Spaghetti Comedies: Seven Guns for the MacGregors/Life is Tough, Eh Providence?

As long as there have been Spaghetti Westerns, there have been spoofs. 1964 saw not only A Fistful of Dollars but Two Gangsters in the Wild West, a comedy starring the popular duo Franco and Ciccio. As the genre repeated itself to the point of exhaustion, parodies proliferated. Many sent up genre tropes, but too many fell back on the slapstick and flatulence formula popularized by Terence Hill and Bud Spencer. Not that audiences cared: They Call Me Trinity and Trinity is Still My Name became Italy's highest-grossing films of all time.

This article considers two of the form's best examples. Seven Guns for the MacGregors (1966) is less comedy than playful romp, and all the better for it. Life is Tough, Eh Providence? (1972) bites off more than it can chew, but generates laughs through sheer absurdity. Those seeking an alternative to Trinity and Bambino's fart parade should check them out.

Seven Guns for the MacGregors (1966, Franco Giraldi)

Leone protege Franco Giraldi directed this early comic Spaghetti. Seven Guns for the MacGregors (1966) provides a lighthearted atmosphere, contrasting with the genre's cynical ultraviolence. It's an enjoyable romp, short on plot but highly entertaining.

The MacGregor clan are Scottish immigrants who make rough-housing a way of life. Early on the family's elder members repulse a raid led by Miguel (Fernando Sancho), a bumbling bandit. The seven younger MacGregors pursue the bandits, who've murdered Perla''s (Perla Cristal) family. Gregor MacGregor (Robert Woods) acts as leader, infiltrating Miguel's gang and finds crooked Santillana (Leo Anchoriz) pulling the strings. The MacGregors usurp Santillana's planned robberies, leading to a bloody showdown.

Seven Guns for the MacGregors gets points for originality, at least. The Scottish characters provide eccentric color, though the effect is decidedly odd. There's something to be said for the surrealism of Italo-Spanish actors dubbed into English with broad Scottish brogues. Not to mention Ennio Morricone's faux-Celtic title ballad, sung in Glasgow-by-way-of-Rome accents!

Fortunately, MacGregors offers much more than unintentional silliness. Girardi goes for good-natured goofiness rather than broad gags. One funny bit has Gregor faking a gunfight with his brothers with Miguel's bandits. In another effective scene, a straight-laced banker says he's never had so much as playing a criminal! The movie plays off genre tropes (especially Manco's shenanigans in For a Few Dollars More) but remains its own work rather than a parody.

Girardi mixes the playfulness with excellent action scenes. The movie opens with an exciting siege, the elder MacGregors using a crank-fired gun rack and a swivel gun named Queen Anne to repel Miguel's bandits. Girardi matches this with several full-blown bar brawls and a finale which cleverly inverts the opening. But MacGregors retains an edge, as Santillana proves his psycho credentials dragging captured enemies through bonfires. It's tongue-in-cheek but serious enough to invest viewers.

Robert Woods makes a stiff but appealing hero. He's more Giuliano Gemma than Clint Eastwood, a straight-laced hero with guile and sardonic humor. Fernando Sancho plays another boorish bandito, but he's overshadowed by the sadistic Leo Anchoriz. That the other Macgregors are fairly nondescript provides a minor damper on a breezy, surprisingly fun flick.

Life is Tough, Eh Providence? (1972, Giulio Petroni)

This oddity came much later in the Spaghetti cycle. Giulio Petroni's associated with darker fare like Death Rides a Horse, so a picaresque comedy is a marked turn. Life is Tough, Eh Providence? is more funny in moments than the whole, but Tomas Milian's clever Charlie Chaplin impression makes it worthwhile.

Bounty hunter Providence (Tomas Milian) hunts the Hurricane Kid (Gregg Palmer) across the Old West, capturing him time and again, only to see the crafty outlaw escape. During their travels the duo match wits with a duplicitous saloon girl (Janet Agren), a rabble of Southern renegades and assorted riffraff. The two team up when they discover crooked Sheriff (Maurice Polli) has conned them out of money.

Providence impresses with its go-for-broke style. There's plenty of slapstick violence, with Providence clobbering villains with umbrella and pool cues, along with more conventional action like a thrilling stagecoach chase. Nor does Petroni shy away from playful anachronism. Early on, when Hurricane disguises himself as Providence, a criminologist sees through the ruse by staging an Old West trivia game. When Providence isn't slugging villains or chattering like a squirrel, he engages in headscratching non-sequitirs. "My mother may not have been all she should, but I pay my taxes," he assures Hurricane.

With its wacky humor and nonexistent plot, Providence is alternately funny and cringe-worthy. Two of the movie's big set pieces - the encounter with Confederate soldiers and especially the long pool game - drag without generating many laughs. Indeed, the repetitive cartoon fights and Looney Tunes-inspired sight gags quickly grow old. Petroni does avoid the scatology of the Trinity films, save an idiotic moment where Hurricane kills a river full of fish with B.O. Providence's style of humor plays better in small doses than at feature length; fortunately, at 95 minutes it doesn't overstay its welcome.

Tomas Milian keeps Providence afloat with a spirited turn. The intense actor lets loose in a role that indulges every ham antic imaginable. Besides his Little Tramp garb and mustache, Milian giggles girlishly, imitates animals (sporting), cold-cocks a villain with his hat brim and sings a romantic ballad. Gregg Palmer makes a decent foil and Janet Agrin plays a crafty femme fatale, but it's Milian's show all the way.

Life is Tough, Eh Providence? earns a cautious recommendation. It's too repetitive to be a classic, but one respects Petroni's overreaching absurdity. Milian revived the character for an even wackier sequel: Here We Go Again, Eh Providence? (1973)

Phenomena

There's a consensus among Dario Argento fans that his talent's dropped off precipitately. Since Opera (1987) his movies have grown increasingly poor, style smothered under rampant absurdity. His most recent effort, Dracula 3D (2012), reached its nadir when the title vampire morphed into a giant mantis. Not to mention Argento's fetish for showing daughter Asia naked, beaten and raped. 

Phenomenon (1985) represents an early dent in Argento's skill. An odd supernatural thriller, it's full of gratuitous gore and weird ideas that never gel. Jennifer Connelly keeps the show from being a complete disaster, but the movie delivers few frights and little pleasure.

Jennifer Corvino (Jennifer Connelly), daughter of an American film star, arrives at the Richard Wagner Academy for Girls in Switzerland. She alienates her schoolmates when she's revealed to have a primal connection with insects. Her only friend is John McGregor (Donald Pleasance), an etymologist helping police track a gruesome serial killer. When girls at the school start falling prey to the murderer, Jennifer uses her newfound powers to track them down.

Of all the potential Phenomena shows, it's the main idea that disappoints. Jennifer's insect connection provides one arresting set piece, when she silences mocking school girls with a swarm of "friends." Yet Argento makes surprisingly little of it. The bugs help Jennifer uncover a murder clue and once save her life, yet otherwise feel tacked on. Jennifer makes a key discovery following swarm of maggots, surely something a non-"gifted" protagonist would spot equally well. It's a bad sign when the movie's central conceit feels superfluous.

The whole film's equally messy. Argento was never strong on plot, yet his films generally make sense - even the demented dream logic of Suspiria and Inferno. Phenomena chucks so many ideas at the screen that none really stick. Is it a murder mystery? A supernatural thriller, Carrie-style? Gothic horror? A movie can be all those things, but Argento doesn't tie them together. Bits of story hang there without amounting to much: characters leave without fanfare, people die gruesomely, plot strands vanish unceremoniously.

When Argento does try to make sense of anything, he fails spectacularly. Periodically the action stops cold for lifeless exposition and cringeworthy dialogue. Characters overreact to mundane developments in comical ways. Jennifer sleepwalks one night, so she's accused of schizophrenia! How does that work? Even better is a scene where Jennifer takes shelter at Frau Bruckner's (Daria Nicolodi) home, where (after friendly introductions) Jennifer instantly turns nasty and Bruckner spontaneously starts insulting her guest. Is it sublimated tension rising to the surface? More likely, it's bad writing and atrocious acting.

