Three tales of dread from Mario Bava that weave a tapestry of fear, forever etching Italian horror into cinematic legend.

In the annals of horror cinema, few films capture the essence of atmospheric terror quite like Mario Bava’s Black Sabbath (1963). This anthology masterpiece, comprising three distinct yet thematically linked stories, showcases Bava’s unparalleled mastery of light, shadow, and suspense. Originally released as I tre volti della paura in Italy, the film transcends its portmanteau structure to deliver a chilling exploration of the supernatural, the psychological, and the macabre. What elevates it beyond mere genre exercise is Bava’s innovative visual style, drawing from gothic traditions while pioneering giallo-esque flourishes that would influence generations.

  • Bava’s virtuoso direction in each segment, from the claustrophobic tension of "The Telephone" to the fog-shrouded dread of "The Wurdulak."
  • Profound thematic undercurrents examining isolation, familial horror, and the inescapability of death.
  • The film’s enduring legacy as a cornerstone of European horror, bridging classic gothic and modern splatter aesthetics.

The Call from the Abyss: Dissecting "The Telephone"

The opening segment, "The Telephone," plunges viewers into a whirlwind of paranoia and obsession. Starring Michèle Mercier as Mary, a former actress haunted by her past, the story unfolds in a single, dimly lit apartment. Mary receives increasingly menacing phone calls from a voice claiming to be her ex-convict stalker, Frank. As the night wears on, her fear escalates, leading to hallucinatory visions and a desperate act of self-preservation. Bava confines the action to this suffocating space, using tight close-ups and distorted angles to mirror Mary’s fracturing psyche. The telephone itself becomes a malevolent entity, its relentless ringing punctuating the score like a heartbeat in overdrive.

What makes this tale so potent is its roots in psychological horror rather than outright supernatural elements. Bava draws from real-world anxieties of urban isolation, a theme resonant in post-war Europe. The segment’s twist ending, revealing layers of deception, flips expectations and underscores the unreliability of perception. Cinematographer Ubaldo Terzano’s work here is exemplary; shafts of light slice through Venetian blinds, casting prison-bar shadows that trap Mary visually as much as emotionally. This segment sets the anthology’s tone: terror born not from monsters, but from the human mind’s darkest recesses.

Bava’s sound design amplifies the dread. The caller’s rasping whispers, distorted through the receiver, blend with creaking floorboards and distant traffic, creating an auditory cage. Critics have noted parallels to later telephone horrors like When a Stranger Calls, but Bava executes it with raw immediacy. Mary’s performance by Mercier conveys vulnerability laced with hysteria, her wide eyes reflecting the flickering bulb overhead. This vignette, clocking in at around 20 minutes, proves anthologies need not dilute impact; instead, they concentrate it.

Fangs in the Fog: The Gothic Majesty of "The Wurdulak"

Transitioning to the misty Carpathians, "The Wurdulak" adapts Leo Tolstoy’s short story "The Family of the Vourdalak," infusing it with Slavic folklore. Mark Damon stars as Vladimir Durfe, a nobleman whose horse stumbles upon a decapitated body. Rescued by a family led by the patriarchal Gorca (Boris Karloff in the international version’s framing), Vladimir becomes ensnared in their curse. A wurdulak, the film explains, is a vampire-like revenant who feeds preferentially on loved ones. Gorca’s return after five days transforms the household into a nest of undead hunger.

Bava revels in gothic opulence here. Fog rolls through pine forests, illuminated by lantern glow that paints faces in skeletal relief. The family’s old-world costumes—fur-trimmed cloaks and crucifixes—evoke Hammer Films, yet Bava subverts with subtle eroticism. Young Marfa’s (Wandisa Guida) seduction of Vladimir carries incestuous undertones, heightening the familial horror. Karloff’s Gorca, with his wild mane and piercing gaze, embodies patriarchal tyranny turned monstrous. His transformation scene, where he savages a child off-screen, relies on suggestion, letting the audience’s imagination amplify the brutality.

Thematically, this segment probes the erosion of civilisation by primal instincts. Vladimir’s rationalism crumbles against superstition, mirroring Italy’s own cultural clashes in the 1960s. Bava’s framing emphasises isolation: wide shots of the remote mill contrast intimate betrayals inside. Lamberto Bava, Mario’s son, assisted on effects, crafting practical prosthetics for the wurdulaks’ pallid flesh and bloodied mouths. The crescendo, with Vladimir barricaded amid howling winds, culminates in a poetic doom, his embrace of Marfa sealing his fate.

Influence radiates outward; this story prefigures The Fearless Vampire Killers and modern undead family tales like The Strangers. Bava’s colour palette—deep crimsons and earthy browns—saturates the frame, a hallmark of his Technicolor mastery post-Black Sunday.

Droplets of Destiny: The Haunting Simplicity of "The Drop of Water"

The anthology’s crown jewel, "The Drop of Water," stars Jacqueline Pierreux as Helen Chester, a nurse preparing a medium’s corpse for burial. Pilfering a Burmese ring adorned with a water-drop sapphire, Helen unleashes a vengeful spirit. Back in her London flat, the corpse materialises, dripping water and pursuing her relentlessly. Bava strips horror to essentials: a single antagonist, minimal sets, maximum tension.

Pierreux’s Helen is no victim; her greed sparks the curse, adding moral dimension. The ghost’s approach—wet footprints, rhythmic dripping, laboured breaths—builds unbearable suspense. Bava’s camera prowls low angles, emphasising the apparition’s inexorable advance. The ring’s defence mechanism, tightening on the thief’s finger, delivers visceral payback. This segment’s economy is its genius; running under 15 minutes, it rivals any Tales from the Crypt shocker.

