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Dis­cov­er the mon­strous spec­ta­cle of this meta exploita­tion movie

11 Oct 2021

Words by Anton Bitel

A black and white image depicting two people, a man and a woman, in a dramatic pose. The woman appears to have her eyes closed, while the man is reaching towards her. The composition and use of light and shadow create a striking, moody atmosphere.
A black and white image depicting two people, a man and a woman, in a dramatic pose. The woman appears to have her eyes closed, while the man is reaching towards her. The composition and use of light and shadow create a striking, moody atmosphere.
Mar­co Ferreri’s con­tro­ver­sial The Ape Woman is a deeply cyn­i­cal por­tray­al of mas­culin­i­ty bes­tialised and fem­i­nin­i­ty reified.

As bare open­ing cred­its appear on screen at the begin­ning of Mar­co Ferreri’s The Ape Woman, they are accom­pa­nied by the sound of a band play­ing jaun­ty cir­cus music. This is indeed to be a car­ni­va­lesque piece where all the world is a cir­cus. Even the Neapoli­tan nun­nery in which its first scene takes place is cir­cus-like. As a seat­ed assem­bly of men­di­cants lis­tens to a vis­it­ing priest mak­ing an evan­gel­i­cal speech, and watch­es slides of mis­sion­ary work in Africa, they jeer loud­ly at the scary’ native women while leer­ing at their nudi­ty (“Being a mis­sion­ary ain’t bad!”, one comments).

This sequence intro­duces the film’s key theme of exploita­tion. The old beg­gars endure the pic­tures and ser­mon as the price of the free’ lunch being pre­pared for them by the nuns, while per­ceiv­ing only low sen­sa­tion­al­ism in slides intend­ed to edu­cate and ele­vate them. Mean­while, both the priest and the audi­ence seem to share a basi­cal­ly racist view of Africa as a place of prim­i­tive lust and ter­ror. The last, overt­ly fake-look­ing slide seen shows a top­less black woman hold­ing up in tri­umph the sev­ered head of a mis­sion­ary – an image appar­ent­ly designed to illus­trate the saint­ly self-sac­ri­fice of priests abroad, but which also resem­bles some­thing straight out of an exploita­tion film.

The Ape Woman is an exploita­tion film, in the sense that it is a film about exploita­tion. Its main char­ac­ter Anto­nio (Ugo Tog­nazzi) is, like any film­mak­er, an enter­tain­er in the busi­ness of pro­ject­ing images. He is the one oper­at­ing the slides at the nun­nery, and when he retreats to the kitchen for some food, he meets Maria (Annie Girar­dot), who has grown up as an aban­doned orphan with­in the convent’s walls, and whose face and body are cov­ered in hair as a result of the con­di­tion known as hyper­tri­chosis. Imme­di­ate­ly sniff­ing an oppor­tu­ni­ty, Anto­nio takes Maria home with him and, shift­ing from slideshow to sideshow, makes her the star attrac­tion in an exhi­bi­tion that he bankrolls from her savings.

Maria is a shy young Ital­ian woman look­ing for hap­pi­ness, love and fam­i­ly. But Anto­nio refash­ions her for their show as the ape woman’, claim­ing to have dis­cov­ered her in deep­est, dark­est Africa. It is a show that will attract yet more male leer­ing and unwant­ed grop­ing, and Antonio’s metaphor­i­cal role as Maria’s pimp is almost lit­er­alised as he comes very close to sell­ing her vir­gin­i­ty to a creepy pro­fes­sor’.

Every­one regards Maria as a mon­ster’, and even the med­ical and sci­en­tif­ic com­mu­ni­ty enter­tains fan­ci­ful ideas that she is only half human. But con­verse­ly it is Maria who recog­nis­es that the professor’s desire to pay for her deflo­ration, and Antonio’s will­ing­ness to play pan­der­er, makes them pigs’. Lat­er, she will use the word mon­ster’ in ref­er­ence both to a doc­tor who rec­om­mends that she abort her unborn child, and to Anto­nio himself.

A close-up black and white image of a person's face, with eyes shut and mouth wide open in an expression of intense emotion or distress.

