Dario Argento’s "The Stendhal Syndrome," adapted from the book by psychiatrist Graziella Magherini, turns out to be closer not so much to Alfred Hitchcock’s cinema as to the much more flamboyant style of Brian De Palma. Both directors, on the edge of fetishes, borrowed from Hitchcock’s legacy—everything that was lying around badly, as well as everything that had become commonplace and cliché. Naturally, "The Stendhal Syndrome" remains a Dario Argento film from the first to the last frame, only this time the director mixes psychoanalytic manias and excessive sadism more densely than usual, along with the interpenetration of art and real life, the shift in behavior patterns between victim and maniac, whose invulnerability appears dubious. And this is yet another Argento film that represents his own view of Italy, with some special pleasure and diligence guiding the viewer through the dark streets of Rome and allowing acts of ritual violence to unfold there, amid centuries-old architecture and stuffy twilight. In "The Stendhal Syndrome," scored with the anxious orchestrations of the great Ennio Morricone, Argento refuses to present death as a show, making it first and foremost an act of art—dangerous for anyone who inadvertently comes into contact with it. At its core, "The Stendhal Syndrome" is a psychological thriller that delves deeply into the fragility of the human mind when confronted with overwhelming beauty and brutality. The film stars Asia Argento as Detective Anna Manni, a young policewoman from Rome’s anti-rape squad who is pursuing a sadistic serial rapist and murderer named Alfredo Grossi, played by Thomas Kretschmann. The story begins in Florence, where Anna visits the renowned Uffizi Gallery while on the trail of her quarry. It is here, surrounded by masterpieces like Bruegel’s "Landscape with the Fall of Icarus" and Caravaggio’s intense chiaroscuro works, that Anna succumbs to the titular syndrome—a real psychosomatic condition first documented by Magherini in her 1989 book, based on cases observed among tourists in Florence. The Stendhal Syndrome, as Magherini described it, manifests as dizziness, palpitations, hallucinations, and even fainting when an individual is exposed to art of extraordinary beauty. Named after the 19th-century French writer Stendhal, who recounted his own overwhelming emotional response to Florence’s treasures in his travelogue "Rome, Naples and Florence," the condition highlights the profound power of aesthetic experience. In Argento’s hands, this becomes a catalyst for horror. Anna doesn’t just faint; she hallucinates entering the paintings, her sense of reality blurring as she feels swallowed by the canvas. A fish from a surreal seascape bites her mouth, blood mixing with the hallucinatory waters. This sequence, one of the film’s most visually striking, uses early CGI to immerse the viewer in Anna’s disorientation, marking one of the first Italian films to employ computer-generated imagery. Argento’s personal connection to the syndrome adds authenticity. He has recounted experiencing something similar as a child while visiting the Parthenon in Athens, a trance-like state that left him lost from his parents for hours. This anecdote informed his discovery of Magherini’s book, which inspired the film. Yet, while rooted in psychiatric observation, Argento amplifies the concept into a nightmarish exploration of trauma. After her episode in the gallery, Anna awakens vulnerable and amnesiac, only to encounter Alfredo, who poses as a helpful stranger. What follows is a harrowing sequence of rape and assault, depicted with unflinching brutality that pushes the boundaries of exploitation cinema. This is where Argento diverges most sharply from Hitchcock’s suspenseful restraint. Hitchcock mastered psychological tension through suggestion—the shower scene in "Psycho" implies far more than it shows. De Palma, Argento’s closer stylistic kin here, revels in excess: split-screens, voyeuristic camera angles, and prolonged set pieces that fetishize violence, as in "Dressed to Kill" or "Body Double." Argento borrows liberally, blending De Palma’s ornate camera movements with his own giallo heritage of gloved killers and elaborate murders. But "The Stendhal Syndrome" tempers the spectacle. Death is no longer a grand guignol performance, as in earlier works like "Suspiria" or "Deep Red." Instead, violence becomes intimate, ritualistic, and tied to psychological unraveling. Anna’s trauma transforms her. After the assault, she cuts her long hair short, adopts a more androgynous appearance, and attempts to reclaim agency. She returns to Rome, begins therapy, and even enters a new relationship. Yet the killer stalks her relentlessly, raping her again in a scene of excruciating length and intensity. Argento does not shy away from the physical and emotional devastation, forcing the audience to confront the aftermath of sexual violence. Anna’s identity fractures; she begins to internalize aspects of her attacker’s personality, blurring the lines between victim and perpetrator. This role reversal echoes psychoanalytic ideas of identification with the aggressor, a defense mechanism in trauma survivors. The film’s Rome sequences are particularly evocative of Argento’s love-hate relationship with his homeland. He portrays Italy not as a postcard paradise but as a labyrinth of shadows and decay. Dark alleys, ancient ruins, and dimly lit apartments become stages for horror. Ritual violence unfolds against the backdrop of eternal architecture—the Colosseum’s silhouette in the distance, crumbling walls echoing with screams. Argento delights in this contrast: beauty and barbarity intertwined. Just as art overwhelms Anna in Florence, the city’s oppressive history mirrors her inner turmoil in Rome. The streets feel claustrophobic, the twilight stuffy and oppressive, heightening the sense of inescapable dread. Ennio Morricone’s score amplifies this unease. Departing from the prog-rock collaborations with Goblin that defined Argento’s earlier films, Morricone delivers anxious, orchestral swells—haunting melodies laced with dissonance. The main theme, a melancholic chant with female vocals, underscores Anna’s vulnerability, evoking a sense of inevitable doom. Morricone’s music treats violence not as triumphant but as tragic, an extension of the film’s refusal to glorify death as spectacle. Psychoanalytically, the film is rich terrain. Art, for Anna, is both salvation and poison. It penetrates her psyche, much like the killer penetrates her body. The interpenetration of art and life is literal: paintings come alive, swallowing her; violence mimics artistic composition, with bodies posed like sculptures. Alfredo’s invulnerability is illusory—he is a narcissist, perhaps seeing himself as a twisted Adonis—but Anna’s transformation challenges his dominance. She becomes the avenger, her behavior shifting from passive victim to active force. Critics have noted the film’s disturbing elements, particularly Asia Argento’s role. Playing a character subjected to repeated rape under her father’s direction raises uncomfortable questions about exploitation. Yet Asia’s performance is raw and committed, capturing Anna’s descent into madness and rebirth with nuance. From fragile femininity to hardened resolve, then to a hyper-feminine facade masking inner chaos, she embodies the film’s themes of fractured identity. "The Stendhal Syndrome" stands as a bridge in Argento’s career. Coming after the disappointing American venture "Trauma," it marks a return to Italy and a shift toward psychological depth over supernatural flair. While retaining giallo elements—stalking sequences, graphic kills—it anticipates the raw brutality of later works like "Sleepless." Influences abound: Vertigo-like obsessions with transformation (Anna’s makeover echoes Judy becoming Madeleine), De Palma’s voyeurism, Hitchcock’s wrong-man pursuits inverted into wrong-woman trauma.