The Shunned House (2003)
The early 1990s was a time of great pain for admirers of the Italian film industry's strange obsession with churning out an incomprehensible number of unbelievably bad horror movies. Once upon a time, a fellow could easily expect to be inundated with a variety of movies with the words "demons" "zombie" and even "ghosthouse" in the title. You could also depend on them to unload a pile of flicks on you that vaguely called to mind Escape From New York. These movies usually featured titles with words like "escape" "New York" and "Bronx." And if you ever got tired of watching guys in studded jeans and giant perms saving the last American virgin from mutants on rollerblades, you were always free to slurp up one of their "fashion models get slashed" flicks or even indulge in some Jaws rip-off that featured really big alligators, crocodiles, or, um, sharks.
But by 1991, the glory days were clearly over. Mario Bava had been dead for years, son Lamberto had slunk off to work on Italian TV, and Lucio Fulci went and croaked in 1996 with his last credited work being five years before, though his talent had preceded him to that big zombie-infested island in the sky by about ten years. Umberto Lenzi and Antonio Margheriti pretty much quit making films as the nineties began while Sergio Martino and Ruggero Deodato worked sporadically on projects that were for the most part unrelated to their glorious genre work of the past.
Fast forward a decade when digital video made it possible for aspiring filmmakers of varying degrees of talent (I'm guessing slim to none) to unleash their kaleidoscope of cool images mysteriously devoid of anything resembling a coherent narrative. While computers have made it possible to put together a slick looking product (I refuse to say "professional" because digital video is cheap looking and immediately renders whatever is up on screen suspect), they still can't generate decent pacing, solid storytelling, or good ideas. Increased access to the medium only results in an increased number of sucky movie to wade through.
Somewhere though over in Italy, someone noticed that the Sears in the Rome Galleria had just gotten a stock of these digital video cameras and decided that maybe it was time once again for Italy to rise up and reclaim her throne as "country of origin for most crappy horror movies in a given year." But who would be the intrepid soul to take up the mantle of an entire people? A people used to unauthorized sequels, confusing retitlings, and multiple Bruno Mattei women in prison movies made with the same cast and crew, yet different somehow? Enter Ivan Zuccon. 
So who is this Ivan Zuccon and what does he have to do with reviving Italy's moribund bad horror movie industry? Beats the piss out of me. Far as I can tell, his horror movie is an Italian production and it stinks. What more background do you need? Before viewing his movie, I had never heard of him, it, or anyone related to the film. The only thing I knew was that it was based on some H.P. Lovecraft story or other.
The thing I noticed right away when the movie started was that Ivan hadn't raided just one Lovecraft tale for his story like most awful movies based on Howie's works (see The Dunwich Horror for example) but had gobbled up three different ones! Now here was a guy committed to making a bad movie! At one time or other I had read all three of these stories, but frankly I've never been able to remember anything about H.P.'s stuff beyond the fact that there were a bunch of slimy Old Gods hanging around in other dimensions just waiting to do something foul to our planet. Well, that and that re-animator guy of course. Other than that though, old Ivan could have given Lovecraft a "based on" credit for his remake of The Philadelphia Story and I would thought, "hmmm, sounds intriguing. I wonder who's got the Jimmy Stewart part."
The movie starts off in classic Italian horror fashion by having some little kid go into an old creepy house (or "villa" to you students of Italian cinema) after his ball. I felt strangely comforted by this since I instantly recalled this bit from at least two previous Italian flicks and felt sure that a series of unexplained murders couldn't be too far behind or at the very least the forecast was probably calling for maggot storms.
This kid retrieves his ball from some goo on the floor of the house (I'm guessing that was the residue from some person who died and disintegrated which somehow caused a doorway to somewhere or other to open up and resulting in further mayhem) and then leaves the house. But wait! He's standing just outside the doorway when a hand grabs him and yanks him back inside! Shock ending! Shock ending! Oh, wait a minute. That was just the prologue. And it seemed like such a good, fast paced effort.
