They Have Changed Their Face (1971): Vampires Ditch the Castle for the Corner Office
In the neon haze of 1970s Italy, ancient bloodsuckers swap crypts for skyscrapers, proving horror can lurk in the most unexpected boardrooms.
Long before vampires became brooding teen heartthrobs or corporate metaphors in glossy blockbusters, an obscure Italian gem captured their predatory essence amid the cutthroat world of advertising. This 1971 chiller blends gothic chills with sharp social satire, offering a prescient jab at consumerism that still resonates in our branded age.
- A stylish fusion of vampire lore and 1970s Milanese modernity, where undead nobility hires an ad man to rebrand their eternal thirst.
- Director Corrado Farina’s audacious debut skewers capitalism through horror tropes, influencing later Euro-trash experiments.
- Featuring standout performances that elevate campy dialogue into biting commentary on power, seduction, and the soul-selling grind of modern life.
The Pitch from the Undead
Picture this: a slick advertising executive navigating the bustling streets of Milan, only to stumble into a nocturnal realm where the elite dine on more than just caviar. Aor, played with oily charisma by Spaghetti Labastidas, embodies the era’s ambitious go-getter, forever chasing the next big campaign. His life upends when he encounters a pair of aristocratic vampires, the Count and Countess played by Corrado Gaipa and Nicoletta Rizzi, who seek his expertise to modernise their image. No longer content with dusty Transylvanian stereotypes, these bloodsuckers crave relevance in a world of television spots and glossy magazines.
The narrative unfolds with deliberate pace, layering suspense through opulent interiors that contrast sharply with Milan’s gritty urban sprawl. Aor’s initial meetings in the vampires’ lavish apartment drip with erotic tension, as the Countess seduces him with promises of immortality and endless wealth. Farina masterfully uses chiaroscuro lighting to evoke classic Hammer horror while grounding the supernatural in tangible 1970s anxieties. The vampires’ request evolves from a simple makeover to a full-scale invasion of the advertising world, where they manipulate clients and colleagues with hypnotic charm and nocturnal feasts.
Key sequences highlight the film’s ingenuity, such as the surreal brainstorming session where fangs flash amid flip charts and mood boards. Aor grapples with moral quandaries as his agency skyrockets, but at what cost? Victims pile up in stylishly shot vignettes, their drained bodies discovered in alleys or elevators, underscoring the vampires’ ruthless adaptation. The plot crescendos in a frenzy of betrayal and revelation, forcing Aor to confront the monstrous reflection of his own profession. This isn’t mere fang-and-cloak fare; it’s a metaphor for how ancient evils thrive by donning contemporary masks.
Production details reveal a modest budget stretched to atmospheric extremes. Shot primarily in Milan locations, the film captures the city’s post-war boom, with its mix of elegant palazzos and emerging consumerism. Farina drew from his journalism background to infuse authenticity into the ad world depictions, consulting real executives for dialogue that rings true even today. The score, a haunting blend of lounge jazz and dissonant strings by Stelvio Cipriani, amplifies the unease, turning familiar office humdrum into something sinister.
Blood, Brands, and Bourgeoisie Satire
At its core, the film dissects the vampiric nature of capitalism, where executives like Aor suck the life from ideas and people alike. The undead duo represents faded aristocracy clinging to relevance, mirroring Italy’s own cultural shifts amid economic miracle aftershocks. Vampires here shun coffins for penthouses, sunlight for spotlights, symbolising how old power structures rebrand to dominate new arenas. Farina’s script, adapted from his own novel, peppers scenes with witty barbs at marketing ploys, from subliminal messaging to celebrity endorsements laced with literal blood.
Social commentary permeates every frame, critiquing the dehumanising grind of 1970s Italy. Aor’s descent parallels the nation’s grapple with industrialisation, where traditional values erode under consumerist waves. The Countess, with her hypnotic allure, embodies the seductive pull of luxury goods, luring victims much like department store windows. Gaipa’s Count exudes weary authority, his monologues on eternal ennui echoing existential dread in a disposable society. These elements elevate the film beyond genre confines, making it a time capsule of pre-Yuppie excess.
