Film Review: Suspiria (1977)

It could be argued with considerable force that the 1970s were the greatest decade in the history of cinema. This was an era defined by a remarkable burst of creative energy, largely unburdened by the strictures of the old system and the censorship, and not yet fully reined in by the corporate sensibilities that would dominate the following decades. This artistic ferment, a product of a crumbling old order and a new permissiveness, was particularly fertile ground for the horror genre. The period yielded countless films that have since become legendary, spawned long-lasting franchises, or had their status ironically confirmed through usually inferior remakes. Among the distinct individual voices to benefit from this trend was the Italian maestro Dario Argento. Initially famous for pioneering and promoting the very specific sub-genre of giallo—a flamboyant mix of suspense, mystery, and graphic violence that dragged the whodunit kicking and screaming into the realm of horror—Argento’s best-known work is arguably his foray into “pure” supernatural horror: the 1977 film Suspiria. Hailed as one of the most stylish works the genre has ever produced, it remains a landmark, though one whose brilliance is inextricably tied to its significant flaws.

The plot, on paper, is a Gothic fairy tale stripped to its archetypal bones. On a storm-lashed night in the West German city of Freiburg, young American dancer Susan “Suzy” Bannion (Jessica Harper) arrives to study at the prestigious Tanz Akademie. Her arrival is immediately shrouded in unease; she witnesses another student, Patricia “Pat” Hingle (Eva Axén), fleeing the school in a state of hysterical terror, and is herself temporarily denied entry. Upon finally being admitted the following morning, she is greeted by the imperious head instructor Miss Tanner (Alida Valli) and the serene, watchful headmistress Madame Blanc (Joan Bennett). Assigned to room with Sara (Stefania Cassini), a friend of Pat’s, Suzy is slowly drawn into a web of dread. Sara confides that Pat believed something terrible lurked within the academy’s walls, a suspicion soon corroborated by a series of bizarre and violent events: a sudden, vile infestation of maggots; the brutal killing of the blind pianist, Daniel; and Sara’s own disappearance. Driven to investigate, Suzy learns from Sara’s psychiatrist, Dr. Mandel (Udo Kier), and an occult expert, Professor Milius (Rudolf Schündler), that the academy was founded by Helena Markos, a self-confessed witch. The professor posits that a coven can only be destroyed by killing its leader. In a final confrontation, Suzy stays behind while the other students attend a ballet, discovers a hidden passage, overhears the witches plotting her death, and ultimately stabs the grotesque, ancient Markos. As she flees, a fire engulfs the academy, consuming the coven within.

To call Suspiria a triumph of style over substance is not a criticism but an accurate descriptor of its primary artistic achievement. While it features Argento’s trademark, suspenseful buildups culminating in acts of graphic violence—the infamous death of Pat, a ballet of stabbing rendered almost abstract by the use of glaringly fake, candy-apple red blood—these are not what linger most powerfully in the memory. The film’s enduring power is a direct result of its extraordinary aesthetic. Cinematographer Luciano Tovoli, employing a combination of modern Eastmancolor and the rich, saturated principles of three-strip Technicolor, paints every frame with a vicious, hallucinatory palette. Reds dominate: the blood, the walls, the lights, even the wine. They are assaulted by contrasting, sickly greens and deep, menacing blues. This is not mere decoration; it is the very language of the film. The production design, from the art nouveau intricacies of the academy’s foyer to the oppressive, geometric patterns of the dormitory corridors, transforms the setting into a living, breathing nightmare—a giant, beautiful haunted house where the architecture itself feels malign.

This stylistic onslaught is perfectly anchored by the casting of Jessica Harper as Suzy. The role, originally intended for Argento’s collaborator and lover Daria Nicolodi, went to the American actress at the behest of producers eyeing the lucrative North American market. It proved an inspired choice. With her wide, expressive eyes and vulnerable demeanour, Harper embodies the perfect Gothic ingenue—a direct descendant of Snow White or Alice thrust into a Wonderland of grotesque violence. Her performance is one of mounting, quiet determination and fear, providing a necessary human centre to the film’s operatic madness. She is the audience’s avatar, her confusion and curiosity mirroring our own as we navigate the film’s illogical dreamscape.

However, Suspiria’s flaws are as vivid as its virtues. Some viewers may find the famously aggressive score by the Italian progressive rock band Goblin to be a flaw rather than a strength. Its cacophonous mix of driving rhythms, whispered lyrics, and jangling melodies is utterly immersive and inescapably linked to the film’s identity. Yet, it can also feel overwhelming, at times distracting from the visual poetry rather than complementing it, a relentless audio assault that leaves no room for subtle unease.

A more significant issue lies in the film’s narrative architecture, which is notably thin. The plot exists primarily to connect Argento’s virtuosic set-pieces—the arrival, the maggot storm, the mauling of Daniel, the death of Sara. The central supernatural mystery is resolved not through Suzy’s investigation, but through two dense blocks of exposition delivered by underused supporting characters: a young, almost unrecognisable Udo Kier and the veteran Rudolf Schündler. Their explanations feel grafted on, a necessary but clumsy infodump. The subsequent climax, while visually striking, is abrupt and, in essence, anti-climactic. Suzy discovers the secret passage, overhears the plot, finds the witch, and stabs her—all with a startling lack of ceremony.

This narrative sparseness represents a missed opportunity. Argento drew inspiration from Thomas De Quincey’s 1845 essay collection Suspiria de Profundis, specifically the chapter “Levana and Our Ladies of Sorrow,” which sparked his concept of the “Three Mothers”—ancient witches presiding over sorrow, tears, and darkness in key cities around the world. Suspiria was conceived as the first part of a trilogy, later expanded with Inferno (1980) and The Mother of Tears (2007). Yet, the film itself does little to elucidate this grand mythology for the uninitiated viewer. The potential for a rich, conventional narrative—combining a supernatural mystery with the classic “ingenué in a sinister boarding school” scenario—is largely squandered. Characters like the ill-fated Daniel are merely one-dimensional victims, props for inventive death scenes. Joan Bennett, a Classic Hollywood veteran, is reduced to a glorified cameo. Only Alida Valli, as the formidably menacing Miss Tanner, truly shines, her steely charisma radiating a palpable threat. Yet, even her charismatic villainy is underused, her character appearing too briefly to become the persistent, human face of the evil Suzy must face.

An intriguing and often overlooked aspect of Suspiria is its almost complete absence of eroticism. For a film set in a ballet school dormitory filled with young women, this is a striking and deliberate omission in an era where horror frequently thrived on exploitation content. The closest the film comes is a brief, quiet scene where Suzy and Sara discuss the unfolding mystery while swimming in the school’s pool—a moment of intimate conspiracy, not titillation.

Despite a successful debut in Italy, Suspiria faced distribution challenges in the United States due to concerns over its graphic violence. A shortened version was eventually released and proved a hit. This, alongside circulating “integral” copies, cemented the film’s cult status and won Argento a legion of devoted admirers. Its legacy was tested in 2018 with Luca Guadagnino’s ambitious, eponymous remake. Setting the story in 1977 Berlin against the backdrop of the German Autumn, and delving far deeper into the mythology of the coven and themes of collective guilt, Guadagnino’s version is a stark, cold, and psychologically dense film that stands in deliberate opposition to Argento’s primary-coloured phantasmagoria. Divisive among fans of the original and a box office failure, its existence nonetheless underscores the unique and irreducible nature of Argento’s vision.

RATING: 6/10 (++)

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