I do not know the background of this film, but it has features that later Jess Franco's films had: beautiful girls (young readers will be appalled by their large hairdos, but yes, women were using it like that, and I liked it), plenty of bad guys, coward and courageous cops, rotten politicians, a South American unnamed country sunny and reach in opportunities (for working people and cocaine traffickers). Other reviewers noticed how Franco's next films were a succession of cheap exploitative slashers, nudity, prostitution, gore, terror. Why? My answer is that maybe Franco thought, as time went by, that he needed money, and he was more serious than his audiences, and distributors. If he saw historical evolution right, after 1963 he understood that he made a film with a happy end (no, it's not a spoiler yet) that was out of pace with real life: we know now for certain that gangsters, former Nazis, people involved in drugs trafficking, when «democratic» elections by using power, fear, and all the votes money can buy. In a far, unnamed country in Latin America - nothing to affect English speakers... Franco did manage to film this in Madrid under a dictatorial regime, but his film was so good, too good in fact, that it has had almost no distribution, even with VHS and DVD. Or else, I've been distracted, and many fans of Franco too.
And yet, Franco was placing all in front of our eyes. The first image is a political campaign poster, "Leprince es Justicia" (Leprince is Justice), but we FORGET it when the woman's voice starts speaking low of a gone lover, and the camera pans onto the beach house, and the seashore. The orchestra that starts playing all that black jazz score (by Jess Franco as Daniel J. White - also the wonderful cabaret numbers though the film), and an elegant pair of ankles and feet are doing dance steps on the chalk marks on the stage, 1-2-3-4... and on and on, but we FORGET that it means that her audience (us) do not care she is not what she pretends to be, a dancer, and as credits roll, we finally see her, the buxom blonde in a tight white dress, promising us kisses. A couple of black men are seen dating with brunettes, and one even has time to evade answering her about sort of thing was he dealing with - to be so rich, and to afford having a different girl every night, and promising them pricey cars, but we FORGET about him, as he is a mere underling to the big boss, and soon dispatched from the story. The cabaret owner is also the owner of the cotton industries, and an immigrant of April 1944, arriving without money from Nazi occupied Marseilles, France, but we FORGET that Franco plants this information in three distant occupied dialogs, never as a relevant matter but something that blurts out in the middle of something else. One person will come close to another person who is snoring loud after drinking an alcohol drink, open the person's shirt, extract a small key to a safe, and eventually finding out more than expected (yeah! I managed to write this without a spoiler!), and we FORGET that neither Orson Welles, nor Alfred Hitchock, ever managed such a long, thrilling suspense that had me on the edge of the chair, and yet unable to press fast forward - for I was as much afraid of that said person.
The expression Rififi comes from the underground world of Brussels (I think) and it's almost impossible to translate, so in other languages (as in Spanish) it is either left alone, or a different approach must be used... Riffraff is not an explanation, and it is more than struggle, or fight, because it conveys despair, all-out, annihilation...
The French title "Vous souvenez-vous de Paco?" (do you remember Paco, the most common short name in Spanish language countries...) is very intriguing. With it, Franco tells us that Paco will be easily forgotten by the men in the story, and in the audience, who will NEVER FORGET the French (or is it German?) that fled to South America to start a new life (or is it?). I (with my male brain, already forgot Paco's face), but Franco also told me that Paco will never be forgotten by the women who loved him (for his face, his body, his sex, or himself?) even if he had not loved them. Nina's and Pilar's speeches, on camera, or in a letter read later by a police detective, mark the difference between man and woman in a relationship - and suddenly I find that this is not just an engagé director settling a political matter, it is a genial director putting us face-to-face with the ages old question of love, sex, and relationships. In 1963 - five years before the summer of 1968.
The beautiful cinematography in black and white and the cheap decors somewhat manages to give to the film all the bright colors - and shades - of Latin America, but the original story, or its magnificent screen adaptation leads us to the high levels of human and social statements film directors ever made in a movie.