Even stylistically Phenomena is a letdown. Argento's baroque touches, so effective elsewhere, seem labored and ludicrous. The killings become parodic, with characters barging into abandoned houses to be carved up. One scene, with Jennifer trapped in a pool of decaying corpses, is surely as disgusting as any set piece ever filmed. The problem is it's too gross to be genuinely scary. Not to mention the killer's reveal, or McGregor's chimp with a razor fetish. Goblin's score incorporates tracks from Motorhead and Iron Maiden to little effect.

Jennifer Connelly makes Phenomena watchable. With a badly written character, she nonetheless exude scharm and charisma, propelling her to instant stardom. The other stars register little. Donald Pleasance flounders in an empty part, complete with pathetic Scottish accent. Daria Nicolodi froths and devours scenery as a mad villainess. Patrick Bauchau and Michele Soavi putter about, even more useless than most giallo policemen. The schoolgirls are interchangeable harpies.

Phenomena is a major disappointment. Far from a stylish chiller, it's a stilted collection of oddities without aim or direction.

Tenebre

Tenebre (1982) exemplifies Dario Argento's directorial MO: take a mundane murder mystery, invest it with style, splatter blood everywhere and call it a wrap. But Tenebre's marked also by clever self-reflection, as if Argento's considering (and answering) criticisms leveled at his work.

American writer Peter Neal (Anthony Franciosa) arrives in Rome to promote his latest novel, Tenebre. Unfortunately, one of Neal's biggest fans begins replicating the book's murders. Police Detective Giermani (Giuliano Gemma) fear Neal himself will be a victim, even as the author and his secretary (Daria Nicolodi) try to ferret out the killer. The killing extends to Neal's friends and associates, with an obsessed critic (John Steiner) the most obvious suspect. But when he turns up dead...

Argento reportedly based Tenebre on a stalker who threatened his life. But its reflexivity goes deeper, examining Argento's oeuvre through a critical lens. A feminist critic (Mirella D'Angelo) labels Neal a misogynist for making women victims in his book; Neal counters that he supports the Equal Rights Amendment! Neal testily denies a homosexual character is "deviant," provoking a semantic debate over the word's meaning. Argento ultimately gets the last word, using axes to rebut his critics and silence Neal's testy agent (John Saxon).

This sick humor leads to a curious ambivalence. Here Argento's "deviants" (a lesbian couple, a sluttish kleptomaniac) are victims rather than perpetrators - though since they're attractive women, the point's muted. Pretty women brutally killed - isn't that every slasher movie? Argento also shows bizarre flashbacks where Neal's humiliated by a lover (Eva Robins) cramming high heels in his mouth. Having established his misogynist credentials, Argento spends the second act murdering men. This leaves Tenebre self-aware but not quite satirical.

Tenebre's violence is typically extreme: throat slashing, dismemberment, impalement and paper suffocation. But Argento isn't some splatter hack; his slayings come with bravura style, accompanied by Goblin's funky soundtrack. One murder features a three minute, multi-floor crane shot, Argento and photographer Luciano Tovoli sizing up their victims. Another set piece shows a girl chased through a foggy forest by a vicious dog, echoing Neal's affection for The Hound of the Baskervilles. Argento incorporates familiar touches while making them his own.

Like many whodunnits, Tenebre eventually succumbs to attritional logic. Everyone's a victim or a suspect, so the field narrows as Argento ratchets up the body count. Argento avoids predictability through clever sleight of hand. He sews ingenious red herrings, like the homeless man ogling the first victim and Neal's disturbed ex-wife (Veronica Lario) flitting around. Even the climax is a head fake, replaying Psycho's expository epilogue then adding a beat. Hard to call Tenebre predictable with so much midsirection.

Anthony Franciosa (Across 110th Street) makes Neal alternately likeable and arrogant, providing a solid center. Giuliano Gemma (The Price of Power) is a detective more interested in Neal's novels than the murderer. Daria Nicolodi is more subdued than in Deep Red, to the film's detriment. John Steiner plays his menacing figure a bit too broadly.

Like any good horror film, Tenebre offers plenty for dissection, literal and philosphical. Pseudo-snobs like me can chew over Argento's intertexual musings. Gore mavens can relish the stylish slayings. Everyone walks away happy.

Suspiria

Suspiria (1977) is Dario Argento's best-regarded work, yet I'm ambivalent towards it. Judged purely on aesthetic grounds it's a masterpiece, a riotous meshing of imagery, sound and blood. Yet its deliberate incoherence only works up to a point, fizzling out in an unsatisfying conclusion.

American ballerina Suzy Bannion (Jessica Harper) arrives at a German dance academy. Weird things are a-doing: a student was recently murdered after running away from the school, Suzy becomes ill shortly after arrival, maggots infest the academy's attic. Other murders occur, and Suzy's friend (Stefania Cassini) hints at supernatural occurrences. Turns out the dance academy was founded by Helena Markos, a Greek emigre accused of witchcraft. Is this mere superstition or a horrifying truth?

Suspiria is a cinematic fever dream like no other. Argento and photographer Luciano Tovoli employ a wild visual scheme, splashing the screen with primary colors that contrast with odd art deco design. This unworldly quality is echoed in Goblin's soundtrack, surely one of the most memorable even: its combination of rasping whispers and shrill musical stings can induce nightmares without the imagery. The soundscape terrifies too, with evil's presence signified by raspy snoring and the finale's horrifying screams. On style points, Suspiria ranks among the greatest horror movies ever. 

Slasher movie fans will delight in Suspiria's ghoulish slayings. There's the bone-chilling opening, where a student (Eva Axen) and her friend meet a gruesome end. The gore effects are extreme (a shot of a heart getting stabbed?) but stylish enough not to seem exploitative. An even stronger set piece follows a blind man (Flavio Bucci) and his dog through a colossal amphitheater. Argento stages much of the scene in wide shot, the forces of Evil sizing up their next target, Goblin's soundtrack subdued for eerie silence and dog barking. Even the build-up can't prepare us for the pay-off - surely the worst imaginable way to go.

All of Suspiria's superior artistry doesn't stop it from being a mess. The lack of strong narrative isn't fatal: Deep Red had a simple plot, but maintained drive despite its predictability. Suspiria, on the other hand, stalls repeatedly between killings: one egregious sidetrack has Suzy visit a psychiatrist (Udo Kier) and professor (Rudolf Schundler) who provide reams of belated back story. The last 20 minutes go completely off the rails; Susan's confrontation with the Big Bad proves underwhelming. After all the build-up, vanquishing the Mother of Sighs just seems too easy.

Jessica Harper makes an appealing heroine, completely baffled yet determined to puzzle out the situation. Harper did relatively few films: her best role remains My Favorite Year. Stefania Cassini makes a good counterpart. Argento casts some interesting supporting players: Alida Valli of The Third Man and Senso plays one of the headmistresses, alongside Joan Bennett (TV's Dark Shadows). Udo Kier plays the psychiatrist. Argento enlists Rudolf Schundler as a mythology professor; that actor has a pedigree stretching back to Fritz Lang's Testament of Dr. Mabuse. Daria Nicolodi cameos as a victim.

Suspiria is a mild disappointment. I admire Argento's manic style, but his storytelling ability deserts him here. That's not to dissuade you from watching: it's certainly a unique film, just not a great one.

The Great Silence

Sergio Corbucci produced one of the best Spaghetti Westerns with The Great Silence (1968). Notorious for its bleak ending (Christopher Frayling claims a contemporary viewer was so incensed he fired a pistol at the theater screen!), its stylishness and creativity elevate it above most Spaghettis.

Bounty killers led by the psychotic Loco (Klaus Kinski) ravage isolated Snowhill, Utah. Their only opposition is Silence (Jean-Louis Trintigant), a mute gunslinger with a Mauser Broomhandle who sides with Loco's victims - a band of starving outlaws holed up in the mountains. One outlaw's widow (Vonetta McGee) hires Silence to kill Loco. The Sheriff Barnett (Frank Wolff) arrives in Snowhill, determined to reestablish law and order. But Silence and the Sheriff find handling Loco a tough proposition. 

