploitation while also making devastating psychological drama's with films like The Brutal Hopelessness of Love (2007), A Night in Nude: Salvation (2010) and Sweet Whip (2013). One of world cinema's greatest chameleons, Takashi Miike has also long balanced the profane and profound. One scene in Audition (1999) may have had international festival goers screaming for the aisles, but the film as a whole is tragic and heartfelt. Heartfelt may also be an appropriate description, much to the disgust of others, for Visitor Q (2001), with the core of the film always being a fractured family, the hilariously wrong ending scene is damn near sentimental. Miike has never been one to stick to one formula and sometimes his approach to certain material can be rather surprising. With Miike's keen dramatic sense, a revenge film would be a perfect fit which ultimately proved to be true with Sun Scarred, Miike's take on a classic revenge scenario, an affecting film in ways that will catch many off guard.

On his way home from work for his birthday with his wife and daughter, the mild mannered Katayama stumbles upon a gang of young teens viciously beating a homeless man. Katayama stopps the kids, but ends up putting a good beating on Komiki, the leader of the gang, who days later lures Katayama's young daughter away from her mother and murders her. Komiki is later caught and sent to juvenile prison, but Katayama's life is forever altered, his wife soon committing suicide unable to deal with the grief. Three years later, Katayama learns of Komiki's release on account of good behavior. Enraged, Katayama confronts the “reformed” Komiki who reveals himself to have not changed at all and has assembled a gang of armed kids online to take Katayama out, leading Katayama to right the wrong done to him the law ignored.

Although the premise of Sun Scarred (Taiyo no kizu, 太陽の傷) is reminiscent of Death Wish (1974), Katayama even having the same architect job as Charles Bronson's Paul Kersey, anyone going into the film expecting a montage of Katayama taking to the streets shooting random juvenile delinquents is bound to be disappointed. Much like Audition, Miike prefers a slow burn approach, and in fact the idea of “revenge” doesn't really become a main concern until a bit later in the film. Following the killing of Katayama's daughter, much of the film is spent portraying the void left in Katayama's life, which Miike interestingly presents by switching from color to black and white for a time, as well as Katayama's building frustration with the legal system, particularly the way violent young offenders not of age to be tried as adults are treated. Age is also a core question of the film and Miike does seem to be asking some tough questions of the Japanese legal system. When the revenge angle does fully kick-in, there is very little gray area left as it relates to the age gap, at least where Komiki is concerned, Katayama's quest being fully justified by that point. Miike does however portray some of the young teens coerced online by Kamimi as in over their heads. At the same time, like most films with vengeance at their core, Miike asks the all important question of whether or not the brutality Katayama has been pushed to was worth it.

The film could also be seen as a none-too-subtle jab at the media, in particular the habit of news anchors sensationally editorializing while also omitting certain facts surrounding the case. There are several moments in the film where media talking heads essentially blame Katayama for the whole ordeal due to his beating on the teens. The film is, it should be noted, rooted in fact as it relates to the Japanese legal system and the way it handles juvenile offenders. In Japan, any boy under the age of 15 is considered a “shonen” and there are even multiple types of “shonen” offenders cataloged by Japanese juvenile courts. There has been controversy over the way juveniles are handled in Japan and there have been several debates as to whether the age at which a defendant is to be considered a juvenile or adult should be raised. It was an especially hot topic in the late 90's going into the 2000's, so the subject matter was still fresh in the minds of many in Japan when Miike presented Sun Scarred. Thanks to his versatility and exhaustive output, Miike has become synonymous with many things but Sun Scarred highlights a key strength, that being Miike's mastering of harrowing, emotional drama while also providing quality genre thrills. Sun Scarred is subdued when compared to his Miike's more infamous titles, but the lasting memory is just as vivid.

El mirón (1977)

The cliché of “better late than never” certainly applies when it comes to José Ramón Larraz. Although Vampyres (1974) has long been a favorite among fans of European horror, it's only been in more recent years that other crucial Larraz titles like Whirlpool (1970), Symptoms (1974) and The Coming of Sin (1978) have made their way to home video with presentations they'd long been deserving of. It's also worth noting that Larraz didn't enter the realm of filmmaking until he was in his 40's, having previously been a fashion photographer and comic book artist and writer. He wasted no time however diving headfirst into the horror and thriller genres with the aforementioned Whirlpool, Symptoms and Vampyres along with films like Deviation (1971) and Scream and Die (1973) which established Larraz as unequaled in terms of conjuring atmosphere out of location shooting and delivering visceral sexuality and violence. Spending the majority of his early directorial career in the UK, Larraz returned to his home country of Spain in the mid-70's when censorship became more laxed and proved himself to be a versatile talent behind the camera. While his Spanish period contains a handful of horror films like Stigma (1980) and the infamous Satanic sex horror of Black Candles (1982), Larraz also found himself at the helm of a few sex comedies and drama's, El mirón being a standout example of Larraz's more dramatic side.

Roman and Elena (Alexandra Bastedo) find themselves at a crossroads in their marriage stemming from Roman's fetish of watching his wife with other men. Despite trying to fulfill her husbands fantasies, even going so far as agreeing to let Roman bring strangers home, Elena can never fully go through with sleeping with any of them, much to Roman's frustration. With the rift in their marriage growing wider, the two become more withdrawn from each other with further complications arising when Elena becomes friendly with a young neighbor.

Feeling and looking very much like a soap opera, El mirón (The Voyeur) is certainly one of Larraz's most subdued films, surprisingly so given the subject matter and director, yet Larraz's approach still manages to retain certain traits that gives Larraz's work its own identity. The idea of a marriage in dire straits must have been on Larraz's mind a lot around the time as he would follow El mirón with La ocasión (1978), another film with an indifferent married couple at the center of it. The biggest difference between the two being La ocasión gradually becoming a thriller in the vein of Deviation, whereas the even more interior El mirón is more focused on the dissolving marriage itself. Despite its lack of genre thrills, the film is nonetheless filled with an uncomfortable tension, with Larraz starting the film with Roman's fantasy having long been established making nearly every scene between Roman and Elena distant and awkward. The presence of Roman's near-death mother living in the same apartment further adds to an already combustible domestic situation, a key element in so much of Larraz's work. An especially fascinating aspect of the film is Roman's curious mentality behind his fetish, especially as it relates to Elena's acquaintanceship with the young neighbor leading to questions of jealousy and more importantly, control. Larraz does give a bit of an opening for Roman and Elena to reconcile their differences, though at the same time Larraz, rather affectingly, concludes the film on a bit of an ambiguous downer.

