Vampyros Lesbos (Jess Franco, 1971)

Here it is. The review for the movie that started it all. I know, you're probably thinking to yourself: Started what? Well, if you must know, Vampyros Lesbos was the first Jess Franco movie I ever watched. The time, the late 1990s. The place, Showcase (a Canadian specialty channel that used to air arty sleaze from around the world after 11pm). The movie, Vampyros Lesbos. While I'll admit, I didn't become a Franco-phile immediately after viewing his trippy tale of vampires and lesbians. The film did, however, act as a sort of gateway drug that would ultimately lead to more Jess Franco in the not-so distant future. Of course, I had to wait for the DVD explosion of the early 2000s to get my hands on more of that sweet Jess Franco nectar. But thanks to companies like, Blue Underground, Mondo Macabro, Redemption and Severin, I was able to bathe my eyeballs in copious amounts of Jess Franco juice. Unfortunately, the DVD for Vampyros Lesbos (put out by Synapse) wasn't readily available (I think it went out of print rather quickly). Anyway, fast-forward to modern times, and I'm sitting here holding a brand new edition of Vampyros Lesbos (put out this time by Severin). And you better believe I'm chopping at the bit to crack open my brain and see what spills out in correlation to this funky masterpiece.

Oh, and one more thing before I start cracking open my brain. After having watched countless Jess Franco films over the years, I'm kind of glad Vampyros Lesbos was my first, as I personally think it encapsulates everything I like about Jess Franco. In fact, if I were to recommend a Jess Franco flick to someone thinking about diving headfirst into the sleazy/wonderful world of Jess Franco, I would suggest that they go with Vampyros Lesbos. Either it, or Lorna the Exorcist, as both seem to capture the director's essence perfectly.

The reason I would give Vampyros Lesbos a slight edge is simply because the film's soundtrack, by Manfred Hübler and Sigi Schwab, is hands down one of the greatest ever created. Seriously, this review almost had to be postponed due to my overplaying of the soundtrack.

Of course, the fact that I was also staring at pictures of Soledad Miranda writhing around on the floor in black hold-up stockings didn't help matters.

This won't come as a shock to anyone, especially to those with genitals that are on the cusp of being functional, but it's difficult to look away when Soledad Miranda is writhing. Hell, it's difficult to look-away when Soledad Miranda is doing anything.

On top of writhing, Soledad Miranda slithers, skips, slinks, saunters and skylarks throughout this movie. Okay, maybe she doesn't skip or saunter, but she definitely slithers. As for slinking? I don't think you're ever going to come across a performance that is this slinky. I'd even go as far as to say that Soledad Miranda is slinky as fuck.

Just in case the late 1990s version of me happens to stumble across this review after they accidentally fall into a wormhole, "as fuck" is a phrase that is usually added to adjectives in order to increase their power. For example, I'm cool as fuck, or, those winklepickers are fierce as fuck. And by saying that Soledad Miranda is "slinky as fuck," just means that she's extremely slinky.

Now that we've cleared that up, let's move on to the subject of writhing. While writhing typically occurs while one is trying to get a good night's sleep, the majority of the writhing that takes place in Vampyros Lesbos is a direct result of psychosexual trauma.

You see, the person doing the writhing desperately wants to feel the caress of another human being. And when these caresses are not forthcoming, the consequences commonly manifest themselves in the form of more writhing. And you know what they say? More writhing means more unabashed lesbianism, and more unabashed lesbianism means more passion. And more passion means more unabashed lesbians writhing in the throes of unabashed lesbian passion.

Should I even bother to continue to write words? I mean, that right there is some clever ass shit. Nah, I better keep going. It's just that people like, Nicole Elizabeth "Snooki" Polizzi and Kimberly Kardashian have had books published, yet here I am languishing on the fringes of the internet. At any rate, the reason I better keep going is because someone has to got to talk about the red yarn ceiling or Soledad Miranda's monster sunglasses. Think about it. If I don't talk about them, no one will.

