There are films that wrap themselves in riddles. Then there’s Lisa and the Devil, which doesn’t just wrap—it duct-tapes, zip-ties, and throws the riddle in a blender. Mario Bava’s 1973 fever dream is what happens when a director forgets he’s supposed to make sense and instead takes acid with a mannequin, a dead priest, and a half-naked Elke Sommer. It’s Gothic, surreal, unintentionally hilarious, and occasionally brilliant—like being trapped in an art museum curated by Satan’s interior decorator.
But hey, at least he had Elke Sommer.
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🧳 The Setup: Or, Something Approximating One
Elke Sommer plays Lisa, a beautiful tourist in Spain who gets separated from her group, because why wouldn’t she? She’s immediately sucked into a dreamlike netherworld where time folds in on itself, people speak in riddles, and the only consistent thing is her wide-eyed confusion. She meets a creepy man who resembles Telly Savalas if he moonlighted as a corpse valet, and that’s because—plot twist—it is Telly Savalas.
He plays Leandro, a grinning, lollipop-licking butler who may or may not be the Devil, or Death, or just a guy who never leaves the estate because DoorDash hasn’t arrived since 1876. He chauffeurs Lisa to a crumbling villa where a blind countess mopes in the shadows, her son has Oedipal issues that Freud would need therapy for, and mannequins litter the halls like forgotten party guests. It’s like Eyes Wide Shut got drunk on absinthe and passed out in a mausoleum.
👁️ The Visuals: Bava’s Funeral for Logic
To give Bava credit, Lisa and the Devil is gorgeous. Every frame looks like it belongs in a museum titled “How to Die Beautifully.” Rich reds, hazy lighting, and opulent decay dominate. Rooms appear lit by dying candles and existential dread. Bava shoots like a man who knows this might be his last chance to confuse audiences in style.
But there’s a price for all this beauty: coherence. The narrative falls apart like wet papier-mâché. We’re supposed to believe Lisa is trapped in some kind of eternal purgatory, reliving death and desire, but the film won’t commit. Characters die and reappear. Time folds. Mannequins come to life. People get stabbed, then show up again with all the enthusiasm of a zombie who forgot his motivation.
By the 70-minute mark, you’re not watching Lisa and the Devil—you’re surviving it.
💋 Elke Sommer: Our Shimmering Anchor in the Fog
Let’s not pretend: Elke Sommer is the real reason to be here. She is, in a word, luminous. She acts mostly with her eyes, which is good because her character has all the depth of a perfume ad. She floats through the film in flowy blouses, her perfect hair never frizzing, even as corpses rot and lollipops are licked ominously beside her.
Sommer’s Lisa is mostly reactive—wandering from room to room with mounting confusion, like someone looking for the restroom at an orgy they weren’t invited to. But she commits. Even when the script abandons logic, she holds the camera’s gaze like a champ. Is she playing a lost soul in a metaphysical trap? A dream figment? A sex doll given agency by Satan? Who the hell knows. Bava sure didn’t.
🍭 Telly Savalas, the Devil’s Concierge
Telly Savalas steals scenes with his trademark smirk and a lollipop like a mob enforcer moonlighting in Dark Shadows. He plays Leandro with the exact energy of someone who wandered onto set, refused to shave his head for continuity, and decided, “Hell, I’ll be the devil if you let me keep my candy.”
Is he malevolent? Maybe. Is he dead? Possibly. Does he care? Absolutely not. Savalas seems to understand he’s in a movie that makes no sense and wisely chooses to coast through it with detachment and swagger. He’s having more fun than anyone else and clearly understands the best way to survive Bava’s nonsense is to lean into it with a sugar high.
🧟 The Plot: Schrödinger’s Corpse Party
The story—if you can call it that—involves a cycle of murders, resurrections, necrophilic longing, possession, and mannequins. At one point, a character falls in love with a corpse and just… keeps it. Another shoots someone, then stares at the camera like he forgot why. Lisa keeps reliving scenarios—almost like a nightmare stuck on repeat—but the film offers no real resolution. It’s less a narrative and more a cinematic echo chamber: things happen, but they don’t matter.
There are moments that suggest meaning: the blurred line between beauty and death, the objectification of women (made literal via mannequins), the inescapability of sin. But they’re tossed in without commitment. It’s horror poetry without punctuation, and after a while, even the metaphors seem too tired to scream.
🕯️ Mood: Purgatory With Better Drapes
The best way to describe Lisa and the Devil is to imagine a haunted house hosted by Salvador Dalí and lit by a cinematographer who thought the afterlife was located in a brothel. It’s full of stunning imagery, ambient dread, and thematic gestures—but nothing adds up.
You can’t be scared if you’re constantly confused, and you can’t care if you’re watching mannequins stand in for human emotion. Even the score—gothic, shrieking, and relentless—feels like a sadistic lullaby trying to drown you in dry ice.
💬 Final Thoughts: Pretty, Pointless, and Purgatorial
Lisa and the Devil is the most infuriating kind of middle-of-the-road movie: it almost works. The visuals are sumptuous. Elke Sommer is spellbinding. There are stretches—brief ones—where it nearly becomes a masterpiece. But then it meanders back into surreal repetition, kills a mannequin, and licks a lollipop like that explains everything.
You can respect the ambition. Bava was trying to escape formula and say something more existential. But there’s a reason horror needs structure—it’s the skeleton beneath the style. Without it, you’re just watching dolls die in slow motion while your coffee gets cold.
Final Rating: ★★★☆☆ (3 out of 5 lollipops of death)
Because at least he had Elke Sommer… and she deserved a better nightmare.