El mirón was the first Larraz film to feature Alexandra Bastedo, though the former Champions actress was no stranger to to world of Euro horror from which Larraz came. One of Bastedo's finest roles was that of Mircalla Karstein in Vicente Aranda's adaptation of Sheridan Le Fanu's Carmilla, The Blood Splattered Bride (1972). Bastedo also appeared alongside Peter Cushing in Freddie Francis' The Ghoul (1975). Following El mirón, Bastedo would again work with Larraz on Stigma which was another in a series of Spanish films Bastedo appeared in throughout the mid-to-late 70's. Larraz seemed to be comfortable in the world of the domestic drama around the same time period with El fin de la inocencia (1977) and Luto riguroso (1977) preceding El mirón the same year. Larraz would then focus mostly on comedies like ...And Give Us Our Daily Sex (1979) and The National Mummy (1981) before making a return to horror in the late 80's with the trio of Rest in Pieces (1987), Edge of the Axe (1988) and Deadly Manor (1990). This middle Spanish period of Larraz's career remains the most underexplored. Save for The Coming of Sin and possibly La ocasión, the films lack the genre credentials that would make them marketable which is an unfortunate reality of economics as the films offer a slightly different side of Larraz while still making sense within the context of his other films.

Sinfonía erótica (1980)

It's rather funny to think that despite the majority of his work being considered “unfilmable” by many, the Marquis de Sade's influence looms large in film. The most famous example would obviously be Pier Paolo Pasolini's adaptation of The 120 Days of Sodom, Salò, or the 120 Days of Sodom (1975), but there have been a multitude of films featuring a strong Sadean influence even without being adaptations of Sade's writings. Salò may be the first thing that comes to mind for many whenever Sade-based films are mentioned, but the filmmaker most commonly associated with Sade would have to be Jess Franco. Beginning with Justine (1968) and going all the way through to his digital era with Flowers of Perversion (2005), the divine Marquis provided Franco with material for numerous films. Philosophy in the Bedroom was Franco's go-to Sade text, with Franco altering the material for celluloid while always retaining the spirit of the author in films like Eugenie... the Story of Her Journey into Perversion (1969) and Plaisir à trois (1973) and even injecting it into films with no direct Sade connections like Countess Perverse (1973) or The Sexual Story of O (1984). Upon his return to Spain in the early 80's, Franco would once again turn to the Sadean realm with Sinfonía erótica, an outstanding work and and standout film among Franco's Sade-inspired films and in Franco's filmography as a whole.

Following a long stint in an asylum, Martine de Bressac (Lina Romay) returns to her large estate shocked to discover her husband, the Marquis de Bressac, has taken in a young man, Flor, as his lover. The two also bring home Norma, a young nun the two discovered unconscious on the grounds of the estate as their plaything. With her mental state already incredibly delicate, the Marquis and Flor cruelly torment the sexually frustrated Martine, flaunting their indulgences while the presence of Norma complicates matters for both Martine and Flor resulting in fatal scheming.

Franco's films have been described as “dreamlike” to the point of redundancy but if any film earns that descriptor it's Sinfonía erótica (Erotic Symphony). The film follows a fairly linear narrative yet the events unfold in such a tranquil fashion beginning with Martine's return from the asylum, which has the delirious tone of being dropped right in the middle of a scene with the rest of the film drifting as if it was taking place under water. The “symphony” in the title couldn't have been more appropriate as the film is very much a visual symphony, the soundtrack consisting of Franz Liszt compositions with contributions from Franco himself and frequent collaborator Daniel White blaring overtop Franco's period-set, opium-induced dreamscape. The film could be considered an early, experimental long form music video, but if there's one filmmaker Franco possibly took influence from on Sinfonía erótica it's Walerian Borowczyk. With its period-setting, diffused, soft-focus, and deliberately blown-out hazy visuals, there are moments in the film that wouldn't feel out of place in a Borowczyk film from the late 70's or early 80's like Behind Convent Walls (1978) or The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Miss Osbourne (1981), yet all the while remaining unmistakably Franco, thanks in no small part to Lina Romay. Romay's extraordinary work in the film on-par with not only her own work in Lorna the Exorcist (1974) and Doriana Gray (1976) but also Soledad Miranda in Eugenie de Sade (1970) and Emma Cohen in The Other Side of the Mirror (1973).

The film is interesting when it comes to the Sade influence as it's not based on one writing but instead takes influences from two particular Sade stories, Justine being the first. In Sade's infamous tale, the Bressac name belongs to the Count de Bressac, a homosexual libertine Justine becomes employed to who orders Justine to murder his aunt, the Marquise de Bressac for the inheritance. In Franco's film adaptation of Justine, the Bressac's are husband and wife, though Justine receives the same orders in the film and just as in Sade's original, Justine and the Marquise have grown fond of each other. A certain turn of events late in the film recall Franco's adaptation of Sade's Eugenie de Franval, Eugenie de Sade, the inevitable mounting tragedy that permeates most of the stories making up The Crimes of Love, push the film further in the realm of operatic tragedy while working in tandem with the Liszt music, which again makes the title “Sinfonía erótica” a perfect namesake as Franco essentially invented his own genre, the “erotic symphony” genre, specifically for this one film. Even with the Sade connections, Sinfonía erótica still manages to feel like no other film in the Franco canon while also being the kind of film that would put a Franco naysayer in their place. A shining example of Franco's visualist brilliance and a jewel in Lina Romay's crown as well.

The Sinister Eyes of Dr. Orloff (1973)

The filmography of Jess Franco has often been described as “labyrinthian” and for good reason. Given the sheer size of his body of work, not to mention the alternate versions of many films, it's easy to become totally immersed and lost in Franco's world. An equally appropriate description of the Franco universe would be “hall of mirrors”. The more Franco films one gets under their belt, one thing that becomes very apparent is Franco's habit of repetition, with themes, locations, character names, soundtracks and sometimes previously used plots being recycled for future purposes. With a filmography of over 100 titles, the fact that Franco was able to return to various wells as much as he did throughout his career and save for a few exceptions, not have it feel lazy or stale is evidence of Franco's highly economical yet personal style of filmmaking. Some of Franco's re-occurring obsessions include sadomasochistic night club acts, mournful eroticism, mind-possessing otherworldly females, the Marquis de Sade, particularity Philosophy in the Bedroom and perhaps Franco's most important frequent guest, Dr. Orloff, with Franco's first horror film and of the earliest Spanish horror films The Awful Dr. Orolf (1962), being a landmark film for Franco. The mad doctor would provide fodder for Franco for a number of subsequent films, one of the more neglected movies being The Sinister Eyes of Dr. Orloff, an understated yet efficient effort from Franco.