Even though nothing seems to phase me when it comes to fashion and interior design from the early 1970s (I've seen it all, baby), the clumps of red yarn that dangle from the ceiling of the foyer in the bungalow that belongs to Countess Nadine Carody (Soledad Miranda) had me flummoxed like you wouldn't believe. Resembling strands of bloody hair, the red ceiling yarn is just one of the many flummox-worthy sights that are peppered throughout this movie.

As for Countess Carody's monster shades. All I can say about them is this: Damn, girl. Those are some big ass sunglasses.

After watching Countess Carody perform her porn-esque performance art at a local club in Istanbul, Linda Westinghouse (Ewa Strömberg) and her dull boyfriend Omar (Andrea Montchal) go home to sleep in the same bed.

Suddenly, Linda hears a voice calling  out her name. Linda! Linda! Linda, the voice cries out. After that we get shots of a kite flying through the air, a scorpion strutting by the pool, a moth trapped in a fishing net and blood dripping down a window.

What does all this mean, Linda wonders? She tries to get some answers from her shrink, Dr. Steiner (Paul Muller), but he's too busying doodling in his notebook. In other words, he doesn't give a rat's ass. Personally, I thought the scorpion represented Countess Carody (the seductive predator) and the moth trapped in the fishing net represented Linda (the damsel in distress), but I don't think you should try to comprehend too much of what appears in this film.

A sort of estate agent who works for a company called Simpson and Simpson, Linda's finds herself having to travel to a remote island to take care of some business for a Countess Nadine Carody. Yep, the very same woman from the writhing-heavy performance art show and the one whose been calling out her name for the past few days.

While we've seen her writhe in black stockings and watched her call out a dim blonde's name while sporting a face that can best be described as dour, the scene where Nadine comes face-to-face with Linda, is our official introduction to the countess. Who has to be the sexiest vampire in movie history. I know, what kind of vampire wears a white(!) bikini and goes swimming in the middle of the day? Well, that's just it, Vampyros Lesbos isn't your average vampire film. In fact, I don't think there's a single scene in this movie that takes place at night.

Other characters soon enter the story as Nadine's hold over Linda grows stronger. An occult expert named Dr. Seward (Dennis Price) tries to figure out what's wrong with Linda during her brief stay at his clinic, but he gets nowhere. The same goes for another patient named Agra (Heidrun Kussin), as all she does is writhe on the floor sans pants. As I watched Agra writhe in this movie, I couldn't help but think of Catherine Lafferière's superior writhing work in Lorna the Exorcist.

To give the film more creep-appeal, we're introduced to Jess Franco's Memmet, a hotel bellhop/saw-wielding serial killer/sleazy weirdo, and the Nadine's loyal henchmen, Morpho (José Martínez Blanco). In a classic scene, a cornered Nadine calls out: Morpho! And Morpho leaps into action, taking care of Nadine's problem without fail. Oh, how life would be so much easier if everyone had their own personal Morpho.

Screw Morpho, I want my own personal Soledad Miranda. It should go without saying, but Jess Franco's camera loves Soledad Miranda. Say what you will about his films from a technical point-of-view, the man knows how to shoot leggy women under duress in exotic settings. Whether they be slithery brunettes or slinky brunettes, the women in his film's always look amazing. What I think I'm trying to say is, Soledad Miranda looks hot in this movie. And, yeah.

She Killed in Ecstasy (Jess Franco, 1971)

Did Paul Muller's character in She Killed in Ecstasy (a.k.a. Sie tötete in Ekstase) seriously just tell Soledad Miranda to leave her alone after she asked him for a light? Is that what just happened. Please tell me there's a logical explanation for this, as I just saw Soledad Miranda get shutdown by a middle-aged Euro-creep. Forget that, I don't need no stinkin' logical explanation. What I just saw was unacceptable. I don't care if Paul Muller's character knows for a fact that Soledad Miranda plans on knifing him in the dick (multiple times, mind you), you still give her a light. That being said, who doesn't want to be murdered by Soledad Miranda? Exactly. Nobody. Okay, while I can't speak for straight women, I'm positive that most gay men, straight men and lesbians would agree that being murdered by a vengeful Soledad Miranda would be the greatest thing to ever happen to them. Or how 'bout this. Let's say there's some kind of after life, and you're sitting around swapping stories with your fellow dead. Suddenly, the topic of how you died comes up. When everyone else has finished boring the group with the details surrounding their pathetic deaths, you get to stand up and say, in a loud and steady voice, I died as a direct result of being stabbed multiple times by a lingerie clad Soledad Miranda. Trust me, you will be the envy of the after life.

