The Rape of the Vampire (3 Stars)

This is Jean Rollin's first film, made in 1968. When it was first released it was met with hostility by cinema-goers. The vampires in the film have almost nothing in common with the vampires shown in American horror films.

"The Rape of the Vampire" begins like an exposé and ends like a dream; what initially appears to be a rational investigation into supposed vampirism gradually reveals itself as something far less easily dismissed.

The first part centres on four young women living in a secluded château under the guidance of an older guardian. When journalists and sceptics arrive, they assume they are dealing with a hoax, or at best a case of shared delusion. The women are pale, withdrawn and oddly ceremonial in their behaviour; they claim to be vampires who have lived for 400 years, yet show none of the expected traits. They do not hunt, they do not display supernatural strength, and they seem almost fragile, as if the slightest disturbance might shatter them.

It would be easy to read them as frauds or victims of manipulation. Rollin encourages this ambiguity by filtering their world through the intrusive, rational gaze of the investigators. The château becomes a stage on which belief and scepticism clash; the women are probed, questioned and ultimately violated, both psychologically and physically.

Yet the film quietly resists the sceptics' interpretation. The more the outsiders attempt to expose the women, the less convincing their explanations become. The women's detachment from ordinary life, their strange unity and their apparent disconnection from time and consequence all suggest that they are not merely pretending. Their vampirism is not expressed through conventional horror imagery, but through atmosphere and persistence; they exist according to a logic that does not align with the human world around them.

The act of violence implied by the title is crucial here. It is framed less as titillation than as an assertion of control, an attempt by the intruders to force the women into a recognisable, human framework. If they can be dominated, the logic goes, they can be explained. But the effect is the opposite. The brutality only deepens the sense that the women belong to another order of being; they may be physically vulnerable, but they are not reducible to the terms imposed on them.

By the time the film drifts into its more overtly surreal second half, the question of whether the women are real vampires has already been answered in everything but explicit statement. They are not frauds, nor are they simply mad. Instead, Rollin presents a form of vampirism stripped of its usual theatrical power; these are creatures defined by frailty, isolation and an almost mournful remove from the living. Their weakness does not negate their nature; it redefines it.

What remains is a haunting inversion of the vampire myth. Rather than predators, these women are survivors of an existence that offers neither release nor fulfilment. Their authenticity lies not in spectacle but in persistence; they endure, quietly and inexplicably, beyond the reach of those who would explain them away.

The Iron Rose (5 Stars)

I watched this film twice today, so I'm reviewing it twice. That's the rules. I can only remember two other films that I've watched twice on the same day, and both were before I started writing my blog. The first was "Downfall"/"Der Untergang", and the second was "Inland Empire".

I'll stick to a few things that I picked up from the excellent commentary by the film critic Tim Lucas.

The cemetery used in the film is the Madeleine Cemetery in Amiens. It's a small town, but it's famous as the burial place of Jules Verne. There's a special memorial to him, with a sculpture that's well known. Jean Rollin was careful not to show Jules Verne's grave in any scenes, because he wanted the cemetery to remain anonymous.

Most of the scenes were filmed at night. The caretaker was bribed with bottles of wine to allow the film crew to spend all night in the cemetery. I hope he didn't lose his job.

The unnamed man in the film was played by Hugues Quester, a moderately successful French actor. He was arrogant and thought the film was below his standards. He looked down on Jean Rollin and hardly spoke with him. He asked for his name to be kept secret, and many film posters called him Pierre Dupont. Ironically, in retrospect "The Iron Rose" is considered his greatest film.

When Jean Rollin died in 2010 an iron rose was placed on the lid of his coffin.

Tim Lucas also went into some detail about the question I asked about whether Karine died at the end of the film or returned to the beach. He's convinced that she survived, but he added some additional thoughts. He suggests that the old woman in the cemetery might be Karine years later, so the sealing of the crypt could be decades later. He also suggests that the beach scenes are Karine celebrating the man's death. It's possible (in Tim's opinion) that the nude scene never happened, it was just a dream she had when the man was locked in the crypt. I personally doubt this interpretation.

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The Iron Rose (5 Stars)

I'm really excited. This week I found out that all of Jean Rollin's films are going to be released as 4K editions. This brings my film collecting full circle. When I bought my first DVD player in 2003, Jean Rollin's films were among the first that I bought. Now, 23 years later, I'm rebuying them all on 4K discs. I ordered 14 of his films last week, and the first eleven have arrived. They're all in beautiful boxes with 80-page booklets, and the discs are packed with special features. The picture quality of "The Iron Rose" was always below average, as a poorly stored film from the 1970's. Now it looks glorious. The film's restoration is obviously a labour of love.

I watched the film twice today. The first time it was the film itself, the second time I watched it with a commentary track by the film critic Tim Lucas. I don't usually listen to commentary tracks from external contributors, I prefer the director or the actors, but in this case Tim has done an excellent job.

