Viewings: May 2026

Not honestly sure what I would have thought of The Grapes of Death if I had discovered it in my youth, but I liked this poncey French hybrid of The Living Dead at the Manchester Morgue meets The Crazies. It also helped that Marie-Georges Pascal was a dead ringer of Melinda Clarke in it, too. Definitely my favourite find this month.

Adding it to the ever growing backlog of films I've failed to review (in time). Spent way too long on The Prisoner post.

 

Film:

From Hell It Came (Dan Milner, 1957)

The Snake Woman (Sidney J. Furie, 1961)

The House with Laughing Windows (Pupi Avati, 1976) ♲

The Grapes of Death (Jean Rollin, 1978) 

 The Warriors (Walter Hill, 1979) ♲

 Madness (Bruno Mattei, 1994)

Sorry to Bother You (Boots Riley, 2018)

Faces of Death (Daniel Goldhaber, 2026)

They Will Kill You (Kirill Sokolov, 2026)

 

Television:

The Prisoner (Various, 1967-1968) ♲

♲ Rewatch

 

Dada Debaser Notes:

• Amazed how the infamous video nasty Faces of Death (1978) has been resurrected into a modern era slasher with a Charlie XCX cameo. Very uneven film, with eye-rolling hackneyed social commentary and logic that made me lose more brain cells than that poor monkey in the original. But I did enjoy its dark humour and unexpected mean-spiritism. Gavin Brivik's soundtrack is very fitting until a horrendous pop song sampling Dr. Francis B. Gröss starts blasting during the end credits.
• There's nothing in Sorry to Bother You as remotely funny as Boots Riley going from 5 Million Ways to Kill a C.E.O. to sponging off Larry Ellison's nepobaby in getting it produced. I'll give his latest one a miss.
• Bruno Mattei's Madness is a Poundland Tenebrae.
• The Snake Woman comes across as a B-movie forerunner to Hammer's The Reptile (1966). Ridiculously short for a feature film, but even then, it's still something of a slog to get through. Not enough action, sadly. 

Speaking of Hammer, I'm hyped for the uncut version of Dracula (1958) finally getting released this year.

The Painter of Agony

The House with Laughing Windows (Pupi Avati, 1976)

Contrary to the belief of some giallo film experts, the genre’s golden era had long passed by the time Dario Argento released his seminal film Deep Red (1975). There was no revival of the giallo genre as his classic debut The Bird with the Crystal Plumage (1971) had achieved. Similarly, when the director returned to the gialli after several years with his masterpiece Tenebrae (1982), that also failed to reignite the genre as it had mostly been absorbed across the Atlantic with the slasher film. In your humble host’s opinion, the quality of these films produced between this period was a nadir for the giallo. Gone were the jet-set locations, the glamorous women and the stylish ‘70s fashions. 

These were succeeded by some of the genre’s most notorious and poorly made films. Examples include The Bloodsucker Leads the Dance (1975), The Sister of Ursula (1978) and the infamous Giallo in Venice (1979). They exemplified the sleaze and ineptitude that became the norm. However, there were notable exceptions. The House with the Laughing Windows (1976), directed by the unfortunately named Pupi Avati, is perhaps the greatest standout and one of the best gialli produced since its heyday.

Art restorer Stefano (Lino Capolicchio) is commissioned by Solmi (Bob Tonelli), the diminutive mayor of a provincial village, to repair and complete an unfinished church fresco. The artwork was commissioned by the long-serving parish priest Don Orsi (Eugene Walter) to depict the Martyrdom of St Sebastian. Buono Legnani (Tonino Corazzari), a revered and eccentric local artist would be the person appointed the task of painting the fresco. Unfortunately, the painter had mysteriously passed away before completing it. Mayor Solmi believes the completion and restoration of it will bring much-needed tourism to the area and help boost its economy. Upon seeing the fresco, Stefan becomes instantly obsessed with it and its creator described as "the painter of agony". He begins working immediately,

The village has endured significant hardship since World War II. Its lagoon remains polluted decades after the conflict. Don Orsi’s church was also severely affected. It was converted into a SS barracks during the war and subsequently used as a makeshift morgue. The trauma of war continues to have a profound impact on the community. The village appears to be frozen in time, with few motor vehicles and residents wearing vintage clothing. Above all, they are fearful of the past.

Upon checking into the local hotel, Stefano receives a threatening phone call instructing him to abandon his work on the fresco and leave the village. He dismisses the threat as a prank. He is enjoying the advances of the local schoolteacher, who also happens to be the village bike.  Stefano briefly meets Antonio Mazza (Giulio Pizzirani), an old friend who has also relocated to the village and is assisting with the lagoon’s clean-up. Mazza had recommended Stefano to Mayor Solmi to restore the church fresco. However, he now regrets bringing his friend to the village after learning more about Legnani’s depraved past and horrific inspirations in creating his paintings. With prying eyes and eavesdroppers, it is difficult for Mazza to disclose everything he can to his friend.

