The two victims never knew each other, but Heather Barnett and Elisa Claps are forever linked by their stolen lives, stolen hair, and tragic acquaintance with a third person, a strange, compulsive man neither of them suspected was capable of violence. Danilo Restivo, an Italian national who spent much of his life in the remote town of Potenza, Italy, was convicted yesterday for the 2002 mutilation and murder of Heather Barnett. The killing took place in the British town of Bournemouth, where Barnett lived and where Restivo had relocated. But the Restivo saga may actually have begun seventeen years ago, when young Elisa Claps disappeared from a church in Potenza, Italy.

The Church of the Most Holy Trinity, known in Potenza as Chiesa della SS. Trinità, is one of the few old churches in a town that was destroyed by an 1857 earthquake and again by an Allied bombardment during World War II. The town was shaken yet again in 1993 when Elisa Claps disappeared. Then sixteen, Claps had agreed to meet nineteen-year-old Danilo Restivo at morning mass, but he claimed afterward that Claps left while he remained behind to pray. A missing persons case was soon launched but Claps seemed to have disappeared into thin air. Police suspected Restivo, but there was no evidence against him, and with mass just ending there seemed too many witnesses to a potential crime for him to have harmed her. Yes, there was a cut on his hand, but Restivo claimed to have fallen at a construction site, and he was cool when questioned.

Claps, below, remained missing and, as often happens, the vacuum in the case was filled by the general public as rumors sprang up, articles and opinion pieces were published, and websites were launched. Perhaps Claps ran away with a lover. Perhaps she was abducted by Albanians and sold into sexual slavery. Maybe there was a police cover-up. Or perhapsthe church was involved—after all, the priest of della Trinità was a curious man named Mimi Sabia and he wasn’t entirely cooperative with police, having refused to let authorities disrupt his church with forensic investigations. The case wore on and the obsession about it spread from Potenza to the rest of Italy.

Danilo Restivo eventually left Italy. By 2002 he was living in Bournemouth, England, where he was a neighbor of Heather Barnett. On November 12 Barnett’s two children found their mother mutilated and dead in the bathroom of their home. She was partially nude, her throat was slit and her breasts cut off. She was also holding a lock of her own hair. Local police immediately suspected Restivo. They learned that Barnett’s keys had gone missing just after Restivo had been inside the house asking about having some curtains made. When they interviewed him days later they found that he was soaking his Nike trainers in bleach. But suspicions do not a murder case make and so police did not detain him—however, unlike in Italy they decided to keep him under surveillance.

What they learned was extremely disconcerting. Restivo haunted a local park, where he would spy on single women, darting between bushes or ducking behind stands of grass. He wore gloves during these outings, and he often returned to his car to change shirts or shoes. They also learned that he had a habit of stealing girls’ and women’s hair. Two teenagers reported that someone had cut their hair while they rode in a bus. They couldn’t say for sure who did it, but they were able to identify Restivo as one of the people who had sat behind them. Police also learned that at the age of fourteen Restivo had tied up and tortured two boys whose families later dropped charges in exchange for financial compensation from Restivo’s family. And perhaps most worrying, other women had been murdered and mutilated in places where Danilo Restivo resided and passed through.

All of this was uncovered through years of police work, and though the case against Danilo Restivo was looking stronger and stronger all the time, it wasn’t until this March that police caught the break they needed. That was when two workers back in Potenza, intending to repair a leak in the roof of della Trinità, found Elisa Claps’ body in the very church where she had been last seen. Her skeletonized remains, covered by mummified skin and the rags of her clothes, had been hidden in a small tower room beneath some old tiles. In one of the corpse’s hands was a lock of hair, and subsequent forensic analysis revealed that she had been mutilated in almost identical fashion as Heather Barnett. A case that had spawned numerous articles, websites, multiple investigations and hundreds of conspiracy theories, had come full circle. British police arrested Danilo Restivo, the court tried him, and yesterday, with Barnett’s family members present, a jury convicted him.

Now all eyes turn to Potenza. Mimi Sabia the uncooperative priest had long been suspected by some of hiding something. His was the only church that didn’t ring bells on the anniversary of Elisa Claps’ disappearance. Now there was a body in that bell tower belonging to a girl who would have been found probably the very day she was killed if onlyDon Mimi had helped. During investigation into the case he claimed not to know Danilo Restivo even though Restivo had been to della Trinità and Sabia was once photographed, just above, at a birthday party thrown for Restivo. But these questions will possibly never be answered because Don Mimi Sabia died in 1998.

