The Devil's Honey

Director Lucio Fulci, the “Godfather of Gore” trades graphic violence for sexual sleaze in this heightened exploration of sadomasochism. It’s an interesting work, provided you can get past the saxophone in the crotch.

The plot centers on Jessica, played by Blanca Marsillach, who’s caught in an abusive, codependent relationship with her saxophonist boyfriend Johnnie, played by Stefano Madia. After an accident sees Johnnie die on the operating table, Jessica spirals into manic depression. She kidnaps the surgeon she holds responsible for Johnnie’s death and subjects him to a sort of sexual torture and humiliation. But is her captive also her salvation?

Fulci made the film after a health scare—viral hepatitis degenerating into cirrhosis of the liver—left him unable to work for a year. For some a brush with death might spark a fresh outlook on life, but Fulci returns as cynical as ever. Said Fulci in Spaghetti Nightmares by Luca M. Palmerini and Gaetano Mistretta, “I tried to make a movie about the misery of sadomasochism, though it came out better than the budget should have permitted.”

Indeed, the film feels set in the same sleazy hell as Fulci’s The New York Ripper. Only this time, instead of graphic kills, Fulci punctuates his setups with simulated sex. There’s no graphic penetration or male nudity, but ample female nudity, including multiple close-up crotch shots. That said, they’re not gratuitous per se, as Fulci makes the vagina a focal point of the film.

Consider the opening scene, set in a recording studio. Jessica watches Johnnie lay down his jazz sax. Fulci—brandishing his trademark—cuts to close-ups of their eyes as Johnnie stares at Jessica as he plays. She’s visibly aroused by the sound and attention. In between takes, the pair starts making out, with Johnnie groping and exposing her breast. This leads the rest of the recording crew to break for coffee. Unzipping his fly, Johnnie then wants a quickie, but Jessica says no. Frustrated, Johnnie zips himself up, steps back, and picks up his sax. He places the bell under Jessica’s skirt, and proceeds to blow a solo that sends Jessica to orgasm.

Fulci shoots this scene with lurid close-ups of Jessica’s crotch, the sax bell abutting her skimpy panties. It’s not too far removed from the infamous molestation-by-foot sequence in Ripper, and sets up both Jessica and Johnnie’s relationship, and the film’s over-the-top sexuality.

That said, the film packs some unexpected depth, as exemplified by a subsequent scene involving the aforementioned surgeon, Dr. Wendell Simpson, played by top-billed Brett Halsey. He blows off dinner with his wife to visit a prostitute. The prostitute arrives late, then proceeds to patch a run in her black stockings with bright red nail polish. Wendell’s aroused, and the prostitute begins painting her crotch, feigning arousal herself. Wendell then smears the red nail polish over the woman’s face, before pouncing on her and thrusting to an abrupt climax. Unfulfilled, he dismisses her.

Fulci gives us no hint that this is a planned bit—a part of Wendell’s kink—until far later in the film, when Wendell is Jessica’s prisoner and she cracks his head with a wrench, then stands naked in front of him. He reaches for her embrace, nuzzling into her. As he does, the blood from his head wound smears her stomach, his nuzzling in turn smears over his face. In this he seems to find ecstasy, having flipped his fantasy and become the supplicant.

True to Fulci’s intent, the film explores control as a cyclical theme, with Wendell being controlled by his work, seeking to control his prostitutes, and only finding release in being controlled by Jessica, as her kidnapping him frees him from his work. Jessica, meanwhile, is controlled by Johnnie, and seeks to control Wendell, and only finds release when she lets go of both men. Like Ripper, it’s a cynical film that sees its players drown their insecurities in sexual vices while Fulci explores their dual natures as victims and monsters.

As such, the film should appeal to Fulci fans. Some may struggle with the over-the-top sexuality, but contextualizing the sex scenes as a formal device, similar to how Fulci leverages graphic violence in his horror films, may help them appreciate its thematic similarities to his prior work. Casual fans looking for an erotic thriller should beware, however, as Fulci’s inherent cynicism abounds, lending the proceedings a sordid, dirty feeling that’s miles away from a turn-you-on escapist fantasy.