Corbucci shot most of Silence in Italy's Dolomite Mountains, using some Doctor Zhivago-esque trickery for the town scenes (reportedly shaving cream was employed!). He uses the setting to great effect: the snow storm isolates the town and helps drive the story, as when Barnett's uncovered pistol freezes. You can count the number of snow-covered Westerns on one hand (Day of the Outlaw? Jeremiah Johnson?), and photographer Silvano Ippoliti makes Silence a sight to behold. Helped by Ennio Morricone's somber score, it's a genuinely beautiful film.

Silence matches its unconventional setting with a devastating genre deconstruction. Silence himself pushes the Western hero to near-comic extremes: Clint Eastwood and Franco Nero barely speak, so why not make Silence mute? The character still maintains a kind of chivalry; he goads villains into drawing first, and won't shoot wounded men. Trying that on Loco, he gets roughed up for his trouble. Similarly, Sheriff Barnett is less Wyatt Earp than Old West General Gordon, sent by spineless politicians to "manage" an insolvable situation singlehanded. These conventional protagonists prove thoroughly inadequate to save Snowhill.

Similarly, Corbucci mocks the idea of frontier justice. For one, the outlaws are harmless tramps; the film implies they're persecuted Mormons. Loco receives sanction from crooked Judge Pollicutt (Luigi Pistilli), who runs Snowhill as a personal fiefdom. Utah's Governor (Carlo D'Angelo) is mainly interested in reelection; sounding a noble call for equality, he asks an aide to note it for his next speech! With capital and killers working hand in glove, "justice" becomes frontier feudalism.

In his inimitable fashion, Corbucci saturates Silence with grisly violence. Silence's favorite trick involves shooting the thumbs off bad guys so they can't shoot back. Barnett's welcomed into town when the hill outlaws kill and eat his horse. One villain gets his face scorched by burning coals. But it's all prelude to the finale, where Loco goads Silence into an impossible showdown. It's Silence's chivalry against Loco's monstrous pragmatism, the outcome preordained.

Jean-Louis Trintignant (The Conformist) is interesting casting, channeling his cerebral intensity into a wordless gunfighter. But Klaus Kinski steals the show; he makes Loco more cocky schemer than cackling lunatic, but no less frightening. Vonetta McGee gives a strong performance: unlike most Spaghetti women, she's a tough cookie whose actions drive the plot. Luigi Pistilli's (For a Few Dollars More) officious Pollicutt contrats with Kinski's amorality. Frank Wolff (Salvatore Giuliano) plays Barnett broadly, undercutting his tragic arc.

The Great Silence isn't a perfect movie. The plot's a little rough around the edges, with the outlaws' role never fully established and some passages unnecessary (the Silence-Pauline romance). But its aesthetic beauty, good acting and grim atmosphere make for an experience that's decidedly different from most Spaghetti Westerns.

The Sabata Trilogy

Director Giancarlo Parolini scored a huge hit with If You Meet Sartana, Pray for Your Death (1968). But Parolini fell out with producer Aldo Addobbati, who replaced Parolini with Giuliano Carnimeo on four Sartana sequels. Parolini joined Sergio Leone's producer Alberto Grimaldi, eager to launch Lee Van Cleef in a franchise of his own. Thus, Sabata ("the Man With the Gun-sight Eyes") was born.

Sabata shifts the Spaghetti Western away from its gritty roots towards live action cartoon. It's tempting to see Sabata as a riff on Van Cleef's Colonel Mortimer from For a Few Dollars More, with an even snazzier arsenal and higher body count. Parolini matches this fantasy gun play with bizarre style choices and outlandish characters (circus performers, booby traps, burlesque humor) like a B-movie Fellini. The trilogy plays like a mix of Wild, Wild West and Roger Moore's James Bond flicks.

Like all Spaghettis, Sabata is an acquired taste. Those attuned to this quirky sub-genre should find plenty to enjoy.

Sabata (1969)

Sabata was my first non-Leone Spaghetti Western. Inured to that director's operatic, sprawling style, I wasn't prepared for Sabata's offbeat goofiness. Ten years and dozens of Spaghettis later, I'm better placed to judge. In many ways it's an essential genre work: violent, overwrought, tongue-in-cheek - and deliriously entertaining.

One night in Daugherty City, several criminals rob an Army payroll. Black-clad gunslinger Sabata (Lee Van Cleef) kills the robbers and returns the loot, but discovers there's more to the robbery. Turns out local businessman Stengel (Franco Ressel) arranged the robbery as part of a complicated land-grabbing scheme. Sabata defeats a seemingly endless parade of henchmen, forcing Stengel to turn to Banjo (William Berger). Banjo's an old friend of Sabata, but his motives are in doubt until the last reel.

Parolini (credited as "Frank Kramer") adopts the same approach as Sartana: a gunfight every five minutes, a thin plot full of treachery and backstabbing, eccentric villains and a black clad hero sporting a deadly arsenal. One character even calls Sabata a pallbearer, presumably a dig at Addobbati and Co. Besides the catchy title tune, Marcello Gambioni's music evinces an improbable meld of styles: bluegrass, fuzz guitar, harpsichords, even calypso! It's ridiculous yet endearing.

Sabata's twisty plot is predictable enough, but Parolini delights in unconventional touches. The protagonist wields a four-barreled derringer concealing additional rounds in its stock - and a specially-made Winchester that shoots over a mile. Stengel engages rivals in a bizarre pin-hole shooting game, carrying a dart-firing cane in reserve. Banjo conceals a rifle in his instrument of choice. Numerous booby traps, acrobatic tricks and explosives contribute to the mayhem.

Banjo... You can try to talk, but he don't give a pluck!

Parolini burns through creative gadgets, but doesn't know when to stop. He replays Rio Bravo's dynamite shooting gag about a dozen times, a convenient way to up the body count. The nonsense with acrobat sidekick Alley Cat (Neil Jordan) gets old fast. He also dallies on inconsequential asides. Assassin Sharkey (Marco Zuanelli) gets an extended introductory vignette, yet he's dead within 20 seconds of meeting Sabata. Banjo has his own vendetta which becomes an inconsequential subplot. These episodes merely pad out the run time. 

Lee Van Cleef makes an iconic Western hero. He's an intense but likeable antihero, with enough piercing glares, fancy gun-slinging and off-hand sarcasm to disarm opponents and viewers alike. It's not as meaty as his Leone characters or The Big Gundown, but perfect match for his persona.

William Berger essentially reprises his Sartana character, a trickster playing both sides. Dressed and coiffed like a hippie, he nonetheless proves a formidable rival. Less endearing is the obnoxious Ignazio Spalla, who'd play similar characters in the sequels. Franco Ressell makes an unremarkable antagonist, and the assorted minor villains die before making an impression. Some feminine allure is provided by Linda Veras, wife of director Sergio Sollima. Portly Gianni Rizzo, previously one of Sartana's foes, appeared in all three Sabata flicks.

Sabata doesn't try for the grandeur of Leone or Sollima's Westerns. It's content being an agreeably silly shoot-'em-up. The approach eventually wears thin, but Sabata's good-natured anarchy mostly works.

Adios Sabata (1970)

Adios Sabata (alias Indio Black) is the trilogy's black sheep - really, not a Sabata movie at all. In time-honored Italian tradition, producers re-branded a generic Western to capitalize on Sabata's success. Yul Brynner replaces Lee Van Cleef, supposedly unavailable because he'd replaced Brynner in The Magnificent Seven Ride. Hard to say who got the better of that exchange.

Parolini and Renato Izzi's story resembles the "Zapata Westerns" prevalent around that time. Sabata is a gun-for-hire dabbling in the Franco-Mexican War. He teams with Juarista leader Escudo (Ignazio Spalla) to steal a gold cache from Emperor Maximilian's troops. This brings Sabata into conflict with Austrian Colonel Skimmel (Gerard Herter), a monocled psychopath who enjoys target shooting prisoners Amon Goeth-style. The wild card is Ballatine (Dean Reed), an artist-gunslinger on Skimmel's payroll.