At the suggestion of her-stepsister Martha, Melissa Comfort (Montserrat Prous), a young, wheelchair-bound heiress suffering from repeated nightmares involving the murder of her father. and living with her uncle Sir Robert Henry and her aunt Flora along with Martha, is put under the care of psychologist Dr. Orloff (William Berger). Orloff shocks Melissa by admitting that he knew her father and that he was murdered. Melissa's night terrors become worse when she dreams of killing her uncle, waking only to find him dead. In Dr. Orloff's hands, Melissa becomes hypnotized, evoking the suspicions of Mathews, the Comfort's butler and Melissa's one true friend, as well as Sweet Davey Brown (Robert Woods), a pop star living next door to the Comfort's estate who's become worried by the strange behavior he's observed of Martha and Flora.  

In a way it's surprising that The Sinister Eyes of Dr. Orloff (Los ojos siniestros del doctor Orloff) is so under-discussed seeing as it's an Orloff film featuring the likes of Prous, Berger and Woods but again, the film is admittedly a much more subdued affair from Franco, especially when compared to the likes of Plaisir à trois (1973), Countess Perverse (1973) or Female Vampire (1973) which were made around the same time. The biggest and most obvious difference between Sinister Eyes and the other work Franco was doing at the time would be the the dialing back of the eroticism that is front and center of so many of Franco's films. The story however is pure Franco, complete with mind-control and nefarious scheming all playing out in Franco's trademark hallucinatory fashion that at times resembles Franco's earlier, similarly themed Nightmares Come at Night (1970), the hypnosis angle letting Franco go off on a few tangents. The inclusion of the pop star neighbor Sweet Davey for instance feels utterly random, though Woods gives certain moments of film a sly sense of humor. While the story doesn't demand as much of her as Sinner: The Secret Diary of a Nymphomaniac (1973), Prous nonetheless is an instantly sympathetic centerpiece who's eyes alone are a commanding presence and the sight of her holding a dagger in a daze is an iconic Franco image while Berger is appropriately sinister as the titular Doctor, standing in for Franco regular Howard Vernon whom the role was usually preserved for.

Along with being a Euro genre favorite, William Berger is also equally known for an unfortunate incident in 1970 resulting in he and his second wife, Italian actress Carolyn Lobravico, being arrested on drug charges. Both were placed in an asylum and separated, after which Lobravico fell extremely ill. Lobravico eventually died as a result of acute peritonitis, an inflammation of the inner abdominal wall, no doubt due to maltreatment, and Berger wouldn't be released until 1971 after being sent to a different facility. Certain distributors even used the events as marketing publicity for films featuring Berger. The film is also notable for being one of Franco's own Manacoa productions which didn't always have the easiest time securing wide releases and it took a while for The Sinister Eyes of Dr. Orloff to reach screens which might account for it's stealthy under the radar status. Also worth noting is the film features an extremely early, dialogue-free appearance from Lina Romay, who was very quickly about to become Franco's main muse, as one of Sweet Davey's live-in admirers so the film is noteworthy in that respect. It might not call as much attention to itself as other Franco works from one of his most productive years, but The Sinister Eyes of Dr. Orloff, much like the awful doctor himself in the film, does produce that strange hypnosis that Franco was so adept at conjuring.

Al otro lado del espejo (1973)

Filmmaking is an incredibly laborious, time sensitive process and because of how consuming making a movie is, it's always admirable when a director is able to not only be prolific, but retain a good amount of consistency throughout a body of work as well as an authorial voice, as opposed to seeming like a hired hand. Takashi Miike is especially adept at this but no other director embodied this type of working more than Jess Franco. With over 200 films to his credit, Franco didn't always hit his target and being his biggest critic he himself would readily admit to that. The majority of the time however he did, and what's especially incredible is that some of Franco's very best work was done during some of his most exhaustively prolific periods. 1973 was crucial year for Franco which saw Franco complete 12 feature films but more important than the number was the fact that several of the films from that year represent Franco at his most inspired with films like Plaisir à trois, Countess Perverse, Sinner: The Secret Diary of a Nymphomaniac and of course, Female Vampire, perhaps Franco's most iconic film, all being crucial entries in his filmography. Standing out even among that crowd is Al otro lado del espejo, a film that in Franco's original Spanish cut, is a strong contender for the title of Franco's best and most heartfelt film.

Before she is set to wed her fiance Arturo, Ana (Emma Cohen) seeks permission from her father (Howard Vernon) whom she has been devoted to her entire life. He gives his approval, only to hang himself soon after. Blaming herself, Ana calls off the engagement and falls into a deep depression, eventually moving to the city to get away from it all. A gifted pianist, Ana finds work playing at a jazz club where she catches the eye of bandmate Bill. While playing, Ana slips into a trance of sorts, seeing the reflection of her father's hanging corpse in a mirror, suddingly finding herself in a scenario walking with Bill, ultimately stabbing him to death, only later to discover that Bill was in fact murdered in real life. It's a situation Ana soon finds herself in whenever she becomes intimate with a man, the ghostly image of her dead father drawing her back to the family home.

In many ways, Al otro lado del espejo (The Other Side of the Mirror) is a kind of spiritual companion to Franco's Venus in Furs (1969) in that both could be described as “jazz films”. Jazz films not within the context of soundtrack, though music is crucial in both films, but jazz films in the sense that both follow a path a trumpet or saxophone solo might take as opposed to the direction taken by conventional narrative. Franco had spoken of envisioning Venus in Furs as taking place within the transcendental headspace of a jazz musician performing a solo and a good portion of The Other Side of the Mirror takes place in that headspace as well. Much like Venus in Furs, and a good portion of Franco's body of work, the hallucinatory, parallel realm Ana's mind enters in The Other Side of the Mirror is also smothered by heavy melancholia, the weight brilliantly carried by Emma Cohen in what quite frankly is the greatest performance in Franco's entire oeuvre. Like Montserrat Prous' Linda in Sinner, Cohen's Ana is a tragic beauty, utterly sympathetic yet also knowingly lethal, though one masterful, final twist from Franco makes Ana's character path hurt just a bit more. Jazz, as stated, obviously plays an essential role in the film, the films theme, the gorgeous “Madeira Love”, being played a variety of ways throughout the film, giving different inflections depending on the mood of the scene, including an extended jazz jam which Franco wisely presents in it's entirety.

