On the proverbial dark and stormy night, Mary Hunter (Rossana Podestá), a young countess, stumbles upon a frightening sight in her husband Max’s (George Riviére) castle. Approaching the castle’s armory, she is startled to see a woman gruesomely killed in the antique Iron Maiden. Effectively shaken, Mary soon begins probing her surroundings and coming to the awful conclusion that her husband has a nefarious secret concerning a certain Nazi war criminal (Mirko Valentin) who is now claiming lives around the castle.

One of Margheriti’s very best films, 1963’s Back to the Killer (one of the film’s many retitlings, originally entitled La Vergine di Norimberga) is a surprisingly grisly film for its time, effectively shielding it from being superannuated by more contemporary bloodfests. At the same time Margheriti’s second horror opus (his first being the same year’s Danza Macabra with Barbara Steele) wryly expands on Italian gothic cinema’s newly solidified trends, again securing the film’s place in the annals of classic Italian horror history.

Certainly, distinguishing itself from the gothic crowd was no easy task, as Margheriti’s film rubbed shoulders with such assuredly classic chillers as Riccardo Freda’s magnum opus L’Orribile Segreto del Dottor Hichcock (1962, also starring Steele) and the same year’s La Frusta e il Corpo by Mario Bava (also starring Christopher Lee, who has a key supporting role here). Both of those films shared familiar themes that would come to codify Italian gothic horror: the Freudian "inner darkness" of the aristocratic protagonist and the unenviable, dawning comprehension of the heroine that something is indeed very wrong in her seemingly idyllic enclosure. The physical setting-here, the castle- also garners a pragmatic supporting role, with its many secret passages allowing the skittish heroine access to the hidden, labyrinthine bowels of the castle where the unspeakable secrets of the husband come to light.

La Vergine di Norimberga contains these genre trappings, but Margheriti effectively inverts many of the traditions. For one, the role of Erich, the disfigured castle caretaker (Christopher Lee), is predominantly played as a sinister one, due in no small part to his many cheap scares and Riz Ortalani’s bombastic fright score (not to mention his sinister appearance-with axe in hand-in the film’s original fotobusta). The assistant’s malevolence is quite credible when one considers Lee’s indelible association with Hammer Horror, and his archetypal role as the prince of darkness, Count Dracula. However it is revealed that Erik is indeed a benevolent soul, evidenced by his climatic attempt to save Mary from the clutches of the killer. And it is Erich who finally dissolves the killer’s murderous spree and tells the former Nazi general’s pitiable story of a soured revenge plot to kill Hitler and his heinous punishment that leaves him disfigured to the present day.

Margheriti’s most memorable (and palatable) genre mutation, however, is his treatment of the "inner darkness" motif. Instead of participating in the usual Freudian "Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde" platform, Margheriti splits the two personalities (one socially acceptable, one devious) into two bodies: Max Hunter and the murderous lord (Valentin). By joining the two by blood (Martha, the eldest maid cries "The Hunter name will be tainted") Margheriti stays true to the "skeletons in the closet" concept while simultaneously retaining the "stained heredity" politic, also rampant in the genre. And the film does boast at least one truly surprising twist revealing Valentin as Hunter’s father.

Valentin’s performance is wonderfully balanced, vacillating freely from villainy to unexpected pathos. In fact, Valentin’s creature resembles Gaston Laroux’s phantom, often escaping to his cavernous quarters and only rising to the realm of the living to claim another victim. His final confrontation with his former comrade Erich is especially bittersweet and rings emotionally true. In it Erich reveals Valentin’s terrible story of his disfigurement and Valentin tearfully cries "The war is over, yet we still send 1000’s of men to their graves." Not only does this utterance pull at the heartstrings, it also lends an emotionally mature perspective into the anguish many former Nazi officers must have felt after losing the war and having to rapidly adjust to a very different world. Clearly, the post-WW2 setting was not a last-minute fabrication, as the film is supposedly set in Nuremberg, Germany, although the settings are obviously Italian.

Regardless of historical backdrop, the disparate shock sequences still retain their gruesome brutality. In the one of the film’s most celebrated scenes, Mary approaches a creaky iron statue (complete with a silver bowl of blood below) and upon opening the contraption sees an eyeless, punctured cadaver trapped in the Iron Maiden (the image was so powerful that it would be used again in Mario Bava’s similarly titled 1972 picture Gli Orrori del Castello di Norimberga). Topping even this sanguineous event is Valentin’s next torture: placing a caged rat over a young victim’s face, letting it slowly gnaw her face away. Although indeed graphic for the era and still disturbing even in present day, Margheriti masterfully controls the sequence, resisting the temptation to go overboard into the bloody balderdash of some of H.G. Lewis’ more outlandish gore pictures. However, the film’s visceral component was potent enough to inspire a fumetti in the horror series "Malia-I Fotoromanzi del Brivido." Interestingly, the film had its genesis in a horror story by Frank Bogart, originally published by the film’s producer Marco Vicario (and husband of star Rossana Podestá) in his book series "KKK-I Classici dell’orrore."

Margheriti also effectively tempers the camerawork and overhanging atmosphere. Never reaching the gel-light saturation and lusty camerawork of Bava’s or Freda’s films, the somewhat restrained stylistic flourishes are still well in tandem with the film’s more perspicuous approach to horror. While the cloak of multi-colored lighting and zooms may not be in appearance, Margheriti’s film boasts some pungent sequences, including the genre’s famous long walks down the castle corridors, pockets of light bouncing off various implements of torture, intensely moody, musty tombs, and some impressive long shots of the exterior castle grounds. Because the film is more centered on actions rather than brooding atmosphere, it also avoids the major pitfall of Bava and Freda’s films: lumpy pacing. Another pitfall common in Bava’s and Freda’s work is also effectively curtailed by the actor’s rather reserved performances, rationing the exhausting hyperbolic theatrics for the essential fright scenes.

Unfortunately the atmospheric impact is sometimes all but neutralized by Ortalani’s jazzy score which is often an unwelcome guest. Far too bouncy for some of the more somber scenes and too kinetic for some of the shocks, the score is an unfortunate oversight (allegedly Margheriti chose the score for its contemporary feel which alluded to the unusual time period).

Often unfairly overlooked in light of Freda or Bava’s work, La Vergine di Norimberga is a truly worthy addition to Italy’s golden era of horror. Unlike lesser gothic efforts, Margheriti’s film treads a different path than Bava or Freda’s work and balances the ubiquitous Italian style with a brisk pace and a string of groundbreakingly graphic terror sequences while re-working trends when the genre’s iron was still hot.