Bite Size: Cry Of A Prostitute (1974)

The original title of this film, Quelli che contano, roughly translates to “Those That Matter”. While certainly a more thematically accurate title to notable scuzzmeister Andrea Bianchi’s (What The Peeper Saw, Strip Nude For Your Killer) only foray into poliziotteschi, it was far too subtle for the US distributor. When Joseph Brenner released the film stateside, it became the easier to sell Cry Of A Prostitute, with a lurid roughie style ad campaign focused on the battered and bloody visage of supporting player Barbara Bouchet.

The main plot actually concerns Tony Aniante (euro crime titan Henry Silva), a Sicilian born, American raised mobster. The head of one of the Mafia families has been transporting heroin in the bodies of dead children. All signs point to Don Ricuzzo Cantimo (Fausto Tozzi), another American expat known for some distasteful business practices. He’s been in an ever escalating turf dispute with Don Turi Scannapieco (Mario Landi). Aniante is dispatched back to his homeland of rural Sicily to root out the source of the ugly problem.

Of course, Tony Aniante has motivations of his own, and is soon playing both factions against each other. Tony stays for a few days at the home of Don Cantimo and his American trophy wife, Margie. Tony and Margie begin a perverse, ill advised affair which sends all of Tony’s careful planning tumbling down into the chaos of an all out gang war.

Cry Of A Prostitute is primarily a spaghetti western wearing the wrong hat, and at least it has the good sense to steal from some of the subgenre’s greats. The base plot structure is lifted wholesale from 1964’s A Fistful Of Dollars, and Tony’s habit of eerily whistling before he kills definitely seems like a callback to Charles Bronson’s Harmonica in 1968’s Once Upon A Time In The West. Add in a dash of The Godfather’s throughline about the cyclical nature of power, and you’ve got a rather familiar cinematic cocktail.



Andrea Bianchi seems to realize he’s working from a bit too familiar of a playbook, and tosses in as much sensationalist shock as possible to attempt to liven up the otherwise pedestrian proceedings. The film opens with a car crash decapitation and a graphic (if not particularly well done, effects wise) autopsy. In Tony’s various machinations there are plenty of bloody deaths, most notably via a rather conveniently located steamroller. When all of that fails to do the job, Bianchi hits what is probably the most misogynistic piece of plotting in a career chock full of them…..the toxic relationship between Tony and Margie.

Margie is a scheming alcoholic ex prostitute, cuckolding her eager husband with tales of her former profession and her various extramarital affairs. Tony’s arrival is a welcome dose of fresh meat, and she is cartoonishly suggestive, lovingly soaping her bare thighs in plain view or sucking the color off of a banana at the dinner table. Tony initially resists her come ons. However, when they both find themselves in the kitchen late at night, she basically blackmails him into having sex with her. This escalates into a brutal rape, her face buried in the carcass of a freshly butchered pig. In case that wasn’t repugnant enough, remember that this is the erstwhile hero of the film. There’s also a sleazy implication that she secretly likes it, as the affair continues. Later, a major plot point is revealed only to conclude in Tony brutally beating and assaulting Margie again.

Henry Silva had cornered the market on these sorts of hypermasculine avengers of eternal whoopass, but this is stunningly amoral even by the standards of other Euro crime films. The material as written makes him basically robotic, yelling a signature motherfucker at the appropriate times and punching through several beatdowns by numbers in a way that falls flat, and makes the sexual assault scenes even more out of place. Tony lacks the capacity to feel, period. The sudden burst of sexual rage makes no sense.

In fact most of the performances here are rather drained, and as atrociously as she is written, Barbara Bouchet’s oversexed poisoned hothouse flower is a welcome dose of distinctive personality, with a perpetual scheme up her lavishly feathered sleeve. Unfortunately, Bouchet’s Margie has far too few scenes were she swans about with sex on her mind and fabulous saloon madam loungewear on her back. She’s used, abused and promptly removed from the film via suicide so the men can get back to their dirty work.

Cry Of A Prostitute is a tedious watch for the same reason so many mondo films are joyless slogs. There’s a certain fundamental intellectual dishonesty in couching a geek show as a boldly unfiltered view of humanity’s rotten core. Minus the exploitative elements, this particular plate of crime film seasoned spaghetti is decidedly pre chewed.




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