If you were ever a habitue' of grindhouse movie theaters or drive-in cinemas during the 1970's, chances are you watched a giallo film or two (or ten) without ever knowing it. For those unfamiliar with the term, giallo is a genre of cinema that arose in Italy during a tumultuous period (late 60's to early 80's) which saw extreme political unrest, terrorism, kidnappings, assassinations and radicalism developing throughout the country. Combining elements of mystery, horror, gore and sexploitation, gialli were notorious for their lurid, often incomprehensible plotlines, sexual objectification of women (sometimes bordering on misogyny), clueless cops and ultra-violent deaths. Most often the protagonist was some everyday Joe (or Jane) unwittingly caught up in terrifying situations that, due to the ineptness/indifference of authorities, required them to play amateur detective. Well over half of the numerous giallo movies I've watched don't even have a real ending, or at least nothing offering a sense of closure. These movies simply stop. Sometimes a character may be in the process of falling out a window, or calling out for help while bleeding profusely, or lying wounded on the floor of an elevator gasping as the villain is beheaded when her necklace slips into the lift's mechanical gears as it begins its descent. Roll the credits.
Few gialli would be complete without the customary black gloved killer (usually wielding a large sharp instrument) calling our protagonist--regardless of where he or she happens to be at the time--and issuing whispered threats over the phone. The killer will mostly wind up being someone we don't suspect, or maybe even just some character on the periphery of the story. They will have motives, though. Impassioned, operatic motives with psychological imperatives that are frequently devoid of logic. The thing about these movies is that logic doesn't even matter. Nobody watches gialli for their coherence.
Most importantly, gialli (plural of giallo) have plenty of style to burn. The performers are sexy, the locales picturesque, the costumes and sets the epitome of 70's Euro chic. It's no wonder that many of these films take place in Roman and Milanese fashion houses. And the titles of these movies are invariably delirious, if not downright delicious--Iguana with the Tongue of Fire, Seven Deaths in the Cat's Eye, Your Vice is a Locked Room and Only I Have the Key, Hatchet for the Honeymoon, The Black Belly of the Tarantula, Lizard in a Woman's Skin--the list goes on. Just don't expect the titles to match what happens in the movie. (Here's an added FYI for your future stint on Jeopardy: giallo is a term that was coined back in 1920's Italy when murder mysteries by the likes of Agatha Christie and Edgar Wallace first began appearing with yellow covers. Later, this same principle extended to the big screen. The color yellow is giallo in Italy. Get it? Eventually, the taste for giallo was eclipsed by the advent of slasher films. Beginning with Halloween (1978) and Friday the 13th (1980), "slasher" has become its own genre, although, if you look closely, giallo has not entirely disappeared from public view. Eyes of Laura Mars, Dressed to Kill, Cruising and Basic Instinct are all examples of Americanized giallo movies without being marketed as such.)
Having described the rise and fall of giallo in a nutshell, it's time I get down to this week's post. Although it is often referenced as one of the 10 best giallo films, The House with Laughing Windows is not a typical example of the genre. There is a mystery that is central to the story, sharp objects penetrating necks and torsos, much bloodletting, whispered phone warnings and, of course, the obligatory beautiful woman in peril (and various states of undress). However, the action here moves away from big-city sophistication to the rural, swampy flatlands of Italy's Emilia-Romagna region. There are no designer outfits, no luxury apartments, no fancy sports cars or fashion models, and, somehow, in its isolated rusticity, the film becomes far scarier than its urban counterparts. It also happens to have something much deeper on its mind.
Director Pupi Avati filmed The House with Laughing Windows in 1976, presumably hoping to cash in on the giallo craze after his previous movie (House of Pleasure for Women) bombed at the box office. This film opens with an art restoration expert summoned to a tiny Italian village to repair a damaged fresco on the wall of an old church. The fresco, appearing to depict the martyrdom of Saint Sebastian, has undergone years of neglect and abuse (presumably when Mussolini's forces were holed up in the area). Stefano, the young man hired to resurrect the mural, soon discovers that his job will be more demanding than he anticipated--in several ways.
First of all, the church isn't even located within the village proper, necessitating that Stefano either walk or bike to work, even in the dead of night. Secondly, what he uncovers is more ghastly than he ever could imagine: the more the fresco is scraped clean and repaired, the more it reveals about Legnano, the long-dead artist--and his two sisters--who, rumor has it, indulged in all sorts of depravities before fleeing to Argentina. In the village, Stefano discovers other unsettling works by the same artist, featuring more savage mutilations, as well as a painting in which Legnano inserted his own face onto the body of a nude Odalisque. Hmmm...what can it mean?
