Italian horror filmmaker Dario Argento's best film, Suspiria, had been an international hit which even broke the American market. Unfortunately, this degree of success left Argento's next film, Inferno, caught between commercial expectations and artistic ambitions.
And, reportedly, Inferno's story did not come together as easily as it had for Suspiria, because Argento's under-appreciated Suspiria co-writer, Daria Nicolodi, felt exhausted and frustrated from her previous experience. At some point, Argento and Nicolodi outlined a sweeping horror epic which would have been covered across three films: the saga of The Three Mothers. Mater Suspiriorum (mother of sighs), manifested in Germany, had already been confronted and destroyed in Suspiria; Mater Tenebrarum (mother of shadows), manifested in America, would be the force behind the events of Inferno; Mater Lacrimarum (mother of tears), manifested in Italy, would have appeared in a third film which was never made, after Nicolodi refused to collaborate with Argento on any more scripts.
Inferno's New York City setting was possibly a calculated move to appeal to a wider audience, especially since Argento had financial backing from a major American studio for the first time in his career. The fanciful qualities of Suspiria are somewhat lacking in this sequel, due as much to the more mundane setting as to Nicolodi's decreased creative input (she does not have a screen writing credit on Inferno.) Indeed, the unfocused plot owes more than a little to a pair of NYC-set horror novels which had already been made into films by this time: Rosemary's Baby and The Sentinel; the sinister apartment building populated by grotesque characters seems all-too-familiar. The nominal protagonist is the inquisitive brother of a tenant who has died while pursuing her obsession with The Three Mothers. And yet he disappears for long stretches of the film, although this is actually a good thing, because he is played by an unappealing himbo named Leigh McCloskey; this sort of casting feels like a disastrous attempt at second-guessing what American viewers wanted to see.
Inferno's good points lie entirely in Argento's cinematic technique. The bright cartoon colors of Suspiria are set aside in favor of an extensive use of red and blue filters, and the crystalline results are often breath-taking. Many of Argento's individual compositions and set-pieces (with some uncredited special effects by Mario Bava) are quite impressive -- particularly one sequence set during a lunar eclipse, in which a thoroughly unsympathetic man is nearly devoured by rats, only for his presumed rescuer to kill him with a meat cleaver. But the film doesn't hold together; it feels more like the work of a precocious but undisciplined film student, rather than the work of a seasoned veteran, which is what Argento was by this time.
Even the music, usually a vital ingredient in an Argento film, is a letdown. In the place of Italian rock band Goblin, we have pioneering British rocker Keith Emerson; good idea on paper, except that Emerson was past his prime by then, and Inferno was but one in a string of uninspired Emerson film scores. The best Emerson can manage here is a pastiche of Jerry Goldsmith's theme music from The Omen. Selections from the work of 19th Century opera composer Giuseppe Verdi are not enough to compensate.
Worst of all is Inferno's resolution: when Mater Tenebrarum finally reveals herself to the protagonist, she delivers a long and frightening speech which appears to anticipate a fate for the protagonist similar to that of his female counterpart in The Sentinel -- becoming trapped and enslaved by the supernatural forces within the building. But instead, he simply runs away, and escapes with ridiculous ease, Mater Tenebrarum doing nothing to stop him. Was this another instance of second-guessing the preferences of American viewers? Inferno has a surprising amount of admirers who consider it Argento's greatest achievement. I personally believe that it barely edges into the category of "qualified success", a loose collection of brilliant moments which do not add up to a satisfying whole. Fortunately, a return to form was just around the corner in Argento's next film, Tenebrae.
And, reportedly, Inferno's story did not come together as easily as it had for Suspiria, because Argento's under-appreciated Suspiria co-writer, Daria Nicolodi, felt exhausted and frustrated from her previous experience. At some point, Argento and Nicolodi outlined a sweeping horror epic which would have been covered across three films: the saga of The Three Mothers. Mater Suspiriorum (mother of sighs), manifested in Germany, had already been confronted and destroyed in Suspiria; Mater Tenebrarum (mother of shadows), manifested in America, would be the force behind the events of Inferno; Mater Lacrimarum (mother of tears), manifested in Italy, would have appeared in a third film which was never made, after Nicolodi refused to collaborate with Argento on any more scripts.
Inferno's New York City setting was possibly a calculated move to appeal to a wider audience, especially since Argento had financial backing from a major American studio for the first time in his career. The fanciful qualities of Suspiria are somewhat lacking in this sequel, due as much to the more mundane setting as to Nicolodi's decreased creative input (she does not have a screen writing credit on Inferno.) Indeed, the unfocused plot owes more than a little to a pair of NYC-set horror novels which had already been made into films by this time: Rosemary's Baby and The Sentinel; the sinister apartment building populated by grotesque characters seems all-too-familiar. The nominal protagonist is the inquisitive brother of a tenant who has died while pursuing her obsession with The Three Mothers. And yet he disappears for long stretches of the film, although this is actually a good thing, because he is played by an unappealing himbo named Leigh McCloskey; this sort of casting feels like a disastrous attempt at second-guessing what American viewers wanted to see.
Inferno's good points lie entirely in Argento's cinematic technique. The bright cartoon colors of Suspiria are set aside in favor of an extensive use of red and blue filters, and the crystalline results are often breath-taking. Many of Argento's individual compositions and set-pieces (with some uncredited special effects by Mario Bava) are quite impressive -- particularly one sequence set during a lunar eclipse, in which a thoroughly unsympathetic man is nearly devoured by rats, only for his presumed rescuer to kill him with a meat cleaver. But the film doesn't hold together; it feels more like the work of a precocious but undisciplined film student, rather than the work of a seasoned veteran, which is what Argento was by this time.
Even the music, usually a vital ingredient in an Argento film, is a letdown. In the place of Italian rock band Goblin, we have pioneering British rocker Keith Emerson; good idea on paper, except that Emerson was past his prime by then, and Inferno was but one in a string of uninspired Emerson film scores. The best Emerson can manage here is a pastiche of Jerry Goldsmith's theme music from The Omen. Selections from the work of 19th Century opera composer Giuseppe Verdi are not enough to compensate.
Worst of all is Inferno's resolution: when Mater Tenebrarum finally reveals herself to the protagonist, she delivers a long and frightening speech which appears to anticipate a fate for the protagonist similar to that of his female counterpart in The Sentinel -- becoming trapped and enslaved by the supernatural forces within the building. But instead, he simply runs away, and escapes with ridiculous ease, Mater Tenebrarum doing nothing to stop him. Was this another instance of second-guessing the preferences of American viewers? Inferno has a surprising amount of admirers who consider it Argento's greatest achievement. I personally believe that it barely edges into the category of "qualified success", a loose collection of brilliant moments which do not add up to a satisfying whole. Fortunately, a return to form was just around the corner in Argento's next film, Tenebrae.