A car passes. Then a second. And a third. In slow motion, our eyes are drawn to the occupants. In the passenger seat—nursing a beach ball—a disengaged child stares ahead wordlessly. As non-diegetic children's laughter mingles with Riz Ortolani's exquisite strings, the car slips from the frame. Nearby, Maciara—concealed by a ridge. She is all crumpled and broken. Maciara is dying!
Played with pitch perfection by Florinda Bolkan, Maciara had, moments earlier, been released from police custody. For, while it was indeed true that she'd confessed to infanticide, her ramblings—of spells and pins stuck in wax dolls—were deemed too superstitious, too unconvincing, to hold up. So—free she was. But, alas, for her, this would be a liberation short-lived.
Maciara stumbles into the harsh sunlight. As she makes her way down the narrow lane, a woman is seated nearby. Knitting needles clicking, she spits onto the cobblestones in disgust. Another does the same. As Maciara passes a window, it is slammed shut.
Eventually, she reaches the cemetery. There are men here—
vigilantes. They mean her harm. The first, standing beside his car, fidgeting with the antenna. A radio crackled to life as he reaches inside. From the shadows, a second appears—wielding a lump of wood.
Maciara senses threat. She reaches for the gate. Too late.
Slam! Fingers break—she screams.
The camera lingers. One assailant picks at his teeth—unmoved. A third approaches. They close in.
What follows is a moment of baroque horror—among Italian cinema’s most visceral. Shot in low angles and extreme close-ups, it unfolds with savage excess.
The men leave—their violence spent.
Maciara is left beaten and bloodied, beginning her long crawl for safety—a torturous Via Dolorosa, echoing Fellini’s
Il bidone. It's a seemingly futile search for salvation.
If. She. Can. Just. Get. To. The. Road...
That this heartbreaking scene should culminate at the Autostrada feels grimly appropriate, for the symbolism of this road is integral to Lucio Fulci's tale—right from the opening frame. He draws our attention to the same bridge—repeatedly. It even comes with its own, disquieting, wailing leitmotif!
Even as
Maciara's character comes into focus for the first time, it is in the context of a wide, panning, establishing shot of a serpentine flyover. And, as she claws at the soil with her bare hands, it is on a hillside overlooking the stretch of tarmac cutting across the valley floor.
Sure, Don't Torture a Duckling delivers all the classic giallo elements—including the occasional red herring. But Fulci, it seems, has a bigger fish to fry—he’s putting a particular provincial mindset on trial. And this is summed up perfectly in one, particular, line of dialogue:
“We can build highways, but we can’t overcome ignorance and superstition.”
Even geometry—the staircase itself—is something that finds echoes in giallo filone.