Adios Sabata is more serious and slow-moving than its predecessor. Parolini incorporates a few picaresque elements, like a shootout timed by a spinning weather vein and another mute acrobatic sidekick (Sal Borgese). The gadgets are relatively tame: Sabata has a clip-loaded rifle, while the mute kicks metal balls at enemy's throats! Skimmel gets the neatest one, a model ship rigged to fire live rounds. Adios at least allows for breathing room between action scenes, but the shootouts and battle scenes are rote genre stuff.

Indeed, there's little to distinguish Adios from dozens of other Spaghettis. Parolini cribs wholesale from earlier Westerns: the setting and character interplay comes from Vera Cruz; Ballatine recalls A Bullet for the General's treacherous Nino; the finale apes The Wild Bunch. The historical context doesn't amount to much: Parolini inexplicably shows Austria instead of France as Maximilian's benefactors, while Escudo's revolutionaries behave like generic banditos. It's not good when plot twists and Gatling gun massacres invite yawns.

Yul Brynner seems profoundly bored, rarely raising his voice above a mumble. He's not helped by a ludicrous fringed outfit (insert Village People joke here). Dean Reed makes a bland sidekick, a runty Robert Redford with none of the charisma. Ignazio Spalla's role is more serious, and effective, than his other Sabata pictures. Gerard Herter does an effective retread of his Teutonic sociopath from The Big Gundown. Nieves Navarro (A Pistol for Ringo) has a minor role.

As you've likely gathered, Adios Sabata shares nothing with the original film besides the title, director and a few actors. Sabata's next adventure returned the franchise to its roots, but not to its benefit.

The Return of Sabata (1971)

Lee Van Cleef returns for the lackluster third entry. The Return of Sabata (1971) follows the standard lazy sequel blueprint: recycle the original's formula, notched up to ridiculous levels. Only die-hard Spaghetti fans and bad movie buffs should bother.

Sabata's now working as a marksman for a traveling circus. He drifts into another Texas town, running afoul of Joe McIntock (Giampero Albertini). McIntock and his family run the town, charging exorbitant taxes and generally pissing Sabata. Sabata also hopes to settle an old grudge with Clyde (Reiner Schoener), who runs a crooked craps game at the town casino. Inevitably the plot turns on a hidden cache of gold, which becomes a point of contention between the three antagonists.

The Return of Sabata starts with a striking set piece. Sabata stalks six gunslingers through a mist-blown funeral parlor, with several stern officials keeping score. It's a delightfully surreal sequence in its own right, cleverly sending up audience expectations and even setting up the finale. The movie ends on a high note, with a huge gun battle that entertains through sheer absurdity.

Between these scenes, however, is a dull and stupid film. The story's even thinner than the original: Sabata's rivalry/friendship with Clyde lacks the effectiveness of his interplay with Banjo. Nor is there much reason for him to fall out with McLintocks, except they're bad guys and Sabata needs bullet fodder. Anyone who's seen even one Spaghetti won't be shocked by Sabata and Clyde's tricks and betrayals. That leaves style, never wise for a movie featuring circus clowns.

Parolini's goofy self-awareness becomes a bad joke. Here Sabata gets not one but two silent acrobat sidekicks, sporting pork pie hats and long hair like Droogs out West. Among the weapons here are a crotch-fired slingshot (?), Sabata's magnetic shoe and a barrel with revolvers nailed inside. Marcello Gambioni's music seems more appropriate for a low-end Hanna Barbera cartoon (Speed Buggy perhaps?). At least the idiotic theme song provides a laugh:


"If you wanna get money, if you wanna get rich. If you want a good life, you gotta be a son of a… Pom pom pom, pom pom"
It's easy to see why Parolini opted for absurdity. Between Sabata and this sequel, Enzo Barboni's parodic They Call Me Trinity (1970) became a huge hit. Now Spaghettis that weren't dabbling in revolutionary politics evinced a comic tilt. It's possible, indeed, that Return was intended as an outright comedy. Too bad it isn't funny. Everything's a matter of degree: what works in Sabata gets agonizingly overdone by Return.

Van Cleef emerges unscathed, remaining stoic and snarky amidst the silliness. Sadly, his supporting cast is pathetic. Reiner Schoener makes a poor substitute for William Berger, lacking a personality or discernible motive. Ignazio Spalla plays another obnoxious sidekick with an irritating drum-beating schtick. Jacqueline Alexandre makes a decent femme fatale, but the villains are unmemorable pushovers.

In 1979, Harry and Michael Medved named Return of Sabata one of their Fifty Worst Films of All Time. This is hyperbole; Return isn't among the fifty worst Spaghetti Westerns of all time. But if the original Sabata is a quintessential Spaghetti, Return showcases the genre's most obnoxious excesses.

* * *

Three more Spaghetti Westerns down. Will Groggy ditch this genre and return to more "respectable" cinema soon? Time will tell.

The Price of Power

Like every other art form, Spaghetti Westerns became swept up in the late '60s political ferment. This took most obvious form in the Zapata Westerns, flicks like A Bullet for the General (1967) analogizing the 1910 Mexican Revolution with Che Guevara and the Vietcong. Others took more subtle tracts: Sergio Sollima's The Big Gundown (1966) began as a contemporary story about a crooked strikebreaker, then was retooled for a "safer" genre. Who searches Westerns for political messages?

The Price of Power (1969) stands out, even among such distinguished company. Four years before Executive Action, Tonino Valerii fictionalizes John F. Kennedy's assassination - in the Old West. The result is frustratingly uneven. Valerii mashes a political thriller with familiar Western tropes, resulting in an awkward experience.

Dallas, 1881 seethes with racial bigotry and resentment over the Civil War. President James Garfield (Van Johnson) visits Dallas hoping to heal old wounds, but a cabal of politicians, businessmen and bandits plots his death. Bill Willer (Giuliano Gemma), his father (Antonio Casas) murdered by the same conspirators, foils one assassination attempt and becomes a hero. When Garfield is killed, the local Sheriff (Benito Stefanelli) pins the crime on Jack Donovan (Ray Saunders), an innocent black man. Bill joins the President's assistant McDonald (Warren Vanders) and a newspaper man (Manuel Zarzo) to unravel the conspiracy.

Let's address the obvious first: The Price of Power portrays history as accurately as The Flintstones recalls Neanderthal man. Garfield was shot in a DC railroad station by Charles Guiteau, a lunatic who thought Garfield owed him a diplomatic post. Garfield died after a long, debilitating illness caused by unsanitary medical care. This, along with the backstage rivalry of Garfield's liberal Republicans and Roscoe Conkling's crooked Stalwarts, deserves a film in its own right. But Valerii's interested in evoking a more recent assassination.

The allegory isn't subtle. Garfield's wife (Maria Caudra) wears a pink dress when arriving in Dallas. Roughnecks post "wanted for treason" posters with Garfield's visage throughout the city. The President quotes Kennedy directly, saying "I look at things as they could be and ask, ‘Why not?’” The Texan Vice President (Jose Suarez) meets with the conspirators the night before the assassination. There's a Warren Commission-style judicial panel covering up the murder. Valerii even stages the shooting Zapruder-style, with concealed killers firing from an overpass. Price is surprisingly thorough in its compilation of conspiracy lore.

But Price is more interesting in theory than execution. Valerii and writer Massimo Patrizi show Garfield done in by a cabal of unreconstructed Confederates, angry at his policies of racial reform. Here's where Price breaks down. If evoking Kennedy, the comparison doesn't wash: Lyndon Johnson almost immediately passed the Civil Rights Act, legally abolishing segregation. By contrast, in 1881 Reconstruction was essentially finished; Garfield's liberalism extended more to civil service reform than racial equality. The film doesn't work either as analogy or history.

Price isn't entirely satisfying as a Western either. Valerii's direction mixes expected Almerian vistas with Stelvio Massi's expressive deep focus photography. He stages some good action scenes, as when Bill foils an ambush of the President's train, or how the crippled journalist outwits the Sheriff. Valerii's best trick has Bill duel with the Sheriff in the dark, using a lighted cigar to mark their targets. Spaghetti fans will immediately note the Sweetwater and Flagstone sets from Once Upon a Time in the West. Luis Bacalov also contributes a moody score.

