Embrujada, aka Bewitched (Argentina, 1969)

Many men of a much coarser nature than me might look at Isabel Sarli’s body and declare it good for only one thing. And if you guessed “baby making”, then congratulations: you are Armando Bo, writer and co-director of Embrujada.

I have seen far from all of Bo’s obsessive paeans to his lover Sarli’s generous pulchritude, but I’m sure that none of them are as abundant in cray cray as Embrujada. This is a film in which Sarli portrays a woman who so desperately wants to have a baby that her maternal urges summon forth a literal monster. How do we know that she wants to have a baby, you probably don’t ask? Well, when we meet her at the film’s opening, she is in a toy store purchasing a baby doll, which she then takes home and tearfully holds to her enormous bosom. And this is only the first indication of the astonishing level of condescension that Bo brings to his depiction of Sarli’s character throughout the picture.

The problem is that Sarli’s character, Ansise, is married to Leandro (Daniel de Alvarado), a despotic lumber baron with a malfunctioning pee pee. This means that we get to see scenes of Leandro futilely humping the leg of a supine Isabel Sarli while weeping. In fact, if watching a voluptuous woman have blighted sex with catastrophically ugly old men is your thing, you can put those worn Ron Jeremy tapes away, because Embrujada is the only film you will ever need from now on. And, no, we are not spared the sight of their pale, flabby buttocks flouncing away on top of her, so strap in.

As with Bo’s other films, one of  Ebrujada's greatest pleasures is seeing actors throatily declaim the most absurdly overwrought dialogue imaginable with an almost self-immolating passion. Thusly, much audible hay is made of Leandro being “useless” as a man by both Ansise and himself. Leandro, however, is not being entirely on the level, as we later learn that his business works just fine when serviced by Peralta (Miguel A. Olmos), the sadistic foreman of whom he has made a boy toy.

Such betrayals, however, will have to be the subject of later hair tearing, as right now the priority for Ansise is getting someone to put a baby in her and fast. The route she takes toward this goal is a novel one. She first consults a witch, to little apparent result, and then becomes a hooker—which I suppose is a fairly direct path to parenthood if you don’t mind your baby coming with a side order of syphilis. Her first customer is a hirsute man-hag whom Leandro walks in on her with. Much glass-rattling lamentation and self-recrimination follows.

Finally, Leandro hires a workman with a less eye-punishing countenance than the other males in Embrujada, and he is played by Bo’s son, Victor, who we also saw getting it on with Sarli in The Virgin Godess. Which is to say that the two of them get it on here also. Love blossoms between the pair, only to be struck down by tragedy—that tragedy being the appearance of a rapey demon thing from South American folklore called the Pombero. The Pombero is traditionally referred to as being small in stature, but here he is a normal sized dude in a drugstore devil mask. In any case, he quickly gets to pawing away at Ansise, who, by all appearances, enjoys it lots.

Ansise is free in spreading word of her encounter with Pombero and is believed by no one. Leandro charmingly blames her belief in the creature on her immutable savagery, seeing as she is an indigenous woman whom Leandro married by arrangement with her tribe’s chieftain. Gradually it starts to appear that the ticking of Ansise’s biological clock, coupled with the roiling of her native blood, has driven her to madness. Indeed, the amount of visual noise (lots of abrupt flash forwards and flash forwards, bizarre superimpositions) that Bo employs toward depicting her mental disintegration raises the question of whether Embrujada was intended by him as his nudity-filled answer to Polanski’s Repulsion. Whatever the case, it could certainly count as a cut rate spiritual cousin to the current wave of maternal horror films lead by movies like The Babadook and Goodnight Mommy, though conspicuously bereft of the benefits those films had by virtue of having female directors. 

Embrujada was filmed in the Misiones province of Argentina and wisely gives visual prominence to the majestic Iguazu Falls, which serve as a resting place for our eyes between its scenes of grotesque human couplings. As for its other scenery, the film shows us a lot more than usual of Isabel Sarli, who is topless virtually throughout and often completely starkers. This is fine for dad, of course, but what does Embrujada offer for mom? Well, for her it has retrograde gender attitudes virulent enough to make even the most subservient hausfrau crackle with feminist rage. It’s a win-win, really.

The Virgin Goddess (Argentina/South Africa, 1974)

Helmed by Dirk De Villiers, a South African director of prolific output but little renown outside his home country, The Virgin Goddess is proof that Argentinian sex bomb Isabel Sarli was more than just a buxom puppet in the hands of her director paramour Armando Bo. Don’t assume, however, that Bo was not close at hand. He shares a co-production credit on the film and also appears in a supporting role. Furthermore, his son, Victor Bo, plays the male lead. Victor, I should mention, would go on to give Armando Bo a grandson, also named Armando Bo, who would grow up to share screenwriting credit on Alejandro Gonzalez Inarritu’s Oscar nominated film Birdman. And thus is a membrane-thin veneer of contemporary relevance laboriously attained.

