For a documentary about tension and fear, it’s ironic that Dario Argento Panico is anxious about how to best pay homage to the Italian auteur. Director Simone Scafidi initially presents the film as something of a remixed take on the filmography-appraisal documentary, especially as Argento makes his way to a hotel where he plans to hole up and write his next film. In this moment, it seems as if we’re about to spend the majority of Panico with Argento playing a version of himself in a mockumentary of sorts. But this, alas, is mostly a tease, as Panico eventually settles into a steady collage of talking-head interviews, albeit mostly engaging ones, rattling off recollections and appreciations of Argento’s work.
Panico neither caters to newcomers to Argento’s work nor preaches to the converted. Instead, Scafidi positions Argento as subject, prompting the auteur to reflect on aspects of his art as other voices chime in to offer their input. The effect is a hybrid work of film history, profile, and portrait, not claiming to be the final word on Argento’s oeuvre by any means but incisive and exigent enough that it must be taken seriously. This is especially true whenever Asia Argento is on screen, as she speaks warmly of her father as both a man and filmmaker, while also discussing her occasional frustrations with his sometimes irascible personality.
Once the film clips and poster art from Argento’s work start appearing on screen, Panico treads familiar territory for anyone who’s been keeping up with recent home video releases of Argento’s films, which are loaded with extras that typically delve far deeper into the history and significance of those films. Still, Argento’s giallo years from 1970 to 1975 receive useful attention in an extended segment, which includes an informative stretch devoted to 1973’s comedy-drama The Five Days, his sole deviation from works of horror and the fantastic.
Panico is least effective when it cedes the stage to a chorus of fawning admirers, among them Gaspar Noé, Guillermo del Toro, and Nicholas Winding Refn. Refn is especially enervating with his cool-guy appraisals, calling Suspiria “the ultimate cocaine movie” and insisting on Argento’s influence on his own work. Del Toro, unsurprisingly, is the most astute critic in the bunch, comparing Argento’s aesthetic interests to a kidnapper who takes a hostage and then kills them to show he means business. In short, that he’s a uniquely merciless filmmaker.
But it’s Argento who consistently makes the most compelling and incisive on-screen presence throughout Scafidi’s documentary, whether discussing intrusive thoughts of suicide or ruminating on what scares him. Panico may be a flawed, messy thing, but it also comes close to being an essential contribution to grasping the significance of Argento’s life and work.
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