Scrawling obscenities onto a car window: deserving of a killing? A duck-voiced moral sermon? Nah. Ask her out. And thus begins the Lucio Fulci masterpiece New York Ripper. Ive always seen the duck voice as a criticism, from both Fulci and the speaker, that he mimicked others, even while living a normal life, though the mimicry was the result of a mental block, psychosis, which enabled the horrendous events of the film.
So much seediness in the early eighties in New York, the Red Light District, live sex shows, a palette for the cryptography of Fulci. Was then the female participant in the live sex act a cryptographically perfect plant of the director? I think of the horizontal quality of her breasts, the smallness, yet the obvious presence and jut of those. Was she then a low-budget gloriously unselfconscious distillation of the Madonna? Actually, I submit Fulci cast her for her mammarial perfection in the murder scene, how her breast hung as she walked in a superfluous shot. This I understand.
And the woman who witnessed the scene alongside the murderer, the ailing personalities that bounced about the low-lit rooms with the red carpet and cigarette burns. And a second maniac, a red-herring.
Back to the woman with the strange libido and the tape recorder. This is important. She was supposed to be the due-North to calibrate the film, but instead was both a victim and in some senses, deranged, herself. So few of the adults are normal, giving us a bearing then, in a film that does not but rarely touched the ground of morality and what is thought to be normal sexuality, but fear not, for every fetish is not admitted therein, only Fulci's pet tendences(I don't mean animals, so don't scream foul on me), seemingly, a love letter, then in this, a meditation composed while sitting on a toilet somewhere, in some unfamiliar but naggingly comfortable place.
And I hope he was really playing the foot scene as being a gross-out. I didn't get that from the film, but I was sickened by it.
Sickened, I tell you.