Like so many jungle adventures before it, The Virgin Goddess begins in a modern city, that pinnacle achievement of man in all of his so called “civilization” (but are we really so civilized… ARE WE?). Here, a flinty adventurer—appropriately named Flint and played by director De Villiers himself—regales a table full of sophisticated gentlemen with the story of his latest adventure—in a manner so putatively captivating that, before he is done, the entirety of the patrons and wait staff of the bar they are in has gathered around their table.

Interestingly, Flint’s tale requires a preamble that starts in 1495. It seems a certain, beautiful, monster-titted noblewoman (Sarli) was making a treacherous passage by schooner when a violent storm lead to her being washed up in picturesque dishabille on the shore of some unknown African land (the film was shot in Kruger Park, one of South Africa’s largest game reserves). Because everything that gets left in the jungle—cigarette lighters, old copies of the New Yorker, Jell-O molds—ends up being elevated to the level of a deity, the natives waste no time in scooping Sarli up and making a goddess out of her. And it is at this point that we get the first of many, many travelogue style scenes of natives dancing around and chanting. This provides for lots of National Geographic style nudity, which takes the onus off Sarli, who apparently had some kind of Amy Yip clause in her contract.

Sarli is taken under the wing of the village witch doctor, Makulu (Jimmy Sabe) who acts as her Henry Higgins in terms of teaching her the ins and outs of being a rain goddess. Soon her fevered undulations bring rain. The crops thrive and the village prospers. Meanwhile, Makulu himself has become hoodoo’d by Sarli’s overflowing charms and demands that she become his bride. She refuses, and he puts a curse on her: she will live forever, as will he, as long as she remains a virgin. Makulu, it seems, is running the whole show here, and does so with an iron fist. When a young warrior named Gampu (Ken Gampu) attempts to assassinate him, he ends up being run out of the village and goes into hiding.

The Virgin Goddess is an odd film. Its dialogue is a mix of both spoken and dubbed English and Swahili (and to add to the linguistic chaos, the version I watched had Spanish subtitles). It also, especially in comparison to what Armando Bo—whose mania for Sarli’s attributes seemingly robbed him of all restraint—might have done with this kind of material, comes across as sort of… sedate. The pace is slow but measured, and there is an overall hush that reminds one of those old documentaries where the filmmakers spoke in whispers for fear of riling the natives or causing a rhino stampede. It doesn’t help that, whenever De Villiers cuts to a shot of the surrounding wildlife, the animals appear as if they are about to collapse from boredom.

Like her animal co-stars, the usually lusty Sarli also appears anesthetized, laying back complacently as the natives worship her and carry her around on a palanquin—admittedly, as she well might. It takes the intervention of civilized man, that notorious ruiner of everything, to finally bring her back to her old self. This comes in the form of an exploration party comprised of Flint, handsome devil Mark (Victor Bo), financier Hans (Armando Bo), and Eric (James Ryan), a mustached Chuck Negron look-alike who provides the gratuitous folk music.

The Virgin Goddess does not do a very good job of letting us in on when it has transitioned from the 15th century to the present day, so it comes as a bit of a surprise when Gampu, the outcast warrior previously seen only in flashback, steps forward to offer his services as guide to the explorers. From here, the standard retinue of jungle perils and treacheries commences, as naggingly familiar as the morning alarm clock. Eric reveals himself to be the coward of the group and is killed by a leopard while making an ill-advised run for it. Hans is the backstabbing turncoat, and is fatally bitten by vigilant cobras while trying to steal the tribe’s treasure for himself. Mark is handsome, and immediately falls for Sarli once he spies her fondling her own boobs in the local watering hole. This fateful encounter sets the stage for the cataclysmic fuck that will end the film in a hail of volcanic ash and toppling huts (spoiler).

The Virgin Goddess is not boring, even though it feels as though it should be boring. It is instead mesmerizing; mainly for the oddly somnolent approach it takes to material that, in other hands, would provide for a lot of bombast. Dirk De Villiers, it must be said, is no Armando Bo—and I am startled to find myself admitting that Bo’s over-the-top approach was missed here. Because of that, I will deem The Virgin Goddess a must-see only for Sarli completists, of which the desire-perverting tendencies of the internet guarantees there are some. Others, looking for an introduction to this unique star/director combo, would do best to check out the previously reviewed Fuego. Now that’s a picture, people!

Fuego (Argentina, 1969)

Poor Miss Laura! A beautiful woman, she lacks not for male attention, but still she is unsatisfied! The flame of her desire burns too hot! Poor Miss Laura! She wants to be good…

BUT SHE CANNOT! THE FIRE! IT IS TOO GREAT!

