Giallo a la francais It was dark and cold that fateful night. The fog of a thick whitish veil streamed over the city, slowly sinking into a strange, restless slumber, into a state of half-life-half-death, when even reality acquires the features of infernal visions, and people go mad, bathing in their own blood, dirt, saliva and sperm. And only the moon in the impassive company of diamond stars in the cloudless sky looked at everything; it did not care who died today. A screaming red coat on an anthropomorphic female figure, emerged out of nowhere, out of this hazy nothingness, dissonated with the surrounding tranquility of the night, attracting the attention of unintended companions. Satellites in madness and passion, which on this night, one in a million, will be interrupted by the steel of a dagger and the edge of a razor.
In their third full-length directorial work, the French duo of directors Francois Gallard and Christophe Robin, the film “Black Arya” in 2010 to an even greater extent than in the debut “The Last Weasel”, decided to design the semantics of their tape on the foundations of the Italian giallo, removing, however, not a cheap pastich, not a tabloid and vulgar copy, but a completely self-sufficient and spectacular creation, in fact representing not a classic yellow nightmare, but a postmodern symbiosis. In fact, both “The Last Weasel”, and “Black Arya” are paintings of one artistic order, on the one hand non-trivially returning viewers to the archaic traditions of the European school of horror in general and the Italian in particular, but on the other hand, and much more visible, allowing the output to perceive Gallard’s tapes more moderately and adequately, representing an exquisite feast of postmodernism in cinema as a whole, a feast supported by Gallard’s unique author’s style and the ability to operate with the usual genres, which both belong to their brightest and finale, according to their own definition, and do not belong to any contemporary genre. Actually, in the same way in the modern French horror went and Helen Catte with Bruno Forzani, offering, however, his own method of rasjalloization.
“Black Arya” is like a kind of gloomy, imbued with the spirit of libertinage, eroticism and oppressive macabra, art performance, which with its plot roots goes into the mythology of the tapes “Visconti violence”. Dario Argento, at the level of the preamble and plot intersecting with both “Bird with Crystal Feather” and “Tremblance”, so much closer, with “Bloody-Red”, a modern variation of which is the Gallard-Robin tape. But only in part. Taking the form and some methods of performance from Signor Argento, Monsieur Robin and Gallard chose to go their cinematic way, creating a polygenre and polystylist film that begins as an urban legend, told on a dark night at a campfire, continues as brutal in their erotic-extravasat jallo, in which there will be a mysterious diva in a red coat and with a bloodied razor at the head, and an ominous shadow of detective intrigue, and an erotic eroticism behind the scene of the steppe, which Alphondriya, with a dazzyvattasya, does not finishing with a steppe, butter, with a s, butter, with a s, butttashya, with a grandor, with a brute, with a brute, with a bruttto, with a brutesya, with a brute, a brute, a brutttto, a s, a brutttttto, a
The form will finally and irrevocably defeat the content, but for some reason the feeling of total idiocy in the film is completely absent, because the directors preferred to almost completely ignore all the written and unwritten laws of the genre, creating a pure cinema in which horror is more than horror, and a kind of incomprehensible dark art, touching which should be a kind of sacred ritual, one of many, meanwhile, dedicated to the glory of not God, but Satan in the best spirit of Anton LaVey and Mario Mercier. Gallard and Robin so inventively and skillfully twist the spiral of intrigue into the Moebius loop, connecting to the terrible story of vicious love and passionate hatred shades of Freudianism and masochism that the film loses its initial trail of low-budget exploit, becoming the very black aria on the blood, listening to which you can both lose your soul and your heart torn out. In the name of the highest art.