There are bad Jess Franco films—and there are Jess Franco films that feel like you were kidnapped by a cabaret troupe, blindfolded, and force-fed sangria while someone reads erotic poetry in Esperanto. Sex Charade (1972) falls squarely into the latter. It’s not just bad. It’s an empty wine bottle of a movie, rolling around the floor of Eurotrash cinema, dribbling out leftover scenes and wondering where all the meaning went.
First, the title. Sex Charade. A name that promises intrigue, seduction, deception, maybe even—dare we dream?—plot. But instead of a sexy game of masquerade and betrayal, what we get is 80 minutes of incoherent zooms, lounge music that sounds like it’s trying to flirt with you, and naked women wandering through villas like they’re looking for the script.
This is Jess Franco at his most lethargic and least invested. And that’s saying something for a man who once filmed a horror movie entirely in daylight using a lens smeared with Vaseline and what might have been pizza grease. Sex Charadefeels like it was shot during someone’s vacation and edited while Franco was asleep. And based on the final product, he may have stayed asleep for the entire production.
The “plot,” in air quotes so large they blot out the sun, centers around a mysterious woman named Diana (played by Kali Hansa), who arrives at a secluded seaside estate for reasons that are never really explained. She’s there, maybe, to unravel a mystery, or to seduce a man, or to become some kind of postmodern mirror of her own desires. Or maybe she just got lost on the way to a better Jess Franco movie and decided to lean into the weirdness. Regardless, what follows is a cinematic conga line of vague conversations, whispered monologues, and more nudity than narrative.
Diana meets a series of characters who are less people and more symbolic props in a softcore fever dream: an older man who might be a writer, a brooding young guy with the emotional depth of a puddle, a blonde nymph who appears and disappears like a ghost with a modeling contract, and several other topless women who all speak in Franco-isms: that is, breathy nothings that sound vaguely poetic but mean absolutely jack squat.
Everyone’s either naked, getting naked, or philosophizing in a satin robe about the nature of desire. There’s no sense of time, place, or purpose. Scenes melt into each other like expired cheese. You’ll find yourself wondering if you missed a reel, only to realize: no, this is just Franco playing cinematic charades with your patience.
Of course, this wouldn’t be a Franco film without the usual camera trickery, which here has been dialed up to “French student film on cough syrup.” The zooms are relentless. At one point, Franco zooms in on a woman’s knee for a solid 20 seconds like it contains the secrets of the universe. Then he’ll whip-pan to someone’s mouth mid-sentence, miss it entirely, and cut to a close-up of a birdcage. Symbolic? Maybe. Incompetent? Definitely.
The cinematography alternates between “accidentally artful” and “public access softcore.” Franco tries to use mirrors, gauzy curtains, and candlelight to create mood, but most of the time it feels like someone threw a filter over the lens and prayed for sensuality. Entire conversations happen in dark rooms where you can’t see anyone’s face. At least, I thinkthey’re conversations. They might be overlapping voiceovers of internal monologues, or Franco left the boom mic in a wine glass again.
Then there’s the soundtrack—an endless loop of sultry saxophone riffs, weird jazz organs, and what sounds like a guy rubbing two snakes together. The music plays constantly, even during dialogue, even during complete silence, even during scenes where the only thing happening is a woman staring into a mirror while stroking her hair like it owes her money. It’s like the score is trying to seduce you while the movie actively repels you.
Now, let’s talk about the sex—or whatever Franco passes off as sex here. There are many nude scenes, most of them shot with the energy of a hungover sloth. People grope each other slowly. They kiss with the enthusiasm of a dentist about to deliver bad news. Nobody looks particularly into it. There’s no chemistry, no tension, no payoff. It’s softcore through a foggy lens, the kind of erotica that makes you more aware of your laundry pile than your libido.
And that’s what makes Sex Charade so excruciating: it’s neither sexy nor compelling. It’s like Franco wanted to explore the abstract concept of eroticism, but got bored halfway through and started filming the inside of his own brain. What little dialogue there is ranges from pretentious to laughably absurd. Here’s an actual paraphrased line: “In the shadow of passion lies the corpse of truth.” Okay, Jess. Whatever you say, buddy. Now please put down the zoom lens and let these people go home.
By the time we reach the ending—if it can be called that—Diana wanders off into the sea, or into her own imagination, or maybe just into another Franco production set in the same beach house with a slightly different wig. Nothing is resolved. Nothing is explained. The screen fades to black, and all that remains is the sound of your soul lightly weeping.
Final Verdict:
Sex Charade is an infuriatingly slow, incoherent mess that confuses vague symbolism for storytelling and nudity for depth
