I’ll say this for Torso: it wastes little time; within the first ten seconds of the opening credits, a woman has already removed her shirt, posed seductively for the benefit of the camera, and engaged in an awkward pantomime of sexual intercourse. While such shallow, obligatory titillation doesn’t normally appeal to me, I admire director Sergio Martino’s lack of pretense: he knows exactly what his audience expects and delivers the goods almost immediately.
The film is otherwise rather pedestrian by giallo standards; then again, pretty much everything pales in comparison to the seminal works produced by Mario Bava (Blood and Black Lace, A Bay of Blood) and Dario Argento (The Bird with the Crystal Plumage, Deep Red). I’d characterize the cinematography as competent and serviceable, but relatively unspectacular; the lighting, for example, is borderline naturalistic, with nary a colored gel in sight. Nevertheless, the action is punctuated by just enough bold, moody compositions to keep the viewer invested. This stylistic patience pays off during the movie’s explosive climax, when all of the previously restrained excess and maximalism are finally unleashed in a single magnificent set piece: a deliciously suspenseful game of cat-and-mouse that features minimal dialogue for nearly twenty minutes—a masterclass in silent storytelling.
Ultimately, Torso is the genre equivalent of a palate cleanser: run-of-the-mill, middle-of-the-road, and aggressively average. And that’s not necessarily a negative criticism; there’s great artistic value in being unexceptional. Not every meal needs to be a five-star gourmet experience; occasionally, a simple peanut butter and jelly sandwich will suffice.
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