Being a Franco film, of course different versions were eventually released, though this particular film is one of the more interesting cases of alternate version syndrome that affects so many of Franco's films. Rather than have some anonymous editor carelessly splice in spicier sex scenes, Franco himself crafted an entirely new story, calling it “Le miroir obscène” or The Obscene Mirror, with newly shot  footage featuring Lina Romay and a re-arranged story, re-naming Ana “Annette” and replacing the suicide of the father with a sister, Marie (Romay). Watching both versions back-to-back is fascinating and Le miroir obscène is a testament to Franco's ingenuity when it comes to tweaking certain story elements to get something new out of familiar material. As Stephen Thrower mentions in his essential tome Murderous Passions: The Delirious Cinema of Jesus Franco Volume 1, The Obscene Mirror curiously features scenes cut from the original Spanish version and a third version was released to Italian adult theaters featuring hardcore inserts. The original Spanish cut is, unsurprisingly, the best, Franco even received some rare critical praise in Spain upon its initial release. Emma Cohen was even awarded “Best Actress” from the Spanish Film Critics Circle for her extraordinary work. An extraordinary performance in an extraordinary film, Al otro lado del espejo is an absolutely essential Franco title and one of the standouts of 1973, one of the strongest years for genre film.

Tenemos 18 años (1959)

It's an interesting occurrence whenever a filmmaker becomes synonymous with a certain film or style after already leaving behind them a sizable body of work. For instance when Takashi Miike became a name to know among western film fans in the late 90's following Audition (1999), Miike was already a veteran with 30 films to his credit. Umberto Lenzi may be notorious for the likes of Nightmare City (1980) and Cannibal Ferox (1981), but the man was genre chameleon, capable of quality work in genres ranging from spaghetti western to historical adventure to giallo and of course, poliziotteschi. In the case of Jess Franco, there were several things Franco became known for, to both fans and critics, but by and large, if there was a specific type of film Franco would be most associated with, it would be erotic horror, with Franco really shifting into gear with The Awful Dr. Orlof (1962). Orlof is indeed a crucial Franco title, but Franco's path to Orlof offers a glimpse of the prolific and diverse path Franco traversed  throughout his entire career. Prior to unleashing the mad doctor, Franco had already handled a musical, Queen of the Tabarin Club (1960) and a spy comedy, Labios rojos (1960), who's characters Franco would return to multiple times, but it all began with Tenemos 18 años, Franco's feature debut which showcased his ability to balance a variety of genres.

Growing bored with their home and school life and wanting a change of scenery, 18 year old cousins Maria (Isana Medel) and Pili hit the road in a beat up old car purchased from Mariano, their scheming, constantly broke cousin. Jumping forward in time, Franco shows the girls writing their memories of the trip, though they have a tendency to embellish the events, with the truth of one particular memory affecting their outlook on the future.

So it begins. For anyone with a handful of Franco titles that came from the late 60's onwards under their belt, watching Tenemos 18 años (We are 18 Years Old) can be a rather fascinating experience as the film does give a glimpse of what Franco has in store for future films, but by the same token there are several things about the film that might surprise longtime Franco viewers coming to the film for the first time. For the most part, the film is a comedy with much of the humor stemming from the bizarre situations the girls find themselves in on the road. The style of humor is very Spanish, absurd and with the girls stretching the truth during their memories, it often tips over into the surreal realm. A different kind of surrealism that Franco would become known for, but already his knack for going off on tangents makes itself known. Thanks to the rapport between the girls and their bubbly attitudes, Isana Medel being especially likable, Franco hits his comedic targets most of the time and while some of the tonal shifts might seem abrupt, when viewed as a whole, they actually enhance the film. The films centerpiece and perhaps the most jarring mood swing is an extended segue into horror where the girls find themselves having dinner in the castle of an ominous stranger. Just as Franco's surreal tendencies seem to already be in place, this lone episode proves Franco's skill for horror was there from the beginning.

It seems like a cruel destiny of sorts, but even with this, his very first feature, Franco would encounter some of the problems he would face an innumerable amount of times with future films. The first hurdle the film faced was actually getting released, sitting in distribution limbo for two years before an extremely limited release and later hitting Spanish VHS sometime in the 80's. The second and more perplexing problem Franco ran into regarding the film was the Spanish censor board cutting 10 minutes of the film during some fairly crucial moments that added weight to the films more dramatic side and the VHS release featured the shorter cut as well. It's interesting to note that around this time, difficult as it is to believe all things considered, Franco actually had a friend on the censor board, José Luis Dibildos, though he was ultimately of little help in saving the film from the cuts. Franco would later admit that before he left Spain to work aboard a few years down the line, he actually went to the chief censor and gave him a piece of his mind. Bi-polar as the film might seem in tone, Tenemos 18 años is a remarkably assured film for a debut feature and given that it marked the arrival of one of the most individualistic and prolific directors in the field, should be considered an important film.

The Otherworld (2013)

The career of Richard Stanley is a classic and unfortunately all too common Hollywood horror story of an extraordinarily talented artist chewed up and spit out by the studio system. Although the film rightfully found its cult audience, Stanley's debut feature Hardware (1990) was distributed by the infamous Weinstein brothers and for a number of years was at the center of several convoluted rights disputes, though that's nothing compared to the abuse Stanley's second feature Dust Devil (1992) suffered. Butchered beyond recognition removing nearly of the films esoteric mystique, the film also suffered multiple rights issues over the years. It wasn't until 2006 when Stanley finally assembled his final cut. Of course, the historic debacle surrounding Stanley's firing from The Island of Dr. Moreau (1996) was documented brilliantly by Severin Film's David Gregory in the Lost Soul: The Doomed Journey of Richard Stanley's Island of Dr. Moreau (2014). Still, considering some of the individuals involved in the mishandling of Stanley's films, it's Stanley that had the last laugh, calling “Action!” on his long overdue third feature film, his take on H.P. Lovecraft's Colour out of Space in 2019. Stanley was hardly laying dormant after the Moreau clusterfuck however, staying busy with shorts and documentaries on some pretty curious subjects, the most memorable and eccentric of the bunch, The Otherworld, finds Stanley studying a subject ripe for treatment in one of his fictional narratives.

Once a stronghold for the Cathars, a religious sect persecuted and eventually slaughtered by the Catholic church who razed the Château de Montségur, the Cathar's fortress in 1244, Montségur, a settlement located in the Pyrenees mountains in the southwest of France has been Stanley's home for several years and is the subject of The Otherworld (L'autre monde). More specifically, an area refereed to as “The Zone”, which has been said to contain portals to other dimensions, leading many of the supernaturally inclined to congregate to the region. Tracing the history of the region and the Cathar's, Stanley explores the strange phenomena surrounding his adopted home while also reminiscing on an otherworldly encounter he himself experienced in The Zone.