1956 was a banner year in the history of Argentinian film, for it was in that year that actor and director Armando Bo, with the film El Trueno Entre las Hojas, gave the Argentinean audience their first taste of full frontal screen nudity. It was also in 1956, in that same film, that Bo introduced the audience to his discovery, former Miss Argentina Isabel Sarli, who was the enthusiastic delivery system for that nudity.

Many online sources refer to Sarli as “well endowed”, but out of hostility to such coyness I will simply refer to her as “huge titted”. Sarli’s acting, if not good, is also huge, which suits to a tee Bo’s overheated approach to drama, which sees no emotion as too small not to be screamed to the heavens with balled fists. Sarli, who would eventually marry Bo, starred in dozens of soft-core sex films for him throughout the 60s and 70s, often with him as costar, not retiring until after his death in 1981. Over that period, she rose to prominence throughout Latin America as both a sex symbol and pop cultural icon.

In 1969’s Fuego, Sarli plays Laura, who, when we first meet her, is married to the wealthy man of business Jorge (Hugo Mújica) while seemingly barely tolerating the lesbian advances of her live-in maid Andrea (Alba Múgica). Then along comes Carlos (Bo), another wealthy man of business, who, after a passionate tryst by a chicken coop, whisks her away to his home in San Martín de los Andes, a spectacularly lush region resting at the foot of the Andes. It is there that they enjoy an erotic reverie of almost nonstop lovemaking, be it in their colorfully appointed bedroom or rolling naked on the snow swept mountainsides.

All the while, Laura keeps up her dalliance with Andrea, whose insane possessiveness leads to a catfight that presents a serious challenge to the one in The Brain that Wouldn’t Die in terms of sheer awkwardness. Yet, despite all of this attentiveness to her carnal needs, Laura remains unsatisfied. That is because Laura is what is known, in the parlance of her era, as a “nympho”. So deep, in fact, is her erotomania, that she is eventually driven by it to hit the town, naked but for a huge fur coat and silver go-go boots, to expose herself to the gentry, eventually coupling with a yahoo in a Stetson who she refers to as a “stupid idiot”.

To be fair, this being a soft core sex film, the “erotic reverie” that Laura enjoys consists almost entirely of her boobs being either groped or nuzzled, punctuated by disconcertingly explicit shots of her and Carlos making out that beg for the term “sucking face” to come back into fashion. When there is no one around to grope her boobs, Laura lies in bed and gropes them herself, which may explain why she remains so unsatisfied (making this a case where an intervention by Susie Bright might have worked miracles).

Fuego is a film that you watch in grateful astonishment, delivering as it does nonstop kitsch of an almost lethal purity. Its visual aesthetic, despite its 1969 vintage, is the 1970s crystallized; a hair raising shit storm of hideously patterned blazers, gaudily colored mini dresses and pneumatic hairstyles. Its all-singing soundtrack -- including such numbers as Lois Alberto del Parana’s “Flames in her Body” and Carlos Alonzo’s “Living is Dying” -- matches the action with an aural wallpapering of weepy-eyed Latinate bombast. Oh, and the dialogue! Countless times I almost lost track of the action as I hastened to scribble down one howler after another:

“I love you, but I am being consumed by the sexual fire inside!”

“My beloved, you are so voluptuous. I love you!”

“Slut! SLUT!!”

“They go by such names as whores, prostitutes, and harlots. They unleash crimes of passion!”

“I want you to kill me as you look into my eyes and say I love you, I love you, I LOVE YOU!”

All of this is not to say that Bo does not have his gifts as a filmmaker. In addition to making good use of some absolutely stunning locations, the sheer number of screen captures that I made while watching the film is testament to the fact that he is capable of some arresting compositions, including some that don’t have boobs in them. Equally impressive is how -- like a coalman on the Titanic, furiously stoking the boilers -- he manages to so consistently keep the emotional tenor of Fuego at such a fervent pitch. This, after all, is no lazy exploitation cash in, but instead pop filmmaking with the volume turned up to 11.

Back in the plot of Fuego, Carlos’ desperation to find a cure for Laura’s condition brings the couple to New York City, where we get some great location shots of Sarli walking along Broadway while being catcalled by some ineptly dubbed “New Yawkers” (Fuego was picked up for distribution by an outfit called Haven International, which I assume was responsible for the English audio). Eventually they end up at the office of a Doctor who brands Laura with the scarlet “N” before he, doing the American medical establishment proud, performs an examination that appears to consist solely of him finger banging her. Of course, such an event would have been foreseeable had we earlier made note of his office’s tufted black leather doors.

After giving Laura this once over, the doctor -- judging her ability to experience sexual pleasure as proof of his diagnosis -- somewhat paradoxically declares her untreatable. And so, as with so many other libidinous women throughout film history, the only cure for Laura is death, in this case in the form of her taking a flyer from one of those picturesque mountainsides.

