Lucio Fulci was once the master of gore, the poet of pus, the man who gave us maggots in our soup and eyeballs on splinters. By the time Voices from Beyond limped out in 1994, however, Fulci was less “Godfather of Gore” and more “Grumpy Uncle of Mildly Spooky Family Dramas.” This isn’t so much a horror film as it is an Italian telenovela with the occasional spectral interlude. Imagine Dynasty, but with more intestines in jars, and Joan Collins replaced by a moaning ghost stuck in a coffin.
The Premise: When Daddy Won’t Shut Up Even After He’s Dead
The story kicks off with Giorgio Mainardi, a rich man who croaks in his hospital bed after some “internal hemorrhage,” which sounds less like a cause of death and more like what happens when you binge-watch Fulci’s later work. His dying words are “why?”—which doubles as the audience’s question for the next 85 minutes.
Naturally, his spoiled, scheming family gathers around the estate like vultures circling a carcass at an all-you-can-eat buffet. Giorgio’s daughter Rosie, the only person in this mess who isn’t a mustache-twirling caricature, shows up to find her dad’s ghost whispering from the grave. He begs her to solve his murder before his corpse rots too badly for him to keep talking. Yes, apparently ectoplasmic Wi-Fi has an expiration date.
The Villains: A Family That Makes the Manson Clan Look Functional
You’d think a story about a wealthy family of wannabe killers would be deliciously campy. Instead, it’s like watching a badly rehearsed stage play where everyone wants Giorgio dead but can’t act suspicious to save their lives.
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Stepmother Hilda: Wears perpetual disdain like it’s Chanel No. 5 and refuses an autopsy because, you know, murder cover-ups are chic this season.
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Mario, the stepson: A whiny loser whose main hobby is boinking Giorgio’s younger wife. This is meant to be scandalous but just feels like rejected soap opera filler.
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Lucy, Wife No. 3: She shows a smidge of humanity, mostly because she isn’t stabbing anyone in the back—at least not literally.
It’s like a game of Clue, but instead of Colonel Mustard with the candlestick, it’s Grandma Hilda with the lightbulb shards in the ice cubes.
The Ghost: Moaning From the Discount Coffin
Fulci once directed scenes that made viewers gag, faint, or bolt for the exits. Here, his big supernatural innovation is Giorgio mumbling from underground like a drunk caller on a broken payphone. The ghost mostly repeats variations of, “Find out who killed me, Rosie,” as if his daughter had nothing better to do than play Scooby-Doo with the world’s least scary phantom.
Even worse, Giorgio keeps appearing in Rosie’s dreams. He doesn’t menace, doesn’t spook—he just kind of whines. Imagine Casper, if Casper had IBS and unresolved tax issues.
The Mystery: CSI, But With Less Competence
The autopsy scene is peak Fulci in its promise, though not its execution. Doctors pull Giorgio’s intestines out like overcooked spaghetti, discovering lacerations caused by glass shards. Someone poisoned his ice cubes with ground-up light bulbs, which is less diabolical plot and more “prank from a rejected Jackass sketch.”
Rosie and her med-student boyfriend Gianni take it upon themselves to investigate, because calling the police would make too much sense. Between bumbling around restaurants, interrogating mistresses, and snooping on maids, they stumble onto the big reveal: the kid David—yes, the child—was tricked into playing “grind glass into daddy’s water tray” as a game. Which makes this the first horror film where the murder weapon is essentially “playtime gone wrong.”
The Style: Fulci on Autopilot
Fulci once had a style: bold gore, surreal dreamscapes, and atmosphere thick enough to choke on. Here, it’s just flat camera work, cheap sets, and acting so wooden you half expect termites to show up for a cameo. Even Fulci himself appears briefly as the pathologist, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else, probably directing a better movie.
Instead of nightmares, the film delivers awkward flashbacks that play like sitcom cutaways:
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“Remember when Giorgio insulted me at dinner?”
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“Remember when Giorgio wouldn’t give me money?”
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“Remember when Giorgio broke up with me?”
By the end, you realize Giorgio was less murdered and more karmically downsized by every single person he ever met.
The Ending: Laughter From Beyond
Rosie confronts the murderers, hears their confession, and decides, “Nah, no cops. Let’s just let you all rot together in this creepy mansion.” Then she chats with her ghost dad at his grave, and they… laugh. Yes, laugh. After all the intestines, poisoning, and betrayal, it all wraps up with a chuckle between daddy and daughter like they’ve just shared a bad joke over Sunday brunch.
Why It Fails: When Horror Becomes Household Drama
Fulci fans tuned in expecting zombies, eyeball trauma, or at least a few inventive kills. Instead, they got a family squabble about inheritance, one dead man whining from his coffin, and a child playing “Junior Mixologist of Death” with ice cubes. It’s not scary. It’s not thrilling. It’s just tedious.
The horror isn’t in the ghost, the gore, or even the murder. The true terror is realizing you wasted 90 minutes of your life watching a film where the big twist is poisoned ice cubes.
Final Thoughts: Voices We Wish Had Stayed Silent
Voices from Beyond is not Fulci’s worst movie—he made plenty of duds toward the end—but it is easily one of his most boring. It’s not outrageous enough to be entertaining, not scary enough to be horror, and not coherent enough to be a drama. It feels like a director on autopilot, ticking boxes to fulfill a contract while his creative spark was already six feet under with Giorgio.
For die-hard Fulci fans, it’s a morbid curiosity. For everyone else, it’s proof that sometimes, voices from beyond should stay there—quiet, muffled, and mercifully forgotten.