But the second half bogs down in excessive exposition that kills narrative momentum. The conspirators argue and negotiate interminably with the Vice President and McDonald, never putting their threats into action. For that matter, the characters don't really gel. McDonald's role is unnecessarily murky; he goes from loyal bodyguard to possible conspirator to trial prosecutor within a few scenes. The most interesting villain is Wallace (Michael Harvey), a Confederate renegade hoping to restart the Civil War. Yet he's relegated to expendable henchman status.

Giuliano Gemma is well-cast as the straight-arrow Bill, though the material stresses his limitations. When Bill finds his slain father, his reaction's like someone spotting spilled coffee on the kitchen floor. Van Johnson spouts badly dubbed platitudes but Warren Vanders handles his inscrutable character well. Fernando Rey (The French Connection) plays the chief conspirator. Benito Stefanelli, familiar from 100 Spaghetti bit parts, gets an unusually meaty role as the two-timing Sheriff. Other recognizable faces - Antonio Casas, Jose Calvo, Michael Harvey, Lorenzo Robledo, Frank Brana - also appear.

The Price of Power is an interesting failure. As a Western it's slow and pretentious; as a political expose it's minor league compared to Z or All the President's Men. Ultimately it's an awkward attempt to graft contemporary American politics onto the past, by someone evincing little grasp on either.

RIP Carlo Lizzani

Another major figure in Italian cinema passed away Saturday. Carlo Lizzani, director, screenwriter, and documentary filmmaker, died at age 91. He evidently committed suicide by jumping out a window.

As a screenwriter, Lizzani worked on key titles in the neorealist movement, including Germany: Year Zero and Bitter Rice. He generated a formidable directorial resume, producing historical dramas (The Last Days of Mussolini), Spaghetti Westerns (The Hills Run Red), crime films (Bandits in Milan) and comedies (Roma Bene). He also made several well-regarded documentaries, and in 1996 fictionalized the production of Rossellini's Rome: Open City with his film Celluloide.

If You Meet Sartana Pray for Your Death

"I am your pallbearer."

Today we meet another Spaghetti Western icon. Described by Len Liu as a cross between James Bond and Mandrake the Magician, Gianni Garko's Sartana has more style and wit than most of his compatriots. Five official movies begot innumerable ripoffs, some teaming Sartana with Django and Trinity! His first adventure, If You Meet Sartana Pray for Your Death (1968), has everything a Spaghetti fan could want - though it might leave the non-converted cold.

See if we can follow this. Sartana (Gianni Garko) arrives on the scene of a stagecoach robbery, wiping out Morgan's (Klaus Kinski) outlaw gang. Another coach gets robbed by General Mendoza's (Fernando Sancho) Mexican bandits, only for Mendoza to be double-crossed by Lansky (William Berger). Lansky's in cahoots with a small-town Mayor (Sydney Chaplin) and banker (Gianni Rizzo) for the stagecoach payroll, but he can't trust his bosses anymore than Morgan or Mendoza. With everyone betraying each other, Sartana patiently waits to swoop in.

What Sartana lacks in sophistication, it compensates with fast-paced fun. Director Gianfranco Parolini places heavy emphasis on Spaghetti nuts-and-bolts: betrayal, greed, violent action. Scarcely five minutes goes by without a shootout or massacre, Parolini staging the gundowns with childish aplomb. Not satisfied with Sartana gunning down five baddies at once? Let Lasky escalate things to genocide levels with a homemade Gatling gun! Parolini somehow topped himself with Sabata (1969), whose outlandish gadgetry puts James West to shame.

Too bad Sartana leaves little room for originality between gunfights. Parolini takes his familiar double cross plot to extremes, with a few too many antagonists vying for the gold. The town elders and General Mendoza get so little screen time, they barely register. With even minor characters like Evelyn (Heidi Fischer) playing their own game, Sartana becomes a predictable exercise in nihilistic attrition.

Like many Spaghettis, Sartana stands or falls on its hero. Gianni Garko is more appealing than the genre's usual laconic antiheroes. He gives Sartana a dry wit to match his improbable quick draw skills, making him more human than, say, the Man With No Name. Nonetheless, Garko keeps Sartana as crafty and devious as everyone around him. Relying on a four barreled derringer with a nifty card-themed cylinder, he's more than a match for the show's myriad villains.

William Berger plays a scene-stealing wildcard: Lasky is the most interesting character through sheer unpredictability. Berger became a genre icon in his own right, appearing in Face to Face, Sabata and Keoma. Fernando Sancho (A Pistol for Ringo) plays another megalomaniac Mexican bandit. Klaus Kinski's wasted in an inconsequential cameo. Gianni Rizzo and Sydney Chaplin play supporting villains while Heidi Fleischer provides some momentarily feminine allure.

Spaghetti Westerns are typically a hard sell, except to aficionados. If You Meet Sartana Pray for Your Death is agreeable rough-house entertainment, yet it's so slight and derivative I'm hard-pressed to recommend it to casual viewers. Those with a taste for high body counts and treacherous anti-heroes will be more than satisfied.

Django Kill...If You Live, Shoot!

I've seen some strange Westerns, but none compare to Django Kill (1967). Giulio Questi's Spaghetti epic is a grotesque carnival of killing, each scene a tableau of bad taste. It's repulsive yet strangely watchable.

The Stranger (Tomas Milan), aka Django, is a Mexican bandit who joins American crook Oaks (Piero Lulli) in a robbery. Oaks double-crosses his Mexican compatriot, killing his men and leaving Django for dead. Django's revived by a pair of Indians who take him to the nearest town, who've denied him vengeance by gruesomely lynching Oaks and his gang. Among the many factions vying for control is Zorro (Robert Camardiel), a sadist with a gang of black-clad "muchachos." Zorro tries to hire Django, then tortures him to ferret out his cache of gold. Assorted twists, betrayals and eviscerations follow.

From the first shot of Django emerging vampire-like from a grave, Django Kill signals it's not your ordinary Western. Questi ups the ante in cinematic sadism: gunfights turn into lynchings, characters are graphically scalped, an adolescent boy is tortured and gang raped. One villain gets torn apart by townspeople searching for gold bullets in his belly! Add Zorro's gay cowboys, two aphoristic Indians, an alcoholic parrot, a sluttish madam (Marilu Toto) who orgasms at the sight of gold and an attic-bound wife (Patrizia Valturri) out of Jane Eyre for a neat blend of tackiness and incoherence.

Questi adds insult to injury, or inspiration to insanity, by dousing Django in tacky symbolism. Like many Spaghettis, it drips with religious iconography. Django inevitably gets crucified in a jail cell, as bloodthirsty bats (!) gnaw on his flesh. Questi additionally subverts small town Western values, showing the townspeople as greedy backstabbers, united only in bloodshed and death. Django Kill so earnestly invests its carnage with "meaning" that it becomes sort of endearing.

Drink, you feathered sponge!

Beyond its guilty pleasure status, Django Kill has little to commend it. Plot-wise, credit Questi for trying something different from the usual betrayal and revenge plot. But the story bogs down in its absurdities, characters revealing motivations than instantly being bumped off. Questi's flashy style proves incoherent, all jerky flashbacks, surreal color schemes (especially the bleached-white desert) and slapdash editing. It's all scored by Ivan Vandor's incongruously bouncy music. The result is more hallucination than movie.

Tomas Milan's Django is uncharacteristically passive, showing little gun-fighting prowess and less resolution. It's not a patch on Milan's iconic turns as Cuchillio or Beauregard Bennett. Robert Camardiel gets the meatiest part, whether drooling over his henchmen or bantering with his bird. The other cast members make little impression.

Django Kill is immune to a review like this. Conventionally analyzed it's terrible, yet its sheer perversity fascinates. Fans of exploitation cinema will have a ball; others should steer clear.

Django the Bastard

In the Spaghetti Western's heyday, Italian filmmakers took follow-the-leader to comical extremes. Over 30 Westerns feature characters named Django, starring myriad Spaghetti legends: Tomas Milan, Terence Hill, George Eastman. Most just piggy-back off of Sergio Corbucci's original, though some stand out like the hyper-violent Django Kill! (1967). There's even a porn version called Nude Django!