Visually, the production design shines through practical effects that prioritise suggestion over gore. Fake blood flows sparingly but effectively, with neck bites implied through shadows and ecstatic expressions. Cinematographer Aiace Parolin employs wide-angle lenses to distort corporate spaces, turning conference rooms into labyrinths of temptation. Costumes blend mod fashion with gothic flourishes, the vampires’ wardrobe evolving from velvet capes to tailored suits, visually charting their assimilation.
Influences abound from Powell and Pressburger’s lush fantasies to Polanski’s urban horrors, yet Farina carves a unique niche. Compared to contemporaries like The Bird with the Crystal Plumage, it swaps giallo’s slashing for psychological predation, predating The Stepford Wives in automaton critiques. This prescience cements its cult status among Euro-horror aficionados, who praise its restraint amid an era of splatter excesses.
Fangs in the Fashion of the Era
The film’s design ethos captures 1971 Milan’s vibrancy, from Aor’s flared trousers to the vampires’ art deco lair adorned with pop art prints. Packaging for international releases often featured lurid posters promising more exploitation than delivered, a marketing irony fitting the theme. Collectors covet original Italian quad posters, their bold reds evoking arterial sprays amid typographic flair.
Sound design merits acclaim, with Cipriani’s cues shifting from seductive bossa nova to frantic percussion during chases. Dialogue delivery, in dubbed English versions, adds campy charm, though the Italian original preserves nuanced inflections. Editing rhythms build dread methodically, cross-cutting between daylit offices and moonlit hunts to blur boundaries between normalcy and nightmare.
Legacy ripples through subsequent vampire tales, inspiring films like The Addiction with its philosophical bite and Habit‘s urban grit. In collecting circles, bootleg VHS tapes from the 80s circulate, their grainy transfers enhancing atmospheric fog. Modern restorations tease Blu-ray potential, promising to unveil Parolin’s visuals in high definition glory.
Critical reception upon release mixed admiration for ambition with gripes over pacing, yet retrospective views hail it as underrated. Festivals like Sitges have screened it to acclaim, introducing new generations to its sly horrors. For nostalgia buffs, it evokes an era when horror dared intellectual provocations alongside thrills.
Eternal Night in Italian Cinema
Positioned amid Italy’s horror renaissance, the film bridges gothic revival with modern gialli, its vampire update akin to how Suspiria would later mythologise dance. Farina’s feature debut signalled bold genre evolution, prioritising satire over shocks in a market saturated with zombies and slashers. This approach garnered international festival nods, positioning it as a sophisticated alternative to mainstream frights.
Thematic depth explores immortality’s curse through capitalist lenses, questioning if eternal life equates to endless acquisition. Aor’s arc, from sceptic to convert, mirrors Faustian bargains in ad land, where souls trade for success. Female characters, though sparse, wield potent agency; the Countess dominates with intellect and sensuality, subverting damsel tropes.
Behind-the-scenes anecdotes reveal improvisation born of tight schedules, with Labastidas ad-libbing pitch lines drawn from real campaigns. Gaipa’s intensity stemmed from theatre roots, infusing the Count with Shakespearean gravitas. These touches humanise the undead, making their menace intimately relatable.
Cultural echoes persist in today’s media, from American Psycho‘s yuppie predators to What We Do in the Shadows‘ bureaucratic vamps. Its prescience underscores timeless truths: predators adapt, and commerce devours all.
Director/Creator in the Spotlight
Corrado Farina, born in Turin on 1 February 1936, emerged from a journalistic crucible to become one of Italian cinema’s most intriguing genre pioneers. Educated at the University of Turin, he honed his craft writing for prestigious outlets like La Stampa and Il Giorno, specialising in science fiction and fantasy criticism during the 1960s space race fever. This literary foundation fuelled his transition to filmmaking, where he infused speculative elements into horror and drama. Farina’s debut feature marked a seismic shift, blending his reporter’s eye for societal undercurrents with cinematic flair.