However there are other questions. Della Trinità's newest priest claims that Elisa Claps’ body wasn’t found in March 2011, but two months earlier by two cleaners. The priest claims he informed church officials but was told to keep quiet while they decided what to do. Two months of secret deliberations later, two more workers were called in to repair a leaky roof that in fact wasn’t leaking at all. A body that had been completely covered with tiles was now partially exposed in order to ensure its discovery. Or so the new priest says, which means the Catholic Church is accused by one of its own of operating outside the law. It would be shocking if it hadn’t happened so many times before with regard to child molestation cases, but only time will tell if these specific allegations are true. Meanwhile, all the details of Elisa Claps’ last day on Earth are set to emerge—Danilo Restivo is being extradited to Italy to stand trial for her murder. 

When we saw this great poster for Chiedi perdono a Dio... non a me, aka May God Forgive You… But I Won’t, we just had to check out the film. As you might guess, it’s a spaghetti western. It features an all-Italian cast led by George Ardisson playing a character with the unlikely name Cjamango MacDonald. Cjamango and the rest of the MacDonald family reside on a ranch, but they don’t own it. They’re sort of leasing to buy from the evil Smart family and they’re behind on the payments. Eventually the Smarts and a few henchmen raid the MacDonald homestead, shooting everyone dead except Cjamango, who isn’t there at the time. That of course means he’s around to seek bloody revenge, which he does with much mayhem and cruelty. During the course of the rampage Ardisson at first seems to be as expressionless in his role as a Madame Tussaud’s wax mask, but soon we learn to read him and, beneath the gilstening sheen of 40-weight motor oil that coats his face, we begin to recognize such varied emotions as anger:


Contempt:


Vague doubt:


Possible sexual panic:


Deep existential confusion:


Doubt, but a little less vague this time since someone is shooting at him. Also some possible disappointment and hurt mixed in there:


Just trying to keep a straight face really:


Pleasure at how cool he looks in a hat:


Utter denial over the loss of his hat:


Acceptance that his hat is gone and just isn't coming back:

After seventy minutes or so of Ardisson's emotional rollercoaster we barely had enough breath remaining in our bodies for a climax, but hearts be still, we got it in the form of a machine gun massacre designed to decimate the Smart clan and their hired goons. When the smoke clears, Cjamango then demonstrates the basic principles of non-forgiveness to the most evil Smart of all in a grunting, dirt-throwing, whatever-weapons-happen-to-be-handy mano a mano. Did we mention the guy’s name is Dick Smart? So really, there’s another reason to watch the movie right there—assuming Ardisson’s acting clinic isn’t enticement enough. Final note: in case you’re wondering about the title of the movie, it comes from a snippet of dialogue, although the line as delivered actually goes, “God may forgive you… not me.” We echo that sentiment to Ardisson and director Vincenzo Musolino regarding the making of this film.

Above, a promo shot of Italian actress and 1946 Miss Italy runner-up Sylvana Pampanini. Not well known today, during the 1950s and 1960s she became an international star but was relegated to secondary status when Sophia Loren and Gina Lollobrigida arrived on the scene. Even so, she eventually appeared in around sixty films. Oh, and about that Miss Italy contest—from what we understand she actually garnered the most votes, but was bumped to second place by the pageant jury because they felt she was just a bit too sensual. Perhaps they had a good point. This boudoir shot of Pampanini in see-through lingerie probably dates from around 1950. 

Below, selected images from the West German celeb/cinema/art magazine Hamburg-Hollywood-Paris, which was identical in content to the more famous French magazine Folies de Paris et de Hollywood. This issue was number thirteen, published in 1961, and in panel four features Italian actress Scilla Gabel, who we’ll get back to a bit later. 

We were on an auction site when we ran across this rare pin-up page from Travasissimo, a supplement to the Italian newspaper Il travaso delle idee. Established in Rome in 1899, Il travaso delle idee, or simply Il Travaso, positioned itself as an intellectual paper—hence its name (which means “the transfer of ideas”). Unfortunately, the ideas the paper transferred devolved into pure racism during the rise of Italian fascism. This wasn’t unusual for the time. During the 1930s many major publications—including some in the U.S. that still publish and are still respected today—were explicitly or subtly pro-fascist. After Italy was flattened in World War II, Italian fascism was discredited and Il Travaso tossed those ideas overboard with a figurative shrug. The paper remained political, however, and it even adopted the slogan “the official organ of intelligent people.” That may seem strange, considering it had helped lead Italy into a calamitous war and made it an accessory to genocide, but newspapers tend to survive such misadventures, even if millions of humans do not. It was in August 1947 that Il Travaso, looking to expand its focus, began publishing the supplement Travasissimo, and the above pin-up appeared today in 1948. We’ll keep an eye out for more of these, and if we find them, we’ll post them. 

