Artistic trendsetters and groundbreakers are, of course, hugely important from a historical perspective. However, just because The Jazz Singer marked the beginning of people audibly speaking in films, it doesn't mean it's the best film which involves people talking. And - as you may have intuited - just because The Sweet Body of Deborah ushered in the wave of black-glove-killer-lite seaside dramas featuring rich people tricking each other into murder and suicide, doesn't mean it's the best example of such films. Or even that it's any good at all.
Newlyweds Deborah and Marcel travel to his hometown of Geneva, ostensibly so she can get a sense of who her new husband is (probably should've done that BEFORE the wedding, love). They run into a past acquaintance of Marcel's who accuses him of being a murderer because his ex-girlfriend, traumatised at Marcel's having left her for America and Deborah, has committed suicide. The couple leave Geneva to continue their honeymoon, but find that they can't escape the past so easily, with threatening phone calls, and Marcel's old friend Philip, following them across the continent.
It's probably a bit harsh to say that this isn't any good at all; however, it's far from a top drawer giallo. As an example of the 'rich people double cross each other' subgenre (upon which I think I've bestowed a different descriptive title every single time I've referred to it), it's nowhere near as good as several of the later Lenzis. And it's not necessarily even that trailblazing, given that it, as with all those films, owes a huge debt to Les Diaboliques. and the concept of a woman/couple being harassed by the sea had been done before (Ernie Gastaldi's Libido, which he essentially rewrote as this film). However, this film does it all in colour - garish, garish colour - with the odd flash of nudity, a formula which seemed to catch the attention of Umberto Lenzi (or at least his main screenwriter, who coincidentally was also Ernie G). Indeed, the final line of dialogue of the film ("One can never be rich enough") could be the title of a thesis on this strand of the filone.
So, this is an important film in as much as several other, better films may not have existed without it. But still, that doesn't make it any less of a slog to get through. There is, as stated, no black gloved killer, which is fine, but there simply isn't enough going on to maintain interest for the still-brief 92 minute running time. The central conceit of a couple being pursued for a past 'crime' (which in this case isn't even a crime) isn't really fleshed out at all. You get a couple of phone calls (one of which is technically an impossible call, with the film never explaining how a phone line which has been out of use for a year miraculously worked all of a sudden) and Luigi Pistilli's Philip lurks in the background a couple of times, showing off his skills in the 'vanishing from view while the main character rubs their eyes to make sure they're not hallucinating' area (top tip-if you're ever the 'viewer' in this situation, don't look away - keep a close eye on the intruder and place an immediate call to the authorities). But there's never any real sense of overpowering evil closing in on the couple; although, to be fair, this could be partly explained by the end twists, of which more anon.
The idea of a Tchaikovskian song motif being the source of a kind of Proustian recollection of memory - and guilt - for Marcel is neatly done, and would reappear in Deep Red, among others. However, the film as a whole is curiously silent (at least, it is in the English-language version I watched), with long stretches which feel aurally dead, lacking the requisite foley sounds of clothes rustling and footsteps to create any believable facsimile of reality. These sequences feature dialogue being exchanged over heavy silence, with even a climactic scene which involves Philip breaking into the sleeping couple's villa being played out with no score, which deadens the mood horribly. Nora Orlandi's main theme is great (and very 60s) and her Jess Franco-ey organ fillers are decent, but it appears that either she didn't compose enough tunes, or the editor wasn't keen on using them.
There are a few extremely 60s nightclub sequences (if gialli are to be believed, what few black women there were in Europe in the 60s/70s all worked as strippers), and a game of twister that has to be seen to be believed. Although, by the time this sequence comes around (quite deep into the running time) you might well be ready to give up on the film; the fact that the two main characters, and potential victims, are laughing and dancing around their garden without a care in the world kind of sums up the general absence of tension.
