Black Killer Review
From The Spaghetti Western Database
A shady lawyer – James Webb – arrives at the town of Tombstone where he resolves to dwell in the local saloon. He appears to be somebody else than an ordinary traveler who just happened to be passing through, but a man with precise as well as latent plans. At the same time, a swift gunfighter Burt Collins turns up so as to meet his brother, notwithstanding, before doing so, he stands in for a local representative of the law, who has barely been slaughtered by merciless and powerful O’Hara brothers, and becomes a sheriff which involves him into a deadly vortex of savage violence…
If someone is seeking for a so-called hidden gem, one has to be made aware of the fact that Black Killer is not a neat film. Actually, it is a pretty paltry one, yet simultaneously extremely enjoyable. Envision an incommensurably enormous portion of cheese hovering above your head and you will have the picture what Black Killer looks like. Crafted by a man who partook in more flicks in front of camera than behind it, Black Killer is nearly incompetent and those who search for something valuable will be left exasperated.
The effort which is supposed to be an actioner is in terms of action as titillating as watching a slug traversing one’s lawn. The movie is initiated with a sequence in which black-clad Kinski enters the town. He has two horses one of which serves him as a means of transport while the other is laden with books. Once he is about to step into the Tombstone’s saloon, a man working there who is to carry Kinski’s items to his chamber drops one of his volumes which opens up. Kinski closes it in no time at all, gets resentful and scolds at the male. Besides Kinski, the audience is the only one who discerns a hole in the book. This relatively deftly crafted sequence constitutes a foreshadowing for the ensuing minutes and an agile hook which indicates this might be an average, still solidly written piece of material.
How wrong. This is the first and the only graceful gesture in the entire film and no matter how hard the director attempts to keep this all alive, he even more overtly butchers it before audience’s eyes. Inept mise-en-scene is compounded by the screenplay which paradoxically enough elevates it from an ocean of obscurity and lunges it into such great preposterousness and insanity that it becomes a most savory litter. The script is simply conjuring – it is a work of such a grandiose incoherency that you will either crave for the denouement or you will be spellbound by screenplay’s sheer and overwhelming ludicrousness. The plot is heavily flawed, structural narrative as sparse as it can become and conversations between characters clichéd to the extension that it virtually feels like a self-travesty and the dialogues in English dubbing are so enchantingly dumb and infantile that it is almost reasonable to assume that the one who wrote the thing was an incessantly drunk high-school student endeavouring to earn some cash in order to purchase a couple of beers.
Klaus Kinski is unsurprisingly the best member of the cast which is a bunch of people with stony faces. Kinski only needs to come into sight and remain in frame – he is cool enough and even the instant he appears jaded with playing his part, he ceaselessly conveys a ration of class to this inconsistent cauldron of ridiculousness. Apart from him, the acting is the opposite of dignity, amusingly bad – frankly speaking, non-existent and as one-dimensional as the characters. Fred Robsahm is unconvincing and other males in roles of O’Hara brothers look slightly like circus clowns. As for females, they were solely required to tramp around in front of camera and display their bodies, thus disparate scenes last longer so that a lady can expose her buttocks.
The cinematographer Franco Villa stylishly shot really good flicks such as Milano Calibro 9 by Di Leo or Prega il morto e ammazza il vivo by Vari, but here he was just doing his job and could not fully show his visual flair. The soundtrack by Daniele Patucchi is probably the best element of this spaghetti western. Patucchi, responsible for analogously unnerving music to ultra-low budgeted Lo ammazzo come un cane... ma lui rideva ancora by Pannacciò, endows the movie with folk riffs as well as some modern tunes and it is a shame that such a catchy track was exploited in this film – alas, it is too exuberant and gracious for a stuff which is not in the slightest as spectacular and puzzlingly idiosyncratic as the soundtrack’s tempo as well as its climax.
Whilst die-hard followers of spaghetti western genre might give this one a shot, they ought to approach it as a pure pastime devoid of inherent ingredients of every good motion picture. Personally, I am constrained to confess that I was genuinely astonished how much I enjoyed this stinking, incoherent and vaporous piece of rotten filmmaking. It succeeds in being mesmerizingly entertaining and accomplishing some of its aims… in a different manner. Cheese has not killed anybody so far, hence accept its trashiness and you shall be okay.
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