DEVIL'S COMMANDMENT, THE

1957
Italy
aka Der Vampir von Notre-Dame (WG), Lust of the Vampire (GB), I vampiri (I)
Director: Riccardo Freda
Athena Cinematografica, Titanus
Screenplay: Piero Regnoli, Rik Sjostrom, Riccardo Freda
Cinematography: Mario Bava
Music: Roman Vlad
Cast: Gianna Maria Canale (Giselle Du Grand/Marguerite Du Grand), Antoine Balpetre (Dr. Du Grand), Paul Muller (Joseph Seignoret), Carlo D'Angelo (Inspector Santel), Wandisa Guida (Loretta Robert), Dario Michaelis (Pierre Valentin), Renato Tontini, Charles Fawcett, Angiolo Galassi, Miranda Campa, Riccardo Freda (a doctor), Emilio Petacci, Armando Annuale.

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Here we have a film that displays erratic scripting, stilted dialogue and wooden acting. However, it also displays an aesthetic quality that is almost singular to such black and white, impressionistic films. Shadows are extended; light is glaring and figures prowl within the fog like fish in a stagnating lake. It is a look familiar from the best of the Italian gothic horror boom - Bava's Black Sunday (La Maschera del demonio, 60) and Caiano's Nightmare Castle (Amanti d'oltretomba, 65), for instance. Part born from German predecessors such as Fritz Lang who had used the cinema mainly as a means of creating artwork rather than relating plot, but part also from the surrealists. This is a distorted world, where things are stretched out of place; the ordinary is subjugated by the transforming gaze of the camera's eye. It is not a film for everyone's taste, but if you are willing to accept it's failings in light of the sheer artistic personality and beauty that it displays, it is a worthwhile experience indeed.

A murderer is stalking Paris, abducting young women and draining their blood from their bodies. Crusading journalist Pierre Valentin believes that a vampire is responsible. Surprisingly - considering that this is set in contemporary times rather than the pastoral ruralism of it's Hammer stablemates - a lot of people agree with him. The police, however, appear to be powerless. Pierre vows to find the killer.

In fact, he is closer to the secret of the mystery than he thinks. He is the subject of advances from the rich and beautiful Gisele Du Grand, advances that he spurns because her petulance and superficial attractions do not impress him. Furthermore, there is a historical precedent in that her grandmother, Marguerite, had attempted to destroy his father's life after a similar refusal to become her lover.

In fact, and this is no great surprise, the two Du Grand's are one and the same person. With the help of an eccentric (and supposedly dead) cousin, the aging duchess has discovered a method of regaining her youthful visage. The only problem is that it needs healthy blood in order to work. Further compounding the situation, the duplicitous duo has decided that their next victim should be the new lady in Pierre's life.

The plot is familiar, partly through the stream of mad scientist stories that followed it such as Jesus Franco's Awful Dr Orloff (Gritos en la noche, 62) and Georges Franju's acclaimed Eyes Without a Face (Les yeux sans visage, 59). It's influentiality can only be further gauged by the fact that it preceded both these and the other productions credited with kickstarting the European horror boom: The Curse of Frankenstein (57) and Roger Corman's The House of Usher (60). It is also easy to see the growth of the giallo genre as originating partly from here. Although the whodunit aspect is less to the fore than in the works of Argento and Martino, we are presented with the familiar point of view shots tracking the victims-to-be through the decrepit streets and baroque interiors. The ploy of having a scapegoat, in this case the heroin addict Joseph Seignoret, who commits the crimes at the behest of the true villain(s) also became commonplace - a good example being The Crimes of the Black Cat (Sette scialli di seta gialla, 72).

It also demonstrates the archetypal genre predilection with the relationships between the rich and the poor. The former are portrayed as noble lineages gone to seed, obsessed with appearance to the detriment of content. The need to keep looking youthful exhibited by Marguerite is reflected by the castle in which she lives, splendid - but evidently upon the verge of collapse due to inattention. The obsession with show and surface has caused the atrophy of soul. In one amusing instance a couple of calcified onlookers at a ball comment upon how fun-loving Giselle is, while she is shown accompanying another fossil in a waltz that looks as though it is on the verge of death. The aristocracy is already dead, but it is clinging on to a vestige of life by sucking that very quality from the proletarian masses.

I Vampiri does have it's problems. It has a schizophrenic feel which can be partly blamed upon it's production background (Mario Bava took over the direction chores after Freda walked out). Scenes which are set in the town, detailing the police investigation or Pierre's inquiries, seem flat and - to be blunt - boring. Once it arrives in the gothic domain of castles, crypts and secret passageways (or even the murky streets straight out of Sherlock Holmes) the enterprise leaps into life. Here the need to provide narrative can be completely discarded in favour of creating an atmosphere, of using the screen as a canvas, and this is what both directors are primarily interested in. It is easy to get the impression that the previous, background scenes are basically an obligation for the makers.

They have to be done because no audience would be interested in a jumble of themes and visuals without a readily identifiable storyline, but they don't have to be done with the same kind of vivacity that is displayed in the areas more conducive to their interests. Both Black Sunday and Freda's own Terror of Dr Hitchcock (L'Orribile segreto del dottor Hichcock, 62) are more successful in their marriage of script and cinematic virtuosity.

Despite this, it is a worthy film, and one which should be appreciated because of it's historical significance. If you are willing to suspend the critical faculties that have resulted from two decades of almost continually dour Anglo-Saxon dominance, and accept the proposition that a film can be justifiably more reliant upon style than script, then it should be investigated.

Be warned, however: the first five minutes are terrible. They play like some horrendous Betty Page strip-reel and seem to last far longer than they actually do. Then again, that may be just what you're looking for.

Matt Blake