A Finale You Don’t Recover From

Read Time:6 Minute, 31 Second

MOVIE REVIEW
The House With Laughing Windows (La casa dalle finestre che ridono)
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Genre: Horror, Giallo
Year Released: 1976, Arrow Video 4K 2025
Runtime: 1h 50m
Director(s): Pupi Avati
Writer(s): Pupi Avati, Antonio Avati, Gianni Cavina
Cast: Lino Capolicchio, Francesca Marciano, Gianni Cavina, Giulio Pizzirani
Where to Watch: available December 2, 2025, pre-order your copy here: www.arrowvideo.com, www.mvdshop.com, or www.amazon.com

RAVING REVIEW: Some films work best when they make you feel like you’ve wandered somewhere you shouldn’t be, and THE HOUSE WITH LAUGHING WINDOWS thrives in that space. It’s a film that doesn’t need cheap shocks or exaggerated theatrics to keep you unsettled. Instead, it grounds its horror in isolation, suspicion, and the sinking realization that some communities hide rot beneath a perfectly still surface. Watching it today, restored in 4K and given the level of care Arrow Video reserves for films with genuine artistic vision, it becomes clear why this title quietly earned its reputation as one of the most disturbing entries in Italian horror — not because of what it shows, but because of what it makes your mind fill in.

The story follows Stefano, an art restorer, arriving in a remote Italian village to repair a damaged fresco depicting the martyrdom of Saint Sebastian. On paper, that setup sounds almost quaint, but the film uses this premise to pull you deeper into an unsettling world. The moment Stefano enters the village, there’s a stiffness to the locals, a kind of watchfulness that would feel out of place in any other genre but thrives in a giallo that refuses to present itself. There’s no glamorous city backdrop, no stylized killers. Director/co-writer Pupi Avati chooses a rural, worn-down environment where silence hangs heavier than the humidity, and windows — whether literally or metaphorically — are never as still as they appear.

The approach to storytelling is deliberately slow, but not in a way that drags. Instead, each scene feels like another brushstroke in a mural. Stefano uncovers fragments about the deceased painter, a man rumored to have tortured his models to capture their agony. Those rumors grow increasingly credible as Stefano experiences anonymous threats and discovers recordings that seem designed to unravel him psychologically. The film isn’t trying to frighten you with movement — it’s trying to scare you with stillness. You spend so much time in Stefano’s shoes that your guard starts slipping exactly when Avati needs it to.

It’s important to highlight that this isn’t the kind of giallo most viewers expect, especially those accustomed to Argento’s flamboyance or Bava’s saturated visuals. THE HOUSE WITH LAUGHING WINDOWS removes those aspects, trading in spectacle for tension that builds like a slow leak. Its violence is scarce, and when it appears, it feels genuinely shocking because the film hasn’t numbed you with a constant flood. Instead, you’re made to sit in long stretches of dread, observing every detail, knowing full well that something is wrong but unable to articulate what. That ambiguity, more than any gore, is what gives the film its strength.

Lino Capolicchio anchors everything. His performance is grounded, reactive, and human, elevating the film beyond its genre origins. Stefano isn’t a charismatic detective or a hardened investigator; he’s someone who simply wants to do his job but finds the walls closing in on him. Francesca Marciano complements him well, bringing a warmth that feels almost suspicious in a setting where kindness is rare. Gianni Cavina’s presence adds another eerie layer, especially when conversations shift into something more threatening. Every actor seems to understand Avati’s tone: quiet, restrained, but always hiding something sharp underneath.

And then there’s the ending — the moment this movie’s reputation rests on. Without revealing its specifics, it’s a payoff that feels earned precisely because Avati took his time getting there. The final revelation is so disturbing, so blunt in its implications, that it sits with you and gnaws at you. It reframes the entire film, not as a mystery solved but as a nightmare fully understood. And the worst part is realizing the clues were always in front of you, hiding in the silences and uneasy glances.

Arrow Video’s restoration gives this release the best possible platform. The natural grain, the muted tones of the locations, the deliberate use of shadow and natural lighting — all of it enhances the vision rather than modernizing it. The new commentaries, essays, and documentary additions help contextualize the film, making this the most complete edition the movie has ever received, especially for a work where atmosphere does most of the heavy lifting and texture matters. If there’s a critique, it’s the same one that’s followed the film for years: its patience may test some viewers. But for those who put themselves into its methodical rhythm, the payoff is more potent. It’s not a film that shouts to be remembered — it whispers, then refuses to let go.

THE HOUSE WITH LAUGHING WINDOWS is a film that understands the power of silence, the danger of secrets, and the terror of stumbling onto a truth that should’ve stayed buried. With this new edition, it becomes even clearer how important that restraint is. It’s one of the rare gialli that get under your skin without having to raise their voices.

Bonus Materials:
4K ULTRA HD LIMITED EDITION CONTENTS
4K restoration from the original camera negative, graded by Arrow Films
4K (2160p) UHD Blu-ray presentation in HDR10
Restored original lossless mono Italian soundtrack
Newly translated optional English subtitles
Brand new audio commentary by critics Alexandra Heller-Nicholas and Josh Nelson
Brand new audio commentary by critics Eugenio Ercolani and Troy Howarth
Painted Screams, a brand new feature-length documentary on the film directed by Federico Caddeo, featuring interviews with co-writer/director Pupi Avati, co-writer Antonio Avati, assistant director Cesare Bastelli, actors Lino Capolicchio, Fancesca Marcia
La Casa e Sola, a brand new visual essay by critic Chris Alexander
The Art of Suffering, a brand new visual essay by critic Kat Ellinger
Italian theatrical trailer
Reversible sleeve featuring original and newly commissioned artwork by Peter Strain
Double-sided foldout poster featuring original and newly commissioned artwork by Peter Strain
Illustrated perfect-bound collector’s booklet featuring new writing by Matt Rogerson, Willow Maclay, Alexia Kannas, Anton Bitel, and Stefano Baschiera

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[photo courtesy of ARROW VIDEO, MVD ENTERTAINMENT]

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