Thursday, November 20, 2003

The Salon Christiana has mock-Baroque rooms and dress-maker mannequins erect and red as fake blood pulsing from model veins. Dotted like vast pins, blood-tipped. And the bright lips: scarlet slashed across white skin. Manicured hands pull up nylon tights, deliciously, unlatch or link suspenders, to high Italian courture, circa 1964. Christina Cuomo (Eva Bartok) retains tight catwalk discipline with a terse stare from flashy brown eyes or a sharp word from wasp-stung lips. She's the dream dominatrix: tragic, unfuckable. Just one Italian ideal, among many: the fey blonde with the black secret, the peasant brunette with the (un)canny instinct. Nicole runs cocaine, Peggy had an abortion. Isabella was murdered first: she had a red diary, with everything in it. Everyone is dying for the red diary. Literally. Skin slashed, a face slowly scolded on a hot iron oven, wrists slit, a body dumped in a bath, or dragged along the ground, suffocated with a pillow, strangled with wire - always slowly, with silence between screams, lurid red light and pitch black shadows: red and black (blood/lace) divided by distinct lines (vertical, horizontal, diagonal: always straight slashes). The killer, face wrapped in tight, white bandage cloth between trenchcoat and fedora; the faceless killer, anonymous malcontent, misogynist, sociopath, sexual deviant. Or: ????? (No rape: but the violence is imaginative, artful, a sequence of slow seduction, elongated terror and capitulation.) Everyone is guilty, or dead. Motives multiply. The Thriller without sense, logic, succession, that is, unhinged (Slasher) - ...endless thrill and fear a fucking nightmare of scarlet, crimson, sable, jet, silk - corpse in a wardrobe, a car boot, an overflowing bath, the dizzy accumulation of dead beauties.

giallo proto: frigid, filthy colour and unbridled Id.

Sei Donne per l'Assassino (Mario Bava, 1964)

posted by oc  # 1:29 AM

citta vecchio

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