Things do finally pick up with Philip's aforementioned home invasion and (SPOILERS) 'death'. Attentive viewers will have noted that for about ten minutes in the middle of film every time Marcel speaks it's to try and engineer an excuse to leave Deborah, which might suggest that he's not quite the catch he appeared to be. And it's true - he is, in fact, in league with Philip and his not-dead ex as part of an inheritance scheme (the standard motivation in these films). This twist would be less surprising for genre-savvy modern viewers given that Marcel is played by Jean Sorel, so in many ways it would actually be more of a surprise if he wasn't a duplicitous cad. To be fair, 1960s audiences wouldn't have viewed the film through this lens, and it can hardly be blamed for being commercially successful enough to spawn all those similar films and keep Sorel gainfully employed for several years.
There's (STILL SPOILERS) a second twist thrown in for good measure at the end: Deborah is apparently in cahoots with her extremely annoying neighbour George Hilton, and was orchestrating an inheritance scheme of her own which ultimately trumps that of Marcel. However, this is the very definition of a twist for twist's sake, and rivals the one at the end of The House on the Edge of the Park for implausibility - how did the unconscious Deborah know that she'd be abandoned by her 'killers' before she bled out? If Hilton had been waiting to intervene it might just about be credible, although this would have prematurely revealed the second twist ending. Still, rather that than a twist that makes No Sense What So Fucking Ever. That's not the only lapse in logic; far from it, in fact, which is all the more surprising when you consider how Gastaldi has always prided himself in his rigorous logic. Whether he or director Romolo Guerrieri is to blame, rewatching the film reveals a whole host of moments in which characters interact completely implausibly, their behaviour making zero sense when you're aware that they're secretly in cahoots.
I don't want to be too down on the film, but it's just hard to be in any way 'up' about it. There are some semi-stylish sequences, and a few of those 'idiosyncratic', shall we say, moments that only exist in old-school Italian films - look out for the Big Lebowski-esque goons who threaten Marcel, the classy "I'm raping you" line Marcel spouts when sweeping Deborah off her feet to carry her over the threshold of their rented home, and the very real reckless driving which sees several near-crashes with civilian drivers at a couple of points in the film. Look out for those, but don't be on the look out for a great film; nothing of that sort to see here.
Newlyweds Deborah and Marcel travel to his hometown of Geneva, ostensibly so she can get a sense of who her new husband is (probably should've done that BEFORE the wedding, love). They run into a past acquaintance of Marcel's who accuses him of being a murderer because his ex-girlfriend, traumatised at Marcel's having left her for America and Deborah, has committed suicide. The couple leave Geneva to continue their honeymoon, but find that they can't escape the past so easily, with threatening phone calls, and Marcel's old friend Philip, following them across the continent.
It's probably a bit harsh to say that this isn't any good at all; however, it's far from a top drawer giallo. As an example of the 'rich people double cross each other' subgenre (upon which I think I've bestowed a different descriptive title every single time I've referred to it), it's nowhere near as good as several of the later Lenzis. And it's not necessarily even that trailblazing, given that it, as with all those films, owes a huge debt to Les Diaboliques. and the concept of a woman/couple being harassed by the sea had been done before (Ernie Gastaldi's Libido, which he essentially rewrote as this film). However, this film does it all in colour - garish, garish colour - with the odd flash of nudity, a formula which seemed to catch the attention of Umberto Lenzi (or at least his main screenwriter, who coincidentally was also Ernie G). Indeed, the final line of dialogue of the film ("One can never be rich enough") could be the title of a thesis on this strand of the filone.