The most bizarre, perhaps, is Django the Bastard (1969). It prefigures Clint Eastwood's High Plains Drifter (1971), with a supernatural gunslinger dealing death to assorted dastards. Sergio Gerrone's striking direction makes Django as much horror movie as Western.

Two businessmen get killed by a mysterious gunslinger (Anthony Steffen) styling himself "the Devil from Hell." Turns out the Stranger is Django, a Confederate soldier seemingly killed in a wartime ambush arranged by three superiors. The third, Major Murdok (Paolo Gozlino), hires an army of outlaws to protect him, taking over a small town for a grisly showdown.

At a glance, Django the Bastard seems a standard Spaghetti Western. A mysterious stranger seeking vengeance? Long-ago villains who've become respected businessmen? Murdok's brother Luke (Luciano Rossi), a cackling blond psychopath? Choppy, half-remembered flashbacks? It's typical stuff, garish violence included. Except Gerrone and Anthony Steffen (who co-wrote as well as starred) transcend cliche with macabre presentation. Django isn't merely a vengeance-minded superman but, to all appearances, a literal ghost.

Gerrone reconfigures these tropes into a six-gun slasher film. Django stalks his second victim through a moonlit graveyard, toppling his corpse into a grave. Django hides in shadows, materializing out of nowhere, vanishing when cornered. Murdok even has a "vision" dissipated when a henchman enters. Gerrone reinforces Django's "avenging angel" credentials with a crucifix motif, from his crude tombstones to crucifying three villains. Perhaps it makes sense that the lunatic Luke is only one who does Django any damage.

Gerrone gives genre-mandated action a disturbing twist. Off-kilter angles and optical distortions heighten the supernatural focus. Django tricks bad guys with booby traps and mounted dummies. The final 40 minutes are essentially a protracted set piece, with Django decimating Murdok's gang in an all-night standoff. (Eastwood's Pale Rider (1985) may have drawn inspiration from this, too.) The score by Eliso Mancuso and Vasili Kojucharov alternates between standard trumpets and fuzz guitar with ghostly wailing and strings.

Anthony Steffen is suitably impassive, in a role requiring little beyond intimidating glances and an unnerving grin. Rada Rassimov (The Good, the Bad and the Ugly) plays Murdock's unhappy sister-in-law who forms an alliance with Django. Unfortunately, Paolo Gozlino makes a forgettable villain. But his blandness is preferable to Luciano Rossi's ludicrous performance: Luke raves and gnashes teeth like a dime store Klaus Kinski, more annoying than intimidating.

But no one's watching Django the Bastard for great acting. The macabre atmosphere more than compensates. In a subgenre not known for subtlety or restraint, Django's madness still proves unsettling.

A Pistol for Ringo

With Giuliano Gemma's tragic passing, it seems appropriate to spotlight his best-known role. Gemma played the amiable gunslinger Ringo twice, in arguably the first big post-Fistful of Dollars Spaghetti Westerns. Like Sergio Corbucci's Django, the Ringo films inspired myriad "sequels" borrowing the title but nothing else.

A Pistol for Ringo (1965) credited Gemma as "Montgomery Wood," in a genre still shy of Italian stars. (Remember Fistful costars "Johnny Wells" and "Benny Reeves"?) It marked his first film with director Duccio Tessari, who remained Gemma's collaborator in both Westerns and other genres. Ringo is watchable but uninspired, awkwardly mixing wild action and plot twists.

It's Christmas in a Texas border town. Mexican bandit Sancho (Fernando Sancho) brings in the Yuletide with a bank robbery, bloodily foiled by Sheriff Ben (George Martin). Sancho and his gang hole up in a local ranch, taking Major Clyde (Antonio Casas), his daughter Ruby (Hally Hammond) and assorted others hostage. Unable to reduce the bandits by siege, Ben reluctantly releases gunslinger Ringo (Giuliano Gemma) from jail to defeat Sancho. Ringo's happy to oblige, but his help comes at a price.

A Pistol for Ringo ranks among the most Americanized Spaghettis. Despite the Tabernas locations familiar from one 100 Spaghettis, some darker content like graphic violence and a near-rape, Ringo largely lacks the genre's comic strip stylization. Between its clean-cut hero, goofy comedy and Maurizio Graf's phonetic warbling on the soundtrack, it resembles nothing less than a '30s Republic serial. Even Ennio Morricone's instrumental music seems more laid back than usual.

Ringo starts with a bang, its opening half hour saturated with action. But it dags in the middle sections, settling into a static siege format. Tessari co-wrote Fistful and tries to recapture that film's myriad double crosses, but Ringo's treachery is so brazen (he openly boasts of his true intentions halfway through!) that Sancho seems moronic for not catching on. The hostages (save the leads) are faceless bullet fodder and Tessari wastes time on awkward comic relief: Clyde's courtship of bandita (Nieves Navarro) is particularly grating. Ringo rejuvenates with a tense finale, Tessari staging some creative moments (a cowbell features in the final showdown) that redeem much.

Giuliano Gemma seems awkwardly cast. The movie positions Ringo as mercenary like Fistful's Joe or Django, unscrupulously selling himself to both sides. But Gemma's too clean-cut and mellow to sell this angle: a guy introduced hopscotching with kids isn't a convincing cutthroat. This isn't to knock Gemma, who's appealing throughout, but that's part of the problem: a character so nasty on paper shouldn't be so likeable in practice.

Fernando Sancho, the paunchy but formidable heavy, became a stock Spaghetti villain. He's quite effective, even if his dubbing voice resembles a Spanish Cookie Monster. Nieves Navarro (The Big Gundown) makes a stunning femme fatale. Tessari's wife Lorella De Luca, credited as Hally Hammond, plays Ruby; Antonio Casas and George Martin play less interesting characters.


A Pistol for Ringo is a mediocre Spaghetti. Tessari presents some exciting action, but the movie just feels too tame. His sequel, The Return of Ringo (1965), proves much darker and better-realized.

RIP Giuliano Gemma

Italian actor Giuliano Gemma passed away today at age 75, killed in a car accident in Rome.

The boyish Gemma starred in a slew of Spaghetti Westerns, most notably A Pistol for Ringo (1964) and its sequel, Ringo Rides Again (1965). He also starred opposite Lee Van Cleef in the popular Day of Anger (1967), and also appeared in Arizona Colt (1966), A Sky Full of Stars for a Roof (1968) and The Price of Power (1969). He presented a more clean-cut, traditional hero than Spaghetti stars like Van Cleef, Clint Eastwood and Franco Nero.

Other notable films include Luchino Visconti's The Leopard (1963), Valerio Zurlini's The Desert of the Tartars (1976), Dario Argento's Tenebrae (1982) and Woody Allen's To Rome With Love (2012). In recent years he'd focused mainly on television.

Rocco and His Brothers

Luchino Visconti quickly abandoned his neo-realist roots for more ambitious works. La Terra Trema (1948) shows Visconti experimenting with the epic format, albeit with docudrama styling. Senso (1954) provides an exorbitant Technicolor romance. Rocco and His Brothers (1960) is similarly conventional, a long but intimate study of an Italian family's trials and tribulations. This long but absorbing show matches Visconti's later epics in everything but scope.

Along with their mother (Katina Paxinou), the Laprondi brothers relocate from rural Italy to Milan, where they find difficulty fitting in. Vincenzo (Spiros Focas), already established in the city, is charged with housing his relatives, causing tensions with his fiancee (Claudia Cardinale). Rocco (Alain Delon) struggles with menial jobs then joins the Army. Ciro (Max Cartier) studies at university. Then there's Simone (Renato Salvatori), whose work as a boxer draws him into less reputable activities. A fling with prostitute Nadia (Annie Girardot) has dire consequences when she also falls for Rocco.