The Otherworld is bound to be a divisive film from the outset based on two specific groups of people bringing their own biases to the material. Skeptical types will dismiss the outlandishness of some of the testimonials heard throughout the film while others who already had an inkling of believing in some form of “beyond” will either walk away just as, if not more convinced than before. When viewed from a completely unprejudiced lens, The Otherworld is a fascinating documentary on a variety of fronts. Stanley structures the film in an interesting manner, opening the film with himself ominously warning anyone watching that was he is about to tell is the story of the strangest thing that ever happened to him, before switching gears and getting into some general history of the area of Montségur. Although the film isn't and doesn't pretend to be a thorough history lesson on Montségur, it's this history of the region and the overview of the Cathar's that make for some of the films most engaging moments. Naturally Stanley encounters some fairly wild characters along the way. If the film has a “main character”, it would Uraine, an eccentric sorcerer who hangs print-outs of Italian horror film posters all around his property. Equally riviting is Stanley's tale of his meeting with a spirit in the ruins of the Château de Montségur. Stanley being a brilliant raconteur vividly paints with words, at one point humorously describing his surroundings during his ghostly memory as resembling a “bad Black Sabbath video.”

It's also worth noting that “The Zone” is the nickname given to the outer regions of the nuclear wasteland in Hardware, the mysterious nomad played by Fields of the Nephilim frontman Carl McCoy who discovers the Mark-13 droid parts given the moniker of “Zone Tripper”. Stanley has said that portions of Hardware were inspired by late nights listening to Iron Maiden's “Flash of the Blade” on repeat and funnily enough, the legendary band would later include a song called “Montségur” on their album Dance of Death making reference to the storming of the Château de Montségur. Born in South Africa, Stanley was no stranger to the occult with the culture of magic and mysticism in Africa being very strong. Stanley's mother, anthropologist Penny Miller, even published a book on the subject in 1979, appropriately titled Myths and Legends of Southern Africa. Two of Stanley's previous documentaries also dealt with somewhat similar subjects with The Secret Glory (2001) delving into the story of Nazi SS officer Otto Rahn's search for the Holy Grail and The White Darkness (2002) exploring voodoo in Haitian culture. Both engrossing watches, but The Otherworld finds Stanley working on a grander and even more esoteric scale. The film has a higher pedigree than other documentaries as well thanks to the exquisite cinematography of Karim Hussain and score from Simon Boswell making a trip to Stanley's otherworldly zone well worth taking.

Ballad in Blood (2016)

The Italian film market was in a very interesting place as the 80's gave way to the 90's. Noticeably different from the 70's heyday when the giallo, spaghetti western and poliziotteschi genres were thriving, the late 80's certainly produced genre product, but the market for theatrical Italian horror began to dry up, with many genre veterans including Sergio Martino, Lucio Fulci, Umberto Lenzi and Lamberto Bava making made-for-TV movies and films that went direct-to-video internationally. Lenzi even essentially retired after 1992. Of course Dario Argento outlasted them all in terms of securing wide theatrical distribution, but Ruggero Deotado stuck it out in the theatrical game, closing out the 80's with out of left field films like Phantom of Death (1987) and Dial: Help (1988), his last theatrical film being The Washing Machine (1993). Like the others before him, Deodato then found occasional TV work before working sporadically every few years. It's entirely appropriate then, that 2016 was the perfect year for an established master like Deodato to make a comeback, with one of the biggest trends in horror was lifting from classic Italian horror in the name of “homage”. Deodato's comeback was surprising, even more surprising was the ensuing film, Ballad in Blood, a film that, even in a filmography alongside the likes of Dial: Help and The Washing Machine, stands as a strong contender for the title of Deodato's most curious film.

Still reeling from a night of hard Halloween partying, Lanka, her boyfriend Jacopo and Duke, an American and Jacopo's drug dealer, a group of university students in Italy are mortified upon discovering the dead body of Elizabeth, Lanka's roommate. With no memory of the night before, the three race to piece together the events of the previous night that led to Elizabeth's death, though further drug use and the bad attitudes of all three lead to endless bickering, accusations and shifting allegiances. 

Despite the fact that it had been nearly 30 years since Deotado had made films like Dial: Help and The Washing Machine, Ballad in Blood is a direct descendant of the two, loaded with the sort of quirks that made those films so off-kilter. The central story Elizabeth's death, none-too-subtly inspired by the Amanda Knox case, is straightforward enough, but when the first line of dialogue uttered is “Fuck you, black cat!” it's clear that what's to unfold is going to be anything but normal. Things are skewed from the start, with a sex scene early in the film ending in vomit and Duke showcasing his freestyle rapping talent for no apparent reason within the first half-hour, it's impossible to not get wrapped up in wanting to uncover what happened to Elizabeth, who is actually given a fair amount of characterization through footage on her laptop. Many will no doubt view the film as exaggerated and claim Deodato is out of touch, though eccentric as the film and characters behavior is, it honestly doesn't seem all that far fetched, the nihilism displayed throughout the film being a staple of Deodato's work. The vitriol spewed by nearly every character in the film is on par with Deodato's Waves of Lust (1975) and overall the film seems to have a bleak view of human behavior, not unlike Cannibal Holocaust (1980), and Deodato once again offers no easy to fully root for characters as he did in The House on the Edge of the Park (1980).

Peculiar as Deodato's presentation of the extracurricular activities of college students may be, the film is nevertheless packed with gallows humor. Shocked as they are upon discovering Elizabeth's body, the way the group go about treating the body is rather questionable, though at times Lanka is the sole character that does show some shades of empathy for her recently departed roommate. Most of the humor in the film is born out of just how rotten the characters are, the dialogue getting fairly incendiary at times. Duke also happens to be one of the films biggest sources of entertainment with the best lines, including the aforementioned opening line of the film and his lamenting of Elizabeth's weight while moving the body is golden. Deodato also tosses in other eccentricities on the side like a group of gothic drug addicts with pancake make-up layered on thick looking to get back at Duke and the strange behavior of the groups landlord and his effeminate sidekick. The end of the film even finds Deodato referencing himself with the use of “Sweetly” from The House on the Edge of the Park soundtrack, although the scene in question is liable to leave many baffled. The same could be said for the film as a whole as it certainly wasn't what anyone was expecting when Deodato announced his comeback. Mean, nasty and basically insane, it's great to have Deodato back.

Phantom of Death (1988)

AKA Off Balance

The giallo has always been one of the more interesting film genres in terms of its flexibility. Although there is an archetypal giallo, a pulpy, lurid crime thriller with several twists featuring exquisite production design, baroque color palates and graphically violent death scenes, there are also several films that function as giallos while taking the genre into some pretty far-out territory. Sergio Martino took the giallo into the realm of Satanic cults with All the Colors of the Dark (1972) and Umberto Lenzi took the genres penchant for plot twists that defy logic to their utmost extreme with his delirious opus Spasmo (1974). Lenzi's earlier jetset thrillers like Paranoia/Orgasmo (1969) and A Quiet Place to Kill (1970) along with Giulio Questi's utterly mad Death Laid an Egg (1968) are unique as they represent an era for the genre that predates Dario Argento's Animal Trilogy, Argento's work often considered the pinnacle of the genre along with Mario Bava, the original master. Curiously absent from the giallo boom of the 70's was Ruggero Deodato who didn't throw his hat in the giallo ring until the late 80's when many had read the genre's last rites. As late an entry to the genre it may be, Deodato's Phantom of Death certainly belongs to the class of films that divert from the standard giallo formula, Deodato's approach being memorably, appropriate given the films alternate title, off balance.

