The Conspiracy of Torture

Later in his career, when asked which of his films was his favorite, director Lucio Fulci often cited Beatrice Cenci. It’s easy to see why. The lavish production, ample budget, and non-genre script rank it as the most “respectable” production he ever helmed, and yet it still feels like a Fulci film. For fans of the director’s horror films, the themes that permeate his best work first emerged in this historical drama.

The film, titled The Conspiracy of Torture for its American release, is based on fact. In late sixteenth-century Rome, Beatrice Cenci was a young noblewoman who was imprisoned and abused by her monstrous father, Francesco Cenci. Beatrice recruited her servant-lover into a plot to assassinate her father and frame it as an accident. The papal police uncovered the plot, arrested the conspirators (including Beatrice) and subjected them to torture before execution.

It’s important to recognize how familiar Italian audiences would be with the story. It has already been adapted multiple times on stage and screen, as recently as 1956’s Caste of the Banned Lovers. Thus, knowing the plot would be familiar to audiences, Fulci starts his film at the end, with the conspirators imprisoned awaiting their fates, and relates the story in flashbacks. This allows him to jump around in time and position Francesco’s rape of his own daughter as the film’s climax, rather than earlier in the narrative.

To further differentiate his version, Fulci leverages what would become familiar tools. From the opening scenes, he places the film in an oppressive, humid atmosphere. Everyone is sweating, pulling at their shirts and collars. Though a costume drama, the wardrobe feels sweat-stained and lived in, lending an immediate verisimilitude lacking in prior adaptations.

Along with the ever-present heat, Fulci imbues currents of cynicism and nihilism. The church officials are all corrupt, turning a blind eye to Francesco’s immoral behavior as long as he keeps them rich. They investigate his death not out of moral obligation or justice, but to enforce the status quo. Beatrice has no escape. Either suffer at the hands of Francesco, or suffer at the hands of the church. Fulci paints Beatrice as a cipher, leaving her true feelings for her servant-lover ambiguous. This fatalism went beyond the “doomed lovers” trope present in prior adaptation, rendering Fulci’s version darker than audiences had seen.

Finally, the assassination marks the first appearance of what would be a Fulci calling-card: ocular violence. The assassins creep up to the unconscious Francesco and pounce, stabbing him through the eye and throat. It’s not a prolonged, elaborate closeup like his famous scenes in Zombie and The New York Ripper, but it’s there, setting Fulci’s version apart by not only having Francesco murdered, but having him brutalized.

The performers shine. As Beatrice, sloe-eyed Adrienne Larussa delivers a measured combination of vulnerability and guarded stoicism. Opposite her, top-billed Tomas Milian convinces in a fearless performance as her servant-lover Olimpio. Early on, we see him strapped to a torture rack. He’s nude, save a rag over his genitals, with a sheen of sweat (of course) covering his body, as the inquisitors apply branding irons to coerce a confession. Milian’s primal reaction, combined with the convincing special effect, renders the scene harrowing.

And then there’s Georges Wilson as Francesco Cenci. As a man divorced from his own humanity, the role could have descended into caricature, but Wilson maintains an ever-present sense of menace—a rampaging ego devoid of morality.

On a technical level, the film also impresses. Shot in an actual castle, and featuring scores of extras, the production never seems compromised by budget. Fulci leverages natural light when possible to heighten the sense of realism, rendering the film one of Fulci’s best photographed. He also seems acutely aware of the script’s dialogue-heavy nature and works to compensate. This materializes in several walking shots, and frequent use of the split diopter lens, allowing Fulci to frame the speaker and listener in simultaneous focus while preserving distance between them. He also foreshadows his prowess with horror, as an early shot of the black-clad inquisitors marching down a shadowy hallway would have fit in one of his later films, as would the aforementioned torture sequences.

All that said, I appreciated the film more than I enjoyed it. I suspect this comes down to not being Italian. Fulci’s decision to tell the story in flashback—the right call for an Italian audience—robs the film of any suspense for an American unfamiliar with the historical events. Similarly, the scathing indictment of the church hits less close to home outside of Italy. I can appreciate it, but not relate like an Italian audience would.

Other non-Italian Fulci fans may have a similar reaction, and that’s okay. While casual Fulci fans should pass, more serious ones will likely appreciate seeing Fulci come into his own, presenting a familiar story through his personal worldview to deliver a visceral—and at times uncomfortable—viewing experience designed to challenge and entertain the audience in equal measure.