Many label Rocco as a neo-realist film, but this is misleading. Despite the working class setting it's really a classic, big-scale melodrama like The Best Years of Our Lives. Visconti spends much time drawing the family conflict, watching the small-town Parondis adjust to life in Milan. The city makes mincemeat of the brothers, drawing them into crime or else dehumanizing, unsatisfying work; even the educated Ciro ends up in a factory. Yet unlike La Terra Trema, this isn't a Marxist tract but a layered character drama.

Visconti's script provides an episodic structure, ostensibly developing each of the Parondi brothers. But the narrative's main thrust (and interest) involves the feud between Rocco and Simone. Visconti avoids the temptation to make Rocco a saint; he's nice and well-meaning, but essentially complacent. In contrast, Simone soon slides into desperation and depravity. There's a disturbingly sexual dynamic between Simone and his manager (Nino Castelnuovo), who openly ogles Simone in a shower. Inevitably the catalyst between Simone and Rocco is Nadia; she narrowly escapes audience contempt by developing a belated sense of self-worth.

Visconti provides direction unfussy yet stylish. He and photographer Giuseppe Rotunno show a nice eye for the grunginess of factories, freezing tenements and smoke-filled boxing arenas, but make the show suitably cinematic. Throughout he casts moody shadows and crafts stylish set pieces like Simone's final confrontation with Nadia. If Nadia stretching her arms Christlike rings false, the scene's dramatic impact compensates. Despite its nearly three-hour length, Rocco never grows tiresome like some of Visconti's later works.

Alain Delon scored his big break playing a nice character a world apart from his gangster roles. Renato Salvatori (Z) draws pity, showing Simone as unable to overcome his shortcomings. Annie Girardot (The Witches) makes a strong impression, alternately tragic and hysterical. Claudia Cardinale appears briefly as Vincenzo's feisty fiancee. Nino Castelnuovo and Paolo Stoppa (Once Upon a Time in the West) play crooked boxing managers. Katina Paxinou (For Whom the Bell Tolls) gets stuck playing a stereotyped Italian matriarch but makes it work.

Rocco and His Brothers stands out as an affecting drama. There's no greater tragedy in melodrama than a family self-destructing, whether Willy Loman's brood or the Corleones. Visconti shows a family struggling, suffering, but finally enduring.

RIP Luciano Vincenzoni

Italian screenwriter Luciano Vincenzoni passed away Sunday at age 87. He's best-remembered for his contentious collaboration with Sergio Leone, writing or co-writing the scripts for For a Few Dollars More, The Good, the Bad and the Ugly and Duck, You Sucker! He also penned the scripts for A Professional Gun and Death Rides a Horse, the Oscar-nominated The Great War (1959) and a variety of other films - including that timeless masterpiece Orca.

Leone fans are keenly encouraged to check out Cenk Kiral's old interview with Vincenzoni here. He's very frank about his relationship with Sergio, and just a bit arrogant. Of course, if you co-wrote The Good, the Bad and the Ugly you're entitled to a slight ego.

L'Avventura

Michaelangelo Antonioni is certainly among the most challenging Italian filmmakers. Non-fans disparage works like Red Desert (1964) as stereotypical art movies where "nothing happens." Later entries Blow-Up (1966) and Zabriskie Point (1970) go the opposite route, imbibing in obnoxious symbolism that infuriates more than engages.

Quite a bit "happens" in L'Avventura (1960) - just not what a casual filmgoer expects. It starts as an inscrutable mystery then becomes a slow-burning melodrama. Its depth of character and impenetrable atmosphere make enjoyable, if somewhat frustrating viewing.

Five friends go on a boat trip to the Aeolian Islands. Headstrong Anna (Leah Massini) has a rough-and-tumble relationship with Sandro (Gabriele Ferzetti), a smooth playboy. Among others joining them is Anna's friend Claudia (Monica Vitti). During the trip Anna mysteriously vanishes; a search by her friends, and later the police turns up nothing. Claudia and Sandro struggle to move on, falling for each other in the process.

On one level, L'Avventura works as masterful bait-and-switch. Early scenes presage Picnic at Hanging Rock, a vacation capped off by an eerie disappearance. Antonioni doesn't go for Peter Weir's quasi-supernatural atmosphere, instead drinking in the beauty of the Aeolians. The mystery centers on half-remembered hints, like a phantom rowboat Claudia thinks she saw. Unlike Hanging Rock, where the mystery obsesses everyone, L'Avventura treats it as one of those things. People die or disappear, but life goes on.

Halfway through, L'Avventura shifts to a character study. Antonioni shows Claudia and Sandro as well-off dilettantes, unable to enjoy their status. Their affair seems perfunctory, a facade of human interaction disguising their mutual discontent. Still, unlike spoiled Anna (who fakes a shark attack to get Sandro's attention) or ditsy friend Giulia (Dominique Blanchar) they're self-aware enough to know something better exists. In one scene, Sandro enviously spoils an artist's easel, musing about wasting his youth and ambition on petty affairs. Claudia ultimately wonders if Anna's disappearance wasn't a good thing. Considering how her and Sandro grow from the experience, that's not so selfish as it initially appears.

L'Avventura's reputation suggests something like Last Year at Marienbad or Death in Venice, where languorous visuals overwhelm a thin story. The movie's certainly slow-paced, but the intricately crafted story provides a good hook for open-minded audiences. Certainly the character dynamic proves compelling even after the mystery wanes: Claudia and Sandro are well-drawn protagonists, with convincing development from bored ciphers to flawed humans.

Monica Vitti makes Claudia sympathetic, showing anguish and discontent in a finely-crafted turn. Vitti would rejoin Antonioni on several later films, notably L'Ecclise and La Notte. Gabriele Ferzetti (Once Upon a Time in the West) does fine work playing a suave Lothario, forced to reconsider his lifestyle. In her brief appearance, Leah Massini suggests a heinous spoiled brat who must be the center of attention. 

L'Avventura isn't for everyone, but it's a marvelously crafted movie. You could do worse for your plunge into European art cinema. And the lack of tennis-playing mimes certainly helps.

Teorema

If you asked an uncouth hillbilly to imagine European art cinema, he might conjour something like Teorema (1968). Pier Paolo Pasolini hits every conceivable stereotype, from stilted symbolism to elliptical aimlessness. It's simultaneously fascinating and insufferable.

The Visitor (Terence Stamp) visits a middle-class Italian family. He systematically seduces the entire household: maid Emilia (Laura Betti), businessman Paolo (Massimo Girotti), repressed wife Lucia (Silvia Mangano), the artistic son (Ninetto Davoli) and daughter (Anne Wiazemsky). Each family member finds their desires and talents stimulated by The Visitor. Yet he leaves as mysteriously as he came, leaving his charges to ponder existence without him.

Teorema seems Pasolini's bid to outdo Michaelangelo Antonioni as Italy's most pretentious director. He presents seemingly random shots and scenes without benefit of plot or characterization. The Visitor need do no more than read a book to seduce a character. One character winds up wandering nude in the desert; another's buried alive. For further meaning, Pasolini shoots early scenes in silent black-and-white, inter-cuts desert photography with Italian cityscape and drapes them in Biblical quotes and Mozart's Requiem. Clearly Pasolini wants to make a deep statement.

Yet his preoccupations seem easy enough to decode. Teorema equates sexual liberation with religious rapture. Terence Stamp's handsome Visitor becomes a carnal Jesus, seducing the entire family and making them better for the experience. Lucia becomes sexually adventurous; Paolo embarks on a spiritual awakening; Angelino finds artistic inspiration pissing on carpets. Best of all, Emilia becomes a holy woman who heals lepers and levitates! Some characters meet tragic ends, yet the message is clear: bourgeois society stifles not only sexual but spiritual realization.

Is Teorema really so simple? Any film student could craft a convincing defense based on thematic content alone. But Italian cinema is unsubtle on its best days, preferring style to narrative, broad themes to deep characterization. Unlike, say, Luchino Visconti or Sergio Leone, Pasolini's style only interests up to a point. We're expected to read deep meaning into every bizarre image and unmotivated action - perfect for Intro to Film Analysis midterms, but not conducive to audience enjoyment. How seriously, really, can you take an aroused maid jamming a hose down her throat while her paramour watches?

