Let's be an Italian/German/American/British co-production 1970s horror film!

I am 400 gallons of red food coloring. I look nothing like blood. I'm everywhere.

I'm Barbara Steele. Gaze upon my limpid beauty, mortals.

I'm a pair of black gloves covering the hands of the killer. I am seen exclusively through POV shots. I look creepy even when I'm doing mundane things like making a sandwich.

I'm the avant-garde electronica soundtrack. I am either the best thing or the worst thing about this movie. Sometimes, I am both.

I'm narrative cohesion.

I'm a bit of the ultraviolence.

I'm sideboob. I'm easier to clear with international censors than full frontal.

I'm Jill Haworth, on the downswing from "Exodus" and protegee of Otto Preminger to "Horror on Snape Island" in just 12 years.

I'm the female bit players who were cast because they have big boobs or because they were the director's mistress

I'm freakish architecture - a collection of opulent apartment houses, schools, palaces, villas, chateaux and skyscrapers that appear to have been designed by an alcoholic tarantula.

I am glowing, gauzy light, the chief holdover from the director's previous career as a major 1950s cinematographer.

I'm the sheep entrails vomited by the possessed girl.

I am the sudden moment where you realize that the until-then perfectly normal person is now a ghoulish zombie.

I'm an alcoholic tarantula.

I'm a semi-famous American star who is playing the lead in this. My career has faded in the last few years, so now I'm reduced to being badly dubbed in this trash.

I am the complete indifference with which news of multiple murder is greeted by every character, no matter who the victims were.

My friends call me Quaaludes.

I am chiffon and I am fabulous. Dresses, curtains, nightgowns - you name it, I've done it.

Watch me blow in the wind while the candelabra the heroine is holding in her hand remains lit.

I'm Klaus Kinski, chewing up the scenery.

I'm the actor playing the villain. I'm relishing a chance to ham it up.

I'm the swirling clouds of dry ice.

I'm the Rube Goldberg quality of the murders, which grow more and more absurd as the film goes on.

I'm one of Jess Franco's 3 dozen pseudonyms; the film is credited to me.

I'm Nastassja Kinski's tits 'n fadge. We're only 14, but I'm still going to show them and the director's going to let me!

I'm the somewhat respected Americans actors who are appearing in this. We hope this film doesn't get an American release, so no one will know we appeared in this shit.

I'm the homosexual character - I'm either a flamboyant gay man or a glamorous lesbian, and may or may not be the murderer.

I'm the word salad title.

I am an enormous spiral staircase. Perhaps if the woman fleeing the killer runs very rapidly up me she will escape.

Voted r16 and r26 for wit and wisdom but I'm loving this whole thread!

I am RED.

I am also BLUE.

I am an English manor house; a castle or village in a remote part of Germany; Rome; some other Italian city; a Greek island; the Swiss Alps; New York; New England; New Orleans; or, for some reason, Pittsburgh.

I am the preferred location for all these sinister goings-on.

I'm the hilariously surreal take on New England. Even when I am filmed at actual New England locations I am somehow completely wrong.

I'm the American release title; I'm pretending that the film is the sequel to a big-budget Hollywood film that has got nothing to do with it.

I am a bunch of milk cartons with photographs glued to them to provide background shots of New York for "Inferno"

And if I hadn't just identified myself, you'd probably never know I existed.

I'm the resolution; I make no sense.

I'm Theresa Russell providing the English dub for four of the six characters.

I am Marc Porel. Gaze upon my ethereal beauty, mortals.

I am an enormous stained glass ceiling or window.

I am bad news.

I'm the occasionally highly effective social commentary.

I'm the surprising degree to which big budget mainstream Hollywood horror of the early 80s co-opted visual and special effects from these films - The Omen, The Shining, The Exorcist.

I, in turn, am the earlier black and white American horror films which inspired these movies - Carnival of Souls, Night of the Living Dead, Psycho.

I am Lino Capolicchio. In "House of the Laughing Windows" I have the full-lipped period beauty of a young student in a painting by Renoir.

I run afoul of the creepiest gender reveal party known to humanity.

