BLOOD LINK (Alberto De Martino, 1982)

Dr Craig Mannings (Michael Moriarty) has recently been troubled by visions of himself murdering lonely women, which he attributes to the experimental therapy he's been under. In one such vision, he finds a clue that leads him to Hamburg, Germany, where his heretofore presumed dead siamese twin, Keith (Moriarty again), has taken residence. It's revealed that Craig has been seeing the murders through Keith's eyes (ala The Eyes of Laura Mars), and Keith through his just as often. Naturally, Keith seizes the opportunity to continue with his killing spree, now focusing on Craig's friends and framing him in the process. I wish I had an identical twin some days.

It's fairly easy to sum up Blood Link as a promising premise that's flatly executed. The mostly American cast takes away the Eurocheese feel from the proceedings, but the dialogue is long-winded and the performances feel forced at times. Oddly enough, I found Keith to be the most interesting character in the story, because he seemed the most dynamic, evil as he may be. Craig is a harder character to identify with, as he's weak and a bit slow on the uptake at times - and he screws around on his girlfriend, who ends up saving him in the end. In how many Italian thrillers of that period is the protagonist saved by his girlfriend? Can't think of too many.

Stylewise, Blood Link stands above it's ilk. The photography is lush and inventive, and makes good use of mirrored surfaces, disorienting compositions, and the ol' watery soft-focus lens. The moody, noirish lighting and beautiful, though forgettable Ennio Morricone soundtrack almost work with the general tedium of the film. Almost. It's still a dreadfully slow affair for a thriller, but not a bad film.

SHORT NIGHT OF GLASS DOLLS (Aldo Lado, 1971)

When American reporter Gregory Moore's (Jean Sorel) body is found near a park in Prague, it's taken to the morgue where he is pronounced dead. Unknown to the attendants is that Gregory is still alive, conscious but unable to speak or move, and unsure of who he is, and how he got there. From here he must piece together the sequence of events that led to his predicament, before those responsible for it return to complete the deed.

Cleverly written and stunningly filmed, Short Night of Glass Dolls is one classy giallo. It absolutely oozes style, from the moody, noirish lighting, to the hauntingly decadent Ennio Morricone soundtrack. Lado avoided taking the tawdry route that many gialli at the time followed, so even the images of sex and death are beautifully portrayed. Storywise, SNOGD (haha) is also a cut above the rest. Keen viewers will spot some clever foreshadowing at the beginning, and despite a slight lull in the second act, the story is quite intriguing and grows more bizarre and nightmarish as it reaches it's downbeat climax. Anyone who has an aversion to crappy hippies singing crappy hippie songs about butterflies (and hasn't the ability to appreciate cheese) should avoid this film. Sadly, yes, they do exist. But for everyone else, I highly recommend this giallo gem.

THE BLACK BELLY OF THE TARANTULA

(Paolo Cavara,1971)

Here's another title that helped define the genre. It has not one, not two, but THREE Bond girls (Barbara Bach, Barbara Bouchet, Claudine Auger), a sometimes dreamy, sometimes menacing Ennio Morricone score, and of course, a rubber gloved, fedora-clad maniac.

Inspector Tellini (Giancarlo Giannini) is in pursuit of a madman responsible for the muders of several beautiful women. The poor girls meet a gruesome end, each paralyzed by a needle through the neck so that she's forced to watch herself being disemboweled, a practice, Tellini learns, that's typical of a certain type of tarantula-killing wasp. True to form, the killer is always one step/ victim ahead of the police, and is quite aware of where Tellini lives, and his growing proximity.

TBBOTT is classic giallo, and has most, if not all, of the conventions, storywise and visually. Expect swingin' sets, retro fashions, nudity, violence, (cheap) gore, mannequins, shining blades, and so on. There's an odd visual cue, that of a fringed swag lamp being turned off by the killer prior to each murder, that I found sinister and intriguing, much the same as the killer observing the painting in Dario Argento's The Bird With The Crystal Plumage. With the exception of the set-pieces, the cinematography here is a bit dull when compared to it's brethren, but the violent and sensual aspects, heightened greatly by the aforementioned Morricone soundtrack, should hold most viewers' interest well enough. Definitely recommended.