Armando Crispino's "Autopsy" begins deliciously enough with a two minute montage of solar flares and grisly suicides over the orgasmic moaning of a woman. We then find ourselves in the city morgue where we're introduced to the protagonist - a young, beautiful (is there any other kind?), and bra-less forensic pathologist (Mimsy Farmer) - who begins hallucinating that the mutilated bodies of the suicides are rising from their slabs. Regrettably, the remaining eighty-eight minutes illustrate that Crispino didn't have a clue what to do next. The stylish and intriguing opening is a bait-and-switch to lure us into a substandard drama about family blackmail, treachery, murder, and the 70's mindset that all a troubled woman really needs to feel better is to be roughed up and screwed. Farmer, who spends most of the film in shirts opened to her naval , is a sexually repressed woman who teams up with a priest with a past (again, is there any other kind?), to investigate the apparent suicide of his sister, and together they uncover a scheme about... well, I'm not really sure. There is lots of gratuitous nudity, bad dubbing, and lousy foley. Don't bother.
