There is nothing essentially new about an alliance of aliens and vampires (see Mario Bava's Planet of the Vampires, among lesser examples), but the effects of this alliance have never spread faster nor ever deeper into sexual nooks and crannies. The germ of the story, and a lot of the ensuing contagion, comes from The Space Vampires by Colin Wilson, British novelist, pop philosopher, and quasi-seer. Most of the metaphysical baggage, or metaphysical verbiage anyway, which made the original novel such a heady read, has been jettisoned for the screen; and one of the prime drawbacks of this lightened load is that the movie seems in too big a hurry simply to get through its story, too big a hurry, that is, to be bothered to scale up any gradual slopes of suspense or to catch its breath on the way back down. Another drawback, closely connected to the first, is the diminution of Frank Finlay's role as space scientist, licensed biochemist, and amateur specialist in death. In a movie bent on turning itself into another Night of the Living Dead, it was inevitable that the hero's shoes would have to be filled by a flatfoot. But it is nonetheless a high compliment to say that the rubber-faced Peter Firth, looking suddenly mature and authoritative, is quite up to the task of saving London and (not far behind) all mankind. "You don't want to go in there," the military man cautions him when he commandeers a car to enter the area of quarantine. "No," he answers slowly, and with more careful consideration than that perfunctory and oft-spoken line has ever before received, "I don't." He goes. With Steve Railsback; directed by Tobe Hooper. (1985) — Duncan Shepherd
This movie is not currently in theaters.