It all begins rather nonchalantly – with a semi-rugged, handsome and solitary man (visiting American writer Sam Dalmas) calmly walking along a dark and empty Roman side street. Across the way, inside what appears to be a high-end contemporary art gallery, Sam witnesses a struggle between an obscured, shadowy man and a woman dressed in white. The mysterious black-gloved man appears to be attacking the woman with a large knife or razor. Shocked, Sam runs over to help, banging on the fiberglass partition that shields the gallery from the street, but it's all in vain. Without warning, the gallery's alarm goes off and another invulnerable partition quickly slides into place from behind, thereby trapping Sam between the two. He has no choice but to watch helplessly as the woman is repeatedly and mercilessly stabbed by her masked, leather-clad attacker. And we have no choice but to sit and watch along with him.
Although there's great danger in store for Sam if he remains in Rome (being the only eyewitness to a still unsolved crime), he's determined to assist however he can. The only way he really can help is by forcing himself to confront the memories of what he saw that night. And we are forced to do the same. Argento gave us almost all the clues to solve the movie's mystery right up front, film title included (something the character of Sam doesn't even get to consider). We saw exactly the same things Sam did. Can we recall those initial images we shouldn't have taken for granted, and with them, guess the killer's identity? Can Sam figure it out before he's next on the killer's list? Throughout Bird, Sam is haunted by what he saw, or rather, what he didn't see, and only by immersing himself in the horror of the memory (and the future danger that comes with it) can he free himself from its ghost; like John Harrington in Bava's Hatchet for the Honeymoon, Sam Dalmas must go on. One of the most auspicious directorial debuts in genre cinema history (if not in all of cinema), Dario Argento's The Bird with the Crystal Plumage took the world film markets (and critics) by complete surprise upon its initial releases throughout '70-'71.
Dario Argento was an already accomplished screenwriter, having co-written Sergio Leone's epic, unsurpassable masterpiece Once Upon a Time in the West, but Argento's directorial debut was neither greatly anticipated nor expected to be of much note. Today Argento is considered to be among the most influential genre filmmakers alive, and the roots of so much that we take for granted in the world of cinematic thrills and suspense first took seed in The Bird with the Crystal Plumage. Despite Bava's originating the giallo sub-genre with 1962's The Girl Who Knew Too Much and 1964's Blood & Black Lace, it took Argento's Bird to kick-start the craze, which ran for a further twelve blood-riddled years. This nail-biting interim include great works by Lucio Fulci (Lizard in a Woman's Skin; Don't Torture a Duckling) and Sergio Martino (Your Vice is a Locked Room and Only I Have the Key; Torso), but Argento himself brought the giallo's glorious run to its end with his overtly self-referential 1982 film Tenebrae, in which, again like Hatchet for the Honeymoon, the protagonist and antagonist are one and the same.
The Bird with the Crystal Plumage however, keeps first-time viewers guessing in addictive frustration, and shaking in their seats until its final sadistic scenes. Unlike Bava, the dialogue and plot matter a great deal to Argento, and few if any other giallos can match Bird's inventive narrative. Aided by intelligent, imaginative and disquieting camera-work by future Oscar-winner Vittorio Storaro (who like Argento was a prior relative unknown), and a gorgeously arid percussive score by Ennio Morricone, Argento's The Bird with the Crystal Plumage was the start of an ingenious and daring career that has seen many highs, and many unfortunate lows. Even though Bava will always be the Renaissance Man to lovers of Italian Horror, Argento should be remembered as the Mannerist, the Expressionist. He took it to the next obvious yet intelligent level, away from Bava's bold, entertaining experiments in style, contrast, perspective and otherworldly lighting, and instead into a darker, morally-contrarian realm. One where the feelings and intentions of the artist's images, and the audience's reaction to them, may not be in sync; where a world of fever-dreams and waking-nightmares is ruled by Freudian panic; and where the word 'primal' may lose its definition, for it could be all there is. Most amazing of all, Argento's best works were yet to come.
Although there's great danger in store for Sam if he remains in Rome (being the only eyewitness to a still unsolved crime), he's determined to assist however he can. The only way he really can help is by forcing himself to confront the memories of what he saw that night. And we are forced to do the same. Argento gave us almost all the clues to solve the movie's mystery right up front, film title included (something the character of Sam doesn't even get to consider). We saw exactly the same things Sam did. Can we recall those initial images we shouldn't have taken for granted, and with them, guess the killer's identity? Can Sam figure it out before he's next on the killer's list? Throughout Bird, Sam is haunted by what he saw, or rather, what he didn't see, and only by immersing himself in the horror of the memory (and the future danger that comes with it) can he free himself from its ghost; like John Harrington in Bava's Hatchet for the Honeymoon, Sam Dalmas must go on. One of the most auspicious directorial debuts in genre cinema history (if not in all of cinema), Dario Argento's The Bird with the Crystal Plumage took the world film markets (and critics) by complete surprise upon its initial releases throughout '70-'71.
Dario Argento was an already accomplished screenwriter, having co-written Sergio Leone's epic, unsurpassable masterpiece Once Upon a Time in the West, but Argento's directorial debut was neither greatly anticipated nor expected to be of much note. Today Argento is considered to be among the most influential genre filmmakers alive, and the roots of so much that we take for granted in the world of cinematic thrills and suspense first took seed in The Bird with the Crystal Plumage. Despite Bava's originating the giallo sub-genre with 1962's The Girl Who Knew Too Much and 1964's Blood & Black Lace, it took Argento's Bird to kick-start the craze, which ran for a further twelve blood-riddled years. This nail-biting interim include great works by Lucio Fulci (Lizard in a Woman's Skin; Don't Torture a Duckling) and Sergio Martino (Your Vice is a Locked Room and Only I Have the Key; Torso), but Argento himself brought the giallo's glorious run to its end with his overtly self-referential 1982 film Tenebrae, in which, again like Hatchet for the Honeymoon, the protagonist and antagonist are one and the same.
The Bird with the Crystal Plumage however, keeps first-time viewers guessing in addictive frustration, and shaking in their seats until its final sadistic scenes. Unlike Bava, the dialogue and plot matter a great deal to Argento, and few if any other giallos can match Bird's inventive narrative. Aided by intelligent, imaginative and disquieting camera-work by future Oscar-winner Vittorio Storaro (who like Argento was a prior relative unknown), and a gorgeously arid percussive score by Ennio Morricone, Argento's The Bird with the Crystal Plumage was the start of an ingenious and daring career that has seen many highs, and many unfortunate lows. Even though Bava will always be the Renaissance Man to lovers of Italian Horror, Argento should be remembered as the Mannerist, the Expressionist. He took it to the next obvious yet intelligent level, away from Bava's bold, entertaining experiments in style, contrast, perspective and otherworldly lighting, and instead into a darker, morally-contrarian realm. One where the feelings and intentions of the artist's images, and the audience's reaction to them, may not be in sync; where a world of fever-dreams and waking-nightmares is ruled by Freudian panic; and where the word 'primal' may lose its definition, for it could be all there is. Most amazing of all, Argento's best works were yet to come.