In case you haven't figured it out yet, I happen to think that Soledad Miranda is an attractive woman. And the only director I can trust to capture her attractiveness in a manner that I deem satisfactory is Jess Franco. (So, does he manage to capture her attractiveness in a manner that you...) I'm sorry to cut off like that, but you must already know that the answer is... yes. Of course, I'm not saying Soledad Miranda should be allowed to murder the scientists who fucked over her hunky scientist husband just because she looks like Soledad Miranda. No, what I am saying is that the scientists should be thankful that their final moments on planet earth are being spent straddling a half-naked Soledad Miranda. In other words, if you have to be murdered, wouldn't you want Soledad Miranda to be the one holding the knife that plunges deep into your worthless, improperly utilized genitals?

Now that I've established to the best of my ability that being murdered by Soledad Miranda isn't all that bad, can we talk about the top Mrs. Johnson (Soledad Miranda) is wearing when her husband, Dr. Johnson (Fred Williams), shows her his lab?

Looking as if she cut off a chunk of a chandelier and taped it to her chest, Soledad Miranda's top is too ridiculous for words.

I'm not kidding around, Soledad Miranda's chandelier top left me speechless. So much so, that I didn't hear a single word Dr. Johnson said as blathered on and on about his research. Or, I should say, groundbreaking research.

Unfortunately, Dr. Johnson seems to be the only one who thinks his research is "groundbreaking." Submitting his research to a panel of his fellow scientists, Dr. Johnson is devastated by what they have to say about it. Words like, unethical, immoral and criminal are bandied about as Dr. Johnson's colleagues eviscerate his work.

If you're wondering what Dr. Johnson's research entails exactly. I'm sorry, I can't help you. As I said earlier, Soledad Miranda's metallic steampunk chandelier top was too distracting.

How does she manage to keep that thing on?!? There are no sleeves and there are no straps visible. It sort of just hovers there.

Nevertheless, the film's opening credits features words written in a frosty pink font, foetuses in jars, and the funkiest, the trippiest, most psychedelic music you'll ever hear.

If that wasn't enough to convince me that Jess Franco plans on delivering the goods, he then shows a forlorn Soledad Miranda running down multiple flights of stairs in jet black stockings (you get a glimpse of them with every other step) and a crocheted purple cape.

The reason Soledad Miranda is forlorn is because she misses her dead scientist husband. Oh, sure, she still has sex with him every now and then. But it's just not the same.

Driven to suicide by his fellow scientists (their harsh words of disapproval haunt his very existence), Dr. Johnson slits his wrists.

Instead of calling the authorities to haul away his corpse, Soledad Miranda holds on to it. You see, instead heading down to local pub to find another hunky scientist to marry, Soledad Miranda decides to murder those who caused her husband so much pain.

The first target on her list is Prof. Walker (Howard Vernon), a kinky blowhard with a thing for beige suits and degrading sex. This is guy is relatively easy for Soledad Miranda to snag, as all she has to do is flash the tops of her stockings and... boom. Look who's escorting you to his hotel room for some femdom fun. Well, there's fun to be had in the early going. But I think even the most ardent of femdom enthusiasts would frown upon being stabbed so forcefully in the junk.