I'm "Don't Look Now", practically a catalog of giallo effects, but I'm directed by Nicholas Roeg, so I get a wide release and critics pay attention to me as if I'm something unique.

Also, I feature Donald Sutherland rolling around naked with Julie Christie, so I have that going for me.

I'm a 1972 Oldsmobile. I appear in a European setting and for some reason everyone there seems to think I'm something special.

I'm buckets of eye shadow.

I am a music box. When opened, I play the most annoying song in the world. Seriously, if you had to listen to me for more than 15 seconds, you'd go crazy and start chopping up C-listers yourself.

My refrain signals the return of the killer, who owned me when they were a small, weird child.

I am the sound of footsteps.

I am the trailer and title for "Strange Shadows in an Empty Room". I am edited to make me look like a classic horror thriller, with a blind girl (played by Tisa Farrow) stalked through her vast apartment by a possibly supernatural force. I have the tag line: "Because what you can't see...can kill you."

I am terrifying.

Surprise! I'm actually a misleading ad for a shitty police thriller rip-off of "The French Connection", set in Montreal and featuring the world's stupidest car chase.

I'm the hippies. I'm here to provide American appeal and an excuse for PG13-style depictions of drug use and orgies. I am also a painless way of upping the body count.

Well - painless for the screenwriter, anyway.

I am tits. I am the link to Italian/German/American/British 1970s porno. Watch me bounce saucily across the screen at some unexpected moment that has nothing to do with the story at all.

I'm Michael Gough, did someone say "70s British horror film"?

I'm 10-years-before-"Dynasty" Joan Collins; get out of my way Michael, you bitch!

I’m the lips moving out of sync with the dubbed dialogue.

Otherwise known as the OP, no?

I'm Orson Welles, hoping to borrow the sets at night for my Czechoslovakian/Romanian/Spanish production of "King Lear".

I'm the mixture of rubber cement and oatmeal applied the faces of the zombies.

I'm the Daughters of something - Darkness, Satan, Dracula, the Devil, Lucifer, etc.

I involve Vampirella-like costuming and bullshit lesbianism.

I am Video Archives clerk Quentin Tarentino, observing and taking notes.

I am a sudden flash of lightning, used when necessary.

I am the apparent indifference with which rich parents receive the news that the private school they sent their children to is being haunted by a sociopathic murderer.

I'm the hand that reaches up from the grave in a recurring nightmare.

I am the day-for-night technique being used to film during the daytime while the sun is out, but supposedly you're supposed to believe it's nighttime. Everyone notices how shitty this technique is, but it is ubiquitous in the 1970s.

I'm Stephanie Beacham trying to run for my life yet also keep my hairpiece from coming loose.

I'm the stilettos every woman happens to be wearing when she meets the killer.

I'm the dark 'n stormy night climax.

I'm Udo Kier.

The barely there eyebrows.

I'm the rapid murder of at least a dozen primary suspects in the last five seconds, usually by each other, until the last character standing, who couldn't possibly have been the killer, is revealed to have been the killer.

I am a chimpanzee with a straight razor.

I am not as funny as I sound.

I'm a rain of maggots from the ceiling or blown in suddenly through the window or waiting in a pool of rotting corpses at the bottom of a slide.

I am fucking repulsive.

I am the murder of a mentally disabled young man with a power drill in "The House by the Cemetery".

I also feature the aforementioned rain of maggots.

I'm the lurid red glow of a flaming iron bell right before it presses into the face of yet another young model.

I'm the black cat used as a bad omen.

I am the Eyes of Laura Mars. Like Don't Look Now, I am a catalog of these film tropes.

I'm one of the best horror film soundtracks ever composed.

I'm Art Deco wallpaper.

I'm Vulnavia, Dr. Phibe's fierce-bitch sidekick.

I am the inevitable sequel.

Even by the standards of these things I suck.

I am the edgy remake made with a talented cast, a full professional budget and a director/screenwriter determined to pry all my socially meaningful content out of every single scene.

Somehow I suck even worse than the sequel.

I am Jennifer Connelly.

Somehow.

I'm the 🔥candelabra held by the doomed supporting actress walking down the creaky staircase.

I am Def Leppard's video for "Photograph".

I'm Ingrid Pitt who starred in half of these productions and showed my tits.