Robert Dominici (Michael York), a gifted virtuoso pianist is diagnosed with progeria, a rare disease that causes rapid aging. As Robert, a man in his 30's, gradually appears to look in his 70's, the disease begins to affect his brain and Robert embarks on a killing spree. Because of his condition, tracking Robert down proves to be an increasingly frustrating task for Inspector Datti (Donald Pleasence), whom Robert continues to drive crazy while working toward his end goal as the disease worsens.

Phantom of Death is a curious film that unquestionably stands out in a crowded giallo field and sits comfortably alongside the other oddball titles from around this time in Deodato's oeuvre like Dial: Help (1988) and The Washing Machine (1993). Obviously the aging disease aspect sets the film apart but the film also differs from many other films in the genre in that it's not a mystery. Although it's established that Robert is the killer going into the film, Deodato finds other ways of building suspense. Having such a strange disease be the root of Robert's killings may seem like a gimmick but Deodato's handling of the disease is incredibly clever especially the ways Robert can use it to his advantage, tossing a wrench into what would have otherwise been a standard police procedural plot. Michael York has a fine line to walk throughout the film and manages to maintain a fraction of sympathy due to his condition but also plays the psychopath extremely well, his warped mentality adding extra tension to the inevitable conclusion. The advanced aging make-up is not only effective but becomes rather grotesque later in the film and Robert's brief encounter with a fellow Progeria sufferer is one of the more strangely unsettling moments the genre has to offer. Deodato also gives the film plenty of the visual flair the genre is know for, even evoking Phantom of the Opera for a brief time and while not overtly gruesome, this being a Deodato film, the death scenes are visceral.

Interestingly, Deodato compared the film with Cannibal Holocaust (1980) in an interview with Total Sci-Fi Online. Deodato stated “...I did Phantom of Death because it was based on a true element – the idea of growing old – so it was based on something realistic like Cannibal Holocaust. And I got to work with Michael York and Donald Pleasance on Phantom of Death.” The film is also notable for having Edwige Fenech, arguably the face most synonymous with giallo, as York's love interest, her first and only film with Deodato, though Deodato has claimed that she was miscast at a producers insistence. Deodato also clearly had fun working with Donald Pleasance who has a memorable “off balance” moment himself in the film. Pleasance found himself in a number of Italian productions in the late 80's and would go on to feature in an even more off balance film, Sergio Martino's American Tiger (1990) a few years after Phantom of Death. Deodato would again steer the giallo into bizarre territory with The Washing Machine, his take on the hugely popular at the time erotic thriller genre. While a good chuck of Deodato's filmography tends to get overlooked in comparison with the more infamous Cannibal Holocaust or The House on the Edge of the Park (1980), Phantom of Death seems oddly underseen but the film does hold an important distinction of being Deodato's first giallo.

Le parfum de Mathilde (1994)

Unlike his fellow countryman José Bénazéraf, who dove headfirst into the world of hardcore adult films once hardcore pornography became legal in France, Jean Rollin had a rather acrimonious relationship with adult films. Although Rollin, like a lot of directors, initially found the concept of being able to film hardcore material freeing and rebellious, he ultimately found the practice artistically unfulfilling. Rollin himself was always the first to admit that his adult features were done strictly for economic reasons with Rollin signing the works with the pseudonym “Michel Gentil” and Rollin would even claim that he directed everything but the sex scenes, turning those over to his assistant director while he would have a smoke. The biggest exception to this rule would be Phantasmes (1975), released in some territories as “The Seduction of Amy”, in which Rollin used his real name and brought the same sensibilities that defined his outstanding horror films. It is also of course worth mentioning that it was on the set of one of his adult films where Rollin met Brigitte Lahaie who would go on to become a muse of sorts for Rollin. In the midst of the 90's, Rollin unexpectedly found himself back in the hardcore realm again when adult producer Marc Dorcel roped him into writing and eventually co-directing Le parfum de Mathilde, a standout film in its genre with a feeling that is distinctly Rollin.

Agnes (Draghixa), a young bride-to-be is set to marry wealthy widower Remy. After being taken to Remy's countryside chateau by her aunt and uncle who arraigned the marriage, the innocent and virginal Agnes is shocked to discover the castle to be a den of perversity, with the staff and guests openly displaying their sexual appetites to a horrified Agnes. Hoping her future husband will be a savior, Agnes is further dismayed to learn that Remy is the architect of all the orgiastic behavior and intends for Agnes to be inducted into the libertine way of life at the chateau, where the memory of Remy's former wife Mathilda is ever present.

Playing out like a hardcore take on Hitchcock's Rebecca (1940) had it been adapted from the Marquis de Sade, there are several parallels that could be drawn between Le parfum de Mathilde (The Scent of Mathilda) and the previously mentioned Phantasmes aside from the obvious Sadean nature of both storylines, the classic Sade theme of an innocent led into a perverse, libertine world being at the center of Le parfum de Mathilde. What the two also have in common and what set them apart from Rollin's other, work-for-hire hardcore work is that both seem like adult films actually written and designed by Rollin. Although he's only credited as the screenwriter, again, Rollin co-directed the film along with Dorcel and it would seem as if Dorcel handled all the sex scenes while Rollin did the majority of the heavy lifting. Rollin's aesthetic fingerprints are all over the film with the gothic chateau setting of course being a Rollin staple. Even the films 90's shot-on-video look doesn't rob the film of Rollin's unique visual style and the video look does give the film a strange, prurient atmosphere. Rollin even invokes The Nude Vampire (1970) with the appearances of odd masks during Agnes's martial ceremony and the ritualistic, cult-like vibe of the sequence. Draghixa does play the Sadean innocent type very well, and curiously she has a habit of disappearing for stretches of the film, the film's final third being more Dorcel than Rollin, though the final surprise of the film is a purely Rollin addition.

