This flick is bonkers. There's no better way to describe this complete departure from narrative structure, good film making and reality, complete with green Nehru jackets, psychedelic colors and a couple of live vultures thrown in for good measure. Very little makes sense here at all. One character, for instance, has other people's flashbacks for them. We also get black-and-white recollections of deaths in a Nazi gas chamber in which the dead keep getting back up, which is even more interesting because they're all pressing their boobs against the glass windows. There's plenty of utterly bizarre dialogue, incest, ridiculous character choices, and severed heads clearly made from wax by a blind baboon. The ending makes no sense at all in context. Any context. Seriously insane, so-bad-it's-a-masterpiece, unintentionally funny as hell. That's probably the final great twist, because the two female leads are tragic figures in real life. This is particularly true of Pier Angeli, James Dean's one-time lover, who committed suicide shortly after finishing this forgotten episode of Italian psychosis. The other lead, Eleonora Rossi Drago, quit acting altogether after this came out.
Easily of of giallo's weirdest, wackiest products. Must be seen to be believed. A classic of badness that should serve as a gleeful cautionary example for all time.