(Ingrid was one of the greats by the way)

I'm Pamela Franklin. One of my eyeglass lenses is cracked to show how serious this is.

[R82] Based on your account of her I should say Miss Pitt was at the very least two of the greats.

I'm Jaimie Lee, the nanny. I'm also a Halloween reference. I disappear halfway through the film with no logical explanation.

I am milky eyeballs with no visible pupil.

I am here to show that the effluent has just hit the spinny-thing.

I am the second lead. I am Mia Farrow 's younger sister. I will steal my sister' s thunder and be THE star of the family. Wait and see.

I am a close-up of black leather gloves accomplishing evil things.

I am the Perm everyone is rocking

I'm a thick, white cable-knit Greek fisherman's sweater.

I'm a two-time Oscar-winning actress doing this the same year I play the villain a children's musical back in the United States. A girl's gotta eat!

I am the ominous laughter that echo's around the vaulted basement.

I'm the rarely seen pre-European censorship cut that includes more gore and boobage but does nothing to make the plot any more coherent. I'll be getting a restored 4k scan along with two audio commentaries and interviews of everyone still alive who hasn't totally disowned it for a Blu-ray release next year by some no-name distributor that's probably a front for a chain of weed dispensaries.

I'm the seven year old child presented as a sexually desirable woman. Polanski regularly plays this scene thinking it is high art.

I am second-tier DL fave John Moulder-Brown.

I'm Ennio Morricone. My soundtracks are the best part of most of these films.

John Moulder Brown was hot

I’m the painstaking closeups of blades slicing into flesh, complete with spurting “blood” that looks like bridge red nail polish

I am the shitty remake of said film, starring, of course, Tippi hedren's granddaughter in a part originally played by french star Isobel Adjani. I am a vast waste of time, money and bad acting. Timothee chalamet is not in me, because he is distancing himself from my freakish artsy-fartsy director but Armie Hammer almost made it out of the editing room. Almost.

I'm the little homosexual boy Faye Dunaway would torture had I been born earlier enough to try to put a wig on Laura Mars.

I'm the overwrought organ player.

I'm the screaming blonde.

Op can call therm horror, but we know they are really just gothic nudies.

I'm all the tropes rolled into one Edgar Wright faux trailer, "Don't".

I'm the eyeball gouging shown in close-up.

Howdy do! HIC. It's me again, the alcoholic tarantula. I'm here with another tarantula and two shitty puppet tarantulas.

In Fulci's "The Beyond" we tiptoe over the floor of a library and eat some poor bastard who fell off the bookshelf.

While the scene is initially creepy it soon becomes risible. For one thing there's supposed to be dozens of us and it's pretty rapidly obvious that there's just me, the other one and the two shitty puppets.

It does not help that we all squeak like mice.

R94 So does Woody Allen.

I'm The Vampire Lovers (1970)

I'm The Music Lovers, which is scarcely less luridly Gothic and hard to believe.

R109 My film was NOT a Euro-Trash co-production. It was fully funded by United Artistes which was an American Company!

I'm the bad grammar in the hospital in THE BEYOND.

I'm the cohesive story line, uh wait.

I'm Solange.

What have you done to me?

I'm strange drops of blood. What am I doing on Jennifer's body? The world may never know.

I'm a duckling. Don't torture me!

i am the creepy abandoned house with architecture inspired by Gaudi, where people inexplicably roam in the middle of the night to peel the wallpaper and writhe orgasmically atop trash lying around on the floor.

i am also the impossibly huge and beautifully appointed apartment inhabited by a poor student who can't even afford a car. in Rome, no less.

I'm the breasts. I'm frequently seen overflowing flimsy nightgowns.

I’m divorcee Carroll Baker, blackballed by Hollywood but with two kids to feed, grateful for the work. And a dinner roll.

I’m divorcee Carroll Baker, blackballed by Hollywood but with two kids to feed, grateful for the work. And a dinner roll.

I'm a black cat. I will hiss dramatically at you.

Oh yes.

I'm 1960s hairdo in a gothic horror film set in the dark ages.

I am interior decor by Yog Soth-oth.

I'm the babysitter.