When word of Prof. Walker's grisly demise gets out to the other scientists, nothing much happens. It's true, Jess Franco's Dr. Donen organizes an impromptu scientist meeting on a secluded beach to discuss the situation. But none of them changes their routine. Just look at the way Dr. Crawford (Ewa Strömberg) hits on Soledad Miranda while on vacation. Actually, I think the reason Dr. Crawford was so bold was because Dr. Donen tells them that a "vulgar brunette" was seen leaving Prof. Walker's hotel room on the night he was murdered, and, as we can clearly see, Soledad Miranda is not a vulgar brunette. Thanks to a short blonde wig and a well-worn paperback, Soledad Miranda has transformed herself into a bookish blonde who is itching to smother to death a smug blonde lesbian with a giant translucent pillow.

Which reminds me. Are you tired of not being able to see the face of the person you're murdering as you smother them to death with a pillow? Well, here at Giant Translucent Pillows, we want you experience the full magnitude of your victim's suffering by allowing you see them gasp for air in graphic detail. So, the next time you're thinking about smothering to death a loved one, or that pesky smug blonde lesbian lady scientist who caused your hunky scientist husband to kill himself, make sure to have a Giant Translucent Pillow handy.

If Soledad Miranda didn't have a Giant Translucent Pillow handy, she could have simply killed Dr. Crawford by plunging her face into the shag carpeting. Seriously, I've never seen shag carpeting so thick. I know, it's 1971, and such carpet-based anomalies were quite commonplace back then. But damn, that was some bushy shag.

Maybe I was a little harsh on Paul Muller's Dr. Houston earlier when I scolded him for not being receptive to Soledad Miranda's advances. I mean, if I saw Soledad Miranda eye-balling me the way she eye-balls people in this movie, I, too, would be somewhat hesitant. What I think I'm trying to say is that Soledad Miranda's eyes are like dark whirlpools filled with nothing but rage and contempt.

While Prof. Walker and Dr. Crawford were unable to pick up on this (the rage and contempt), Dr. Houston spots it almost immediately. However, even the most perceptive of scientists have their weaknesses. And like most men, that weakness is black silk stockings. In other words, flash a little thigh, and you'll have them eating out of the palm of your hand in no time.

If you think about it, that sums up the effect the film's of Jess Franco have on his audience rather nicely. The sensation one experiences while watching a Jess Franco film, when he's firing on all cylinders, is unlike anything in the known universe. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to see if I can buy myself one of them metallic steampunk chandelier tops on Etsy.

The Devil Came from Akasava (Jess Franco, 1971)

Have you ever thought about what kind of damage I could do if I was given unlimited access to Soledad Miranda's buttery stems for a week and a half? No, I haven't, and you wanna know why? Because no-one cares, you sniveling little pervert! Well, the first thing I would do is sheath them in the daintiest pair of black stockings money can buy (in fact, I want them to be so dainty, that you'll need a magnifying glass just to be able to fully comprehend the amount of craftmenship that went into making them so fucking dainty), then I would take my tongue–while it was still attached to the inside part of my mouth (don't worry, I'm not one of those weirdos who walks around with their tongue on the end of a skewer)–and proceed to slather her nylon-encased...Hey, man, didn't you hear me? I thought I said no-one cares? Oh, right. Yeah, I heard what you said, and, as you can clearly see, I've chosen to ignore you. Besides, everyone is dying to know what I would do to Soledad Miranda's legs if I was given leg-based carte blanche, so why don't you go urinate in a place that is far away from where I currently reside? In case you haven't figured it out yet, it's that time of year again when the mind-altering gorgeousness of Soledad Miranda (Eugénie de Sade) is placed in front of me, and, like clockwork, I'm quickly reduced to a blithering mound of heterosexual ineptitude. Every time I sit down to watch a Jess Franco film, I think to myself: Why can't every movie be directed by Jess Franco and have Soledad Miranda and/or Lina Romay as its leading lady? Seriously, why do other movies even bother to exist? If you think about it, the Jess Franco aesthetic is the epitome of cinematic perfection, as each film contains all the elements necessary to provide my body with the nourishment it needs to sustain an unhealthy lifestyle. Sure, there were instances when The Devil Came from Akasava, a film where British people speak German fluently, left me feeling a tad sluggish, but for the most part the kooky spy thriller checked most of the stylistic boxes I wanted it to check.

