Night of the Hunted


Jean Rollin never clicked with me. Until now.  I really wanted to like him. I should have liked him. He indulges in all the dark, decadent themes that turn me on with a giant middle-finger to critics, fans, studios and common decency. Dreams, memory loss, vampires, vampire lesbianism, zombies, blood, porn stars, porn stars turned actors, gratuitous sex and nudity are all themes that Rollin puts his unarguably wannabe-French-arthouse spin on, but does it in a way that transcends whatever opinion you have on the sum of each of those parts.  Rollin is not very good at making movies if you think movies should have plots and resolutions and cohesion. Rollin is very good at making movies if you believe the most important part of film is its ability to transport you to another realm—to stifle you and fill your nostrils so full of atmosphere for an hour and a half that you have to shake yourself loose after the credits. His films have a strange power that envelops you to the point where your connection to a world with rigid regulations regarding human interaction and laws (largely) governing what is real and unreal start to fade. It’s a feeling that I like to think is comparable to what a cultist feels in that sixth month locked inside the communal complex. You want the police to storm in with the battering ram but you also wouldn’t mind if they didn’t. Or at least held off for a couple more hours.

All props go to Spinoza for the vidcap.


~ by talkmyshitagain on October 23, 2009.

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