Everybody Bleeds Good Neighbours… Edwige Fenech in WHY ARE THOSE STRANGE DROPS OF BLOOD ON THE BODY OF JENNIFER?


DVD. Region Free. Anchor Bay. Not Rated.

While Sergio Martino was more concerned in the early ’70s with extending the scope of the giallo than with merely aping Argento or churning out rehashes of his own The Strange Vice Of Mrs Wardh (1971), any such rehash would have had an understandable commercial appeal to his big brother. Hence “Anthony Ascott” (Giuliano Carnimeo)’s Why These Strange Drops Of Blood On The Body Of Jennifer? (“Perché Quelle Strane Gocce Di Sangue Sul Corpo Di Jennifer?), produced by Luciano in 1972 and also known as The Case Of The Bloody Iris or (for its UK grindhouse release) Erotic Blue… certainly not to be confused with the Megan Fox vehicle Jennifer’s Body (2009.) As usual, this one could usefully come with a score-card to help the viewer keep up with its convoluted plot, as prolific giallo scripter Ernesto Gastaldi packs a string of nubile psycho fodder in all their funky ’70s finery and a veritable shoal of red herrings onto photo model Jennifer (Edwige Fenech)’s floor of a swish Genoan apartment building. Who’s cutting this collection of cuties off in their respective primes? Difficult to say, as the culprit wears standard issue black leather trench coat, broad-brimmed hat and stocking mask (but disappointingly eschews the expected black gloves in favour of a pair of marigolds!)


The cast of candidates comprises suspiciously smooth architect George Hilton; a predatory lipstick lesbian (Lana Del Rey lookalike Annabella Incontrera) who’s predictably hot for Fenech’s bod; her disapproving, grumpy father; a nosey-parker old crone who’s keeping tabs on everybody else in the building; and her secret, scarred son, who is presented as obvious psycho-killer material because of his addiction to lurid horror comics (an imprudent tack to take in a lurid horror film, one would have thought)…


… dodgiest of all is Fenech’s ex Adam (Ben Carra), who’s stalking her, sending her irises and generally trying to lure her back into her former drug-crazed swinging lifestyle. Gastaldi’s script explicitly states that Fenech’s Jennifer is NOT a masochist and, in another departure from TSVOMW, her ex used to shower her with iris petals rather than shards of glass, but he talks a mean fight:”I’ll tear you as I tore the petals of the iris… you’re an object and you belong to me… since our celestial marriage you’ve belonged to me!”, he rants (yeah, yeah, whatever)…. all of which understandably reduces Fenech to a nervous wreck, though her airhead flat-mate Marilyn (Paola Quattrini) is keener to attribute her agitated state to sexual frustration. “You made a big mistake, going from group sex to chastity” she advises, urging Jennifer to let her hair down a little, not to mention her drawers.


So many private hells congealing into a collective one under one roof that you begin to suspect this particular apartment block (an even less Des Res than All The Colours Of The Dark‘s Kenilworth Court) must have been built over one of Lucio Fulci’s cherished doors to Hades…

The Case of the Bloody Iris 012.jpg

The mandatory clueless cops (an inspector who’s more interested in collecting stamps than cracking the case, and his long-suffering side-kick, who seems to have wandered in from a sexy-comedy) persuade the reluctant Jennifer and Marilyn to stay in their apartment in a high risk strategy designed to flush out the killer (leaving them with the helpful advice: “Don’t trust any of your neighbours!”) as the bodies and improbable plot convolutions proliferate all around them. One memorably barmy scene occurs in a night-club run by cameoing “Allan Collins” (Luciano Pigozzi), where the floor show consists of an athletic black chick (Carla Brait) challenging horny audience members to get her clothes off in three minutes, while she’s beating them up (no, really!) This character’s later bath-tub demise is modelled upon one in the mother of all “imperilled models” gialli, Bava’s Blood And Black Lace (1964). Elsewhere an attack on a girl while she’s pulling a garment over her head and a public stabbing in broad daylight anticipate sequences in Argento’s Tenebrae (1982), and an elevator slashing is every bit as clearly the inspiration for one in Brian De Palma’s Dressed To Kill (1980) as the power-tool slaying in Umberto Lenzi’s Seven Orchids Stained In Red (1972) was for the one in De Palma’s Body Double (1984.) What, in the sacred name of Rachel De Thame, is this obsession with bloody petals?


Carnimeo adroitly keeps the viewer’s suspicion alternating around his collection of ne’er do wells, with Hilton (in yet another movie where he gets paid for snogging Fenech… spawny bastard!) ostentatiously flagged as prime suspect, despite his professed haemophobia. Predictably, things are even more complicated than they appear, the true culprit’s puritanical motivation getting the customary curt airing before his / her equally
obligatory dispatch by being chucked down a stair well. Carnimeo also manages to work a Spellbound-type cathartic liberation for one of the main characters into this boffo denouement. DP Stelvio Massi and sound track composer Bruno Nicolai perform their respective chores with accustomed panache (though Nicolai’s music is perhaps among the least compelling of his many contributions to the genre) and assistant director Michele
Massimo Tarantini (the Martinos’ cousin) would later call the shots in various of Fenech’s uniformed comic escapades.


One could quibble about the feasibility of Rait’s ludicrous night-club act and the quality of some of the performances (the residents look bored to tears rather than shocked by the discovery of a diced dolly bird in their elevator, above) but if you’re prepared to suspend your disbelief, this is one of the giallo genre’s most pleasantly time passing guilty pleasures.

Bonus materials on the Anchor Bay disc under review here comprise a trailer, “Anthony Ascott” filmography and an alternative take of the scene in which a blonde model is stabbed in the street and falls, dying, into the arms of George Hilton.


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