I'm 70's Jodie Foster in a bad wig with creepy Martin Sheen.

I'm the necklace that decapitates people via elevator.

I'm a rare bird from Siberia

I'm the international cast, reciting my lines in my own language, while everyone else does the same so that no one knows what each other is really saying and how to properly react to what's happening.

I'm a Communist country and outraged that I am not in on the co-production. Why my fashion sense alone is de rigor, not to mention our fabulous brutalist shooting locations. The closest you'll get is some shabby Western German absence of style. Sad! Needless to say, your film is degenerate.

I am Les nuits des étoiles filantes, aka Christina, princesse de l'érotisme, aka Une vierge chez les morts-vivants. I don't really know what the fuck I'm meant to be. I know! Let's re-release me with random zombie footage from another film, just to confuse things.

I'm the random and nonsensical lesbian scene.

I am the difficult-for-the-time two-and-a half minute tracking shot from Tenebre, referred to as "meaninglessly brilliant" by critics. I manage to invoke as many of the tropes already mentioned as I possibly can: boobs, lesbians, bright red blood, a black gloved assassin, a straight razor, and a killer soundtrack.

I'm the bad cinematography.

I'm the obscurity.

I'm a lanky, buttless and cute European actor.

I am Donald Pleasance.

Don't hate me because I'm beautiful.

I'm the character that appears early in the film and appears to be important, only to vanish with no explanation half way through with absolutely no effect on the plot.

I'm... this.

I’m the female that shows up unexpectedly at the worst possible moment, even though I was specifically told to stay right where I was at.

I’ll prove to be an extreme burden to they guy I love who was trying to save us all.

I'm the wonderful setpiece that opens The Bird with the Crystal Plumage, which still stands up today. Many films will have such setpieces which help these movies stay enjoyable even when the plot makes zero sense.

I'm a Warhol Superstar and I have a supporting part. Everybody names drop my participation, on the very very very rare occasion someone ever mentions this movie in the years to come.

I'm Joe Dallesandro`s armpits, begging to be licked. I get what what I want.

I'm the final technicolor dye-transfer printer left in Rome, used by Dario Argento to really make the colours of Suspiria pop.

I'm the smooth line used by the protagonist on the female character in The Cat o' Nine Tails: "Do you know how many people right now are making love at this very second?"

I'm the dearly departed Pamela Tiffin

I'm Angie Dickinson in Dressed to Kill, realizing halfway through the elevator scene that this is in fact more an American giallo rather than a standard Hitchcock rip-off.

I'm the enormous roulette wheel the Director spins to write the plot.

"Ok...next scene...so the...lesbian vampires...seduce the...sexual sociopath...in the Expressionist...train station...in Milan."

^Sorry to interrrupt the game, but there is actually a tongue-in-cheek Do It Yourself Giallo Generator online. I pressed it just then and got:

My Heart is an Empty Tomb, and Your Name is Engraved Upon the Stone

Directed by Stefano Stefani

A surgeon is butchered while wearing a mysterious amulet. An American psychologist inadvertently picks up the one piece of evidence that will solve the the murder; and she discovers that the presumed victim, the surgeon, is in fact a maniacal killer, and is still on the loose!

I'm the succubus and how easily I cause trouble for everyone!

Also I'm unnecessary historical background and useless details.

I might actually be a little bit in love with R146. I at least want to blow him after reading his post.

I'm an enormous but crumbling country house, where the poor but sexy bohemians live. They have no obvious source of income, as the hippy heiress in the movie lives in a splendor, and she isn't bankrolling her friends. Apparently there are no property taxes.

I'm the sexy scenes where the actors just sort of flail around on top of each other in such a manner that makes penis in vagina insertion seem highly unlikely.

I'm a bottle of chianti. I wandered over from the 50s beatnik movie. Whoops.

I'm the J&B Scotch bottle; if the movie's Italian, look closely - I guarantee you I'm in the background of every other shot

I'm the jarring usage of feminine nouns in the dialogue. I'm the result of an Italian writer not realizing that gendered nouns aren't widely used in English, and nor did his editress.