The 90's were a fairly trying time for Rollin. A good portion of the decade was spent by Rollin writing a series of novels, one of which was eventually adapted into Two Orphan Vampires (1997), Rollin's true comeback feature. Le parfum de Mathilde was made during a time when Rollin had extreme difficulty getting funding which is perhaps why he accepted Dorcel's offer. Though he would later claim that the film wasn't all that great, he wasn't regretful about working on it, and even used his real name for the screenwriting credit. The film even made it to the States, released by Vivid Video as “The Scent of Mathilda” and got some good press at the time from the adult trade magazines. Over time however, it seems as if the film has been forgotten about, rarely getting a mention even when Rollin's adult films are discussed. Perhaps it's due to him being un-credited as the co-director or the fact that many adult titles from the 90's tend to get pushed aside in favor of features from the 70's and 80's, but Le parfume de Mathilde is a title worth seeking out. For Rollin fans, it's a curious work seeing him return to a genre which he bowed out of decades prior but in general it's a wonderful example of what's possible in the adult medium when a mind such as Rollin's is involved.

No Reason (2010)

One of the more more interesting discussions to be had regarding film violence is the individualistic way in which certain filmmakers approach bloodletting. For instance, the violent setpieces in the films of Dario Argento have long been recognized for their baroque, painterly quality, so immaculately composed that even the more horrific scenarios take on a air of beauty. Contrast that with Lucio Fulci, who once opined that “Violence is Italian art.” Fulci's violence could be brutally realistic in a film like The New York Ripper (1982) but the free-form narrative of a film like The Beyond (1981) took the gore into an otherworldly surreal realm. Paul Verhoeven has been known to use over-the-top violence in a satirical manner in films like RoboCop (1987) and Starship Troopers (1997) whereas Takashi Miike does the same in a film like Ichi the Killer (2001) but takes the violence into unnerving territory in Audition (1999) and Imprint (2006). As one of the forefathers of German splatter, extreme gore became Olaf Ittenbach's calling card from his very first film Black Past (1989). Ittenbach's approach to gore is often so gratuitous, not to mention innovative, that the violence in his films can often seem surrealistic in it's excess. Combining his trademark gore with an esoteric plot, 2010's No Reason stands as one of Ittenbach's most ambitious and potent films, and a work bound to alienate even seasoned splatter defenders.

In the process of moving out of their apartment building, the happily married Jennifer (Irene Holzfurtner) and Sebastian begin their day like any other. After Sebastian leaves for work, Jennifer drops her son Nico off at her elderly neighbors before doing some shopping, though when she returns her day takes a turn for the worse when the neighbor, along with her son, has inexplicably gone missing. Worse yet, Jennifer is sent photos of her husband and another woman in their building in bed. In an attempt to calm down and clear her mind, Jennifer slips into the bath and falls asleep, only to wake up covered in blood and surrounded by dismembered body parts, greeted by an imposing figure in a tentacled mask who proceeds to lead Jennifer through various levels of a hellish netherworld.

No Reason is and isn't a typical Ittenbach film. While the gore effects are, as always, up to Ittenbach's high standard and would be pretty difficult to mistake for the work of anyone else, it's the story that makes the film so peculiar. Ittenbach was no stranger to off-center storytelling, but even still No Reason is a markedly different, transcendental kind of story for Ittenbach. Over all, the biggest thing that separates No Reason from the Ittenbach films that came before it would be tone. Even Ittenbach's darkest minded films feature bits of his humor tossed about the film, but save for one very brief moment early on, No Reason is an exceptionally grim affair. Setting aside the violence for a moment, the film is smothered in a thick, morose atmosphere from the very beginning. Even the early scenes of Jennifer as a happily married family woman have a slight air of unease to them given the horror Jennifer is about to endure and the more Jennifer's ordeal goes on and the more Ittenbach reveals about her character, the film darkens in tone even more. Admittedly the true nature of what Jennifer is put through isn't entirely surprising, but it's the ordeal itself at the center of the film, Ittenabach's method of depicting it making the film all the more curious. Having each “level” of the hellish netherworld be based upon one color, Ittenbach baths the screen in red, green and blue, the “green level” being the films highlight, a Hellraiser-esque S&M nightclub.

As stylish and colorful as the film is and as much as Ittenbach astonishes in the gore department, presenting a range of atrocities and even some grotesque creatures, the weight of the film rests on the shoulders of Irene Holzfurtner who carries the heaviness of the material, going the extra mile emotionally and physically. Throughout the course of her torments, Holzfurtner displays more or less every emotion a performer can muster but for 99.9% of the film Holzfurtner is completely nude yet given the context of everything is never eroticized. It's also worth noting that both Takashi Ishii's A Night in Nude: Salvation (2010) and David Blyth's Wound (2010) were also released the same year as No Reason and both feature extremely harrowing performances, with their leading ladies, Hiroko Sato and Kate O'Rourke respectively, both spiraling into a psychological abyss. Holzfurtner's turn in No Reason is easily on par with both, though obviously the films are wildly different from each other save for their unflinching transgressions and all three having been made by filmmakers who have carved out a niche for themselves by dividing audiences. With No Reason, Ittenbach is at his most divisive. The gore will no-doubt please the extreme horror crowed who will possibly be bored with the narrative concepts which might get the film some appreciation from splatter detractors that will be put off by the violence. Quite the accomplishment.

Dard Divorce (2007)

While provocation in film is always welcome, especially in these times of moral posturing and virtue signaling, making an “extreme” film can sometimes be a tightrope to walk in that the idea of being “shocking” for the sake of it can wear thin pretty fast. Looking back however at the proliferation of films that got branded with the “extreme” tag that sprung up in the late 90's and early to mid-2000's, a good number of them stand the test of time, no doubt on account of being made by filmmakers with more on there mind that mere shock value. Japan was particularly adept in this field, with Takashi Miike taking on-screen gore and twisted sexuality to new levels in Ichi the Killer (2001) and Visitor Q (2001) and Takashi Ishii pushing Japanese censorship to its limits with Flower and Snake (2004). South Korea's Kim Ki-duk also had audiences gasping thanks to films like The Isle (2000) and Bad Guy (2001). There was also of course the New French Extremity, the pinnacle being Gaspar Noe's Irreversible (2002) which turned the rape-revenge formula on its head by telling the story backwards. Being one of the forefathers of German splatter, Olaf Ittenbach was an extreme filmmaker from the beginning so it's hardly a shock that 2007's Dard Divorce, an exceptionally nasty piece of business, would out-due the rest of the extreme horror competition at the time.

In the midst of a nasty separation from her husband Tim, Nathalie Stein (Martina Ittenbach) is shocked when Tim appears on her front porch appearing to be gravely injured, only to die right in front of her. When Nathalie returns after calling the police however, Tim's body is nowhere to be found. Soon after Nathalie begins to learn some hidden truths about her husband and his involvement with several shady individuals when she is visited by two strangers each telling their own version of what really happened with Tim and a substantial amount of cash. With both believing Nathalie to be hiding information from them regarding Tim, Nathalie finds herself fighting for survival with both attempting to retrieve answers from her utilizing increasingly excruciating methods.

