This is one of the rare instances where Lucio Fulci was admitted into the ranks of the kind of legitimate cinema recognised by institutional film critics (albeit without fanfare). The unusual title provides an opportunity for the director to play with the animal references found in Dario Argento’s titles – already widely imitated – and conceive of a rather macabre parallel between homicidal torture and the innocence of character from childhood. It constitutes a narrative and aesthetic blueprint. Here, horror elements are subjected to a process of displacement: the blinding light of Southern Italy (specifically Lucania) replaces the darkness of the gothic or the black atmosphere of the metropolis; references to folklore abound long before the term folk horror even existed; and an ancient, irrational Italy of primitive rites provides the true engine of fear. The story revolves around a series of horrible child murders in a small village in the South. The woman suspected of these monstrous crimes is a local sorceress, an obvious and easy target, but the truth is more disturbing that one would expect. Magic and religion appear indistinguishable, and Fulci does not shy from the horror that is expected of him and constitutes a constant in his inimitable filmography; the lynching of Florinda Bolkan to the sound of Ornella Vanoni’s music has long been celebrated in books on horror (not only in Italy) and the atmosphere of repressed fury and brutality towards the innocent leaves its mark, especially since it is concealed behind the wall of silence of the small-minded, Devil-fearing villagers. It was this pessimistic take on an Italy with inflexible beliefs that angered Catholic critics on the one hand and the censors on the other, resulting in cuts that have been carefully restored over the years. Nor is the film lacking in erotic elements, thanks to the presence of Barbara Bouchet, a constant in Italian exploitation cinema, in the role of an uninhibited and seductive young woman.

Roy Menarini