Dark Sky Films’ eagerly-awaited release introduces a cult gore-gangster film to a new generation of fans of extreme cinema.  But is its violence really as shocking in today’s world as it was 20 or 30 years ago?  And could it be that the real reason to see this movie is that it’s actually quite good…?

Ricco the Mean Machine is a 1973 Spanish-Italian production that stars, as two antagonists, two American actors whose American-ness permeates the film.  It’s the kind of cultural hybrid that genre fans of that period (although it’s doubtful they thought of themselves as “genre fans”) were well accustomed to and which even today will set off a nostalgic throb in anyone of a certain age.  Think about it.  Nowadays a horror flick from Spain or a gangster epic from HK is treated as some kind of exotic flower, perhaps best preserved in the climate-controlled atmosphere of the arthouse.  And if the foreign product is deemed more “commercial” (read: for a target audience with markedly lower brows), then we head into “U.S. remake” waters.  But back in the day, opportunistic distributors wasted little time in dubbing voicetracks to suit the locals and crafting one-sheets so that movies from other continents looked like James Bond knockoffs or sequels to The Exorcist that you somehow missed.  Think of the success in the ‘60s and ‘70s of Spaghetti Westerns, Godzilla films, Shaw Brothers kung-fu flicks, and European horror films of the type brilliantly mocked by Edgar Wright’s fake trailer in Grindhouse.  Such movies typically had theatrical releases.  No, not at Grauman’s Chinese or the Ziegfeld, but you could go to a big screen, see something that you juiced you more than most domestic releases, and then pine for it for years afterward as crappy versions on VHS would surface here and there.

So it’s no wonder that certain films, such as Ricco, have developed reputations among devotees of shadow cinema.  No doubt about it, Tulio Demicheli’s film goes considerably further in its nastiness than American crime fare of the time—we’d have to wait all the way until 1983, when Scarface premiered, to see something comparable in intensity (although hardly as explicit).  But the funny thing is, when transplanted into the context of 2008 movie culture, Ricco’s ability to provide lasting shocks is considerably blunted.  I won’t even reference horror movies of the past five years or the work of mavericks such as Takashi Miike.  Just take a look at more “mainstream” imports, from jets of blood in Michael Haneke to serving up one’s enemies in dog dishes in Johnny To.  I’m not saying that Ricco’s celebrated scenes of gore—which are actually few and far between, especially in the first half—are somehow whimsical or quaint by today’s standards; I don’t want to be that condescending.  Rather, the most pleasant surprise of all about the long wait for this title is that these days it’s actually possible to watch those scenes as if they're true points of punctuation in the story rather than being the movie’s raison d’être.  Of course historically that’s probably inaccurate, but the point is that the graphic brutality is not so distracting that it prevents one from enjoying a straight-ahead potboiler like this for its own merits.  That’s right—Ricco, despite being over the top and gleefully sleazy at times, is also actually full of strong storytelling, unique takes on genre staples, and original, sometimes unforgettable, moments.

Dark Sky certainly knows its target market and so I’m not about to second-guess its decisions.  However, the DVD cover copy and the current promotion, a “Peep Show” in which visitors to Dark Sky’s Web site vote for their favorite clip of ultra-violence or T&A, would lead one to believe that Ricco the Mean Machine is a relentless parade of exploitation set pieces.  Yes, fans of uninhibited screen violence will not be disappointed.  But let’s not ignore the interesting choices made by the filmmakers, some of which are bound to put off genre junkies at least as much as the more visceral touches attract them.

Let’s start with the misleading title—although, granted, most of this film’s many titles are misleading except perhaps for the plain-Jane single word version, Ricco.  In point of fact, the title character is far from machine-like and is very rarely mean.  Instead, the screenplay makes vengeance seem like a part-time project that, kind of like building a deck, one reluctantly undertakes to please the family.  This is no single-minded mob revenge story along the lines of Point Blank or Underworld USA.  Christopher Mitchum, whose laid-back demeanor might irk some viewers, is actually perfect for the title role, and Demicheli directs him so that his acting style matches the story’s implicit critique of “honor culture,” in which vengeance for the killing of a family member is a presupposed goal.  Demicheli could have had Mitchum show more fire—or ice—but keeping him at room temperature and letting him ooze his California vibe into the European setting works to wonderful effect:  he’s the most cheerful and breezy protagonist you’ll find in a would-be revenge movie, and that’s part of the movie’s considerable, but wholly unexpected, charm.

