A seductive music sinuously guides the camera through an atelier mixing the characters with the mannequins, instantly setting the tone of the film and somehow the rules of its game. Cut to an exterior shot in a stormy night. The red sign of a fashion house breaks and falls dangling in the wind—an ancestral image of lifelessness that will be restaged right at the end by a scarlet receiver. It only took me the opening to know why I had fallen in love with this film so madly the first time I saw it despite its flaws and my little interest for the genre.
Blood and Black Lace has the unrealistic impeccable rationality of a giallo and the dramatic stylisation that only works in comics. Massimo and Cristiana could be the characters of an episode of Diabolik, with which incidentally the film shares the same contempt for a certain greedy, smartly dressed nouvelle bourgeoisie and the use of exotic names to create a vaguely international nowhere feeling. On the same note, Mario Bava doesn’t mind shooting around recognisable landmarks, but goes for the less known—like the Appian Way or the beautiful church of San Giorgio al Velabro. Rome of course is never explicitly mentioned.
The dialogues are pretty bad. Despite the efforts of the dubbers the performances are patchy to say the least. In a time when the best talents had bigger names to chase and genre films were obscured by what were considered more serious titles, Mario Bava often had to work with less experienced artists. And yet, for some perverse reason, this almost adds to the quirky charm of the film.
What’s really captivating of Blood and Black Lace are its aesthetics and mise-en-scène. Bava’s virtuoso pictorial approach and ‘silly colours,’ as they were described at the time by some conservative critic, inspired legions of filmmakers in the decades to come. The obsessive use of colour red might be an obvious choice for a horror film, but its impact is nevertheless effective—it certainly takes a master to revert a cliché to pristine state.
Towards the end of the film, the operator hits a mannequin while advancing in the ominously empty atelier. Deliberate or not, what may have been a mistake turns out emphasising a distinctive trait of Bava’s filming style—the physical presence of the camera as a ghostly yet palpable entity.
There is a fantastic night shot where the church of San Giorgio is gently lit by the moonlight. A garish pump station logo glows aggressively next to it, and further to the right a flashing neon sign reads ‘dancing’. As often in the history of cinema, budget and creativity not only lie on very different paths. They literally go in opposite directions. Against all odds—that’s how the most valuable works get done after all. And this is one of those.