Pomeriggio caldo is the kind of film that tries to simmer with sultry intensity but ends up lukewarm and unfocused. Set in a sweltering southern Italian town, the film attempts to build atmosphere through long silences, sun-drenched backdrops, and lingering shots of dusty interiors, but the result feels more like a series of loosely connected moments than a cohesive cinematic experience. Joe D'Amato, known for walking the line between erotica and exploitation, seems here more interested in aesthetic than substance. While the hazy heat is palpable in nearly every frame, there's no real tension to match it. Instead, we get the visual impression of a mood that never fully arrives.
The cinematography has flashes of beauty. Some scenes have an almost painterly quality, especially those shot during the golden hours of dusk, where shadows spill across old stone walls and empty beds. But this same visual style becomes repetitive fast. Wide, static shots of empty rooms and listless characters might have worked had they been used sparingly, but here they dominate the film. The effect is numbing rather than hypnotic.
The cast is mostly composed of underused or misdirected actors. Afef Jnifen, in a rare screen role, brings an intriguing presence, but she's saddled with a character too thinly written to leave much impression. Her performance suggests more complexity than the film ever allows her to explore. The rest of the cast ranges from serviceable to disinterested, with few moments of genuine emotion. Many scenes rely on prolonged stares or wandering movements that fail to convey the internal lives of the characters. Instead of building tension, these choices often come off as stalling tactics to pad the runtime.
Despite its brief runtime, the film drags, weighed down by a repetitive visual rhythm and a script that mistakes mood for meaning. The eroticism, which D'Amato clearly leans on, feels more like an afterthought than a narrative driver. The film seems to want to say something about longing, displacement, or isolation, but never follows through. It floats in a sort of narrative limbo, content to suggest rather than develop.
