Let’s start with a question: If you’re going to make a Jack the Ripper movie set in modern-day London (well, 1971), and cast Paul Naschy as a limping ex-acrobat suspected of murdering prostitutes, is there any conceivable chance this could be subtle?
No. There is not.
And thank God for that.
Seven Murders for Scotland Yard — or as it was titled in Spain, Jack the Ripper of London, or in Italy, Sette Cadaveri per Scotland Yard, or in Mexico, just plain Jack el Destripador — is a film with more aliases than its killer. It’s a giallo crime thriller dressed up in foggy British noir cosplay, filtered through a thick haze of sleaze, polyester, and that special flavor of Euro-horror logic where the detectives are dim, the sex workers are doomed, and the final twist will have you muttering, “Wait, the cop did it?” even though that’s literally the twist in every third giallo film.
Plot: The Acrobat and the Acid Bubbles
Our hero — and I’m using the term in the loosest, most exhausted sense — is Bruno Doriani, played by Paul Naschy, the Spanish horror icon known for playing werewolves, madmen, Satanists, and here, a washed-up trapeze artist who now spends his days limping through London’s sketchiest neighborhoods and wooing women with all the charm of a wet cigarette.
Bruno has a tragic past (of course). He fell during a trapeze act years ago, and if that sounds like a metaphor for the trajectory of his life, well, you’re right. Now he hangs out in seedy pubs, drinks too much, dates prostitutes, and sulks like a man who just realized his greatest accomplishment in life was once being almost famous at the circus.
But things take a grim turn when London’s sex workers begin turning up carved like Christmas hams, their body parts harvested and lovingly stored in mason jars — presumably for artisanal serial killer jam. The press, having nothing better to do, dubs the killer “Jack the Ripper,” because of course they do, and the police, led by the world’s least subtle inspector, Henry Campbell (Renzo Marignano), decide that Bruno must be guilty. Why? Because he knows a few of the dead women and looks like he’s read The Bell Jar too many times.
Unfortunately for the inspector, Bruno eventually starts following the real killer — which turns out to be the inspector himself, because if you’re going to name a movie Seven Murders for Scotland Yard, the twist might as well be that Scotland Yard is the problem. Bruno discovers the inspector’s underground shrine of severed limbs and formaldehyde trophies, which is less of a surprise and more of a yup, checks out moment in this universe.
Acting: Faces Full of Sadness, Scowls, and Scissors
Paul Naschy brings his usual gloomy gravitas to the role of Bruno. He’s sort of like if Peter Lorre and Charles Bronson had a baby who joined the circus and then got dumped. He limps convincingly. He broods with gusto. He’s constantly sweaty, not from running but from thinking too hard about his past. If the Academy gave awards for best performance by a depressed ex-acrobat in a giallo film, Naschy would have won in a landslide.
Renzo Marignano, as Inspector Campbell, plays the part with the intensity of a man whose breakfast consisted of black coffee and unresolved childhood trauma. He’s got all the subtle menace of a taxidermist at a cuddle party. When the twist comes, we’re supposed to be shocked — but honestly, he’s been radiating “I have a dungeon” energy since minute seven.
The women — especially Patricia Loran as Lulu and Orchidea De Santis as Sandy — do their best with what little they’re given, which is mostly dying in slow motion while being ogled by the camera and probably by the boom operator. This is a film that loves its women the way a butcher loves his meat: tenderized, unresisting, and always replaceable.
Direction: Fog Machines and Forensics
Directed by José Luis Madrid, the movie unfolds like a poorly translated Sherlock Holmes fanfic directed by someone who once saw Psycho on an airplane. The tone is grim, but the pacing is oddly relaxed — like the film knows something awful is going to happen, but it’s also stopping to admire the wallpaper first.
There’s far too much time spent on procedural police work, which in this case means:
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A detective lighting a cigarette,
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Looking meaningfully at a photograph,
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Then dying horribly in the next scene.
Tension builds not through plot but by lingering. Lingering on feet. On shadows. On the same godforsaken street corner where three different characters get stabbed. The murder scenes are grisly in that TV movie shot through red cellophanekind of way, with cuts away at the last second — which, given this is a giallo, almost feels restrained. Until you see the body parts in jars. That’s when you remember: Ah yes, Italy still wanted to get banned in Belgium.
Score: Murder by Way of Muzak
The score by Piero Piccioni is one of the best things about the film. It’s moody, jazzy, occasionally brassy in that we-may-all-die-but-let’s-have-a-cocktail kind of way. You half expect a saxophone to seduce a character mid-homicide. Piccioni’s music gives the film atmosphere when the script and direction can’t quite manage it, elevating a forgettable scene of walking down a rainy alley into something that feels momentarily Hitchcockian — or at least Hitchcock-adjacent.
Final Thoughts: Ripping Good Fun (Until It Isn’t)
Seven Murders for Scotland Yard is a solid slice of second-tier giallo: stylish enough to intrigue, sleazy enough to qualify, and nonsensical enough to make you question your life choices. It combines all the essential elements: a brooding antihero, an incompetent police force, an overabundance of eyeliner, and enough misogyny to make Freud clutch his pearls.
Is it a masterpiece? Absolutely not.
Is it entertaining? In the same way a flaming dumpster can be mesmerizing.
Naschy fans will enjoy watching him suffer nobly while framed for murder. Casual viewers may enjoy guessing which victim will die next based on how much skin they show. And giallo lovers will find just enough gore, sleaze, and plot twist whiplash to justify 90 minutes of their lives.
★★★☆☆ (3 out of 4 stars)
Come for the mustaches. Stay for the murder jars. Leave when the inspector starts monologuing.
