If ever there was a murder mystery that needed an exorcism, a caffeine drip, and a heavy dose of coherent storytelling, it’s Paolo Cavara’s Black Belly of the Tarantula—a giallo film that should come with a map, a magnifying glass, and maybe a sedative. Despite the presence of Giancarlo Giannini, Barbara Bouchet, Barbara Bach, and enough surgical gloves to sterilize a mid-sized hospital, this thriller lands with the impact of a paralyzed tarantula on a shag carpet: weird, twitchy, and ultimately doomed to be vacuumed up and forgotten.
Let’s be honest—no one watches a giallo for the plot. But Black Belly goes above and beyond in treating its narrative like an abstract art project painted with blood, softcore erotica, and the confused tears of underpaid script doctors.
Plot? You Mean That 98-Minute Rorschach Test?
The film opens with Maria, a spa-goer who apparently treats facials like confessions of mortal sin. After being accused of infidelity by her husband Paolo, she’s promptly paralyzed and killed by a faceless man in gloves—because nothing says “giallo” like a black-leather murder mitt and a syringe full of tranquilizer juice.
From there, it’s a dizzying descent into confusion. Inspector Tellini, played with low-energy dignity by Giannini, frowns his way through a murder investigation while delivering dialogue like he’s been tranquilized himself. He interviews suspects, all of whom speak in suspicious riddles and look like they’ve stepped off the runway at a Milan funeral fashion show. Every woman in the cast is suspiciously glamorous, suspiciously nude, or suspiciously murdered—sometimes all three at once.
And let’s not forget the killer’s signature move: injecting victims so they’re conscious but paralyzed while being stabbed to death. It’s a concept so cruel and inventive it could’ve been terrifying… if the direction wasn’t flatter than week-old prosecco.
Characters You’ll Barely Remember (Even If They’re Nude)
Tellini is your standard giallo inspector—brooding, mildly sweaty, and forever telling his artist wife that maybe he should quit his job. Spoiler: he doesn’t. Because if he did, we’d never reach the thrilling finale in which a blind masseur (who isn’t really blind) turns out to be the killer. Because of course he is.
Paolo Zani, the aggrieved husband, exists solely to throw tantrums and fall off rooftops. Mario, the blackmailer, is killed by what appears to be the world’s most punctual car. And then there’s Laura, the spa owner who manages a side hustle in extortion and still finds time to lounge around in silk robes and look suspiciously sexy until she’s stabbed to death.
Barbara Bach’s Jenny lasts long enough to be sexually menaced, murdered, and dumped in a garbage bag like someone’s leftover pizza. Meanwhile, Tellini’s wife Anna is given the thrilling character arc of “artist who occasionally exists in the background looking worried and/or naked.”
Killer Reveal: Now With Contact Lenses and Plot Holes
The blind masseur being the killer would have been shocking… if the film hadn’t all but screamed “IT’S HIM!” every time he slithered on screen like Nosferatu at a foot rub convention. His motive? He murdered his unfaithful wife five years ago and just kept going because that’s what you do when you’ve got gloves, free time, and unresolved issues.
The film climaxes with a dramatic tussle in Tellini’s apartment, in which the inspector proves that, despite his apathy, he can still wrestle a killer in slow motion. It all wraps up with a psychiatrist giving the obligatory “here’s what happened” speech so audiences don’t riot in confusion.
Then, in the giallo tradition of bitter philosophical mumbles, Tellini walks into the crowd, disillusioned, probably wondering how this movie got distributed internationally and why Ennio Morricone agreed to score it.
Morricone’s Music: A Luxurious Death Rattle
Ennio Morricone composed the soundtrack, which is kind of like hiring Mozart to score a toothpaste commercial. His beautiful, unnerving music floats over the film like a fog of melancholy genius, quietly sobbing over every wasted opportunity. It’s far too elegant for a movie where half the characters wear bathrobes and get murdered by syringes.
Seriously—Morricone’s score deserved a better film. So did everyone else involved.
Final Verdict: ★☆☆☆☆
“The tarantula’s belly may be black, but this movie’s soul is beige.”
The Black Belly of the Tarantula is a frustrating, tangled mess of giallo tropes that feels like it was directed by someone who fell asleep halfway through reading the script—and then let their cat finish it. The pacing is glacial, the dialogue clunky, the killer reveal about as surprising as a soap opera coma twist, and the characters either too dull to care about or too attractive to be believed.
You could watch this for the cast (Bouchet, Bach, Sandrelli, Auger—all wasted like expensive perfume in a public restroom) or Morricone’s music. But if you’re here for thrills, chills, or narrative cohesion, you’d be better off injecting yourself with that paralyzing serum and watching paint dry.
At least the paint won’t ask you to believe a blind masseur has been operating an erotic murder ring out of a luxury spa without anyone noticing.
And yet… compared to other gialli from the era? Still not the worst. Which is maybe the scariest thing of all.
