Neo-giallo is a catch-all term that tends to be affixed to any vaguely giallo-inspired film made post 2000, but, for me, it's also synonymous with a series of films which produce facsimiles of the style of the traditional giallo, with none of the substance. In some cases (Forzani and Cattet), the filmmakers refine the style to such an extent that the films cannot be consumed as traditional movies, and can only to instead be considered as (attempted) works of art. Which is to say, they're not at all enjoyable. Yellow, with its precise imagery and pounding soundtrack, veers dangerously close to this arty territory, but with its semblance of a plot and reasonably-traditional editing, it falls just short. As a short, it falls a long way short.
The aforementioned precise imagery occasionally veers into giallo territory, with an early eyeball slashing, and some scissor fetishising, but for the most part the film seems to be imitating late 80s and early 90s Michael Mann. And it succeeds admirably, and is indeed very pleasing to the eye. However, if I want to see some sexy shots of a car driving around a neon-bathed city I can get my fill from a 30 second commercial, without the need to spend 26 minutes watching something like this.
The semblance of a plot concerns a Lucio Fulci-lookalike, who gets a whispered phone call from a killer who, a terribly performed and written radio exchange informs us, has killed three women in a matter of months. Old Fulci becomes obsessed with tracking down the killer, occasionally taking time out to pose for carefully-composed shots in which he peers at his reflection in a mirror. If a character in a thriller looks at their own reflection, you can be fairly certain that it's either a clever-clogs director thinking that he's subtly paving the way for a last minute twist about a split personality, or it's a set-up for a jump scare with some sort of sudden activity being captured in the reflection.
This plot, which is stretched so thin that it's invisible to the naked eye (and probably invisible to all of the naked actress who embodies all the female roles) for most of the running time, leads into a shocking last minute twist, which becomes eminently guessable once no-one jumps into frame behind Lucio when he's staring at himself in the mirror. Given that Lucio is literally the only character in the film, apart fromt he women being offed by the masked killer, the only real twist is that there's a twist at all; that the filmmakers thought anyone would be even mildly surprised by a rehash of the same rug-pull that we've seen in Haute Tension, Fight Club, Identity and so many other films over the last 20 years.
Much like the film, I've gone on too long here. This film has no real mystery element, and is devoid of the wacky personality that distinguishes the best gialli. Which is to say, it's a great example of a neo-giallo. It does look very nice, particularly the scene in the underground room with orange pillars. The soundtrack is brilliant, too. The film is not.