Let’s be honest — when you see a title like Nightmares Come at Night, you expect a little something. A spooky dream sequence. Maybe a masked killer. A swirling descent into surrealist madness. Hell, even a cat jumping out of a closet would suffice. But Jess Franco, ever the cinematic renegade with a camera in one hand and a fog machine in the other, takes a different route: he delivers 82 minutes of whispering, writhing, and women in underpants looking concerned in soft lighting. Nightmares do come at night — especially if you happen to be watching this movie while conscious.
Made in 1970 but shelved for years (and you’ll soon understand why), Nightmares Come at Night was unearthed from a film can like some cursed relic. Unfortunately, the curse is that you actually have to watch it. This isn’t a horror movie. It’s not even really a thriller. It’s more like erotic purgatory — where characters mumble vaguely about dreams and death while the camera zooms into their cleavage like it’s desperately searching for a plot.
Our protagonist — and I use that word as generously as possible — is Anna (Diana Lorys), a dancer suffering from mysterious nightmares and even more mysterious screen presence. She lives in a villa with her “friend” Cynthia (Colette Giacobine), who may or may not be manipulating her into madness, murder, or maybe just really bad acting. The film attempts some semblance of tension between them — is it gaslighting? Love? Boredom? All three?
Anna’s nightmares involve her stabbing people while nude, waking up screaming, and then wandering around in lace nightgowns like she’s looking for her lost contact lens in the dark. Cynthia is cryptic, controlling, and mostly filmed while smoking and lounging in bed like a bored French vampire. Eventually, there’s a heist subplot — yes, really — and a stolen diamond hidden somewhere in all this haze, but by then your brain will have already slipped into a mild vegetative state.
There’s also a psychic, because why not? She delivers exposition between scenes like she wandered in from a different, slightly less awful movie. And just when you think you’ve reached the lowest point, Jess Franco throws in a police detective who talks like he’s been dubbed by a robot. He exists to explain the plot we just watched — badly — and then exit stage left, presumably to get a refund on his dignity.
The pacing is less “slow burn” and more “wet ashtray.” Franco has never been known for narrative momentum, but Nightmares Come at Night moves with the speed and purpose of a stoned sloth on a velvet chaise lounge. Entire scenes involve Anna sitting on a bed, staring out a window, and whispering, “What’s happening to me?” for what feels like 35 minutes. Spoiler: nothing is happening to her. Nothing is happening to anyone.
But let’s not pretend this film was ever about plot. No, this is pure Franco: long takes of naked women rubbing their temples in agony, whispering secrets in dim rooms, and occasionally making out to lounge music that sounds like it was composed on a malfunctioning Casio keyboard. There’s a sex scene in every other scene — not because they’re warranted, but because Franco had softcore quotas to hit. These scenes are filmed like perfume ads for depression. The women caress each other like they’re petting a ghost. It’s less erotic and more like two mannequins making polite conversation with their hips.
Visually, it’s the usual Franco cocktail of zooms, lens flare, and shots that seem composed by accident. He loves to frame his actresses through curtains, wine glasses, chandeliers, and occasionally a veil of cigarette smoke. You could argue that it’s atmospheric. You’d be wrong, but you could argue it. The lighting is moody, sure — but mostly because Franco didn’t have the budget to pay for a second bulb. Every scene takes place at night, and every night looks exactly the same: dark blue filter, two candles, and one actress sighing in despair while unbuttoning her shirt.
The dialogue is a mess of existential mumbling and whispered threats. It tries so hard to be mysterious and poetic, but it ends up sounding like rejected lyrics from a bad Portishead cover band:
“I don’t know if it was a dream… or if the dream was me.”
“Your pain is the color of your eyes.”
“We’re not really alive, are we? We’re just remembering being awake.”
Sure, Jess. Whatever you say. Now please put the camera down and go take a nap.
Diana Lorys does her best to act through the fog, but you can see the despair in her eyes. Colette Giacobine fares worse — her performance has the emotional range of a houseplant and the timing of a broken clock. Neither woman is given anything to work with besides moody monologues and the occasional opportunity to take their tops off while looking haunted. They’re not playing characters — they’re playing metaphors. Unfortunately, nobody knows what they’re metaphors for.
Franco’s obsession with dreams and reality, control and madness, sexuality and manipulation — all his usual themes are here, just without any of the urgency, fun, or coherence found in his better works (A Virgin Among the Living Dead, She Killed in Ecstasy, hell, even Succubus). This film is the cinematic equivalent of being stuck at a party where everyone’s high and talking about Nietzsche while you’re just trying to find the bathroom.
And the ending? A twist so undercooked it might give you salmonella. It’s Franco’s attempt at being clever — a final reveal that tries to reframe the whole movie — but it lands like a damp sock on marble. By the time the credits roll (over yet another jazz dirge), you’ll be too tired to care. Or feel. Or breathe.
Final Verdict: 1 out of 5 erotic dream stabbings
Nightmares Come at Night is a slow-motion breakdown in lace panties. A film that tries to be seductive, mysterious, and cerebral but ends up being none of the above. Watch it only if you’re conducting a study on how long the human brain can endure whispering, saxophones, and Franco’s wandering libido before it starts to leak out your ears.