The Ape Woman is, among oth­er things, a love sto­ry, although Anto­nio and Maria’s love is nev­er equal. He ini­tial­ly mar­ries her sim­ply to main­tain con­trol over her (he express­ly refers to their union as a busi­ness part­ner­ship), and reluc­tant­ly starts shar­ing her bed to avoid her explic­it threat of an annul­ment. He even regards her preg­nan­cy as a poten­tial oppor­tu­ni­ty for future exploita­tion (“It would be our lucky break,” he tells a hor­ri­fied Maria, You and the child, both hairy. We’d make a lot of money.”).

Through­out their mar­riage, Anto­nio con­tin­ues to man­age and prof­it from Maria’s tour­ing striptease act. In this act, the African ape woman seduces a Euro­pean hunter with her erot­ic dance, and just as he sur­ren­ders to desire, shoots him dead with his own gun. This is not unlike the con­vent slideshow at the begin­ning of Ferreri’s film: for here Maria is cast as an oth­ered object of per­verse sex­u­al­i­ty and dread, all at once attrac­tive and abhor­rent, exot­ic and empow­ered. This is, of course, a fan­ta­sy, marked­ly dif­fer­ent from Maria’s reality.

The Ape Woman high­lights the gulf between male and female per­spec­tives on rela­tion­ships in mid-20th-cen­tu­ry Italy (and beyond), where Maria’s body is nev­er entire­ly her own (“I am a woman,” she says at one point, My hus­band decides for me”). In his way, Anto­nio does love Maria, but much as she serves his meals, she is also his meal tick­et (“I’m your cook, too,” as she says, I make mine­strone, act like an ape”). Antonio’s every kind­ness towards Maria comes dou­ble-edged, as an invest­ment in his own future mon­e­tary gain. It is a dispir­it­ing pic­ture of sex­u­al inequal­i­ty and exploita­tion, uncom­fort­ably staged for the ogling viewer.

These themes came to the fore in Ferreri’s first sub­mit­ted ver­sion of the film, which cul­mi­nates in a grief-strick­en Anto­nio still exploit­ing the bod­ies of his wife and child even after both have died (as actu­al­ly hap­pened in the 19th cen­tu­ry with the corpse of a Mex­i­can woman named Julia Pas­trana, on whose true sto­ry this film is loose­ly based), all to the strains of the cir­cus music with which The Ape Woman opens. It is a deeply cyn­i­cal por­tray­al of mas­culin­i­ty bes­tialised and fem­i­nin­i­ty rei­fied, post mortem and ad infini­tum, with the pay­ing view­er as com­plic­it enabler.

So hor­ri­fied were the Ital­ian cen­sors that they swift­ly cut the film’s final 15 min­utes whole­sale, which led pro­duc­er Car­lo Pon­ti to have a dif­fer­ent, more palat­able end­ing made. This ver­sion was nom­i­nat­ed for the Palme d’Or at the 1964 Cannes Film Fes­ti­val. Both ver­sions work well, while yield­ing entire­ly dif­fer­ent results, but per­haps it is most inter­est­ing (as this Blu-ray release from Cult­Films makes pos­si­ble) to regard the two end­ings in par­al­lel, if con­tra­dic­to­ry, co-exis­tence at either extreme of the same sto­ry – half grim real­i­ty, half roman­ti­cised fiction.

Where The Ape Woman owes an obvi­ous debt to Tod Browning’s Freaks and Fed­eri­co Fellini’s La Stra­da, it would in turn come to have its own sub­se­quent influ­ence on David Lynch’s The Ele­phant Man (while also lend­ing its line have you had sex­u­al rela­tions with the lady?” to Lynch’s ear­li­er Eraser­head). It is a pecu­liar film, a Felli­ni-esque satire offer­ing a crush­ing view of human­i­ty, while also some­how find­ing sym­pa­thy for all its mon­sters’.

At the end of the Director’s Cut, Antonio’s final words – Ladies and gen­tle­men, esteemed spec­ta­tors, I am at your dis­pos­al” – are addressed direct­ly to cam­era, mak­ing the audi­ence feel very much a part of this ugly, mon­strous spec­ta­cle. After all, who amongst us has not come to see the Ape Woman?

The Ape Woman is avail­able in a 4K restora­tion on Blu-ray and Dig­i­tal from 11 Octo­ber via Cult­films

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