The New York Ripper (1982)

The New York Ripper is Lucio Fulci at his most ferocious: a grimy, neon-sick postcard of early-’80s Manhattan where the city itself feels complicit, and every shadowed street corner hums with danger. It plays like a hard-boiled police procedural that’s been dragged through a nightmare, mixing dread, pitch-black humor (including the infamous taunting phone calls), and a visual bravura that makes even mundane locations feel poisoned. The film’s power is its relentless intensity—Fulci doesn’t let you get comfortable, and the violence is staged with a sickening immediacy that horror fans often cite as unforgettable. Fair warning: it’s absolutely not for the squeamish or anyone sensitive to graphic sexual violence, but if you can handle its ugliness, you’ll find a nasty, stylish thriller that grabs you by the throat and refuses to let go.

Lucio Fulci is clearly aiming for a grimy, street-level giallo that mixes police procedural with shock-horror provocation, and he commits to that nasty New York mood without blinking. The problem is the film leans so hard on sexualized brutality and sleaze that it can feel less like suspense and more like an endurance test, with plot logic and twists that don’t always earn the misery. If you’re sensitive to graphic sexual violence, misogynistic framing, or gore that’s meant to disgust rather than entertain, this is one to skip and save yourself the bad taste. That said, if you’re a Fulci completist or you specifically want vintage exploitation with a mean streak, there’s competent craft in the atmosphere and pacing—just don’t expect a satisfying mystery or anything resembling restraint.