The more so-called "giallos" you watch, the harder you feel the mighty power of Uncle Yawn – it's Groundhog Day again, with scalpel-wielding headcases, slapped faces, catholic chicks in heat, boobs alert, and another cheeeeesy screenplay fusing the spirit of an imbecile Hercule Poirot with the advanced aesthetics of the busty clip. This time two super-bimbos rent a flat in an apartment complex where a psycho killer hunts ... yo, man, super-bimbos! And the mounting tension indeed leads to some equally puzzling and disturbing questions: Why does Uruguayan coat-tree George Hilton always look like he flew in from Stepford? Was Bruno Nicolai's flatulent jingling originally composed for a Walmart Italia commercial? Did scriptwriter Ernesto Gastaldi really laugh so maniacally all the way to the bank? And why the heck is that pale brunette from the bunny dept. in every second fiasco, pardon me, giallo? Now, folks, that's a damn lot of red herrings.
Review of The Case of the Bloody Iris