For all that, Teorema is strangely watchable. It may well require multiple viewings to digest. After all, Picnic at Hanging Rock went from head-scratcher to personal favorite through rewatches. But Peter Weir's film has obvious appeal: beautiful photography, hypnotic music, ethereal atmosphere and a palpable sense of dread. If Teorema has a purpose beyond its baroque "themes," it's eluded me.

The Witches (1967)

Producer Dino De Laurentiis assembled five of Italy's greatest directors for this anthology. A showcase for Silvana Mangano (or Mrs. De Laurentis), The Witches (1967) is more notable for its talent than the uneven content. Besides auteurs Luchino Visconti, Pier Paolo Pasolini and Vittorio De Sica, there's also an oddly-cast Clint Eastwood.

The Witches consists of five short films featuring Mangano. Luchino Visconti's The Witch Burned Alive shows Mangano as Gloria, an actress taking refuge at a mountain resort. Besieged by papparazzi, inflaming the men to passion and the women to jealousy, Gloria's exile drives her to despair. Mauro Bolognini's Civic Responsibility depicts a selfish woman driving an injured man (Alfredo Rosi) to a hospital. The Earth as Seen from the Moon is a fairy tale by Pier Paolo Pasolini, with widower Ciancicato (Toto) and son Baciu (Ninetto Davoli) pursuing their ideal woman - the deaf-mute Absurda Yelp. The Sicilian shows an unfaithful Sicilian wife triggering a blood feud. Finally there's An Evening Like the Others, where housewife Giovanna fantasizes about cheating on her milquetoast husband Carlo (Clint Eastwood).

The Witches advances from a singularly macho conceit: women (specifically Mangano) always cause trouble. The Witch Burned Alive explores this at greatest length: the hotel women relish in stripping Gloria's makeup and wig; a jealous rival (Annie Garadot) seduces a young waiter (Helmut Berger) to prove her womanhood. But the selfishness of Civic Responsibility and The Sicilian's protagonists registers, along with Giovanna's shrewishness. The ideal woman, of course, is Absurda, unable to communicate or hear anything. Baggage aside, how do the stories stack up?


Visconti's story is long, stiff and ponderous without appropriate payoff. Auteurists may recall Bellisima's excoriation of stardom, while Gloria's catatonic exit presages Ingrid Thulin's final scenes in The Damned. But the material's just to thin to match Visconti's pretensions. Bolognini's and Rossi's shorter entries just sort of sit there. Civic Responsibility is an unfunny gag stretched out interminably; The Sicilian resorts to crude jokes about shotgun murders and shrieking widows. Somewhere the filmmakers forgot to add humor.

Nonetheless, Witches gets two lovely chapters. The Earth as Seen From the Moon is a mini-masterpeice. Stars Toto and Ninetto Davoli previously collaborated on Pasolini's The Hawks and the Sparrows (1966), a similarly broad comedy. With absurd hairstyles, exaggerated gestures, fast motion and goofy sight gags (flirting with a mannequin!), they effectively update comedia dell'arte for the '60s. Mangano matches them with an hysterical pantomime performance, down to a delightfully absurd demise. It's strange yet endearingly whimsical, without the off-putting tawdriness of Pasolini's later work.

De Sica's An Evening Like the Others plays like Brief Encounter re-imagined by Fellini. De Sica contrasts Giovanna's dour marriage with her absurd fantasies of sex and violence. She alternately flirts with superheroes Diabolik and Batman, shoots Carlo while wearing a Barbarella costume, or stripteases in a stadium of drooling admirers. Eastwood sends up his image, sporting Man With No Name garb and asking Giovanna if she wants to see A Fistful of Dollars! Mangano comes off best here, eschewing vanity to play an unattractive, unappealing woman.

The Witches is an odd patchwork film, alternately brilliant and lousy. (I haven't even mentioned the Terry Gilliam-style credits animation.) If nothing else, it's an eclectic monument to Dino De Laurentiis's hubris: five of Italy's most talented filmmakers, collaborating on a silly vanity project/sketch comedy. The mind would boggle if this weren't the man who later gave us Orca.

8 1/2

"Just make sure what interests you, interests everyone else!"

Federico Fellini's 8 1/2 (1963) has a formidable reputation as one of Italy's best movies. It's much more approachable than rivals like The Leopard and L'Avventura, though. Incisive yet playful, it's a self-portrait of an artist at his creative peak, yet unable to overcome interior doubt and external pressure.

Director Guido Anselmi (Marcello Mastroianni) faces a mid-life crisis. He's got a big budget, an expensive set, a leading lady and no idea how to use them. Stuck in a creative rut, he bickers with his producer Pace (Guido Alberti) and long-suffering wife Luisa (Anouk Aimee), who fail to snap him out of his funk. He desperately woos Claudia (Claudia Cardinale), an unapproachable actress who becomes his ideal woman. Guido increasingly retreats into his fantasies, unable to render them onscreen.

What makes 8 1/2 so appealing is its personalized, imaginative approach to film making. Even Hollywood's best films on the subject (Sunset Blvd., Sullivan's Travels) don't go much deeper than showing Tinseltown as a soul-destroying wasteland. 8 1/2 really engages the idea of what it means to be an artist. What's the difference between narcissism and genius, fantasy and self-expression? Is there one?

Fellini's best-known for broad set pieces, and 8 1/2 regularly blurs reality and fantasy. Some scenes flirt with surrealism, like the bizarre flashback with a hideous prostitute (Eddra Gale) and the impromptu beach carnival. Others evoke existentialist dread, like Guido's vision of automobile asphyxiation. But most frame Guido's women problems in comically macho terms. While Claudia meekly becomes his "ideal woman," Guido battles a harem of past lovers with a bullwhip! This reflexivity defines Guido, an interior character sharing his obsessions with the world.

At the same time, 8 1/2 slyly subverts the stereotype of European films as inherently highbrow. Anyone who's read Christopher Frayling or Marcia Landy knows postwar Italian cinema was dominated by cheap genre flicks: lowbrow comedies, sword-and-sandal epics, spaghetti Westerns. Neorealist classics like Rome: Open City and Bicycle Thieves flopped domestically while winning international acclaim. Italy generated home grown stars like Mastroianni and Sophia Loren, but often imported Hollywood actors for prestige pictures. Even geniuses like Guido don't get carte blanche in this environment.

There's a constant contrast between cinema's ideals and its sordid reality. Guido dodges questions about his politics and the "message" of his movies: this could be a dig at auteurist critics, or Marxist directors like Visconti and Pasolini who cram their work with "meaning." An obnoxious critic (Jean Rougeul) bombards him with pompous platitudes about art. Pace lauds Guido as a genius to the press, while threatening him should the film fail. Aspiring actresses offer themselves to Guido in exchange for a role. Guido's forced to admit there's no role for Claudia in his work, so idealized she scarcely seems real.

Mainly though, 8 1/2 reflects Fellini's own insecurities. Notably, Guido doesn't view himself as a genius. Not exactly humble, he nonetheless recognizes his shortcomings. If an artist doesn't work so hard as a coal miner, still it's no easy thing to render one's inner thoughts for an audience. Hence the expansive beach set, where Guido oversees the construction of a rocket ship without knowing what it's for. Hence also Luisa: she tolerates Guido's dalliances but grows frustrated when his navel-gazing leads nowhere. Outside of Woody Allen, it's hard to find a more endearingly self-critical director than Fellini. 

Marcello Mastroianni does brilliant work. Mixing arrogance and vulnerability, he makes Guido a credibly harried protagonist. Anouk Aimee gets some meaty scenes, trying to drag Guido back to reality. Claudia Cardinale mostly smiles alluringly, not a stretch for this prettiest of actresses: she landed a far more challenging part in The Leopard that same year. Barbara Steele (Black Sunday) and Madeleine LeBeau play more approachable actresses. Jean Rougeul's pompous writer and Guido Alberti's penny-pinching producer represent both extremes of filmmaking.

Federico Fellini has his detractors, and indeed his flamboyant style can be hard to swallow at times (Satyricon anyone?). But with 8 1/2 he achieves the perfect blend of high art, entertainment and personal vision.