Lucio Fulci’s The New York Ripper is what happens when you feed Italian horror a steady diet of sleaze, misogyny, and city smog, then crank the camera until the lens fogs over from sheer bad taste. This isn’t a movie so much as a sadistic fever dream — one where every woman is either naked, dead, or about to be both, and the killer quacks like Donald Duck.
Yes. That’s not a joke. The killer’s voice sounds like a cartoon waterfowl with a sinus infection.
If you ever wanted to watch a giallo murder mystery while feeling vaguely ashamed of your life choices, congratulations: this one’s for you.
Duck Season. Women Season.
The plot, such as it is, starts with the mutilated corpse of a woman found in New York City. From there, the movie attempts to pretend it’s a police procedural — with a hard-nosed, cigarette-stained detective named Lt. Williams (Jack Hedley), who looks and acts like he got kicked out of Law & Order for chain-smoking on the corpses.
What follows is a series of brutal murders involving women who, for the most part, were guilty of nothing more than existing within a five-foot radius of a man’s resentment. There’s a hooker, a dancer, a jogger, a woman with a foot fetish — all dismembered with gleeful cruelty by a gloved maniac who phones in threats using a voice that wouldn’t be out of place in a Looney Tunes short.
It’s like Se7en if it had been written by a horny taxi driver and directed by a guy who just discovered Vaseline and red corn syrup.
Who Thought This Was a Good Idea?
Fulci’s giallo sensibilities are on full display here — black gloves, point-of-view shots, twisty red herrings. But there’s none of the elegance of Tenebrae or the stylized madness of Suspiria. This one’s just bile and butchery. And boobs. Lots of boobs. The camera lingers on women’s bodies like it’s paying rent.
There’s exploitation, and then there’s The New York Ripper, which goes the extra mile by making sure every woman is not only victimized but humiliated before she dies. One victim is slashed across the breast. Another has a bottle rammed where no bottle should go. A third is taunted with a switchblade while tied to a bed. The camera just… keeps… rolling.
There’s no subtext. Just text — and it says, “You’re watching this because you hate women and like duck impressions.”
Characters, If You Can Call Them That
Lt. Williams is your typical washed-up cop with a trench coat and the emotional range of a stapler. He spends the movie looking like he smells something bad — probably the script. His investigation is less “Sherlock Holmes” and more “guy with a badge harassing strangers.”
There’s also a psychiatrist who enters the story to psychoanalyze the killer, but his insights make Freud look like Oprah. And of course, a parade of doomed women whose primary function is to take their clothes off before they die.
And then there’s the killer, who — spoiler alert — turns out to be a grieving father whose daughter is dying of cancer. So naturally, he responds by dressing like Columbo, talking like Daffy Duck, and carving women up like Thanksgiving turkeys. Makes sense.
The Atmosphere: Rotting Apple
To Fulci’s credit, he captures a version of New York that feels diseased. This is the Big Apple after it’s been dropped in a sewer and left to fester. Streets are littered, neon signs flicker like they’re warning you to get the hell out, and every building looks like it smells of piss and broken dreams.
This is a time capsule of early ‘80s New York, the one before Giuliani scrubbed it clean and Disney moved in. A city where porn theaters are a block away from dead bodies, and even the pizza rats carry switchblades.
If you’re into grimy cityscapes, The New York Ripper delivers. Just don’t expect to enjoy the ride — unless your idea of tourism involves blood-soaked mattresses and chain-smoking voyeurs.
The Duck Voice: Quack Quack, You’re Dead
Look, there are bold creative choices, and then there’s this. The killer’s Donald Duck voice is so ludicrous it torpedoes any chance the film had at suspense. Imagine Psycho if Norman Bates sounded like he was possessed by a Saturday morning cartoon.
It’s hard to be scared when your slasher villain sounds like he’s going to slip on a banana peel. The first time it happens, you laugh. The third time, you cringe. By the fifth, you start questioning your life choices.
Was this supposed to be terrifying? Symbolic? Did Fulci lose a bet? We may never know.
Score and Style: Grease-Stained Giallo
The soundtrack by Francesco De Masi is actually… decent. Jazzy and weird, it tries to elevate the sleaze, but ultimately just adds to the dissonance. One moment you’re watching a woman be horrifically murdered, the next it sounds like the opening to a late-night talk show.
Fulci’s direction is competent, even stylish at times, but it’s all in service of something so mean-spirited it negates the craft. This is one of those movies where you can admire the technical skill while still feeling like you need a shower afterward.
Final Thoughts: Misogyny in Technicolor
The New York Ripper isn’t a misunderstood masterpiece. It’s a sleazy, cynical, and downright nasty little film that confuses shock with substance and equates nudity with narrative. There’s no catharsis, no clever twist, no commentary — just gore, sleaze, and duck noises.
Fulci fans often defend it as a raw vision of urban decay or a transgressive piece of pulp art. But let’s be honest: this movie hates women. It leers, it torments, and it giggles while doing it.
If you’re looking for giallo, go watch Deep Red. If you want New York grime, revisit Taxi Driver. And if you’re in the mood for ducks? Try The Muppets.
This ain’t it.
Final Score: 1 out of 5 Feathered Freakouts
One point for Fulci’s camera work. Zero points for everything else. Especially the quacking. Dear God, the quacking.
