FriscoKidd

Given the A-list pedigree of the cast, this is one baffling relic of a brief and long-gone period of our cultural history. Soft-core fanatic Roger "Barbarella" Vadim teams up with Star Trek creator Gene Roddenberry (of all people!) to produce this shameless exploitation flick. Granted, it was based on a novel, so I suppose writer/producer Roddenberry can't receive all the blame for this mess. But the fact that he chose this particular material for his one and only non-Star Trek feature film sheds new light on the ultra mini skirt, coconut shell bra, and Captain-Kirk-seducing-every-buxom-alien-in-the-galaxy fixation of his series. All the girls in this high school are centerfold wannabes, disrobing and literally throwing themselves into the arms of married football stud Rock Hudson. Teachers having sex with students on campus grounds is treated with an off-hand "lock the door." (And believe me, I am by no means a prude when it comes to the complex issue of teenage sexuality.) Hudson essentially pimps out substitute teacher Angie Dickenson to his young virginal protégé, while she makes her own fierce attempts at getting into Hudson's drawers. Whew! I realize this was the 70s when free love reigned, but maybe the original novel gave better psychological background for all this casual bed-hopping. I won't even get into the whole murder mystery angle of the story, but the appearance of a serial killer in school is treated with the same shrug of indifference by the characters as their fixation on sex. This film is not outrageous enough to be camp, and not dark enough to be creepy, but just another sorry addition to Roger Vadim's irrelevant cannon of work.

Imagine "Rocky Horror" with every drop of vitality, wit and cinematic talent sucked out by a toothless vampire, and you begin to approach the experience of watching "Son of Dracula." As a die-hard Nilsson fan (is there any other kind?), I can't even recommend this film to fellow completionists who simply *have* to see this movie. You really aren't missing much. Ringo, buried under a mass of grey hair, long beard and pointy wizard's hat, is unrecognizable - that is, until he opens his mouth and his completely inappropriate Liverpool accent slurps out. (How's this for a sample of dialogue poor Ringo must spout: "Mercury, my Mercury, you are subdued tonight... To what import might you tonight transcend?") Nilsson's line delivery is so limp and monotone I was convinced someone else had dubbed his voice from a bad Japanese horror flick. He displays none of the energy and humor which so defines his music, even when lip-synching to his own songs. There is zero camp value here; I can't believe anyone could classify this as a comedy. The storyline is utterly pointless ("biological" son of Dracula must decide whether to become lord of the Netherworld, or undergo a procedure to become human so he can feel love for groovy chick), with werewolves, mummies and Frankenstein's monster thrown in for no discernible reason. I give it 2 stars, one for the fact that the picture is visible, and one for the fact that the dialogue is audible. I hate to advise obsessive collectors like myself to stay away, but if you never manage to hook up with a copy of this off the internet, trust me, you are missing very little.