Plastic Surgery, Portraits, and Pompous Madness
The Blood Rose dares to ask the question no one needed answered: What if Eyes Without a Face got drunk, stumbled into a beauty salon, and had a midlife crisis? Directed by Claude Mulot, better known for his forays into erotica than high-concept horror, this alleged “gothic thriller” is less Beauty and the Beast and more Botanist and the Butcher.
If you enjoy existential horror mixed with vaguely erotic nurse fantasies, funeral parlor lighting, and a plot stitched together like a botched face transplant, The Blood Rose may be for you. For everyone else, prepare for 90 minutes of dermal dysfunction and romantic decisions so bad they make The Room look like Casablanca.
The Plot: Frankenstein, But Make It French and Fashionable
Frederick Lansac is a botanist, a portraitist, and—because why stop there?—a beauty salon owner. Basically, he’s one chateau away from becoming a French Batman villain. He meets Anne, they fall in love at a costume ball, and everything’s wine and roses—until one of Frederick’s jilted lovers gives Anne an unscheduled facial in the form of a flaming bonfire. Talk about a hot-headed ex.
Anne, now disfigured and spiraling into lesbian dream sequences (as one does), becomes a recluse. Frederick, desperate to restore her beauty and/or sanity, blackmails Dr. Rohmer—a plastic surgeon turned criminal face-fixer—into performing an unauthorized transplant. The plan? Lure attractive women to his mansion and “borrow” their faces. You know, like you do when gift cards just won’t cut it.
Unsurprisingly, the face-donor program goes sideways. The women die, the doctor has a moral breakdown and offs himself, and Anne is so far gone she’s demanding faces like they’re designer handbags. The film ends with Frederick doing what we all wish he’d done 70 minutes earlier—calling the cops and putting an end to this soap opera of slashed epidermis.
Characters: Paper-Thin with Extra Pout
Frederick Lansac (Philippe Lemaire) is our lead, and by “lead,” we mean he’s a well-coiffed walking red flag. His version of love involves gaslighting doctors, violating medical ethics, and murdering face models. Anne (Anny Duperey) starts off lovely, ends up disfigured, and becomes a sulky, face-coveting banshee with a thing for her nurse. Her descent into madness is paced somewhere between tragic and laughably horny.
Dr. Rohmer (Howard Vernon) is the reluctant mad scientist with all the ethical integrity of a Scooby-Doo villain. You can tell he’s tortured because he drinks a lot and stares out of windows. His suicide is not only predictable—it’s a mercy killing for the plot.
Production: Lights, Camera, Shallow Depth
Shot in under a month, which frankly shows, The Blood Rose leans hard into the gothic aesthetic: chandeliers, misty grounds, sweeping staircases, and enough velvet to upholster a dozen Dracula capes. But the style never quite hides the script’s identity crisis: Is it a horror film? An erotic thriller? A Lifetime movie directed by a taxidermist?
Mulot, better known for softcore cinema, tries to inject sensuality into horror, but instead just makes you feel like you’re watching Eyes Without a Face with a skin rash and a vague sense of embarrassment.
Also, yes—it’s another Eyes Without a Face knockoff, except with the artistry replaced by dramatic pouting and florid dialogue like, “She needs a face, and I shall give it to her!” You know, standard couple’s therapy material.
The Surgery Was a Success—The Film, Not So Much
Let’s be generous: The Blood Rose has a few decent visual flourishes and one or two moments of unintentional hilarity. But that doesn’t make up for a dragging pace, nonsensical character decisions, or the sleazy atmosphere that feels less “gothic horror” and more “haunted lingerie catalog.”
There’s eroticism here, but it’s the kind of eroticism that requires tetanus shots. The horror is superficial—fitting for a film obsessed with faces—and the tension is largely absent. It tries to be Hitchcock in a haunted spa, but ends up more like Penthouse Presents: Skin Graft of the Damned.
Final Diagnosis: ★☆☆☆☆
“A cautionary tale about love, loss, and why you shouldn’t let your plastic surgeon moonlight as a mortician.”