 
A convoluted tale about a bunch of spies doing a bunch of spy shit in exotic locations, the film could be seen as a veiled screenwriting exercise on how to fill-in the gaps between the scenes that feature the beautiful Soledad Miranda behaving in an excessively leggy manner. From where I was sitting, anything that didn't involve Soledad Miranda lounging while leggy, holding a gun while leggy, or performing tasteful nightclub stripteases while leggy, was–to be blunt–a colossal waste of time. It's true, the script does manage to squeeze some of Soledad Miranda's legginess into the plot on occasion, but the film has way too many scenes involving middle-aged-to-elderly men plotting and scheming over the ownership this stone that can apparently turn everyday items into gold.

 
Gold, eh? Yep. Gold! The film opens with a guy poking around inside a cave located in what I assume is Akasava. Wearing one of them silver fireproof suits and wielding a portable geiger counter, he comes across this weird chunk of rock, one that makes his portable gadget go haywire. As he's removing the shiny stone–which he has since placed in a silver briefcase–from the cave, he's shot by an unknown assailant. Staggering to his car, his chauffeur manages to get the wounded spelunker and the magic stone back to the professor's lab. Since the professor, the esteemed Professor Forrester, doesn't know anything about treating gunshot wounds, he's a mineralogist, not a doctor, he travels to see his doctor friends, Dr. Thorrsen (Horst Tappert) and Dr. Ingrid Thorrsen (Ewa Strömberg), to ask them to help his bleeding assistant.

 
Great plan, but who's keeping an eye on the stone, Einstein? Don't worry, he tells the unnamed guy sitting in a chair to watch over things while he's away. Well, it's turns out, the guy in the chair is not most reliable person in the world, and the stone is gone when the professor gets back. And not only that, he's assistant is dead, and soon afterward the professor himself goes missing.

 
The action quickly moves to swinging London, at least I think it still swinging. There we find Sir Philip (Siegfried Schürenberg) talking to a bunch of police types about a murder that took place in Professor Forrester's office. Apparently a spy was stabbed while snooping around the other night. While all this scheming is mildly intriguing, I wanna see Soledad Miranda acting leggy, and I wanna see her now. Be patient, I'm sure she'll be along any second now. She better be. I mean, if it hadn't been for the killer music of Manfred Hübler and Siegfried Schwab, I would have thrown a full-on, breakfast cereal aisle-quality hissy fit.

 
Okay, shut up, here we go. The guy played by Siegfried Schürenberg is walking into a bordello called "Chez Jackie," and get this, he's asking for a woman named Jane. Yeah, that's right. Jane! Call me supercilious, but I have a hunch that "Jane" is the name of Soledad Miranda's character in The Devil Came from Akasava universe. Yes! It might have taken seventeen minutes, but we have Soledad Miranda. And I don't now 'bout you, but my aura is glowing like a gay pride flag fluttering in tattered defiance outside an abandoned dildo factory that used to manufacture dildos for the blind.  

 
Standing by the window wearing green crochet number, Soledad Miranda's Jane Morgan, the world's leggiest secret agent, greets Sir Philip with a seductive smile. Chatting about, oh, let's say, finding Professor Forrester, Soledad dives on the bed and sets in motion the film's second leggy moment.

 
Whoa, what do you mean, "second leggy moment"?!? When did the first occur? Yeah, I meant to tell you, but in an earlier scene, a sex worker named Tinkerbelle can be seen lounging in a leg-friendly manner near the Chez Jackie jukebox, so, technically, Tinkerbelle is the first to be leggy in this particular film. 

 
At any rate, getting back to Soledad Miranda's legginess, like I said, she dives on the bed and bends her legs to reveal that she's wearing a pair of silver knee-high gladiator-style sandals.

 
There no legs on display during the next couple of scenes, but Soledad does wear a green Indian-style top with a pair of white trousers while snooping around the airport.

