Sunday, February 22, 2015

Molte Grazie, Italia

You know what my favorite horror movie is?
No, not that favorite. Not that favorite. No, that's not one of my favorites anymore. But it might be a favorite next week.
Well, yes. They do tend to migrate. But a whole bunch of them are the sort that will never be nominated for an Academy Award, and if you ever find yourself trapped in an elevator with an actor who has gotten one of those little statues and you mention these films, that poor unfortunate is likely to scream themselves to death. One man's trash is another man's treasure.
Different countries have different ideas about what elements fit in films. I think it was in Rue Morgue a few years back that I read how a lot of the classic films from south of the border contain action, horror, comedy, and even a dance number or two, just to give their viewers as much variety as they can. That's the form down there, and the formula. European cinema got a bit of a head start on us over here in the States, and it's had more time to season and mature, and to develop different formulae. Hence, they have a type of film that you don't (or didn't used to) see over here: The Giallo.
The name comes from the Italian word for yellow, and a bit of grade-school level research tells me that the films are called that because the crime thrillers that the genre grew from were a series of paperbacks with yellow covers. I can see that. But if a case of mass amnesia suddenly hit the world, these movies would probably be named after a different color, red.
These movies are like multi-frame works of art. Shots are staged and set to say something, not just 'Here's the street our heroes are walking down.' The long, empty hallway with bare light bulbs swinging to and fro is the single path our heroine can take, and in one way or another, it leads to death. The fact that the driver of the coach sits up so rigidly, has those cold, noble features, and that the camera is never on him when we hear his voice is a sure sign that he's one of the blood-drinking undead. A soft drink machine in an ancient castle that's being rennovated isn't a sign of progress, it's a source of garish light in the choking darkness and a reminder of modern man's impotence in the face of all those forces lurking in the castle which spill and feed on blood.
Oh yes, the rich, red blood. It spurts, flows, and spatters over everything. It runs down walls, sprays on ceilings, and gathers in pools for unsuspecting victims to step in and notice just a second too late. In the world of the Giallo film, the human body contains over a hundred gallons of it, and its sole purpose is to exit that body in the most gruesome fashion possible. This is art painted with a sharp instrument.
One point to make is that, as art, realism takes a back seat to effect. My own speculation on why these films don't have wider appeal in the U.S. is because we're not used to suspending our disbelief to the point of perceiving a story as a homogenous idea, like an animated tarot card. Here plot is secondary to image, and human motives are stripped down to their base elements and plugged in like batteries to power the movie. In some ways they're more simple, but more mature than what we're used to. It doesn't help that some of the dubbing from Italian to English sounds like it was done by actors who were rejected from soap opera auditions for being too dramatic, either.
I don't see myself writing anything like these. My ideas are drawn from a different deck of cards, and I don't think the printed word is an effective medium for the kind of expression that we're talking about. I like to wander through tales where not only do things change, but the whole feeling can change. In a Giallo if there's an interesting character who isn't the hero or heroine,you can usually count on them dying, and I've already told you how the blood is going to come out. What about a story with two villains and no hero? How about one that starts off with telling you no one is going to get killed? Horror is a wide field, with room for everyone.
That's where I write.

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