Still, Fuego’s ultimately casting its story in such a tragic light cannot rob me of the many joys it gave me. These include the spectacle of Isabel Sarli, overheated with passion, kneeling before an appreciative Armando Bo and ridiculously mashing snow into her clothed bosom. Also any point at which the Margaret Hamilton-esque Alba Múgica literally licks her chops while spying on Laura’s various nude frolicking. Oh, and of course, that entire business of Sarli traipsing about a remote mountain village in her positively enormous fur coat.

Recounting these things, I find myself on the verge of weeping, because, indeed, my friends, the fire in me for Fuego burns hot. So consumed, I can only beckon to you from within the flames to join me in torment. Feel the burn!

[Fuego is available for both streaming and download from Archive.org.]

El Vampiro Negro (Argentina, 1953)

“Tonight you are the luckiest audience in the world,” enthused Film Noir Foundation president Eddie Muller. “Because you get to see this film.” The film, 1953’s El Vampiro Negro, is an Argentinian remake of Fritz Lang’s M. And after that screening, a featured presentation in San Francisco’s venerable Noir City festival, I have to say that Muller was right. I feel very lucky indeed.

However, having seen El Vampiro Negro, it strikes me that simply calling it “a remake of Fritz Lang’s M” is a tad reductive. The premise of both films is the same: a city -- Berlin in the case of M, Buenos Aires in the case of El Vampiro Negro -- is held in a grip of terror by a serial child murderer who is elusive to the point of virtual invisibility, with tensions rising among the denizens of the city’s increasingly squeezed demimonde as a result. Yet Vampiro, directed by Roman Viñoly Barreto, shifts the perspective on this tale to the point that it could be considered a companion to the original as much as an update of it.

Where Lang’s film takes a panoptic view of the Berlin underworld as a body politic, its members teeming together to expel a monster from within their midst like so many scruffy antibodies, El Vampiro Negro takes a far more intimate and character driven approach. This approach provides us with a much more rounded view of the child murderer, who, thanks to the nuanced work of actor Nathán Pinsón and a screenplay that provides us with a little more context for his actions, ends up being portrayed with startling compassion, especially given that nothing is done to underplay the horror of his crimes. Granted, Pinsón takes his cues from the note of pathos struck by Peter Lorre in the original film’s climactic monologue, but the extent to which he expands upon that can’t be written off to pure emulation.

Barreto also diverges from Lang in providing his film with a lead female character, and a substantial one at that, contrasting sharply with the male dominated world of M, where the primary females are the Greek chorus of hookers and floozies who provide color along the edges. That character is Amalia, a down on her luck cabaret singer and single mother who turns out to be the only person to have caught a glimpse of the killer. Amalia is played by Olga Zubarry, a major star of Argentinian cinema whom Muller referred to as “Argentina’s Marilyn Monroe”; though to me she seemed like more of a ringer for Lana Turner. In any case, as a struggling parent shamed by her reduced standing -- and whose fragile state is exacerbated by the unwanted attentions of the authorities -- she circumvents her undeniable glamor to give a strong, heart rending performance that made me want to seek out more of her films at the soonest opportunity.

Its emphasis on drama and characterization makes El Vampiro Negro a much more conventional genre film than M. But as a genre film, it is not only outstanding, but also a thrilling exemplar of the noir style at its most expertly distilled. Cinematographer Anibal Gonzalez Paz gives the film’s nocturnal urban landscape a foreboding allure, the lonely streets bathed in heavy shadows against which the slashings of police searchlights stand out all the more startlingly. The faces of bit and featured players alike are captured in tense, claustrophobic close-ups, making palpable the sense of dread and pent up anxiety that the unseen killer’s mounting atrocities have inspired. Finally, when Zubbary’s Amaya confronts the killer, a lone spotlight suspends her face in the darkness with an almost unbearable intensity, as if she is an aggrieved angel emerging forcefully from the bleak night. It’s enough that, even without the fine performances of Pinsón and Zubbary, El Vampiro Negro could get by on mood alone.

Of course, as I sat there in the Castro Theater, I was excited, not only to be seeing El Vampiro Negro, but also to finally be seeing a product of Argentinian commercial cinema’s golden age, about which I had heard yet whose products I had yet to track down. That there are always “new” sources of exciting international pop cinema to be found, even at this late point in my career as a film obsessive, is a source of joy and amazement -- even if the passionate interest of a few cinephiles isn’t enough to open the floodgates. El Vampiro Negro is as technically accomplished as anything produced by Hollywood in it time, and, within its genre, boasts a rare artistry. If released on these shores, I’ve no doubt it could have found an audience. Yet it remains the product of a thriving industry that few outside its country’s borders knew existed. Except for us lucky few.