Ah, Macabre, Lamberto Bava’s delightful excursion into “Italian horror,” or as one might politely call it, what happens when a mind obsessed with head cheese goes on vacation. The film promises suspense, psychological thrills, and a feast of terror—though mostly the feast part is literal, and the terror is delivered with the subtlety of a sledgehammer to the kneecaps. This is the cinematic equivalent of finding out your neighbor has been feeding your dog to the blender while smiling and offering you tea.
Meet Jane: The Woman Who Just Can’t Let Go
Bernice Stegers stars as Jane Baker, a woman whose love life reads like a cautionary tale for anyone who thinks serial monogamy is bad enough. Jane is cheating on her husband, having furtive trysts with the poor sap Fred, while her precocious daughter Lucy peers around corners like a pint-sized Sherlock Holmes with homicidal tendencies. The film wastes no time establishing that everyone in Jane’s orbit is either morally bankrupt, stupid, or both. In other words, a warm, inviting cast of characters ready to be diced, sliced, and seasoned for your viewing pleasure.
The Opening: Murder, Bathing, and Car Crashes
Within the first twenty minutes, we are treated to a veritable buffet of death and accidental-on-purpose mayhem. Lucy drowns her little brother Michael, and Jane’s lover Fred meets a spectacularly messy end in a car crash—because apparently, love is not enough to keep him from piloting a vehicle into a guardrail. Director Lamberto Bava doesn’t beat around the bush: from the first act, the audience is meant to be simultaneously horrified, appalled, and faintly impressed by the sheer audacity of the plot. It’s the cinematic equivalent of biting into a cake only to find a finger baked inside.
Moving In With the Morbidly Curious
After the initial bloodletting, Jane moves in with the Duvals, a boardinghouse family who offer the kind of hospitality that screams “We have a basement you really don’t want to see.” Stanko Molnar’s Robert Duval is the blind, adult son who might be the only character capable of basic moral judgment—although “basic” is generous. Bava clearly wants us to believe that living in New Orleans with the Baker family is like signing up for an all-inclusive tour of horror tropes: sexual deviance, matricidal tendencies, and the occasional severed head for dessert.
Frozen Heads and Frozen Logic
Ah, the centerpiece of this film: Jane’s ongoing romance with Fred’s severed head. One might think this is the point where suspension of disbelief buckles under the weight of grotesque absurdity, but Bava leans into it with a perverse sort of pride. The scene in which Jane passionately kisses the head is shot with the kind of tender intimacy usually reserved for romantic comedies, creating a disturbing juxtaposition that screams, “Yes, this is happening, and yes, it’s totally normal in our universe.” And then comes Lucy, casually incorporating Fred’s head into soup like some kind of demented little Julia Child. If there were an Academy Award for culinary horror, the child actor might just take it home—if she doesn’t get eaten first.
Family Dynamics: Dysfunction to the Extreme
Macabre doesn’t just play with horror clichés—it sews them together in a patchwork quilt of moral rot. Jane strangles Lucy, Robert smashes Jane’s face into an oven, and then Fred’s severed head bites back. The family dinner, ostensibly a moment for awkward reconciliation, becomes a surreal game of “Who Wants to Be Eaten First?” Every interaction is a lesson in how not to parent, cheat, or generally exist in polite society. The writing here is a masterclass in escalation: if you thought murdering a spouse’s lover was dramatic, Bava ensures that topping it with cannibalism and necrophilia is just part of the weekend itinerary.
Performances: Camp, Horror, and Somewhat Convincing Insanity
Bernice Stegers deserves a twisted kind of praise for playing Jane with equal parts seduction, insanity, and outright casual cruelty. Veronica Zinny’s Lucy oscillates between adorable child and mini sociopath with unsettling ease, making the viewer wonder if the kid was method acting or just naturally evil. Stanko Molnar’s Robert is the audience surrogate: confused, horrified, and consistently placed in situations where moral clarity is about as useful as a chocolate teapot. The rest of the cast—Fred, Leslie, Mrs. Duval—exists primarily to die in increasingly inventive ways, and Bava ensures they’re all memorable for their one-way trips to doom.
Direction: Lamberto Bava’s Love Letter to Absurdity
Having cut his teeth assisting his father Mario Bava and then Dario Argento, Lamberto Bava was primed to make a splash. Unfortunately, he channels his experience into a film that feels like a fever dream fueled by leftover pizza and violent newspaper clippings. The pacing is relentless, the camera angles occasionally inspired, and the mood a bizarre mixture of suspense and unintentional comedy. It’s the cinematic equivalent of trying to read a suspense novel while someone is poking you with a hot poker. You’re compelled to continue, but you’re not sure why.
Setting: New Orleans Meets Italian Exploitation
Shot on location in New Orleans and Italian backlots, the film carries the weird charm of an American city filtered through an Italian horror lens. The city feels alive with potential menace, although the interiors of the boardinghouse often look like the set of a slightly shabby soap opera. Bava turns this limitation into a feature, giving the film a claustrophobic, uncanny feeling. You’re never quite sure if the terror is happening in New Orleans or in some fevered Italian memory of New Orleans, which is oddly fitting.
Score: Ubaldo Continiello’s Musical Misery
The score by Ubaldo Continiello alternates between ominous string swells and inexplicably cheerful motifs, giving the impression that someone accidentally swapped the horror soundtrack with a light jazz record. At times, it enhances the surreal horror; at others, it makes you imagine the characters pausing mid-murder to tiptoe through the music, like a twisted dance recital.
Macabre’s Lasting Impression
By the time the film ends, and Robert lies exhausted over Jane’s bed while Fred’s severed head mounts a surprise attack, the viewer is left with a mix of awe, disgust, and confused laughter. Macabre is a film that knows exactly what it is: a grotesque exploration of perversion, family dysfunction, and culinary horror, wrapped up in the dubious charms of low-budget Italian filmmaking. It’s the cinematic equivalent of stepping on a Lego in the dark, except the Lego bites back.
Verdict: A Horror Feast Best Served With a Side of Sarcasm
Ultimately, Macabre is less about coherent storytelling than it is about the audacity to show what no human being should ever touch—or kiss, or cook, or have dinner with. It’s absurd, shocking, and occasionally funny in a dark, squirm-inducing way. Lamberto Bava has crafted a horror experience where the question is not what will happen next, but how badly will your suspension of disbelief get murdered today?
If you enjoy horror with a side of gleeful nausea, twisted family dynamics, and severed heads that apparently have feelings, Macabre is the film for you. If, however, you value subtlety, logic, or your lunch intact, steer clear—or at least keep a trash bag and antacid handy.
In short: Macabre is Italian horror at its most shameless, shocking, and absurdly gleeful. It’s a meal you might regret, but you’ll never forget.
