Vampyros Lesbos

Tapping into the classics – Sheridan Le Fanu and Bram Stoker first and foremost – “Uncle Jess” revisits the theme of vampirism in his own unique way: time dilation, rarefied atmosphere, experimental soundtrack (a weird blend of jazz and psychedelic rock), cryptic symbolism, and a pinch of humor serve as the backdrop for that refined eroticism which distinguishes the Iberian director’s oeuvre in the early 1970s (in that regard, this film dovetails well with the upcoming “A Virgin among the Living Dead“, 1973).

Thanks to the animal magnetism of the late Soledad Miranda (aka Susann Korda) and the Scandinavian radiance of Ewa Strömberg, this oneiric work oozes sensuality from every frame while carefully avoiding the pitfalls of vulgarity. Franco’s conception of a vampire is a languid creature who craves love, a feminine being in search of warmth and who dreads solitude, a Nereid of the Aegean who seduces the fairer sex in an attempt to satisfy sensual fantasies of a symbiotic nature: (“Men still disgust me. I hate them all. Many were captivated by me. Many women. I bewitched them. They lost their identity. I became them”).

To better understand Franco’s vampire, we turn to the local windbag expert who says an “infected” bite wouldn’t suffice to create a vampire since “It depends on the desire to live and to free yourself.” Consequently, to vanquish such a creature, he says it’s essential to target the primary erogenous zone, namely, the brain: “If you succeed in killing a vampire, the body will vanish into nothing. The brain must receive a deadly blow. You have to split the head with an ax or pierce it with a bar”. In that case, you would expect to see at least a couple of busted heads and some bloody gushers… but instead all we get are a few trickles. Not too surprising given Franco has always preferred Eros to Thanatos, and “Vampyros Lesbos” is no exception — the story moves along at a phlegmatic pace, lingering on nude sculptures and refined Sapphic encounters, meandering through a wafer-thin plot and gambling with boredom.

So, after an hour and a half of surreal dialogue, art direction with a funky pop-art flavor, and bodies engaged in hypnotic, oriental dances, all accompanied by those damned endless zooms the director is infamous for, it’s not surprising if you feel a trifle weary.