So, this is an important film in as much as several other, better films may not have existed without it. But still, that doesn't make it any less of a slog to get through. There is, as stated, no black gloved killer, which is fine, but there simply isn't enough going on to maintain interest for the still-brief 92 minute running time. The central conceit of a couple being pursued for a past 'crime' (which in this case isn't even a crime) isn't really fleshed out at all. You get a couple of phone calls (one of which is technically an impossible call, with the film never explaining how a phone line which has been out of use for a year miraculously worked all of a sudden) and Luigi Pistilli's Philip lurks in the background a couple of times, showing off his skills in the 'vanishing from view while the main character rubs their eyes to make sure they're not hallucinating' area (top tip-if you're ever the 'viewer' in this situation, don't look away - keep a close eye on the intruder and place an immediate call to the authorities). But there's never any real sense of overpowering evil closing in on the couple; although, to be fair, this could be partly explained by the end twists, of which more anon.
The idea of a Tchaikovskian song motif being the source of a kind of Proustian recollection of memory - and guilt - for Marcel is neatly done, and would reappear in Deep Red, among others. However, the film as a whole is curiously silent (at least, it is in the English-language version I watched), with long stretches which feel aurally dead, lacking the requisite foley sounds of clothes rustling and footsteps to create any believable facsimile of reality. These sequences feature dialogue being exchanged over heavy silence, with even a climactic scene which involves Philip breaking into the sleeping couple's villa being played out with no score, which deadens the mood horribly. Nora Orlandi's main theme is great (and very 60s) and her Jess Franco-ey organ fillers are decent, but it appears that either she didn't compose enough tunes, or the editor wasn't keen on using them.
There are a few extremely 60s nightclub sequences (if gialli are to be believed, what few black women there were in Europe in the 60s/70s all worked as strippers), and a game of twister that has to be seen to be believed. Although, by the time this sequence comes around (quite deep into the running time) you might well be ready to give up on the film; the fact that the two main characters, and potential victims, are laughing and dancing around their garden without a care in the world kind of sums up the general absence of tension.
Things do finally pick up with Philip's aforementioned home invasion and (SPOILERS) 'death'. Attentive viewers will have noted that for about ten minutes in the middle of film every time Marcel speaks it's to try and engineer an excuse to leave Deborah, which might suggest that he's not quite the catch he appeared to be. And it's true - he is, in fact, in league with Philip and his not-dead ex as part of an inheritance scheme (the standard motivation in these films). This twist would be less surprising for genre-savvy modern viewers given that Marcel is played by Jean Sorel, so in many ways it would actually be more of a surprise if he wasn't a duplicitous cad. To be fair, 1960s audiences wouldn't have viewed the film through this lens, and it can hardly be blamed for being commercially successful enough to spawn all those similar films and keep Sorel gainfully employed for several years.
There's (STILL SPOILERS) a second twist thrown in for good measure at the end: Deborah is apparently in cahoots with her extremely annoying neighbour George Hilton, and was orchestrating an inheritance scheme of her own which ultimately trumps that of Marcel. However, this is the very definition of a twist for twist's sake, and rivals the one at the end of The House on the Edge of the Park for implausibility - how did the unconscious Deborah know that she'd be abandoned by her 'killers' before she bled out? If Hilton had been waiting to intervene it might just about be credible, although this would have prematurely revealed the second twist ending. Still, rather that than a twist that makes No Sense What So Fucking Ever. That's not the only lapse in logic; far from it, in fact, which is all the more surprising when you consider how Gastaldi has always prided himself in his rigorous logic. Whether he or director Romolo Guerrieri is to blame, rewatching the film reveals a whole host of moments in which characters interact completely implausibly, their behaviour making zero sense when you're aware that they're secretly in cahoots.
I don't want to be too down on the film, but it's just hard to be in any way 'up' about it. There are some semi-stylish sequences, and a few of those 'idiosyncratic', shall we say, moments that only exist in old-school Italian films - look out for the Big Lebowski-esque goons who threaten Marcel, the classy "I'm raping you" line Marcel spouts when sweeping Deborah off her feet to carry her over the threshold of their rented home, and the very real reckless driving which sees several near-crashes with civilian drivers at a couple of points in the film. Look out for those, but don't be on the look out for a great film; nothing of that sort to see here.
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