After being invited to restaurant owner Poppi’s (Andrea Matteuzzi) house, Stefano sees an entire room’s worth of Legnani’s paintings. This only makes the our protagonist even more fascinated by the insane artist’s life. While there, Mazza calls Stefano urging him to come and see him. He wants to tell Stefano everything. Outside Mazza’s apartment, Stefano witnesses his friend fall to his death. A silhouetted figure can be seen from Mazza’s room.

Stefano’s hotel concierge overhears the latest prank call to him and becomes alarmed. She fabricates a story about needing Stefano’s room for another guest. Fortunately, Don Orsi has arranged accommodation for the young man in a large villa owned by an elderly paraplegic woman who lives alone. It is rumoured she was made an invalid from a venereal disease. Don Orsi’s mouse-eating assistant Lidio (Pietro Brambilla) guides Stefano to the villa. Laura (Pina Borione), the lonely woman, is delighted to have another person in her home. In the attic of the villa, Stefano discovers an old tape recorder. The tape plays Legnani’s insane ramblings which are heard over the sepia-toned opening sequence of the film, where an unnamed man is hung by his arms and brutally stabbed multiple times. 

"The colours, my colours, flow in my veins. They are sweet, my colours, sweet as Autumn, hot as blood, pure as syphilis, and enter into the eyes, infecting all." — Buono Legnani.

Evidently, Stefano seems to have gotten over Mazza’s death (murder?) and seems unfazed from the disturbing tape recording relatively quickly, as he’s already making a late night booty call with the school teacher. To his surprise, the beautiful young brunette woman, who he briefly met on the ferry when he first arrived at the village, opens the front door. Francesca (Francesca Marciano) tells the randy art restorer that the school teacher he came to visit had been transferred, and that she is her replacement, Not sure which is more troubling about Francesca: her inviting a horny stranger into her home in the late hours, or her having a refrigerator filled with snails crawling about in it. She even asks Stefano if he knows how to cook them. The newcomers develop a romantic relationship. Out with the old; in with the new.

This is an appropriate point to conclude the plot of the film without delving into spoilers. While The House with Laughing Windows is half a century old, it’s still an overlooked film; and therefore, a new discovery for many. Its cult status has begun growing in recent years, however. Not only ought it be considered amongst the best gialli ever produced, but it merits the attention of serious cinephiles as an important film in '70s Italian cinema. Therefore, Don Orsi would concur, spoilers would indeed be a cardinal sin.

Pupi Avati’s thriller may adhere to some conventions of the giallo genre, but it also shares significant similarities with the folk-horror sub-genre; specifically Robin Hardy’s British horror classic The Wicker Man (1973). For instance, Capolicchio’s character Stefano falls into a similar spiralling trap as Woodward’s Sergeant Howie as a stranger in a strange land. Both films featuring an isolated community populated by eccentric individuals is another shared characteristic. There is also the daylight horror aspect to both; which are achieved rather masterfully.

The palpable sense of dread in The House with Laughing Windows is undoubtedly its greatest strength. This is achieved through Avati’s increasingly unnerving plot juxtaposed with our protagonists becoming increasingly frightened along the way. The atmosphere becomes electric. Amedeo Tommassi’s haunting piano score further enhances the fear factor; particularly during the third act where events become increasingly sinister. 

The term ‘slow-burn’ may have negative connotations when describing the pacing of films today, but The House with Laughing Windows justifiably earns this description as Avati’s atmosphere wouldn’t have been close to effective if it had breezed through all the chilling plot revelations and genuinely tense scenes for the Ritalin poppin' film fan.

Overall, The House with Laughing Windows has consistently been one of the giallo genre’s most unsung films. This may have been due to the absence of an English dub and accurately translated subtitles in the past. Thankfully, that’s no longer an issue today..

The House with Laughing Windows is now available in 4K UHD (and no longer another wish list item) in the US via Arrow Video and is also available in the same format via Shameless Films in the UK.

Highly recommended for anyone with an interest in giallo, folk-horror and macabre mystery. 

EDIT: Bizzarely, while editing the format of the text, my original review got deleted and blogger auto-saved. Muggins didn't have a back-up. Lesson learned: Never use Blogger as your main format to write anything! Had to rewrite everything I could remember again. 

Be Seeing You (Again)

Three types of people I do not trust: politicians, journalists and those who pretend to know all the answers to The Prisoner. The latter was a one-off series consisting of seventeen episodes that aired on ATV in the United Kingdom from 1967 to 1968. It followed the trend of spy shows at the time, particularly the popular series Danger Man (1960–1968). Both of which commissioned by the cigar-smoking TV impresario Lew Grade and featured actor Patrick McGoohan in the lead. McGoohan would also be the series's co-creator; as well as writer and director on several episodes. Where The Prisoner differed from its predecessor was in its deliberate subversion of the traditional formula. Instead, it embraced 1960s counterculture and postmodernist allegories.

