Face/Off

Faceless (Jesús Franco, 1987)

This eighties take on Georges Franju's classic French horror film, Eyes Without a Face (1960) would hardly be the choice Jess Franco selection for any discerning "true film" blog, but I consider it amongst his most accomplished and entertaining films, in all honesty. Faceless isn't Franco's first attempt at redoing Franju's fiendish surgical nightmare either, as he helmed The Awful Dr. Orloff (1962) decades earlier. It's possibly because it's a film where Franco is actually provided with a decent budget for once, along with dropping all artistic pretentions, perhaps at the behest of his producers, one of which being Rene Chateau, who was also a co-writer for the film.

Helmut Berger plays a debonair plastic surgeon with a secretive sinister side. Along with his accomplice lover, Brigitte Lahaie, they fiendishly attempt to reconstruct Berger's disfigured sister, after she becomes an unfortunate victim in an acid attack. Their efforts result in a series of decapitated women being found all over Paris. Further spicing up the plot, Telly Savalas hires Chris Mitchum's private dick to track down his spoilt, fashion model daughter, played by Caroline Munro, after being abducted while being high as a kite during her fashion shoot. It all sounds fairly formulaic, doesn't it? But, what really makes this such an unusual film is that it's mostly focused on the villains. Both Mitcham and Munro have very minimal screen time in comparison to Berger and Lahaie and that weird looking bloke who plays Gordon, the mute psychopath without any eyebrows. It becomes even more apparent later on with the introduction of Anton Diffring, aka that German actor who was always typecasted as a nazi in his films. Incidentally, Diffring adds a touch of class to what's otherwise an incredibly gruesome and sleazy effort - even by eighties movie standards. It's bad enough having faceless women on the operating table, but it's even worse seeing them getting decapitated with a chainsaw in graphic bloody detail. Other supporting cast members worth mentioning are Claude Chabrol's ex, Stéphane Audran, getting the old eye injection treatment a la Dead & Buried (1981), and the rather fit Florence Guérin playing herself (either that, or her character is also called Florence Guérin). Franco regulars Lina Romay and Howard Vernon also have bit parts. Both Munro and Guérin would later appear together in Luigi Cozzi's utterly dull unofficial third film to Dario Argento's The Three Mothers trilogy, The Black Cat (1990).

Given that Faceless is very much an amalgamation of various subgenres; includuding various tropes and cliches synonymous with the slasher, detective mystery and erotic thriller, you would expect the film to feel unbalanced or fall apart in places. This is not the case, fortunately. As already mentioned, this might be because Franco's directorial debut, The Awful Dr. Orloff is a spiritual precursor to this film, and it might also be because Franco was a film maker with an obscene amount of films under his belt which usually blended horror with erotica. You could say the diminutive Spanish film maker had been experienced enough after churning out multiple flicks per year. In any case, the film feels way more professional incomparison to some of his more popular earlier efforts, in my humble opinion. There are none of the indulgent zoom shots, nor the annoying lingering shots which were more jarringly awkward rather than utilised for atmospheric and emotional emphasis.

Considering the eighties was the decade of the yuppie era, Faceless is blessed with a european vantage point of the cultural zeitgeist. You've got a sharp suited Berger and Lahaie in a luxurious mink coat as his escort, hitting up the trendy Parisian bars and clubs, ordering champagne, picking up hot broads and luring them to their lair. It's all very decadent and wouldn't go amiss in an episode of Dynasty if it wasn't for all the gore and hints of incest. Putting it simply, I enjoy the eighties style, and if this didn't low key inspire Brett Easton Ellis when he was writing American Psycho at the time, along with the obvious De Palma movies, then I would be shaking my head in disbelief

This might be considered a spoiler to those who haven't seen the film, but considering it's a thirty-five year old film, it's worth discussing its finale. The point of contention is whether Mitchum and Munro made it out alive? Considering they were locked in a padded cell, which was walled up as well for a period of a week until Savalas gets to hear Mitchum's all important voice message, there is no way they survived, since they would have run out of air. A shocker of a downbeat ending, but a great one, I believe. One of those film endings that has me feeling some kind of way like Sergio Corbucci's The Great Silence (1968). Obviously, Faceless is nowhere the calibre of Corbucci's spaghetti western masterpiece, but for a horror fan like myself, familiar with the cliched downer horror movie climaxes this is definitely one of those great ones, which was also changed like Corbucci's film.

In summary, this is not only one of Jess Franco's best films, but a bonafide great horror movie thriller, in my opinion. It might not be on par with the class of '87, but it's certainly worthy of an honourable mention at the very least.

Faceless getting the 4K UHD treatment in 2022. What a time to be alive.

Dada Debaser Bonus:

Vincent Thoma - Faceless 

(Les Prédateurs De La Nuit 7" Single, 1988)

 

"Destination: nowhere
A half a mile to paradise
Tell me what you find there
Beyond the sea of golden skies
Three dimensional rainbows right before your eyes
Draw the shades down and watch this world unwind
And see right through those confindential phone calls
A distant wine in Saint-Tropez"
- Vincent Thoma, Faceless

The greatest George Michael song George Michael never sang is Faceless, aka Les Prédateurs De La Nuit by its original French name. Other than sounding like it could have been the sombre B-side to Club Tropicana, it's also blessed with the most puzzling and nonsensical lyrics I've yet to hear in a song. There are avant-garde experi(mental) rappers and growling death metal singers who might make more sense than whatever Vincent Thoma might be singing about. Would happily play this perplexing musical gem repeatedly just like in the film on some poncey winebar's jukebox all day, everyday.