In Italy it has to be one of the biggest trials in history. Prime Minister Silvio Berlusconi is facing charges that he paid for sex with a then-underaged prostitute on thirteen separate occasions, and afterward used his power to cover it up. Both Berlusconi and the woman—known as Ruby, but born Karima El Mahroug in Morocco—deny hooking up, but Italian prosecutors claim to possess a wealth of wiretap evidence that will help them prove otherwise. The trial began yesterday, but that initial session lasted only seven minutes before being adjourned. Proceedings will resume in May, and eventually 20,000 pages of evidence will be presented and forty women will be called as prosecution witnesses. Meanwhile the defense witness list includes assorted attendees of Berlusconi’s many parties, including American actor George Clooney, Venezuelan model Aida Yespica, Italian foreign minister Franco Frattini, Portuguese football god Cristiano Ronaldo, and a who’s-who of jetsetters, television stars, and showgirls.

Berlusconi didn’t attend yesterday’s court session, and has maintained all along that the event is a politically-motivated set-up. Which prompts us to point out that Berlusconi has been surrounded by scandal since way before he became prime minister. Perhaps that’s why in 2008 he pushed through a law granting himself immunity from prosecution while in office. That law was finally overturned last year, paving the way for what Italiansare calling the “bunga bunga” trial. Berlusconi claims that his famous parties are not bacchanals, as portrayed in the tabloid press, but rather “convivial, elegant soirées of food and song.” Of course, bacchanals are always convivial and elegant on the surface, and remain that way to 99% of the guests. But in a private room upstairs the host’s closest homies and associates are slurping MDMA-spiked Taittinger blanc out of giggling models’ navels. How do we know? Because one of us worked at Playboy before running away to the developing world—which is to say, we know whereof we speak.

We don’t think there’s any doubt that political motivations play a part in Berlusconi’s prosecution, but frankly, we don’t blame his enemies—the man is an international embarrassment. Not because he sleeps with showgirls and models fifty years younger than him—we’d all do that if we could. What? Oh, don’t give us that shit. Of course you would. And to our female readers—yes, you would do the same with a twenty-two-year-old Calvin Klein Jeans model. Or even two of them. No, Berlusconi’s a joke because the same planetoid-sized ego that’s convinced him he’s getting all this trim because of his charm and looks has also convinced himhe can portray his country as one where public office is a farce. Or put another way—part of a prime minister’s job is to bring credibility to a nation, and if he hates that fact, he should step down. True, he wouldn’t be able to funnel models and dancers into cabinet positions, but at least as a civilian his sex life would once again be private (and the public wouldn't have to hear about about the septuagenarian heaving atop some poor teenager like a walrus). In any case, whether Berlusconi returns to civilian life may no longer be his choice. Much of the public despise him, and are calling for his resignation. And even assuming he does secure an acquittal, he faces three more trials on a variety of corruption charges. 

Above, a National Star Chronicle published March 16, 1964, with cover star Claudia Cardinale. Born in Tunisia, Cardinale’s career was launched in 1957 when at age eighteen she won the title Most Beautiful Girl in Tunisia. The prize was a trip to Venice. She didn't speak one word of Italian and knew little about Italy, but she was spotted by some film producers and the rest, as they say, is history.

You already know from our previous posts on the subject that we’re big fans of Italian poster artist Sandro Symeoni, so today we have six more pieces from this prolific master. Above you see Un’idea per un delitto (aka Brainstorm), and below are Gli amanti del chiaro di luna, Nude… si muore (aka Naked You Die), Gli altri racconti di Canterbury (aka The Other Canterbury Tales), L’altra casa ai margini del bosco (Behind the Shutters), and La strage di Frankenstein (aka I Was a Teenage Frankenstein). See more Symeoni here and here.

Hmm, how to assess Bruno Mattei’s nazisploitation flick Casa privata per le SS, aka La maison privée des SS, aka SS Girls? Well, let’s just say that the term softcore is too kind. In reality, it’s droopcore, or better yet, shrinkcore—i.e., watching this will affect your sex organs like a dip in icy waters. If you took out all the inept, thrashing semi-sex scenes, and the scenes of sweaty Gabriele Carrara playing his pipe organ, as well as the shots of Nazis laughing evilly (and interminably), what you’d have left is maybe forty minutes of Mystery Science Theatre-level awfulness about a group of women coerced into sleeping with high ranking SS officers in order to uncover a plot to betray Hitler. Our girlfriends gave up during the naked hunchback scene (“Oh my God! That’s revolting! How can you watch this?”) but we stuck with it and eventually focused our attentions on Macha Magall, who might be the only watchable cast member. But she’s eventually mutilated and dumped out a castle window, and the movie fatally plummets at that point too. So in the end, perhaps the flick’s best quality is its promo art by Aller, aka Carlo Alessandrini, which you see above. Casa privata per le SS premiered in Italy today in 1977.