Once all the opening credits had finished rolling by (let's see - edited by Ivan Zuccon, directed by Ivan Zuccon, co-written by Ivan Zuccon, cinematography by Ivan Zuccon - looks I like I know where to send the hate mail to) it didn't take long before I was on the edge of my seat.
No, really! I spent the rest of the movie on the edge of my seat, ready to pounce on the DVD player and hit the eject button as soon as Ivan got tired of tormenting me with his pointless array of sequences where characters I didn't know engaged in a variety of activities that didn't make any sense. This was one of those movies full of faux-arty shots like where a character is holding a clock and drops it in slow motion onto the floor. Then the time on the clock changes! Oh, and this was the same character that spent her time banging her head relentlessly against a wall while wearing a metal blindfold and metal gag. Didn't I see that in a Nine Inch Nails or Tool video way back in the early nineties? 
Just what's up with this shunned house anyway? Alex and Rita are the two main characters we have the distinct non-pleasure of following as they attempt to unravel just why this abandoned motel has been burnt down three times in its past, why there's been about a hundred deaths recorded on its premises in its two or three centuries of existence, and just why it smells like something is rotting down in the bottomless pit located in one of the rooms.
You instantly loathe Alex since he's one of those guys who feels obligated to only shave down to the stubble as well as trying to dress in that "cool without trying" mode that involves a white button up shirt that's open at the collar and accented by a black coat. It reminded of something Ralph Fiennes would wear while trying to sort out some heartbreaking affair he was having with some actress or other. Even worse was that Alex had such a thick accent and Ivan felt the need to pump up the sound effects so that every time a picture was taken by someone it sounded like an A-bomb had gone off, that I understood virtually nothing of what he said.
His female partner Rita is only slightly less irritating, though that's chiefly due to her tight jeans and even tighter light green bustier. She manages to practice the three Cs that all guys just love in a woman: complaining, cussing, and coughing. She whines without respite and even worries that they're breathing toxic or hallucinogenic mold. That would be a real shame if she caught something from all the dust in that old hovel that would interfere with the lung cancer she was working on with her chain smoking. She's along as the photographer who is going to document whatever it is that Alex is trying to find out about the place. He's a writer who's working on a book about the house's bizarre past and this leads us to flashback to earlier occupants and their various fates. It's also the last time the movie makes much sense. 
All these flashbacks manage to do is alternately bore and confuse the viewer with their feeble attempts to gross us out with scenes of people hanging, getting hacked up with a big meat cleaver, and being slashed with a razor blade along with more mundane horror cliches like a mysterious guy wandering around in a dark hat and dark overcoat and a guy playing chess against a dude with cloven hooves.
Periodically, you'd catch some bit of dialogue that pretended to explain something (a witch built this place! Spilling blood opens a doorway! One room is zero, but two is infinity! Huh?). The residents include a mathematician who walks in his sleep and maybe kills little kids, a gal who plays the violin apparently to keep some evil force from coming in her window, and a few other losers I've already forgotten.
None of these characters register beyond their distinctly non-telegenic looks and they wander around a set so dark and ugly, I couldn't figure out what they were up to half the time anyway. I suppose the movie is trying to be atmospheric with its palate of browns and greys and with the run down old house, but it just comes off as horribly unappealing. Who cares if a bunch of weirdos in a dirty old flop house go crazy and kill each other? And who cares if Alex ever manages to get his old lady to quit using the F-word long enough to take a few pictures so that he can get his book in gear. (And would you be surprised if when she goes to take a picture, she sees strange things that aren't really there? Glad to see that Ivan didn't miss that cliche.)
While trying to flush this digital turd, any doubt that you're in the presence of the spiritual descendant of all those rotten Italian movies of a generation ago is erased when the violinist breaks all the strings on her violin thereby forcing her to take a giant bite out of her arm and to start trying to play her exposed veins and tendons with her bow! Well played, Ivan! Well played! Somewhere, Lucio Fulci is smiling down on you. Of course, I'm talking about the made-for-TV Lucio Fulci, responsible for such putrid pasta epics like Touch Of Death and Sodoma's Ghost. But that's what you were aiming for Ivan, right?
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