The 10th Victim (1965) – Review

Pop-art satire, screwball romance, and a bra that doubles as a firearm, The 10th Victim is the kind of science fiction only the swinging ’60s could produce. A film that takes a gleefully cynical look at a future where legalized man-hunting is the ultimate sport and the ultimate advertising opportunity. What follows is a stylish, absurd, and surprisingly sharp commentary on consumer culture, celebrity, and the fine art of killing in style.

Based on a short story by Robert Sheckley, the film is set in the 21st century, following the devastation of World War III, and society has devised a radical solution to curb further violence: “The Big Hunt.” This lethal competition allows those with violent tendencies to channel their aggression into a public spectacle, alternating between hunter and victim roles across ten rounds. The last survivor emerges enormously wealthy, gaining fame, fortune, and the chance to retire from the brutal game.

Most don’t get a chance to retire.

Enter Caroline Meredith (Ursula Andress), a glamorous and deadly pro who’s just one kill away from freedom, and Marcello Poletti (Marcello Mastroianni), a charmingly exhausted victim whose best weapon is his awkward “please don’t kill me before lunch” vibe, and who’s winnings from six kills have already been spent by his mistress, Olga (Elsa Martinelli), and his ex-wife, Lidia (Luce Bonifassy). Their chase through mid-’60s Rome looks like a flashy, high-fashion rom-com with neon costumes, slick futuristic sets, and so much product placement it’s basically one long commercial. The movie’s big joke? If you can slap a logo on it, you can justify blowing it up.

“If Ms. Meredith doesn’t kill you, ennui most likely will.”

Having secured a significant sponsorship from the Ming Tea Company, because a little extra cash on the side is never a bad thing, Caroline fakes being a reporter investigating Italian men’s love lives to get close to Marcello at the Temple of Venus. Marcello, ever the clever cat, sets up a crocodile attack for rival TV cameras, because why not? Caroline escapes, then lures Marcello to the beach with a fake love song and a sneaky drug dose. Back at the Temple, a live TV gunfight unfolds, but surprise! Marcello’s bullets are blanks, and Caroline’s dress is bulletproof. Instead of killing each other, they decide to ditch the game, hop on a plane, and get hitched via “shotgun” wedding.

And they lived lethally ever after.

Stray Observations:

• “Why have birth control when you can have death control?” This slogan for The Big Hunt is probably a few years away from actually happening.
• It’s highly improbable that someone who has survived nine hunts could pretend to be a reporter to get close to her prey. Do they not have Google in this dystopia?
• This movie prefigured dystopian stories where violence and media spectacle merge, influencing later sci-fi like The Hunger Games and The Running Man.
• It’s obvious that this movie greatly inspired Mike Myers in creating the Austin Powers films. The fake band Ming Tea in the first installment was named after a product that Caroline Meredith was asked to advertise.
• Robert Sheckley’s original story is actually called The Seventh Victim, but that, of course, was already the title of a famous horror film directed by Mark Robson in the 1940s.
• The prize for surviving ten hunts is one million dollars, which even by 1960s standards doesn’t seem like a lot of money for almost getting killed, repeatedly.

I bet membership fees to these kinds of clubs cost that much.

Directed by Elio Petri, The 10th Victim doesn’t so much build a believable future as stage a glamorous, high-budget photo shoot come to life. Every frame looks like the cover of a ’60s sci-fi paperback—blocky fonts, silver jumpsuits, and serious stares into the void. Rome gets a sleek retro-futurist makeover, all sharp angles and odd architecture as if designed by someone obsessed with triangles. But the real star here is the visual humour: the infamous bra-gun (because why shouldn’t lingerie be deadly?), a murder broadcast live with the cheer of a cooking show, and bystanders calmly sipping cocktails while assassins fire away without spilling a drop. Assassination is just another elegant form of dinner theatre—complete with valet parking—and Petri layers this pop-art spectacle with ironic flair that’s less set dressing and more the very lifeblood of the film’s biting satire.

“Joey, do you like movies about gladiators?”

The film also treats its violence the way a luxury catalogue treats home décor: tastefully lit, impeccably staged, and available in a range of colours to match your living room. Every kill looks like it’s been art-directed within an inch of its life, perfect angles, impeccable framing, maybe even a soft-focus lens if the sponsor’s paying extra. Gunfire doesn’t just erupt; it arrives like a perfectly timed pyrotechnic at a fashion show. Ursula Andress doesn’t so much hunt as she performs the hunt, turning murder into a lifestyle segment complete with costume changes and brand tie-ins.

I love futuristic fashions like this.

As for the casting, saying Ursula Andress as Caroline was picture perfect in the role would be a vast understatement, she’s like a logo brought to life, all precision and lethal glamour, as if she could sell you perfume and a handgun in the same breath. Marcello Mastroianni, meanwhile, brings the Italian superpower of looking effortlessly good while appearing mildly inconvenienced by mortal danger. Together, their chemistry is a dance of banter, seduction, and sudden ambush, keeping the film from becoming a one-note gag and giving it a sly, human heartbeat beneath all the chic, polished danger. It’s this breezy, flirtatious energy that keeps the film from becoming just an extended gag—there’s always something human, and a little absurd, under the glamour.

“How can you nap at a time like this?”

The satire is feather-light in tone but sharp in its observations. The Big Hunt is reality TV before reality TV existed, influencer culture before ring lights, and corporate morality before the word “morality” needed scare quotes. The bureaucratic absurdity—permits, sponsorships, artistic direction for killings—feels disturbingly plausible. The jaunty lounge score only deepens the irony, making it impossible not to tap your foot while society sells murder as prime-time entertainment. In The 10th Victim, death is never messy, inconvenient, or—heaven forbid—unattractive. It’s a curated experience, polished until the blood practically coordinates with the drapes. People don’t just die—they die on brand, and you can practically imagine the catalogue copy: “This season’s most desirable exit, brought to you by the makers of fine champagne.”  It’s also important to remember…

You do not give Ursula Andress a hard time.

In conclusion, The 10th Victim is a candy-coloured satire with teeth, a film that dresses up its social critique in pop-art glamour and then slips the knife in while you’re admiring the décor. Petri crafts a future that’s less about predicting what’s to come and more about holding a funhouse mirror to the present: consumerism, celebrity culture, and the way spectacle sanitizes even the ugliest acts. It’s stylish without being hollow, witty without being smug, and anchored by two stars who could make mutual assassination look like foreplay. Half screwball romance, half corporate death match, it’s proof that sometimes the sharpest social commentary comes wrapped in a bra-gun and a smile.