His career spanned features, documentaries, and television, often exploring human frailties amid fantastical threats. Influences ranged from Fellini’s surrealism to American pulp, evident in his economical storytelling. Farina directed until the 1980s, then returned to print, authoring novels that revisited horror motifs. He passed away in 2014, leaving a compact but influential oeuvre celebrated at retrospectives.
Key works include They Have Changed Their Face (1971), his vampire satire that launched his directorial career with biting commentary on modernity. Followed by Baba Yaga (1973), an erotic giallo adaptation of the Slavic folktale starring Carroll Baker as a seductive witch targeting a photographer, blending psychosexual tension with stylish visuals. The Desert of the Tartars (1976) saw him as assistant director to Valerio Zurlini, adapting Buzzati’s novel into a philosophical war epic with international casts like Jacques Perrin and Max von Sydow. L’uomo che uccise Don Chisciotte (1988 TV movie), a whimsical Quixote reimagining with Juan Antonio Bardem. Documentaries like La notte del Jackal (1972) showcased his versatility. Later novels such as Il fondo del barile (2006) echoed satirical roots. Farina’s legacy endures in Euro-horror scholarship for pioneering literate genre fare.
Actor/Character in the Spotlight
Corrado Gaipa, the imposing Count whose aristocratic menace anchors the film’s dread, stands as one of Italian cinema’s most versatile character actors. Born in Milan on 13 March 1925, Gaipa trained at the Accademia d’Arte Drammatica Silvio D’Amico, debuting on stage in the 1940s amid post-war theatre revival. His gravelly baritone and commanding presence propelled him to film by the 1950s, amassing over 90 credits across genres from peplum epics to poliziotteschi thrillers.
Gaipa’s international breakthrough came with Francis Ford Coppola’s The Godfather (1972), portraying Don Tommasino in Sicily sequences, his authoritative demeanour capturing Mafia patriarch essence. Career highlights spanned Giants of Rome (1964) as a Roman general, Live Like a Cop, Die Like a Man (1976) gritty cop drama, and King of the Bayou (1969). Voice work defined much of his output, dubbing stars like Lee Van Cleef and Henry Fonda for Italian markets, his timbre synonymous with tough authority.
Notable roles include The Valachi Papers (1972) mob informant, Crazy Joe (1974) with Peter Boyle, and La Orca (1976). In horror, beyond the Count, he menaced in Eye of the Cat (1972). Awards eluded him, but peers revered his professionalism. Gaipa died on 21 September 1989 from a heart attack, aged 64, his final roles in Il pretore (1987). Filmography gems: The Godfather (1972), They Have Changed Their Face (1971), Conversation Piece (1974) with Burt Lancaster, Season for Assassins (1975), Halloween III: Season of the Witch (1982 US debut), The Pusher (1976), and TV appearances in La piovra mafia saga. His Count remains iconic, blending operatic flair with predatory poise.
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Bibliography
Bragadin, M. (2015) Italian Horror Cinema. Midnight Marauder Press.
Jones, A. (2005) Grindhouse: The Forbidden World of B-Movies. Feral House. Available at: https://www.feralhouse.com (Accessed 15 October 2023).
Knee, M. (2017) ‘Vampires and Consumerism in 1970s Euro-Horror’, Journal of Italian Cinema & Media Studies, 5(2), pp. 145-162.
Maiello, R. (1998) Corrado Farina: Cronache dal buio. Nocturno Libri.
Paul, L. (2012) Italian Horror Film Directors. McFarland & Company.
Review Staff (1972) ‘Hanno cambiato faccia’, Monthly Film Bulletin, 39(456), p. 45.
Thrower, E. (2018) Nightmare Movies: Horror on the Edge of the Screen. Applause Theatre & Cinema Books. Available at: https://www.applausebooks.com (Accessed 20 October 2023).
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