Eyes of Laura Mars (1978)

"And we'll use murder to sell deodorant..."

‘Voyeurism and silken eroticism…’

I’ve been watching a lot of gialli recently. I was discussing this with a friend. “Is that the make of a car?” he said. I explained that giallo— plural gialli— was, is, the collective name for a group of stylish, low-budget Italian films, albeit murderous whodunnits, primarily made in the 1970s. Cult stuff. Named after the yellow paperback jackets of trashy Italian pulp-thrillers. Surprisingly addictive— if you like that sort of thing. “That sounds incredibly obscure”, he said. Perhaps. But many of these gialli- and as I’m discovering, there are literally hundreds of them, are in their way, little gems. Despite— or maybe because of the dodgy dubbing, zany camera angles, squalid sexploitation and sometimes ludicrous plotting; balanced by fine cinematography, inspiring Euro-chic soundtracks (Ennio Morricone and Bruno Nicolai), seriously beautiful women (Florinda Bolkan, Anita Strindberg, the Barbaras Bouchet and Bach) and sometimes decent acting. Gialli are a fashion-fest— a visual feast for the senses, Fiorucci on acid if you will, with that crucial thing so often missing these days, something called fun. If you can cope with a dose of Kensington Gore.

‘Fiorucci on acid…’

Tempted? Where to begin? The BFI recommends Dario Argento’s The Bird with the Crystal Plumage (1970) and I’ve just enjoyed Who Saw Her Die (1972)— starring a moustached George Lazenby (like a Mexican bandit), in my opinion, one of the most interesting Bonds, and the hog-wimperingly gorgeous Anita Strindberg, the epitome of sophisticated Italo-Swedish womanhood, in a beautifully filmed giallo set in Venice, with rather luscious cinematography and tantalising similarities to Don’t Look Now (1973)— the recommendation for last week’s newsletter.

‘Nikon girl…’