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Dis­cov­er the ocu­lar night­mare of this cult Lucio Ful­ci horror

13 Jan 2020

Words by Anton Bitel

A close-up portrait of a blonde woman with intense gaze against a dark background.
A close-up portrait of a blonde woman with intense gaze against a dark background.
The vision­ary Ital­ian director’s 1981 film The Beyond remains one of his most unnerv­ing, trans­gres­sive works.

Ever since the open­ing sequence of Luis Buñuel and Sal­vador Dalí’s pio­neer­ing sur­re­al­ist short Un Chien Andalou, in which a man’s razor was shown slic­ing across a woman’s open, observ­ing eye, images of ocu­lar destruc­tion have become a neat cin­e­mat­ic short­hand designed to chal­lenge, offend and (poten­tial­ly) end the very act of view­er­ship that is so fun­da­men­tal to the expe­ri­ence of filmgoing.

Such shock tac­tics would become some­thing of a trade­mark for Ital­ian direc­tor Lucio Ful­ci, whose Beat­rice Cen­ci, Zom­bie Flesh Eaters, City of the Liv­ing Dead, New York Rip­per and Sweet House of Hor­rors each fea­tured a scene of graph­ic eye injury. Yet what in these titles was mere­ly a one-off gris­ly sig­na­ture would be gen­er­ous­ly splat­tered all over The Beyond, where one char­ac­ter after anoth­er has their eyes ruined var­i­ous­ly by boil­ing plas­ter, rot­ting fin­gers, burn­ing acid, bit­ing taran­tu­las or pro­trud­ing nails, in a ver­i­ta­ble eye-mageddon.

It makes a kind of sense that so many peep­ers should be popped here. After all, the dark spec­ta­cles con­jured in The Beyond make sev­er­al char­ac­ters go blind, as though to sug­gest that Ful­ci is flirt­ing with for­bid­den mate­ri­als that sim­ply should not be seen, let alone depict­ed. The film opens in a sepia-tinged mono­chrome flash­back to 1927, as Schwe­ick (Antoine Saint John), a painter holed up in a Louisiana hotel room, puts the fin­ish­ing touch­es on an infer­nal land­scape before a lynch mob bursts in and, ignor­ing his claim that the hotel is built on a gate­way to hell, cru­ci­fies, mur­ders and immures the artist in the hotel’s basement.

Mean­while, in anoth­er part of town, Emi­ly (Cinzia Mon­reale) dis­cov­ers the ancient Book of Eibon’ – a tome whose title is bor­rowed from the writ­ings of HP Love­craft – and, mere­ly by read­ing its warn­ings about the sev­en cursèd gate­ways… in sev­en cursèd places” (“woe be unto him who ven­tures near with­out knowl­edge”), los­es her sight.

It is a mys­ti­fy­ing intro­duc­tion, jux­ta­pos­ing scenes the­mat­i­cal­ly linked but oth­er­wise dis­con­nect­ed, and hint­ing at a rich back­sto­ry that the film itself only par­tial­ly fur­nish­es – and that is the way the rest of The Beyond, pre­sent­ed in colour and set in 1981, also feels. For as we fol­low Liza Mer­ril (Catri­ona Mac­Coll), an out­sider from New York who has just inher­it­ed the dilap­i­dat­ed Sev­en Doors Hotel and who hopes to reopen it as a last chance’ at per­son­al suc­cess, her own dis­ori­en­ta­tion in this new Louisiana milieu is matched by scenes in which time and space grad­u­al­ly col­lapse in on them­selves, the dead invade the world of the liv­ing, and the incom­pre­hen­si­ble is made real.

As any­one who enters or even research­es the hotel ends up dead – or at least undead – and stored away in the local hos­pi­tal morgue run by Dr John McCabe (David War­beck), there is always, in Fulci’s dis­parate and deeply irra­tional set-pieces, the sense of elab­o­rate lore and leg­end com­ing to life. Yet like the miss­ing key that var­i­ous char­ac­ters vain­ly seek in the hotel, the key to the film itself remains elu­sive and unfound, mak­ing every­thing unfold like a night­mare whose dream­er remains just beyond the film’s nar­ra­tive reach.

An unsym­pa­thet­ic, ungen­er­ous review­er (and this film cer­tain­ly encoun­tered a lot of those upon its ini­tial release) might dis­miss The Beyond as a ran­dom mosa­ic of mad­ness and mur­der, grue and gore, all poor­ly held togeth­er by tone-deaf, zom­bie-like expo­si­tion­al dia­logue in the absence of any gen­uine­ly coher­ent foundations.

Yet inco­her­ence and irra­tional­i­ty form an essen­tial – and open­ly acknowl­edged – part of the film’s fab­ric, with char­ac­ters con­stant­ly artic­u­lat­ing our own con­fu­sion with com­ments like, I can’t explain it to you,” That seems so impos­si­ble, so absurd,” I must be gong crazy,” I’m a doc­tor, and I won’t accept irra­tional expla­na­tions,” What the hell’s going on here?,” I think I’m going crazy,” Impos­si­ble, impos­si­ble.” The speak­ers of these lines are strug­gling no less than the view­er to make sense of what is hap­pen­ing to them, as Ful­ci traps every­one in his illog­i­cal, uncan­ny can­vas of errant ideas and associations.

As ghosts mix freely with liv­ing peo­ple, the past with the present, obvi­ous­ly fake spi­ders with actu­al ones, a mod­ern hospital’s with a colo­nial hotel’s archi­tec­tures, and the real world with a paint­ed land­scape of hell, Ful­ci is both expos­ing the buried his­to­ry of hor­rors upon which America’s con­tem­po­rary South has been built (note the ner­vous look on the face of the African-Amer­i­can concierge as the angry lynch mob bursts into the hotel), and show­ing that strange, oneir­ic bor­der­land between the imag­i­na­tion and its imper­fect expression.

Schwe­ick may be, as his per­se­cu­tors would have it, a war­lock’ who dab­bles in the demon­ic, but he is first and fore­most a vision­ary artist, and his mas­ter­work – a work at the very cen­tre of The Beyond – is an attempt to give form to the infer­nal and the inef­fa­ble. Schweick’s paint­ing is also a mise en abyme of The Beyond itself. After all, Ful­ci too is find­ing ways to con­vert Schweick’s aes­theti­cised explo­ration of the sea of dark­ness’ into a cin­e­mat­ic vision, ren­der­ing the invis­i­ble visible.

Ulti­mate­ly, The Beyond is con­cerned with those dark and ter­ri­fy­ing aspects of the cre­ative process that put tor­ment­ed’ artists through hell, before allow­ing them to report back on the hor­ror of what they saw there through arti­fi­cial­ly ren­dered images that only the ini­ti­at­ed can tru­ly see with eyes wide open. It is an unnerv­ing, sur­re­al por­trait of the kind of trans­gres­sive expe­ri­ence that all devo­tees of the occult – and of hor­ror films – seek.

The Beyond is released by Shame­less Films on Spe­cial Edi­tion Blu-ray in a new 2K scan on 13 January

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