And then, there is the matter of Legnano's models. Specifically, whatever became of them? Did they all just up and leave town once Legnano was finished with them? The villagers suggest dark deeds that have remained shrouded in secrecy for decades, but are these just the imaginings of superstitious provincials or is there some truth to the grisly tales? Undeterred by a series of anonymous calls warning him to leave the village, Stefano decides to investigate anyway. But not all the townsfolk are onboard with Stefano's inquiry-- a few seem to know something about the area's bloody past that they're unwilling to share with outsiders like Stefano.
Shortly after checking in to the local hotel, Stefano becomes involved with the (allegedly promiscuous) schoolteacher--another outsider--who suddenly disappears after--maybe--seducing Stefano. (I say maybe because, although they do lie in bed together, he's still dressed in long pants, long-sleeves, and sweater vest when the camera fades back in on them). He soon discovers the charms of the beautiful Francesca, a young woman who arrived with him on a boat at the beginning of the film. She's also new in town--or so she claims--and is conveniently on hand to replace the last teacher, who, she confides to Stefano, left town due to some emergency.
When his bestie comes to town bearing proof of a dangerous secret involving Stefano's current undertaking, they agree to meet in private later that night when his nervous friend can freely spill the beans. As anyone with even a passing knowledge of giallo films (or any detective film, really) can tell you, the first rule of making it to the final credits is to never say anything remotely akin to, "I know who killed so-and-so but I can't tell you now. You'll have to come by later and I'll show you the evidence." This never works out well for anyone, and it doesn't in this movie, either. After Stefano relocates from the hotel to a crumbling country villa, he is spooked by more high strangeness. For one thing, bodies start to pile up. Unwisely, Stefano becomes obsessed with linking the past to the present and solving this mystery once and for all. Meanwhile, back at the church, the innocuous priest and the village idiot serving as altar boy are on hand as a sort of yin and yang to Stefano's efforts.
Others caught up in this web of madness include: Stefano's frail, bedridden new landlady, a skeptical lawman whose wife owns one of Legnano's grotesque paintings, Danny De Vito's exact double who apparently runs the town (while strolling around in a white suit) and his obnoxious driver/town drunk Coppola, who has the lowdown on just about everybody. Francesca, herself, proves to be a bit quirky (see the live snails in her refrigerator) and maybe not entirely trustworthy. Even so, Stefano--not particularly quick on the uptake where women are concerned--wants to keep her safe from any potential harm that might come to her as a result of their investigation. Sure, she's gorgeous and Stefano thinks he might love her, but there's something a little...off.
Much of The House with Laughing Windows feels like Stefano's nightmare, which makes it all the more bizarre and distressing. With the pall of WWII still looming over the village, there's an inevitability to the string of murders which, in fact, may have continued unabated for decades. The element of complicity (with Mussolini's forces) echoes from past to present as events unfold. With its bleak tone, The House with Laughing Windows offers no cathartic release for its viewers. Zero. Nada. The grand guignol finale is unexpected and rather brilliant, at least in theory. On the other hand, the poor execution of the scene almost (but not quite) robs the movie of its creepy power: you think about giggling even as you want to scream. Of course, the very last scene of the movie is as abrupt as it is ambiguous.
Now considered a giallo masterpiece, The House with Laughing Windows is a slow-burn thriller that delivers on all counts (save for the problematic sequence mentioned above). Lino Capoliccio (The Garden of the Finzi-Continis), excels as Stefano. Guarded, suspicious and undaunted, Capoliccio is perfectly cast as the young newcomer who naively believes he can get to the bottom of a mystery shrouded in secrecy. It's interesting that the self-possessed Stefano only really comes to life after he is sucked into the insanity unleashed by his resurrection of the hellish fresco. As the film marches towards its inexorable conclusion, Capoliccio's performance escalates into full-blown horror as Stefano realizes the futility--and the cost--of his undertaking. Commendably, Capoliccio never takes Stefano's horror over the top, maintaining just enough control to keep the character relatable.
The lovely Francesca Marciano makes the most of her screen time as Stefano's inamorata/co-investigator whose efforts on both counts come to naught. The priest, played by American Eugene Walters, is a relatively minor character for much of the film although, in life, the actor was a prominent bon vivant and jet-setter with a circle of friends that included Truman Capote, Gore Vidal, T.S. Eliot and William Faulkner. Pietro Brambilla, as the priest's dimwitted assistant and groundskeeper, is also very convincing in a role that veers from harmless to knowing to menacing--and then back again--adding to the sense of dread that swells throughout the movie. I really enjoyed Bob Tonelli as the town's mayor: he's shady and sly with a deadpan sense of humor. His performance, in fact, is the only levity we get from the film, although he doesn't really play it for comedy. The fact is that, in spite of the title, there is nothing much to laugh about here--although there is a disturbing amount of cackling going on as the end credits roll. After helming The House with Laughing Windows, Pupi Avati went on to have a long and distinguished career in Italian cinema, both as a director and screenwriter. Still, it is this bleak, haunting film that cineastes are discussing 50 years later.
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