Dario Argento
Inferno

In 1979, Dario Argento had already left behind the comforting shores of classic giallo for five years, following the pinnacle reached with Profondo Rosso ('74). With the influence of his then partner, Daria Nicolodi, he ventured into the ocean of the supernatural, drawing inspiration from cultured Central European and Romantic readings (Wedekind, De Quincey).

Out of this human and cultural fervor was born one of his most acclaimed films - although, in my opinion, unresolved - such as Suspiria ('77), the cornerstone of the prophesied Three Mothers trilogy, in which the tale of a trio of witches bent on ruling the world is told: Mater Suspiriorum, Mater Tenebrarum, and Mater Lacrimarum.

Inferno ('79), which I am reviewing here, represents the second and, for now, most discussed chapter of the trilogy, as we await for Argento to disappoint us (or "not," I hope!) with the upcoming Mater Lacrimarum, which, thirty years after Suspiria, is set to conclude the series of films dedicated to witches, also marking an interesting return to the artistic partnership with his former ally.

The connection between Suspiria and Inferno is purely virtual, given that this time the story is about a house haunted by sorcerous spirits, not in German Freiburg but in modern New York. Otherwise, there are no actual connections between the two works.

Given this premise, Inferno is one of the most discussed films of early Argento, which had given so much prestige to our genre cinema and had left such an impression on the viewers, even amid the indifference - if not outright suspicion - of much of the film criticism.

The film is often criticized for the extremely thin nature of its plot, almost absent and reduced in some passages to a mere link between often very imaginative murders, and for the estrangement the feature generates in the viewer: to this, it is counterargued, especially among the director's true enthusiasts, that Inferno is Argento's most brilliant narrative, having almost forgotten the possible coherence of any plot and leaning towards depicting the work of Evil without the intermediaries represented, in previous works, by psychotics with gloves and raincoats; from the technical point of view, Inferno would be the programmatic manifesto of an aesthetic of violence without the need to tell a story, of abandonment to pure virtuosity without a musical plot, almost like a jazz score where a leitmotif is barely recognizable.

There is truth in both observations.

Inferno is certainly a difficult film to understand for fans of giallo and classic horror à la Hammer, and overall disappointing, combining the highlighted limitations with the absence of a true protagonist, the whirling of characters, and the not always happy choice of locations. Unsurprisingly, Inferno was a box office flop, forcing Argento to return to classic giallo, albeit revisited with a more mature sensibility, in the following Tenebre ('82).

It must be said that, in its wild experimentalism, thanks especially to beautiful cinematography and an expressionistic use of colors, music, and faces (never before has the choice of actors, some like Lavia and Valli already known to Argento, been so interesting), Inferno represents a courageous attempt to break free from the confines of the "thriller-horror" genre that had made the Roman director renowned, offering the more discerning audience a unique product never equaled by other filmmakers. The film's lack of success (which was, after all, predictable given the premises) probably led Argento to retreat into himself, giving up the innovative charge that had always distinguished his cinema, and leading to a decline that would become steep from the second half of the 1980s, partially lasting until today.

Trying to synthesize and mediate the two points of view, also in light of my personal experience, I note that Inferno should not be appreciated so much as a genre film, seeking thrills or scares (which are nonetheless present), but as an auteur film (perhaps Argento's only one), as a reflection on fear and violence and the ways to trigger and defuse it in filmmaking.

For these reasons, I prefer not to rate the film, leaving it to the commentators of my review to quantify this curious, and enticing, work.