Visually, blue-tinted gels evoke otherworldliness, while practical effects—a hydraulic corpse rig and dry ice fog—ground the supernatural in tangible craft. The dripping sound, looped obsessively, becomes hypnotic, lulling viewers before the jump. Bava nods to Poe’s "The Tell-Tale Heart," with guilt manifesting physically. Helen’s suicide, ring-embedded finger severed, closes the loop on karmic justice.

"The Drop of Water" exemplifies Bava’s thesis: horror thrives in precision. Its influence permeates Ringu and The Ring, where cursed objects propagate doom.

Spectral Threads: Unifying Themes Across the Triad

Though disparate, the segments interlock thematically. Isolation unites them—Mary’s apartment, the Durfes’ mill, Helen’s bedsit—reflecting existential solitude. Greed and obsession drive each plot: Mary’s stalker fixation, Gorca’s bloodlust, Helen’s theft. Bava critiques modernity’s fragility against ancient fears, blending Freudian psychology with folkloric dread.

Gender dynamics simmer beneath. Female protagonists face masculine threats, yet wield agency in downfall. Sound design unifies: phones, howls, drips form a nocturnal symphony. Bava’s misogyny accusations falter here; women embody resilience amid terror.

Shadows and Celluloid: Special Effects and Cinematography

Bava’s effects wizardry shines without excess. In "The Telephone," optical distortions simulate hallucinations. "The Wurdulak" employs matte paintings for vast landscapes, seamless in 1963 tech. Corpses use latex appliances, aged realistically. Lamberto’s input refined gore, prefiguring Zombi 2.

Cinematography, Bava’s forte, manipulates light as character. High-contrast gels create mood: greens for decay, blues for spirits. Handheld shots in pursuits add urgency, innovative for anthologies. Compared to Dead of Night, Bava’s bolder, visceral.

Production faced hurdles: AIP’s US recut added Karloff hosts, altering tone. Original Italian purity prevails, uncut visions intact.

From Bava’s Lens to Global Nightmares: Legacy and Influence

Black Sabbath bridges gothic decline and giallo ascent. It inspired Argento’s Inferno, Fulci’s gates of hell. Cult status grew via VHS, Arrow Video restorations preserving 35mm glory. Festivals hail it; Sight & Sound polls affirm mastery.

Remakes elude it, its purity inimitable. Streaming revivals introduce new fans, proving timeless terror.

Director in the Spotlight

Mario Bava, born 31 July 1922 in San Remo, Italy, emerged from a cinematic dynasty; his father was sculptor-turned-projectionist Eugenio Bava. Initially a painter and still photographer, Bava honed skills at Rome’s Istituto Luce, shooting newsreels during Mussolini’s era. Post-war, he became a sought-after cinematographer, lensing Qua Vadis (1951) and Riccardo Freda’s gothic horrors like I Vampiri (1957), where he completed direction uncredited after Freda’s walkout.

Bava’s directorial debut, Black Sunday (1960), a lavish witch tale starring Barbara Steele, catapulted him to fame, blending Hammer aesthetics with Italian flair. Black Sabbath (1963) followed, showcasing anthology prowess. Blood and Black Lace (1964) birthed giallo with fashion-world murders. Planet of the Vampires (1965) influenced Alien; Kill, Baby… Kill! (1966) perfected ghostly villages.

Later works include Dracula Prince of Darkness (uncredited Hammer polish, 1966), Five Dolls for an August Moon (1970) giallo whodunit, Tiger Joe (1973) adventure, and Shock (1977), his final haunted-house chiller. Bava mentored Lamberto, who directed Demons (1985). Health declined from chain-smoking; he died 25 April 1980, aged 65, mid-La Venere d’Avorio. Influences: German Expressionism, Cocteau. Legacy: godfather of Italian horror, per Lucas’s tome.

Filmography highlights: Aquilanti di Roma (1953, DP); The Giant of Marathon (1959, DP/dir); Hercules in the Haunted World (1961); The Three Faces of Fear (Black Sabbath, 1963); Knives of the Avenger (1966); Hatchet for the Honeymoon (1970); Lisa and the Devil (1974); Starlight Hotel incomplete.

Actor in the Spotlight

Mark Damon, born Alan Mark Wolfson on 22 April 1933 in Chicago, Illinois, embodied the handsome outsider in European horrors. Raised in a Jewish family, he studied at UCLA, debuting in Young and Dangerous (1957). Italian success followed with Sergio Leone’s The Shortest Day (1963 cameo), but Black Sabbath‘s Vladimir Durfe showcased dramatic range amid vampires.

Damon’s 1960s peak: Johnny Yuma (1966) spaghetti western; Anzio (1968) war epic with Van Johnson. Fallen (1960s) and The Young Racers (1968, produced by Roger Corman). Transitioned to producing: The Arena (1973) gladiator hit; Sting of the Black Scorpion (1970s TV). Eighties: 91⁄2 Weeks (1986, exec); Wild Orchid (1989).

Resurfaced acting in Antisocial (2013), Dark Hearts (2015). No major awards, but cult following. Filmography: Inside Detroit (1956); Life Begins at 17 (1958); House of Usher (1960, Corman Poe); Black Sabbath (1963); 100 Rifles (1969); The Naked Prey (wait, no—his: Il Figlio di Cleopatra (1964)); producer credits: Enemy Unseen (1989), American Ninja 4 (1990). Active into 70s, blending genres seamlessly.

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