Cinema is necrophilia. The act of desiring now aged or decayed faces, trapped by the illusion of action that seems to exist in the present tense, but were in fact created and forgotten years ago. The sepulchral nature Bava’s masterpiece encapsulates the sentiment precisely: the climax of the film comes wo thirds of the way through, and sees our heroine unconscious as her leading man attempts to make love to her with the decomposing copse of his unfaithful lover in the bed next to them. And we watch – transfixed with a curiosity and an overwhelming need to follow events that were captured over thirty years ago as if they were unfolding before our eyes today.
There are four basic principles that govern the substance and success of the cinematic spectacle. Bava’s output – and this film in particular – are fine examples of these principles in action, and demand in-depth analysis and debate at the most fundamental level of film education, rather than being labelled as curios to only the most ardent horror aficionados. Lisa e il diavolo, with its oneiric logic and unreadable narrative, represents the pinnacle of a life’s work that was cruelly brutal in its time and ignored in death. The famed art house onanist Federico Fellini borrowed from Bava without recognising borrowed from Bava without recognising the knowledge and acuteness behind his cinematic skill – if a pilfering magpie can see some of the greatness, why must modern critics and theorists ignore the obvious importance of a filmmaker whose films include the beautiful and terrifying Terrore nello spazio (1965; reviewed here), the uncompromisingly brilliant Cani arrabbiati (1974), and this sublime piece of dream-cinema?
