Four Times That Night (1971): Mario Bava’s Whodunnit Whirl with No Clues and Four Identities

🎥 Flashbacks on Faltering Wheels

So Bava splits the narrative into four chapters—four versions of the same drunken evening. If you liked repetitive sex comedies where nothing makes sense, you’re in for a treat. If you despise redundancy more than most people despise losing their car keys? You’re screwed.

Each segment is filmed in a different style—supposedly to reflect the mood or personality of the teller. One is studded with erotic angles, another is pastel comedy, one is moody Alain Delon-style art film. The results? A schizophrenic hodgepodge that works like diet lava lamp juice—confusing, sticky, and strangely underwhelming.

Bava’s trademark visuals—bold colors, angled lenses, atmospheric flare—are there, but they wander around the story like tourists without cameras. You occasionally see flashes of cinematic beauty: a close-up on Giannini’s whiskey-drenched lips, or a tilt to catch a slipping garter. But mostly you sit through smiling actors narrating events that seem to happen offscreen, while the camera glides solemnly like it’s embarrassed.

🗣️ Characters: Personality Skinny Dipping and Not Drying Off

• Gianfranco is the kind of guy who needs flashy clothes to substitute for a personality. He chews scenery like an amateur—okay for a one-night story, disastrous when you’re stuck listening to four of them. He’s dull-even-by-European-standards.

• Alessandra: the ex who says things like “I loved you, Gianfranco” with basketball-sized teardrops. She’s half-villain, half-punchline, never a human.

• Laura is prim, high-class; Maria is bold and spicy; Andrea is virginal-clean. These are broad strokes by a painter who forgot to mix his colors. None are characters; they’re sketches in a cheap adult coloring book.

🧠 The Humor: Mild Sauce Served On Dry Toast

Comedy? Unlikely. Bava’s comical take is timid—like someone testing the phrase “Do you want to see my gun?” at a meeting of postal employees. There’s an awkward dinner scene, a few risqué slips, a skirt here and there. But no one laughs. Not the audience. Not the cast. The jokes are so timid they’re apologizing for being there.

A particularly limp attempt at brooding humor involves a banana peel—spoiler: Gianfranco slips. It’s meant to be witty. It’s not. It’s a banana peel. You’ve watched it in silent-era comedies that were funnier.

💡 Tone and Pacing: Nine Parts Boredom, One Part Candles

What Bava intended as teasing eroticism reads as a hostage situation with skin. Flashbacks repeat like party guests who won’t leave. Each segment kicks off with promise, then plunges into coy triangle scenes that are frustratingly antiseptic. You’d feel more alive watching your thermostat.

Some segments – the noir-ish one, for instance – rip from Charade or Femme Fatale influences. The rest stumble into “made-for-TV after-basic censoring” territory. The tone shifts so hard, you half expect Bava to step on camera at one point and announce: “Apologies, folks. Wrong genre.”

🤷‍♀️ Plot: Four Versions of Strangers With Slightly Damp Doors

Is there a mystery? Not really. Will you care which story is “true”? Not especially. Each version contradicts the last, sometimes hilariously—“I found him curled up on the floor with the butler!”—followed by “I found him in my causeway drowning in chocolate.” None build to anything like a revelation. They just… end. And when they do, you’re relieved it’s over.

It’s like enrolling in a “Choose Your Own Adventure” movie—only every choice lands you in a parking lot with no directions.

🎬 Visuals & Sound: Bava’s Brush Without the Palette

Look, the man is a visual craftsman. Even here, you see snatches of brilliance. A candlelit reflection across a champagne glass. An angled shot that flirts with femme fatale style. And original score cues that evoke sensual mystery.

But it’s used like putting fine jewelry on a scarecrow. It looks nice until you realize there’s no scarecrow underneath. So the visuals feel cosmetic, not soulful—long take of a flaming fireplace, quick zoom on Grand Theft Gaze, but nothing worth remembering once the credits roll.

🚫 Why It Fails as Suspense or Erotica

Good erotic mysteries balance intrigue and lust; this one balances boredom and awkwardness—tighty, loose, neither. There’s no chemistry, just messy glances and dialogue that died on the page. There’s no sexual tension—just the memory of it dangling in the air like a failed helium balloon.

The mystery isn’t compelling; we’re supposed to guess who the night partner was, but every choice feels like generic dessert without flavor. The payoff: you don’t care, and neither does Gianfranco when he wakes up. This is an anti-payoff.

🎤 Final Verdict: A Midnight Movie That Should’ve Stayed in a Drawer

Four Times That Night feels like Bava’s mid-career apology for not making soft-core European tourism porn. It has the sheen of potential. It has the frame of a sexy mystery. It lacks resolution, tension, humor, or even lingering nudity.

It’s softcore for people who hate softcore. A mild comedy for folks who hate to giggle. A movie that gently sets itself on fire with no one around to extinguish the punchline.

Final Rating: ★★☆☆☆ (2 out of 5 mismatched flashbacks)
If you’re curious about Bava’s occasional flirtation with sex and ambiguity, sample it—but don’t unhinge your expectations. It’s a handsome dud hidden behind smoky candles and cheap hotel sheets.