Lucio Fulci is one of those directors whose reputation has continued to blossom in the years since his death; this makes sense, as his films – perhaps particularly his horror films – are so beloved of genre fans, offering a great deal to both enjoy and to decode. It’s difficult to find someone who ‘quite likes’ Fulci; you’re either in or you’re out. As such, it’s no surprise that film writers continue to turn to Fulci for longer-form projects such as these. Hell, even I had a go a few years ago. Matt Rogerson’s most recent book focuses solely on Fulci’s cinema, whereas in his last book, The Vatican Versus Horror Movies, Fulci formed part, even if a significant part, of the book overall. However, even so, you could still sense that il dottore was perhaps a favourite. Here, Rogerson permits himself the time and space to really get to grips with his work, studying it, contextualising it and redefining it.
Starting by acknowledging the UK’s ‘moral panic’ over the Video Nasties debacle (something which shaped his early exposure to Fulci’s films), Rogerson – himself the son of a video pirate – starts with a measured approach to the topic of video piracy, including the thesis that Fulci (and others) may never have developed such loyal fans without the complicated pleasures of illicit access to these films: there was just something about having to work for them and the secretive culture which sprang up around them which really established them as formative. This being discussed, Rogerson works on establishing Fulci as a distinctly Catholic horror auteur, picking and and developing different aspects of Fulci’s faith (or apostasy) and tracing it through his most seminal cinema. This is something which can certainly bear additional commentary, such as is offered here: perhaps it’s the want of translated material, perhaps the minimal mentions made of Fulci’s faith in the more biographical-style writing already out there, or of course the fact that many of Fulci’s most ardent fans are not Italian themselves, and so aren’t immersed in Catholic culture to the same extent that Fulci was (even if they, too, like Rogerson, were raised as Catholics). As per The Vatican Versus Horror Movies, the sizeable influence of the Vatican itself on Italian cinema should never be underestimated. In considering this, Fulci’s Inferno also examines the works of other directors, who in their own films were undertaking comparable religious antagonism to Fulci. There are some quite surprising inclusions here – such as La Dolce Vita – but Rogerson makes a strong case for their influence on Fulci, as well as the risqué paths they took through an often volatile and judgemental film scene in this era.
The book devotes plenty of time to looking at the Gates of Hell films – arguably Fulci’s best-known films (alongside Zombi, which perhaps deserved more discussion in its own right). Beginning with The Beyond – a film containing “no logic” according to Fulci – we read more about a film so despairing and nihilistic that, like the other titles in this impromptu trilogy, defies narrative boundaries. This isn’t, though, just about Fulci’s more definably horror output, and a selection of his other, pre-horror work is also interrogated. Seeking a means to categorise and understand Fulci’s cinematography, Rogerson divides Fulci’s style into three key areas: Fulci the Surrealist, Fulci the Gore Maestro and Fulci the Apostate. To fully engage with Fulci’s mindset necessitates plenty of social and cultural context – such as where Rogerson forges a convincing link between Mussolini’s seizure of control over the creative industries, which rendered Italian cinema itself into a ‘soulless shadow’, turning film itself into the kind of nihilistic space we eventually see in The Beyond. There’s necessarily some recap here of Rogerson’s earlier book, as we look at the role of the Vatican in film censorship vis-à-vis the Vatican’s arguably collusive relationship with fascism.
We also get a timeline of Fulci’s work from the perspective of his steadily growing antagonistic tendencies, something which got him in trouble with the Holy See very early in his career (even when he was still working primarily in comedy). The book is helpfully organised by key Fulci projects, giving a sense of progression and discussing the director’s personal life where relevant. Much of the analysis is spirited and knowledgeable, with the section on Don’t Torture a Duckling forming one of the book’s real high points. The book also spends time on auteur theory, though to provide a broader understanding of the term, shifting emphasis more to other directors and projects. Also, there are some fascinating parallels drawn between some of Fulci’s best-known scenes and the work of Francisco de Goya: this isn’t something which had ever really occurred before, but given the anticlerical Goya’s own descent into disillusionment and despair, the two men make an interesting cross-study. The book also contains a chapter on Fulci’s later films – by no means all lionised – and a chapter on a selection of later titles influenced by Fulci, coming almost up to date with Skinamarink. Where Rogerson charts the presence of what he refers to as the ‘Uncontainable Evil’ – a set of features which he charts across numerous Fulci titles and Fulci-influenced titles – the chapters break off into a section of bullet points, which breaks the flow of the writing to an extent; discussing some of the features inline would be more in keeping with the style of the rest of the book, but this is a minor quibble, as the thesis itself is thoroughly engaging.
Fulci has already been considered at length by some critical big hitters such as Stephen Thrower, and given that, only someone with a genuine love for Fulci would ever take him on anew for an extended study of this kind – but that is clearly the case here. Rogerson cleverly blends fandom with more academic film criticism, and whilst this probably isn’t a book for the most casual Fulci fan, it is accessible and appealing for anyone with more than a passing interest in this complex and innovative director. There’s lots to love in Fulci’s Inferno: it’s nicely structured, with care and concern over how its key ideas have been explored and presented; it’s comprehensively researched, displaying a broader love of Italian cinema which helps to define and underpin the whole; it conveys often complex information very clearly. There’s a good balance between passion project and new, semiotic-style analysis, with Rogerson’s wealth of ideas and theses landing well across the whole study. You can really dig into this book, finding plenty to consider, developing a new understanding of Fulci’s processes and ideas whilst expanding your appreciation of his filmography. It’s eminently worthwhile and deserves a place on your shelves.
Fulci’s Inferno: Faith in the Films of a Horror and Giallo Auteur is available now from McFarland Books. You can order a copy here.