Every time I watch the film I ask new questions. This is the most Lynchian of all of Jean Rollin's films. The opening scene on the beach obviously takes place after the events in the film, but Karine seemingly dies in the final scene. That still confuses me, so I asked ChatGPT the question, "Does Karine die at the end of The Iron Rose or return to the beach?" I received a very insightful reply.

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That final movement in The Iron Rose is one of Jean Rollin's most deliberately unresolved endings; and it's meant to support both of the readings you're suggesting.

1. She dies in the cemetery

The most literal interpretation is:

Karine never leaves the cemetery.

She fully yields to its logic; calm, detached, almost at peace.

The male character collapses into panic, while she assimilates into the world of the dead.

In this reading:

Her "death" is not shown conventionally.

It’s more a spiritual or existential absorption than a physical event.

The cemetery doesn't just trap her; it claims her.

2. She returns to the beach

The alternative, and very compelling, interpretation is:

The beach scene represents a return or continuation after the cemetery.

Karine emerges changed; no longer frightened, but aligned with death.

The rose links the cemetery to the beach, suggesting continuity rather than escape.

Here, she hasn't escaped in any meaningful sense; she's simply carried the cemetery with her.

3. The key idea: transformation, not outcome

What matters isn't whether she "dies" or "leaves", but that:

She accepts the cemetery’s reality.

She becomes emotionally and symbolically one with it.

By contrast:

The man resists, panics, and disintegrates.

He experiences the cemetery as horror.

She experiences it as something closer to belonging.

4. Why Rollin leaves it open

Rollin avoids closure because the film isn’t about plot resolution:

Time is circular or collapsed.

Spaces bleed into each other.

Life and death are not cleanly separated.

So asking "did she die or return?" is almost the wrong question; the film's answer is:

    "those two states are no longer distinct".

Bottom line

Yes, you can read it as Karine dying in the cemetery.

Yes, you can read it as her returning to the beach.

But the strongest reading is:

She undergoes a transformation where death, memory and continuation become the same state.

That's why the ending lingers; it doesn't resolve, it echoes.

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Synecdoche, New York (5 Stars)

"Synecdoche, New York" is one of the most ambitious, disorienting and emotionally punishing films of the 21st century; less a conventional narrative than a sustained immersion into consciousness, memory and decay.

Written and directed by Charlie Kaufman, the film follows theatre director Caden Cotard, played with extraordinary vulnerability by Philip Seymour Hoffman. At first, his problems seem recognisable: a failing marriage, a distant child and a growing catalogue of unexplained illnesses. What begins as a character study soon expands into something far more abstract and unsettling.

After receiving a MacArthur Fellowship, a seemingly unlimited grant, Caden embarks on a theatrical project of total realism. He rents a vast warehouse in New York and constructs a full-scale replica of the city inside it, populating it with actors who play real people, including actors who play the actors themselves. As the project grows across years, then decades, the boundary between representation and reality collapses. Time becomes unstable, identities blur and Caden loses any fixed sense of self.

Kaufman’s central idea, that art is both an attempt to capture life and an admission of its impossibility, unfolds through increasingly recursive layers. The warehouse becomes a physical expression of the mind: obsessive, self-referential and incapable of completion. Each attempt at authenticity pushes Caden further from it. The more detailed the simulation becomes, the less meaningful it feels.

Hoffman anchors the film emotionally. His Caden is not an eccentric visionary but an ordinary man overwhelmed by existence. His physical decline mirrors his inner disintegration, and the film’s emphasis on bodily decay, illness, ageing and fragility, gives it the texture of existential horror. Death is not distant here; it is constant and mundane.

The supporting cast, including Samantha Morton, Michelle Williams and Catherine Keener, reinforces the film’s shifting emotional terrain. Relationships begin, transform and dissolve without resolution. People drift in and out of Caden’s life with dreamlike abruptness; time seems to accelerate beyond comprehension.

Visually, the film moves from muted realism into quiet unreality. Spaces subtly distort, timelines overlap and the warehouse expands into something impossible. Kaufman avoids spectacle; the surreal elements emerge gradually, which makes them more disturbing.

What makes the film so challenging is its refusal of catharsis. There is no clear arc, no resolution and no comforting conclusion. Instead, it confronts the viewer with difficult ideas: that life exceeds understanding, that identity is unstable and that the search for meaning may itself be futile. Yet there is also a kind of tenderness. Even flawed, incomplete attempts at connection, in art or in life, are all that remain.

Over time, the film has come to be regarded as a modern masterpiece, though it remains divisive. Some find it deeply moving, others find it alienating or oppressive. Both responses feel appropriate. Kaufman is not aiming for entertainment; he is attempting to mirror the overwhelming complexity of being alive.

In the end, "Synecdoche, New York" lingers. It unsettles and gradually reshapes how one thinks about time, art and mortality. Few films demand so much; fewer reward that effort so completely.

Success Rate:  - 4.4

The Testament Of Ann Lee (3 Stars)

I saw trailers for this film when I went to the cinema in the last few weeks. It looked good, so I went to see it today, on opening day. I felt confused, not knowing what the director was trying to say. It was only at the end, when the final credits rolled, that I realised it was a true story. I wish I'd known from the start, because I would have got more from it.

