Film Review - The Frightened Woman (1969)

Italian S&M shocker draped in pop art pizazz that pits male toxicity against female tenacity in the turbulent slipstream of fractured gender identity.

Beautiful press officer Maria visits philanthropist Dr Sayer to retrieve journals on male sterilisation in India. Once ensconced in his hi-tech bachelor pad it becomes apparent she has fallen into the manicured clutches of a misogynistic murderer fixated with twisted sex games.

Cracking under the psychological and physical abuse of her captor’s punishing regime, the resourceful Maria begins to fight back in ever more surprising ways.

To say Piero Schivazappa‘s stylish kaleidoscope of sadistic shenanigans is a product of its times is an understatement. Surreal, futurist, and strangely anal, it encapsulates perfectly both the liberation and trepidation of the late 1960’s. From a feminist perspective, his film lingers on male resentment and insecurity like a starving vulture and from an artistic perspective it flaunts pop art aesthetics to the point of fetishism.

Dr Sayer’s apartment is an Aladdin’s cave of clean lines Clockwork Orange decor and imaginative but clunky tech devices. In a super weird precursor to Alexa, the in-house speaker system broadcasts clinical astrological observations on ‘sexual aberrations and the stars’. Thus we learn that those born in Taurus with Venus in the accent will favour narcissism and masturbation.

There are also early minimalist tasters, such as a masterfully framed breakfast scene with gleaming tiles and a single fresh tulip. In addition, lush fabrics, meticulously curated paintings and sculptures, including a massive installation of a pair of spread legs replete with a tooth-filled vaginal door, equates to a funky feast for the eyes that illustrates the film’s relatively extensive budget.

The areas specifically designed for weekends of sex torture entertainment are particularly striking in their modernist practicality. The immaculate set design and stunning location work that graces The Frightened Woman are worth the price of ission alone and must have wowed salacious skinseekers and arthouse goatee strokers in equal measure.

Apart from a glamorous sex worker, whose fabulously shaggy hair matches her ruff and handbag perfectly, and a disgraced one-eyed kleptomaniac who pilfers racks of pipes and gold lettering off statue placards, oh and the odd dwarf dressed as a footman, this is pretty much an isolated double act. As such, much rests on the two lead performances to convey the frustrations and traumas at the heart of this buffet of the bizarre.

The naturally beautiful Dagmar Lassander plays Maria with icy grace and effortless class. She never looks anything less than voguish even when being hosed down with freezing water in an empty swimming pool or spewing from a drug overdose.

Lassander is an erudite actress who appreciated both the social undercurrents of the role and the artistic endeavour of the writing, composing and direction. She throws herself wholeheartedly into the sexy weirdness, not least in the extended dance sequence that sees her sashaying down a white light runway and over glossy countertops bound in thin gauze. Incidentally, this mesmeric striptease was overseen by dance instructor to the stars Leo Colman. He was the same guy who taught Sophia Loren to Mamba and was hired on the back of this success to help ease Lassander’s awkwardness.

Philippe Leroy of The Night Porter fame plays the suave primordial incel Dr Sayer with chilling perniciousness. Traumatised by the cannibalistic mating habits of female scorpions, he is mortally terrified that women stand on the cusp of becoming ‘socially and sexually self-sufficient’. Subsequently, he feels compelled to dominate, demean, and harm them.

Leroy pulls no slimy punches as he rants like the cultured Bondesque icon Andrew Tate fantasies himself to be on his days off from weaponising noxious masculinity. Dr Sayer is a clammy obsessively compulsive toads turd whose car turns amphibious and who exits the bathtub by way of leaping onto a trapeze, and Leroy wrings every ounce of cyanogenic piss from his insecure bladder.

The reactionary chemistry between the two is intensely uncomfortable and often icky to watch. Lassander puts this down in no small part to the frostiness of the director Schivazappa towards the cast and has even suggested it was a deliberate ploy to foster the oppressiveness of his picture.

Those looking for titillation, perversity, and peculiarity will not be disappointed. Indeed, the rubber effigy sex, odious organ, no not that kind, groping, level crossing road head, and steam train saxophonists will provide all you need in the way of cult movie thrills. The film is pretty edgy for the time it was shot.

That being said, don’t be surprised if your head is turned by the cinematic skill, funky as fuck needle drops, and charismatic screen energy. Sensationalist yes, but not cheap and witless by any means, and once the final twist is revealed you will instantly begin thinking of all the subsequent genre films that owe it unpaid gratitude.

Intended as art first and sexploitation second this imaginative exploration of a society still probing gender boundaries is as relevant today as it was then.