Snakewoman (Jess Franco, 2005)

First off, I think it's a tad weird to watch a Jess Franco film where things like, mobile phones and computers not only exist, but are actually used. And in the case of Snakewoman, rather frequently (seeing people pump gas was weird, too). It's weird because people in Jess Franco movies don't usually communicate via technology, they do so, for the most part, by writhing. That's right, I said, writhing. What you do is, you take off all your clothes (if, of course, you're wearing stockings, you keep those on... if you don't I will hunt you down and murder you... just kidding... but seriously, don't take them off). At any rate, once you've removed your clothes, lie down on a bed (or a couch/sectional) and start writhing. And depending on the gusto of your writhing, you should be communicating with sex-starved vampire lesbians with boyish hips in no time. What's that? What if you don't want to communicate with sex-starved vampire lesbians with boyish hips? Don't be silly. I know you're simply playing devil's advocate, but I don't think there's a man, woman or child on this earth who doesn't want their clit eaten out by a sex-starved vampire lesbian with boyish hips. Oh, and when I say "eaten out," I'm not kidding around, she will eat your motherfucking clit... for lunch, breakfast and dinner. I know, you're thinking to yourself: But Yum-Yum, I don't have a clit. You don't, eh? Do you see that skin-covered protuberance dangling from the middle portion of your blotch-covered crotch? Well, that's your clit, you gutless worm.

Enough with the anatomy lessons. Let's talk about the reason we're all here. If you remember my review of Jess Franco's Broken Dolls, you will recall that I was justifiably fixated with late career Franco starlet Christie Levin. Calling her, "one of the sexiest women ever to appear in the Jess Franco universe," I was obsessed with the saucy minx with the giant eyes and pillowy, bee-stung lips.

Informed by a loyal reader that Christie Levin's turn in Snakewoman (2005) was just as sexy, I made the watching of this film a top priority. Or did I? Sitting on my shelf for what seemed like an eternity, I made severally attempts to watch Snakewoman over the past year. Tired of waiting for Christie Levin to appear on-screen, I found myself fast-forwarding to her scenes out of frustration. And when Christie Levin stopped appearing all-together, I usually turned off the film.

After doing this three or four times, I gave up. That is, until, I found myself with nothing to watch one week (even my emergency stash of Taija Rae porn had dried up). I wondered to myself: What would Snakewoman be like if I watched it at regular speed?

Is it dull, tedious, amateurish and asinine? Sure. I mean, twenty minutes is a pretty long time to watch two lesbians unenthusiastically grope one another. I don't care if one of the lesbians is played by "one of the sexiest women ever to appear in the Jess Franco universe," I've got less important things to do. Nevertheless, the film still manages to project that uniquely oft-kilter Jess Franco vibe that I've come to love.

Utilizing the minimal resources at hand, Jess Franco updates his vampire lesbian trope for a whole new generation. Creating a world where low-key dread and cunnilingial distress collide with one another on a semi-regular basis, the film retains its otherworldliness, or, I should say, its Franconess, despite its obvious deficiencies when it came to just about everything.

The film's plot, like, Vampyros Lesbos, Female Vampire and, to a lesser extent, Lorna The Exorcist, involves a straight-laced woman, Carla (Fata Morgana), becoming enchanted by a female vampire. Even though she's got big vaginas to fill, Carman Montes does a capable job in the role of the film's primary enchantress, an ageless Hungarian flapper with a large snake tattoo that snakes across her torso like a... snake. A staunch lesbian and an even stauncher vampire, Oriana Balasz haunts the grounds of her palatial home, which, from the looks of it, is now some kind of monastery/mental asylum.

Run by a grizzled monk, Franco regular Antonio Mayans, the monastery/mental asylum is where Christie Levin's "Alpha" spends the bulk of her time writhing. Usually seen wandering the around in a long white nightshirt, like, Catherine Lafferière's character in Lorna The Exorcist, is under the spell of a female demon.

The reason Carla is at the home of Oriana Balasz is because the production company she works for would like the purchase the rights to her films and music. Produced mainly during the 20s and 30s, Carla's employers think they can make a fortune off Oriana's erotically-charged work. Of course, things get complicated for Carla, who is, for some reason, wearing a judogi, when she starts seeing the always naked Oriana in her room. Which, as you might expect, distracts her from completing the task at hand. Or maybe it actually helps her, as asking Oriana to sell her the rights to her work directly would probably make things a whole lot easier.

Though, I have to say, she might not be able to hear you given that she's currently gnawing on your clit. Ouch. Anyway, I think that pretty much covers the plot.

While the decision to have Carla wear that judogi-inspired outfit for the bulk of the movie was beyond aggravating (get this woman a frilly white blouse, a tight red leather skirt, a pair of jet black fully-fashioned stockings and some chunky cherry-red stripper heels, stat!), the inclusion of synth flourishes made things a little more tolerable. That's right, Snakewoman is chock-full of synth flourishes. I was taken aback, as I don't usually associate Jess Franco movies with synthesizers.

Even though she only gets two measly close-ups, Christie Levin still manages to ooze resplendence as a mildly deranged lesbian mental patient. Whether ambling through a field of sunflowers or massaging a lesbian vampire's hairy labia, Christie knows what fans of Jess Franco want to see. (And that is?) And that is, attractive women with humongous eyes and bulbous lips teetering on the brink of a total and absolute psycho-sexual breakdown. Only problem being, you're going to have to wade through an awful lot of uneventful nonsense to see Christie Levin do her thing. And trust me, this film is filled with shitloads of uneventful nonsense.

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.