Ann Lee is a woman who was born on 29th February 1736 in Manchester, England. She came from a poor family, and she became a child labourer at the age of 10. She felt religious, so she visited different religious groups. Eventually she remained with the Wardley Group, also known as the Shakers. They were a religious group that had split from the Quakers. The leaders preached that Jesus would return as a woman. Ann had visions that revealed to her that she was the new Messiah.

Ann got married and four children. One died in childbirth, the other three died before they reached the age of one. Her visions told her that sexual intercourse is a sin, and even married couples should refrain. The Shakers became celibate.

In 1774 Ann emigrated to America with her followers. In 1784 she died, and the world didn't end.

Despite my low rating, I need to watch the film again. Knowing the background will help me enjoy it more.

The Wandering Swordsman (4 Stars)

"The Wandering Swordsman" is a lively martial arts adventure from the golden age of the Shaw Brothers studio. Directed by Chang Cheh and starring David Chiang, the film blends wandering-hero mythology, fast-paced swordplay and a slightly playful tone that distinguishes it from the director's more solemn works.

David Chiang plays Yu Hsiao, a cheerful but formidable swordsman who roams the countryside helping those in need. When he becomes involved with a group of travelling performers and refugees, he learns that a ruthless warlord is oppressing the local population. Yu's sense of justice draws him into the conflict, and his easy-going personality gradually gives way to fierce determination as the violence escalates.

Unlike many of Chang Cheh's later heroic bloodshed tales, the film begins with a surprisingly light touch. Yu Hsiao is a relaxed and occasionally humorous protagonist; he drinks, jokes and drifts from place to place without much concern for consequences. This carefree attitude gives the early sections a breezy charm, and it makes the eventual confrontations feel more dramatic when the hero's patience finally runs out.

The action sequences are energetic rather than elaborate. The choreography emphasises speed and physicality, with David Chiang's agile performance carrying much of the excitement. While the fights do not reach the operatic intensity of some later Shaw Brothers productions, they remain satisfying and clearly staged.

Visually, the film displays the colourful studio style typical of Shaw Brothers productions of the period. Bright costumes, theatrical sets and bold lighting create a stylised world that feels closer to traditional Chinese storytelling than to realism. The wandering-hero theme also echoes classic wuxia literature, presenting Yu Hsiao as a knight-errant who follows his own moral code rather than any official authority.

Although "The Wandering Swordsman" lacks the tragic weight found in some of Chang Cheh's most famous films, it remains an engaging entry in the wuxia genre. Its combination of humour, wandering adventure and bursts of action makes it an enjoyable showcase for David Chiang's charismatic screen presence. For fans of Shaw Brothers cinema, it offers a pleasant variation on the director's usual themes while still delivering the heroic spirit that defines his work.

Trail of the Broken Blade (4½ Stars)

This is a beautiful film that shows loyalty and honour in the Ming period. Men and women do what is right, not what is pleasant or easy.

The warrior Fang Jun saves a family under attack. The father asks him to teach his daughter Liu Chen martial arts so that she can defend herself, but he's really hoping to find a husband for her. Fang falls in love with her, but she says she loves someone else. Her lover Li Yueh has killed a corrupt government official to avenge his father's death. He's now a wanted criminal, so he's run away and taken on a new identity. Fang promises to find him and reunite the lovers.

Li Yueh is living as a poor stable-hand. The innkeeper's daughter falls in love with him, but he refuses her advances, because he's still in love with Liu Chen, even though he never expects to see her again. By coincidence – one of the many coincidences in the film – Fang comes to stay at the inn and becomes friends with Li Yueh, not knowing who he is. Their friendship becomes closer when they have to fight against common enemies.

It's not a love triangle, it's a love square. Maybe a broken square. Whatever it is, it's obvious from the beginning of the film that it will end in tragedy.

The Weird Man (3 Stars)

"The Weird Man" is one of the more eccentric supernatural films produced by the legendary Hong Kong studio Shaw Brothers. Blending martial arts, folklore and black comedy, the film tells the story of a man who uses dark magic to transform himself into a powerful monster, unleashing chaos in pursuit of revenge.

Director Chang Cheh pushes the material toward grotesque spectacle rather than traditional wuxia heroics. The transformation scenes, crude but imaginative by early-1980s standards, give the film a lurid energy that fans of Shaw Brothers' later supernatural cycle will recognise. At times the tone veers wildly between horror and slapstick, which can make the narrative feel uneven.

Nevertheless, the film has a certain charm. Its practical effects, exaggerated performances and bizarre storyline capture a period when Hong Kong genre cinema embraced outrageous ideas with enthusiasm.

While far from a classic, "The Weird Man" remains an entertaining curiosity; a strange hybrid of monster movie and kung fu fantasy that will mostly appeal to dedicated Shaw Brothers enthusiasts.