A film of hypnotic, at times hypnagogic, beauty. The Italian directors of this particular era had an unparalleled aesthetic sensibility. Martino is no exception. His wife, at the time, the deliciously pulchritudinous Edwige Fenech (oh what a lucky man Martino was) delivers one of the most dazzlingly frazzled performances of all-time. Constantly startled, breathlessly looking over her shoulder all deer-in-the-headlights-eyed as she is pursued by Satanistic stalkers. Amazingly, she never looks like less than a perfect 10, you kind of just want to sip her through a straw and/or turn her into a giallo pudding pop and get to licking. Just don't let her cook your eggs. The Satanic cult leader was a dreadful actor, but he reminded me of this guy Dennis I know who sings throwback doo-wop with a group called the Delneros, so this, and this alone, made him bearable. Once again we see the infamous lightning blue contacts, this time being worn by some Polish-looking dude with a self-inflicted haircut. Those contacts really made the rounds in the early 70s, as did George Hilton, who has an Engelbert Humperdinck swagger about him, but maybe it's just the turtlenecks. Got to dig that dude's ubiquity. Not Martino's best film, but probably his most occultish and psychedelic. A technicolor thrill!
