The French Sex Murders [1972]

What a title, eh? "The French Sex Murders" works like a bullet list--you know exactly what you're in for from the moment the title card appears on screen. The French--you're covered with the opening image of the Eiffel Tower. Sex--we then head directly to a brothel. As for the "Murders," the first one occurs within fifteen minutes.

You'll notice that the film poster proudly displays the words "The Man With Bogart's Face." Now, I'll be honest--I would far rather have seen a movie called "The Man With Bogart's Face"--I'm picturing a "Maltese Falcon"/"Faceless" mash-up made of pure excellence. Or at least a movie that contained some moments of diverting weirdness. Sadly, "French Sex Murders," in spite of its promisingly lurid title, just never lives up to its promise. The little "About This Film" blurb on the DVD extras was significantly more interesting than pretty much anything that happened during the course of the movie.

The story is told in flashback, opening with the death of an unidentified person leaping from the Eiffel Tower. Humphrey Bogart impersonator Robert Sacchi looks on, smoking a cigarette (naturally), and in voiceover tells the audience "it all began during Carnivale." Cool so far, right? Yeah, except--not so much. The only glimpse we get of Carnivale is of two figures entering a brothel clad in hooded cloaks and eyemasks. I guess the budget was shot on those Eiffel Tower frames...

The storyline is reasonably OK, telling the story of a man accused of murdering his prostitute girlfriend in a Paris brothel. After all evidence in the case points to him, he is sentenced to death and vows to return from the grave to seek revenge on the people who have framed him. One must understand that the actor portraying the accused murderer is completely out of control. We're talking eye-bulging, jaw-clenching, hardcore freak-outery here. If his character had lived and gone on to further displays of mania throughout the film, there might've been more to enjoy.

Sadly, he is decapitated by a truck's loading shelf in a mannequin-tastic bit of hokey FX, thus depriving the audience of the potential for further zaniness. Needless to say, the killings continue, with those who were involved in the accusations against the convicted murderer turning up dead. The potential for a supernatural twist is never really elaborated upon, throwing away another perfectly good opportunity to amp up the eccentricity factor.

Howard Vernon plays a pathologist who is investigating the case and puts in a creditable enough performance. There's some WTF'ery surrounding the fact that he has been entrusted with the head of the accused murderer, upon receipt of which he immediately instructs his assistant to "excise the right eyeball." As you do in French pathology, apparently. Said assistant is trying to schtup HV's daughter in an extremely rapey-slash-guilt-trippy manner... By this point I was just so distracted by the Humphrey Bogart look-alike detective and the not-as-arty-as-they-sound repeat-motion murder scenes that I honestly didn't care much about the plot and the not-terribly-imaginative death set-pieces and the underutilized Eurotrash Royalty cast (Anita Ekberg, Rosalba Neri, and Barbara Bouchet all show up to look fabulous and collect a paycheck). I was also distracted by the presence of what I have lovingly dubbed "the Heartini" in Howard Vernon's lab (it's above left in the image preceeding this paragraph). Seriously--what is that thing? Do French pathologists typically display internal organs in attractive colored glass barware? Also, would the Heartini taste any good? You could probably get away with mixing one using well liquor, as I'd imagine the heart would sort of overwhelm the flavor of a really good gin...

Then, this shot appeared on screen:

...and I began to construct a Far Superior Film tracing the wacky hijinx of the Porn Star, the Funeral Director and the Humphrey Bogart Impersonator. Trust me, this movie was way sounder and more interesting...

Internet, once this movie hit the one-hour mark I was honestly punched out of it. I think I may be spoiled on lesser gialli. I'll summarize by saying that the ending is pulled together out of loose plot strands and doesn't make a lick of sense. Well, maybe a lick of sense, but by no means does it get to the center of the Tootsie Pop. I will conclude by pointing out that this movie does not portray French men in the best light. If I am to take the word of this film, I should definitely carry an extra-grande sized can of Mace with me on my trip to Paris lest I be groped unremittingly and perhaps bitchslapped into an early grave by a lusty Gallic fellow.

Here's a hott naked girl on a flokati to make up for the marked lack of awesome in this film:

The Flickr gallery of stills from "French Sex Murders" lives here.