I'm ashamed I only knew Jesus Franco by some musical scores in sexploitation films, and a couple of Doctor Orloffs. I paid US$8.37 for the original version in Spanish, no subtitles, Clásicos Imprescindibles del Cine Español, at a discount sale, that runs exactly 99 min 30 sec., format 1.85:1 (screen 4:3), an excellent, blameless print by Mercury Films & Video, and Filmfax Homevideo. I'm not selling it for US$83.70 even if you ask politely. Unless you've just won a democratic election in your State - like in this film's there is a decider second vote after the first results are counted - and you, and your friends, make me an offer THAT I CAN'T POSSIBLY REFUSE. (pun intended)
And yet, Franco was placing all in front of our eyes. The first image is a political campaign poster, "Leprince es Justicia" (Leprince is Justice), but we FORGET it when the woman's voice starts speaking low of a gone lover, and the camera pans onto the beach house, and the seashore. The orchestra that starts playing all that black jazz score (by Jess Franco as Daniel J. White - also the wonderful cabaret numbers though the film), and an elegant pair of ankles and feet are doing dance steps on the chalk marks on the stage, 1-2-3-4... and on and on, but we FORGET that it means that her audience (us) do not care she is not what she pretends to be, a dancer, and as credits roll, we finally see her, the buxom blonde in a tight white dress, promising us kisses. A couple of black men are seen dating with brunettes, and one even has time to evade answering her about sort of thing was he dealing with - to be so rich, and to afford having a different girl every night, and promising them pricey cars, but we FORGET about him, as he is a mere underling to the big boss, and soon dispatched from the story. The cabaret owner is also the owner of the cotton industries, and an immigrant of April 1944, arriving without money from Nazi occupied Marseilles, France, but we FORGET that Franco plants this information in three distant occupied dialogs, never as a relevant matter but something that blurts out in the middle of something else. One person will come close to another person who is snoring loud after drinking an alcohol drink, open the person's shirt, extract a small key to a safe, and eventually finding out more than expected (yeah! I managed to write this without a spoiler!), and we FORGET that neither Orson Welles, nor Alfred Hitchock, ever managed such a long, thrilling suspense that had me on the edge of the chair, and yet unable to press fast forward - for I was as much afraid of that said person.
The expression Rififi comes from the underground world of Brussels (I think) and it's almost impossible to translate, so in other languages (as in Spanish) it is either left alone, or a different approach must be used... Riffraff is not an explanation, and it is more than struggle, or fight, because it conveys despair, all-out, annihilation...
The French title "Vous souvenez-vous de Paco?" (do you remember Paco, the most common short name in Spanish language countries...) is very intriguing. With it, Franco tells us that Paco will be easily forgotten by the men in the story, and in the audience, who will NEVER FORGET the French (or is it German?) that fled to South America to start a new life (or is it?). I (with my male brain, already forgot Paco's face), but Franco also told me that Paco will never be forgotten by the women who loved him (for his face, his body, his sex, or himself?) even if he had not loved them. Nina's and Pilar's speeches, on camera, or in a letter read later by a police detective, mark the difference between man and woman in a relationship - and suddenly I find that this is not just an engagé director settling a political matter, it is a genial director putting us face-to-face with the ages old question of love, sex, and relationships. In 1963 - five years before the summer of 1968.
The beautiful cinematography in black and white and the cheap decors somewhat manages to give to the film all the bright colors - and shades - of Latin America, but the original story, or its magnificent screen adaptation leads us to the high levels of human and social statements film directors ever made in a movie.
I'm ashamed I only knew Jesus Franco by some musical scores in sexploitation films, and a couple of Doctor Orloffs. I paid US$8.37 for the original version in Spanish, no subtitles, Clásicos Imprescindibles del Cine Español, at a discount sale, that runs exactly 99 min 30 sec., format 1.85:1 (screen 4:3), an excellent, blameless print by Mercury Films & Video, and Filmfax Homevideo. I'm not selling it for US$83.70 even if you ask politely. Unless you've just won a democratic election in your State - like in this film's there is a decider second vote after the first results are counted - and you, and your friends, make me an offer THAT I CAN'T POSSIBLY REFUSE. (pun intended)