 
Greeted in Mombosa by "Tino" (Jess Franco), a greasy fella with a mustache, Rex Forrester (Fred Williams), a man who claims to be Professor Forrester's nephew, shares a car ride with Jane Morgan (who tells him she's a dancer), and eventually a boat ride to their hotel. It would seem that Rex and Jane's rooms are right across from one another; how convenient. It would also seem that there all, including Jane's partner Irving Lambert (Alberto Dalbés), looking for a mineralogist who went missing in Akasava.

 
In order to prove to everyone that she is in fact a dancer, Jane Morgan performs her signature number at the Red Rose, Mombosa's hottest night club. As Rex and Tino sit at the bar, the former wearing a white suit and chomping on a cigar, Soledad Miranda is on stage straddling a red chair. Sporting a dress that looks it was made from loose strands of black cassette tape, and, of course, wearing her trademark silver knee-high gladiator-style sandals, Soledad wows the audience with her seated dance number. You heard right, she did the whole thing sitting down. You see, when you're look like Soledad Miranda, you don't need to particularly good at anything to win over the minds and crotches of others. After she's finished, she flirts with Rex and tells Tino that she hates hair gel. 

 
Meanwhile, Lambert is fighting an unruly assassin (the worst kind of assassins are the unruly variety) in his hotel room while wearing a pair of red jeans (I do love red jeans on European men). Luckily, Soledad's Jane comes along just in time to shoot the bald killer in the head. Now, if you're one of those people who thinks Soledad Miranda might lose some of her chic appeal while doing something a mundane as disposing of an unwanted corpse, think again. If anything, Soledad somehow manages to increase her jauntiness while moving a dead body. It doesn't hurt that she is wearing a short black sequined dress with black nylons, as even the blandest of individuals will notice a slight upswing in their chicness while wearing an outfit like that.

 
Wrapped in a towel and smoking a cigarette, Soledad Miranda proves yet again that she can make any look seem cool. Why is she eavesdropping on a conversation between Lambert and Tino while wearing a towel? At this point, it doesn't matter, because her second show down at the Red Rose is about to commence. Featuring the fiercest leg cross in cinematic history (she literally smashes her right leg on top of her left), Soledad does this number mostly on her back and stomach, which gave us some great shots of her shapely legs and smooth buttocks. Getting back to the leg cross for a moment. It's true, the reason the leg cross was so fierce had a lot to do with Soledad's confidence as a performer. But you can't discount the affect that a pair of silver knee-high gladiator-style sandals can bring to the sight of a leg being crossed. You'd be a fool to discount them, and I ain't no fool, especially when it comes to gauging the impact made by irregular footwear in a nightclub environment.

 
The film's best Soledad Miranda leg moment takes place when the action returns to London; you know the film is winding down when Jess Franco regulars like, Howard Vernon and Paul Muller show up as a shady characters. Standing in her hotel room holding a pistol, Soledad is filmed from behind at a leg-friendly angle. What's great about this scene–you know, besides the obvious–is that Jane Morgan decided to pack her silver knee-high gladiator-style sandals; in fact, I bet she takes them wherever she goes. Boasting four straps, we get our best rear view of the sandals during this encounter, as the camera seems to linger on them for an extended period of time.
 

 

I don't know who you are, but I dig the way you lounge.     

 
While Dr. Thorrsen and his wife are drinking in Soledad's fabulousness at the Red Rose (her eyes seem to stare right through you), Lambert and Tino are investigating a mysterious laboratory out in the jungle. Oh yeah, I almost forgot, this a spy thriller, not a fashion show. Actually, it's a bit of both. And since we're almost near the end, I can safely say that I much prefer the latter. Don't get me wrong, I dug all the kooky espionage stuff, it's just that I would rather watch Soledad Miranda dance, well, sort of dance. Let me rephrase that, I would rather watch Soledad Miranda writhe around on stage in a nightclub setting than, say, watch Jess Franco sneak about in a white fedora. It's no brainer if you think about it. Anyway, The Devil Came from Akasava is a whimsical spy farce that will not only satisfy fans of Jess Franco's earlier, less sleazy films, but all the sane individuals out there who are in love with Soledad Miranda, one of the most beautiful people to walk the face of the earth.

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