Lèvres de sang

Lips of Blood has a languid quality that could've registered as decadence had it been made with any wit whatsoever, but instead of wit the movie offers us this vapid literal-mindedness. The movie is played with such soft-core-porn straightness that it's impossible not to snicker at it. Director Jean Rollin is sometimes described as a fantasist, but his fantasies are strictly pedestrian. Who but a teenage Goth-nit-wit could find anything to savor in this somnambulistic tale of a pale guy with bad hair being menaced by some half-naked chicks with dime-store vampire fangs? The movie requires more than suspension-of-disbelief, it requires suspension-of-intellect.

It's striking how amateurish and bereft of energy this movie is. Cult directors like Rollin are usually at least capable of some halfway decent staging, but there aren't even any images that stick with you, any trashy-iconographic moments. The problem is that Rollin himself doesn't seem all that charged up about his fantasies. Directors who deal in this kind of fetishistic material are usually at least somewhat interested in the subject-matter, but judging by this film Rollin could care less about vampires. The scenes all seem to plod on for hours with nothing happening, the cutting so flaccid that it's like we're being encouraged subliminally to nod off. Not a bad idea considering the display of cinematic indifference being carried out before us.