R140, as luck would have it, we are Mary Woronov, Ondine, Candy Darling, Kristen Steen, Tally Brown, Lewis Love, filmmaker Jack Smith and artist Susan Rothenberg, stumbling around a Gothic Revival mansion in Oyster Bay in "Silent Night, Deadly Night". We have no idea what we're doing here and neither does the screenwriter.

Didn't Brian Eno actually have a similar deck of cards that he used in making music, R146? I feel like both David Bowie's "Lodger" and the B52s "Mesopotamia" albums were created utilising this deck of cards.

I think that pack of cards has been passed around genre to genre quite a bit over the last 50 years, R156.

I'm the sullen cab driver. No matter what the circumstances are, I never answer any question with more than a grunt. On the plus side, the heroine always hails me right before the killer gets her.

I'm four flies on gray velvet. You might think "How fucking scary can that be?"

I'm the fact that everyone looks drop dead fabulous. Literally.

I'm the random girl who gives Sara an evil smile as she explores the library in Inferno. It's out of nowhere but is effectively creepy all the same.

R161 I agree! I'm not sure if it's not intended as a lesbian "cruise"? But all of the library patrons seem sinister...

I'm the glamorous white rotary telephone on which the killer (disguising his voice, of course - either a whisper, a baby voice, or even "Donald Duck") will harass and torment our leading lady.

R162, ooh a cruise! Perhaps it could be? Argento put a lot of LGBT stuff in his films, I'm noticing now I've watched the majority of them. Perhaps she was all a-twitter at Sara wandering the library all wet, in her nearly see-through shirt? ;)

You are right, all the library patrons do seem sinister in that scene.

Oh, and I'm this exchange:

- "Have you ever heard of the Three Sisters?"

- "You mean those black singers?"

I'm Elke Sommer

I’m wigs.

Short wigs, for some reason.

I'm references to Verdi, Thomas Penson De Quincey, Shakespeare, Plutarch, The Uffizi, Edgar Allen Poe, Non-Objectivist art, the Symbolists and various other highbrow elements to keep the audience from beginning to suspect that this is indeed a grotty piece of exploitationistic shit.

I'm Erika Blanc's facial expressions during La Terrificante Notte del Demonio.

(Not to mention the realization that sometimes having no money for effects can work in the productions favor.)

I’m the absurdity of it all.

Be the prettiest nice girl and the most handsome young man that always turn out to be heroic and survive the attacks of the villain.

I'm Peter Cushing and/or Christopher Lee.

Je suis les événements de 67.

I'm Jesús Franco. Nobody know what I'm on about. I probably don't either.

I'm Daria Nicolodi. Dario's films went to shit without my, uh, "assistance."

Vale, Daria. It's funny how there are some people who you don't know but who's death really gets to you.

I'll be Daria's endless screaming over the credits of Tenebrae.

I'm Daria's histrionic overacting in every single frame of every single scene.

I am Miguel Bosé in Suspiria. Gaze upon my limpid beauty, mortals.

I'm Miguel Bosé's alarming plastic surgery. I'm a bottom, just like him.

Whenever I hear his name I'm reminded of the scene where he slowly disappears behind the big white sheet, waving at Susy.

We're creepy zombie monks hovering around the Canary Islands, waiting to torture unsuspecting German "waitresses" who are on holiday, after they've spent a good portion of their time scissoring, of course. We plan to fuck them to death.

I'm a bunch of cats being thrown at Daria Nicolodi.

I'm Laura Gemser, willing to show my tits and ass for a big paycheck

I'm the fangs that look like they came from a novelty shop.

I'm the fanged mouths that are smeared with something red (or orange) that's supposed to be blood. The blood looks like it came from the same novelty shop.

I'm Robert Kerman, attempting the transition from porn to "legitimate" film. Sadly, I will fail.

I'm Helmut Berger, star of most of these films. Please take me seriously as a "serious actor". Please?

I'm the documentary Horror Europa by fellow homosexual Mark Gatiss which is very much well worth seeing, and will probably be enjoyable for many in this thread.

I'm bursting, punctured, or otherwise injured eyeballs.

I'm the unconvincing blonde wig worn by Asia Argento's character in The Stendhal Syndrome. None of the other characters ever even question why I'm on her head.