The opening titles sequence sets up the series's premise perfectly. The titular character storming into his boss’s office and angrily handing over his letter of resignation (I love it when the tea cup leaps up from the saucer when McGoohan bangs his fist on the table with the sounds of a thunder clap), before being subsequently gassed and abducted from his home. Our hero awakens to find himself in a cell designed to resemble his actual apartment in an idyllic coastal village.

Despite his defiant protest of not being a number, McGoohan’s unnamed protagonist would be identified as Number Six by both his warders and fellow prisoners. Number Six would be subjected to dastardly scenarios designed to probe his mind and break his spirit in order to obtain vital information; namely the reason for his resignation. The ingenuity of these methods were worthy of being films themselves; ranging from the use of psychotropic drugs, elaborate role plays and mind-swapping; in fact the plot to A. B. and C. is strikingly similar to Christopher Nolan's 2010 espionage sci-fi thriller Inception; albeit, without the bloviated run time, gimmicky cityscape effects and Han Zimmer's BWAAH horns.

The prison without bars would also house a number of other individuals; presumably from a similar background to our hero. Number Six’s constant dilemma would be distinguishing between the inmates and the warders. What was abundantly clear was Rover, a white weather balloon that belted out a terrifying scream whenever appearing on screen, which served as the Village's guard dog. The bouncing spherical menace would retrieve escapees with their horrified faces imprinted on its latex surface; the stuff of nightmares for any child at the time. Who knew a balloon could be this scary?

Number Six's desperation to escape from the ever surveillant confines of the Village was halted by a constantly changing rota of actors (including Leo McKern Peter Wyngarde and Guy Dolman) playing Number Two; the main antagonist. The predominantly British cast in the series, indirectly suggested Number Six's captors were possibly his former employers. Considering The Prisoner was produced during the height of the Cold War, the series does however allude to both sides being indistinguishable. 

What is indisputable is how The Prisoner foresaw a dystopian world of mass surveillance and blatant abuse of our privacies. In the episode The Chimes of Big Ben, Number Two describes the Village as “an international community, a  perfect blueprint for world order. When the sides facing each other suddenly realise that they're looking into a mirror, they'll see that this is the pattern for the future.” Eerily prophetic. 

The rivalry between Number Six and the differing incarnations of Number Two was a key element of the series’s appeal. Each Number Two utilised a distinct method to extract information from his fellow "lifer", Number Six. In turn, Number Six would exploit any potential weaknesses he found in his enemies. In the episode Hammer Into Anvil, Patrick Cargill’s sadistic Number Two is driven to insanity by our hero after inciting a female prisoner to committing suicide.

Throughout the series, the recurring questions were: who was the eponymous prisoner before he became Number Six, and why did he resign? For the tuned-in audience, however, the identity of Number One was the biggest mystery of them all. By the time of Fallout, the final episode, the busy surrealism, head-scratching symbolism and absolute insanity would prove perplexing enough for it to be analysed and discussed for nigh on sixty years. Thus, apart from its overtly avant-garde 1960s visual aesthetics, much of The Prisoner’s enduring cult appeal stemmed from theorising interpretations of it. 

If Number Six represented the defiant individual, then the Village epitomised a collectivist world of conformity. Ironically, once Number Six’s right to be an individual is finally recognised by a kangaroo court in the climactic finale, a masked collective, representing various societal aspects, mockingly repeats his first word, "I!" And so, the mechanism of the collective hive mind continues on. Back in London, the sound of Number Six’s front door sounding like his cell in the Village invites the theory that both he and the viewer are both prisoners in the grand scheme of it all. Certainly food for thought, but frustrating for those expecting straightforward answers to recurring questions rather than symbolic allegories. 

When Fallout premiered, the viewers were so disappointed, they jammed up ATV's switchboards; eventually McGoohan was forced to go into hiding with his family. Time, however, has been much kinder to both the series and its star. The Prisoner has also been fortunate to be niche enough not to be dragged into a culture war battleground like other nerdcore properties; which is ironic, given many of the show's themes and subject matter are even more relevant today.

Considering McGoohan’s lifelong scrutinisation regarding The Prisoner, it is possible to categorise him as either a brilliant mind whose work was misunderstood by the "rotten cabbages", or as the perpetrator of one of our greatest media pranks, à la Orson Welles’ 1938 War of the Worlds radio broadcast and Panorama’s spaghetti tree hoax in 1957. Regardless, The Prisoner remains a compelling work that is worth revisiting for its sheer mind fuckery. It's also a lot of fun watching people getting accosted by a weather balloon, too.

Depending on where you are, you can watch The Prisoner for free on YouTube, along with Century 21 Films' superb feature length documentary about the series, The Making of the Prisoner: Don't Knock Yourself Out.