Going up against Mitchum is Arthur Kennedy, who is ably assisted by some kind of dark animal pelt glued to his head. Kennedy, who recently surfaced in another ‘70s lost classic, Crawlspace, plays “Don Vito” mostly as pragmatically callous, not as grinningly malicious or sadistic.  Sure, he has enemies tossed into a vat of acid, but that’s just the best way to dispose of bodies.  (By the way, it’s easy not to experience such scenes as gruelingly serious since the actors themselves don’t seem to—Don Vito’s thugs heave their squirming victims into the vat as if it’s an overgrown kiddie pool, hardly concerned about the contents splashing onto themselves even though they’re standing right next to it.)

With an ambivalent hero and a villain who doesn't exactly qualify as an evil mastermind, Ricco has an underlying tone that is both unconventional and at odds with its own surface action.  In short, Demicheli’s film is not a cousin to Death Wish or Dirty Harry or Once Upon a Time in the West so much as it is a curious forerunner to the tinged-with-sadness, violent-yet-sentimental HK gangster flicks that were to be all the rage about 15 years later.  It’s just that its infamous scenes of mayhem make it hard to see the film for what it really is.  For example, the notorious castration scene occurs with only 20 minutes left and is atypical of the rest of the gun-based violence—yet it is the scene that’s most discussed.  That’s understandable:  though fleeting, the castration itself could hardly be more graphic.  However, it’s presented as just one of the things that really bad guys do when they feel they’re forced to do really bad things.  There’s no tee-up or monologuing, let alone anything that smacks of a genuinely twisted psyche like in a contemporary film such as Ichi the Killer.

Indeed, the most disturbing parts in Ricco do not involve the Del Monte-style squibs that are in abundance.  Perhaps the scene that packs the greatest wallop involves no violence, blood, or body parts—it simply depicts the delivery of a bathrobe and bars of soap to an aging father.  It’s that kind of disarming understatement, I would argue, that makes this film a classic of its kind as much as its gore.  To give another example, there’s a scene in a morgue (“Recognize your sister?”) that’s surprisingly effective given the countless similar scenes that exist in movie history.  And then there’s the film’s ending, which at first may seem routine, but then concludes with a truly haunting final shot.

No, I’m not trying to make the case that Ricco the Mean Machine is flawless, or an overlooked masterpiece.  There’s plenty of questionable acting as well as pursuit sequences that feature some silly editing and an over-reliance on telephoto work.  But the storytelling is actually very solid throughout, and Nano De Luca’s music, with its echoes of both Schifrin and Morricone at their lightest, underscores the devil-may-care tone.  And while the script may feel rambling, I think that’s to lull the audience into a false sense of comfort:  when the third act hits, it hits like a sledgehammer.

Finally, Ricco features impossibly beautiful women, and of course they disrobe for little or no reason.  Demicheli, like many of his peers, seems to be aware of Hitchcock’s old saw about showing a gun in act one—it better go off by act three; here the axiom is, if you hold on a shot of a stunning female for more than a few seconds, she better appear topless by the next reel.  In a nighttime striptease done on top of a car, Barbara Bouchet is shot from a high angle in a long take and the background is bathed in mist, as if the filmmakers actually thought they were being classy, and that’s good for some laughs.  There’s no attempt, though, as in Peckinpah’s films of the same period, to work the gratuitous nudity into the story more seamlessly, which actually feels slimier for some reason.  In contrast, Ricco again enters a realm of self-consciousness that’s extremely intriguing.  With the striptease scene effectively over, Bouchet continues to cavort about sans top, so that Mitchum actually starts to feel uncomfortable and asks her when she’s going to put her clothes back on.  It’s almost as if he’s embarrassed about being a character in a movie like this.