An unrenowned novel by the author of Dracula, previously untouched cinematically, touched now by (worst luck) Ken Russell. The treatment is severely but not fatally infected with the sort of campiness infecting recent treatments of Bram Stoker's more famous work -- but even more so, with a burlesque-skit naughtiness ("Do you have children?" "Only when there aren't any men around"), bits of bondage-and-domination kinkiness, a nylons-and-thighs catfight, and dream sequences in the style of MTV rock videos (perhaps, in keeping with the symbology of the film, videos specifically for Whitesnake?). It's all pretty queer. But the queerest part of it is its palatability, or its avoidance at any rate of unpalatability. The sneakily sedate opening, with red-lettered credits evocative of the old Hammer horrors, and the continuing old-fashioned solidness of the plot construction, widen the appeal beyond Russell's innermost coterie of ghouls, to other, outlying coteries of ghouls as well. The gore and the shock effects are no worse than laughable. And there is a new willingness, even gladness, on Russell's part not to take himself at all seriously. This seems really rather healthy, bringing him much more into line with the long-held rational view of him. Amanda Donohoe, Hugh Grant, Sammi Davis. (1988) — Duncan Shepherd
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