Suspiria, Dario Argento’s 1977 follow-up to Deep Red, reveals several major shifts in his work, even as it clearly builds on the investigation-centric giallo dynamics and eccentric stylings of the director’s previous films. Set in Germany instead of Argento’s native Italy, it opens with the arrival of protagonist Suzy Bannion (Jessica Harper) at Flughafen München. A voiceover explains, “Suzy Bannion decided to perfect her ballet studies in the most famous school of dance in Europe. She chose the celebrated academy of Freiburg. One day at nine in the morning, she left Kennedy Airport, New York, and arrived in Germany at 10:40 pm local time.” The voice promptly vanishes, never to return, leaving us to jigsaw together the rest of the narrative for ourselves.
The pieces of its puzzle include some supernatural pizzazz (ordered hot and fresh for the white-draped sleepover that will occur later in the movie), psychological jibber-jabber and irises and secrets and pins. Oh my! Although the psychobabble is recognizable from Argento’s previous thrillers, Suspiria represents his first dolls-to-the-wall foray into the paranormal, as well as the beginning of a new series: the so-called Three Mothers trilogy that also includes Inferno and Mother of Tears. Other characteristics that distinguish it from his earlier works include its oft-praised vividly saturated colors (it was the final film to be dye transferred using Technicolor’s once ubiquitous three-strip process), its use of brand-new Steadicam technology and its almost entirely female cast.
These characteristics provide a unique opportunity to probe the elaborately decorated corridors of European history, with a legacy of beautiful art matched only by its legacy of terrible violence. Intriguingly, he does this from the perspective of young American Suzy, who wields New World grit against Old World dominion and youthful curiosity against ancient intractability. Germany called it the Third Reich for a reason: its authoritarian patriarchy was meant to be the final installment in the (definitively overrated, one must say) Holy Roman trilogy.
Emphasis on the Roman. Notice, for example, that one of the movie’s most mysterious murders (at the impeccably sharp teeth of a German Shepherd) takes place in Munich’s classically designed Königsplatz, an architectural shrine to Greco-Roman imperialism where Nazis loved to parade around in rows symmetrical as celluloid frames. What space could better bring together German- and Italian-style fascism in all of its aestheticized regalia? Argento portrays Königsplatz as a zone of terror and of yawning emptiness, a perfect spot for destroying a helpless man out of punishment-hungry self-preservation.
While the dictatorial figure of the father brings together Teutonic and Roman authoritarianism (for reference: Führer, Duce, Papa), Suspiria focuses instead on the evil mother, who unrelentingly takes advantage of others for the gain of her own family. Or should we say coven? The mother of the ancient ways, it turns out, is nothing other than a greedy old witch, whose goal, Professor Milius observes, is “to accumulate great personal wealth. It can only be achieved by injury to others.” He speaks the words from within yet another architectural marvel, Munich’s BMW headquarters, drawing our attention to the relevance of this dialogue for another system, which dons the invisibility cloak of democracy while usurping power for moneyed elites—namely, capitalism.
At this point in his oeuvre, Suspiria is the clearest indicator of Argento’s fascination with the allegorical, a major reason for his position of high esteem in intellectual circles. Yet his propensity for the baroque is just as important to the overall effect of his films, equal parts intriguingly symbolic and bewilderingly overwrought. No single reading or firm resolution is capable of containing this much ornamentation. His obsession with garishness could represent a deconstructive camping up of fascist war aesthetics, but there’s undoubtedly more than a pinch of reverence for patriarchy hidden in plain sight: the hairy arm that breaks the picture plane, the bright-lit imposing columns of European tradition, the imprisoning wire perfectly placed for stopping Sarah in her tracks.
The film’s obvious nods to Hitchcock clarify its sadistic, objectifying tendencies: a bat straight out of The Birds shows up to terrorize Suzy, the bright green light of Vertigo shines on terrified faces through the windows of the Tanzakedemie and a birds-eye view of the BMW headquarters is a dead ringer for a shot from skyscraper’s heights in North by Northwest. Hitchcock’s movies wrap perplexing matters in logical explanation, but Suspiria is insistent we not place ourselves at a proper distance, where reasoning can safely occur. It’s a film that, like all of Argento’s best, forces us to watch from the inside position of what could be a hallucinating mind. Whether this mind reveals truth or obscures it remains tantalizingly unclear.
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