Sadistic even by Ittenbach standards, Dard Divorce (“Dard” being a Persian word for “pain” which is made a plot-point) has the misfortune of being branded with the lamentable label “torture porn” by dismissive reviewers, a massive short-selling of the film. While it's true that Nathalie's tormentors do utilize torturous tactics, the actual scenes of torture aren't what hold the film together. The core of the film is the mystery surrounding Tim's disappearance, if he's actually dead or not and what exactly did he do to cause Nathalie to endure all she does throughout the film. Making things more interesting is the Rashomon (1950) style in which the story is told, with each of Nathalie's torturers telling their own version of the story, each of course being completely different. Although Tim and Nathalie's actual divorce never becomes that big of a narrative concern, Ittenbach nevertheless finds time to address it, even making Nathalie a bit of an alcoholic. Having children getting mixed up in both the divorce as well as the ensuing violence also add a bit more drama to the divorce angle, making Nathlie's struggle all the more harrowing with Martina Ittenbach really being put through hell. Dard Divorce may also have the distinction of being Ittenbach's most viscerally violent film with Ittenbach crafting some of his most grotesque moments including an over-the-top kitchen massacre and a jaw-droppingly innovative death scene on par with the decent into Hell in The Burning Moon (1992) and the SWAT team assault in Garden of Love (2003).

Unfortunately, the film does suffer from a glaring technical flaw late in the film when the details of the central mystery are revealed, the music becomes so loud 99.9% of the dialogue is nearly unintelligible. It doesn't seem to be an issue affecting select copies of the film either as nearly every review available of the film makes note of it. Not that it leaves things open ended, the montage played during the scene makes everything perfectly clear, but to say its distracting would be an understatement. It doesn't seem like Ittenbach has addressed the issue anywhere either, though again the film was very much a bare-bones type of production with Ittenbach shooting a good chuck of the film in his own home in Germany but also later traveling to the US to shoot additional footage, explaining the sometimes awkward clashing of German and American accents. This back-to-basics type of working does give the film a much more grittier feel than some of Ittenbach's previous works like Beyond the Limits (2003) and the previously mentioned Garden of Love, making the film feel more in line with Ittenbach's earlier works like Black Past (1989) and The Burning Moon. Dard Divorce is certainly an acquired taste in an already niche subgenre, but when taking into consideration the horror zeitgeist of the time, it's a prime example of a master demonstrating how to really get extreme.

Chain Reaction (2006)

AKA House of Blood, House of Horrors and Zombie Onslaught

While most directors would be happy to carve out a niche for themselves in various styles or genres, it can also be somewhat of a curse with only one aspect of their directorial skills being highlighted while others are given a cursory notice at best and at worst, ignored completely. For instance, filmmakers like Ruggero Deotado and Umberto Lenzi only being recognized for their cannibal films while their other genre work tends to get sidestepped, or Walerian Borowczyk remembered only for erotica while ignoring his sense of humor and astonishing visual sense. German splatter auteur Olaf Ittenbach also belongs to this group of directors. As one of the forefathers of German splatter, it was inevitable that Ittenbach's claim to fame was going to be his special effects work and understandably so. Ittenbach's gore effects are on another level of quality than most, and his films certainly go into extreme territory so it's a reputation he's earned. One particular quality of Ittenbach's work that tends to get ignored is that, along with his always innovative approach to violence, Ittenbach can always be relied upon for some fairly idiosyncratic storytelling with films like Premutos: The Fallen Angel (1997), Garden of Love (2003) and Dard Divorce (2007) all taking their stories into interesting directions. For Chain Reaction, Ittenbach takes a fairly simple horror concept and steers it into some frankly esoteric and exceptionally bloody realms.

After colliding with a bus transferring prisoners, Dr. Douglas Madsen is taken hostage by the surviving prisoners, demanding that he lead them to the Canadian border and treat the life-threatening injuries of Spence, the brother of Arthur, the de-facto leader of the convicts. While trekking through thick forest, the group happen upon an isolated cabin which they invade for shelter, discovering a strange, devoutly religious familial unit speaking in old-tyme language. After declaring the cabin theirs and isolating the family, the group soon discovers the true, blood-thirsty and demonic nature of their hosts.    

Chain Reaction is perhaps the quintessential film when making the case for Ittenbach being far from a one-note filmmaker. Granted, the concept of escaped convicts discovering a cabin inhabited by demons isn't the most novel of set-ups, and in the hands of nearly any other director would have probably been approached in a pretty straightforward fashion. Ittenbach however takes an entirely different approach right from the very beginning, opening with a damn near Roegian montage that makes more sense as Ittenbach unfolds this elliptical and weirdly emotional narrative that seemingly takes place in a parallel world where deja-vu is a reoccurring, pre-determined fate. Having the cabin family speak in bizarre old-tyme tongue greatly adds to this slightly alien feel, and Ittenbach conjures up dense atmosphere around the cabin and its surroundings. While Ittenbach could have very well made a good movie simply utilizing the basic escaped convicts vs. demons story, he does something fascinating in the middle of the film by repeating the scenario a second time with a different set of cons and making Dr. Madsen a prisoner. Because of Madsen, the second go around twists some other things as well, adding to an already loaded story a connection of sorts, perhaps past-life, between Madsen and the most “human” of the demonic family, Alice, played by Ittenbach's then wife Martina. Needless to say, the films big gore centerpieces are flawless with Ittenbach once again inventing highly unique ways of dismembering the human form and actually builds tension between the major bloodletting sequences.

The film is comprised of a host of Ittenbach regulars with Christopher Kriesa making his third is appearance for Ittenbach following Legion of the Dead (2001) and Beyond the Limits (2003). Also making their third Ittenbach film are James Matthews-Pyecka and Daryl Jackson, both also in Beyond the Limits and Garden of Love and of course Martina Ittenbach would later feature in Dard Divorce and Legend of Hell (2012) amongst others. Unfortunately, like so many of Ittenbach's films, Chain Reaction has suffered on the home video front thanks to cut releases with its most easily variable North American DVD release under the “House of Blood” title being cut, begging the question of why even bother release an Ittenbach film in the first place if all the gore effects weren't intact? Much like Garden of Love, the film has also had the misfortune of being released under the wildly inappropriate alternate of “Zombie Onslaught” complete with equally misrepresentative cover art. There is however a very good Polish DVD containing the complete version of the film and is pretty easy to track down making it a good buying option and it is a more than worthy purchase. Chain Reaction is first and foremost a splatter film, but the unorthodox storytelling and other various oddities Ittenbach mixes in make the film one of Ittenbach's more curious and one of the more interesting films in contemporary horror.