Jess Franco’s The Devil Came from Akasava is the cinematic equivalent of buying a knockoff Rolex in a dark alley, realizing it doesn’t tell time, and then discovering it’s filled with glitter, confusion, and some kind of weird erotic jazz. Released in 1971 during Franco’s “sure, I’ll direct that” phase, this film is technically a spy thriller. But that’s like saying a soggy sponge is technically a flotation device—it might keep you afloat for a second, but you’re going down fast, and you’re going to smell terrible the whole time.
The plot—and this is being very generous with the term—is your standard late-’60s Eurospy nonsense. There’s a missing scientist. A mysterious stone with radioactive powers. Secret agents running around in cocktail attire. Everyone wants the stone because it can either kill you instantly or bring you back from the dead, depending on what page of the script Franco was on that day. It’s a science-fiction MacGuffin glued together with spy tropes, half-naked women, and scenes that fade to black like they’re embarrassed to be seen in public.
Our heroine is Diana, played by Soledad Miranda—Franco’s most alluring muse, and arguably the only reason to watch this cinematic car crash. Diana is a secret agent posing as a stripper, because of course she is. You can practically hear Franco cackling behind the camera, whispering, “She’s a spy, but also… she dances in lingerie. Genius.” Miranda gives her all, wearing slinky outfits and delivering her lines like she knows she’s better than the material—which, frankly, she is. She has screen presence, charisma, and enough raw charm to survive scenes where the script appears to have been written on a matchbook soaked in gin.
Her co-star, Fred Williams, plays Agent Rex Forrester, a man who seems to think espionage means staring intensely at people and occasionally punching them. Williams delivers his lines like he’s trying to order a steak in Morse code—he’s either wooden or confused, often both. You could replace him with a coat rack in a tuxedo and most viewers wouldn’t notice until halfway through the credits.
The supporting cast is your usual rogue’s gallery of vaguely accented villains, mad scientists, and suspicious waiters who may or may not be in on the whole conspiracy. Their goals are never really explained, and their motivations change from scene to scene, often within the same sentence. At one point, a character defects to the other side for no apparent reason, only to die in the next scene. It’s like Franco was making it up as he went along—which, knowing Franco, is a very real possibility.
Visually, The Devil Came from Akasava looks like someone smeared Vaseline on the camera and dropped acid before shouting “Action!” The colors are oversaturated. The lighting is erratic. The camera zooms in and out like it’s trying to escape. Franco’s favorite technique—random zooms into people’s eyes, knees, or fruit bowls—is deployed so often it feels like a drinking game devised by someone with a death wish. You half expect the camera to just fall over at some point and give up entirely.
The editing is a crime against time itself. Scenes jump from tropical jungles to bland hotel rooms with no warning or coherence. Characters appear, vanish, and reappear wearing different outfits and personalities. Dialogue is dubbed poorly, often by people who sound like they’ve never seen a movie before, let alone been in one. It’s like Franco dared the editor to put the film together blindfolded during a hurricane.
Then there’s the music. My God, the music.
Franco’s go-to composer, Manfred Hübler, returns with a score that sounds like it was recorded by a lounge band trapped in an elevator. Jazzy saxophones blare at inappropriate moments. Funky basslines wobble in like uninvited guests. It’s the kind of soundtrack that makes every scene feel like a deleted montage from Austin Powers, minus the charm. At one point, a supposedly suspenseful chase sequence is backed by bongo drums and lounge flute, giving it all the tension of a sedated yoga class.
But let’s not forget Franco’s real obsession: softcore titillation. Every female character in this movie is contractually obligated to undress, stretch languidly on satin sheets, or shower while a flute solo bleeds in the background. These scenes go on for what feels like hours, shot through sheer curtains or with camera filters that look like they were stolen from a 1970s wedding photographer. There’s no eroticism here—just inertia and eye shadow. It’s as if Franco thought lingering shots of nipples could distract from the fact that nobody knows what’s happening, including the people in the film.
The titular “Devil” from Akasava, by the way? It’s a glowing rock. That’s it. A rock. It’s not demonic. It’s not interesting. It just sits there while people die, disappear, or deliver exposition like they’re trying to remember the safe word. Franco could have given us a creature, a hallucination, a mutant chicken—anything—but nope, it’s a radioactive paperweight that people talk about a lot and occasionally carry around in their jackets like it’s a half-eaten sandwich.
By the time the credits roll—after a resolution that makes less sense than a dream within a migraine—you’re left with one overriding thought: What in the actual hell did I just watch?
Final Verdict:
The Devil Came from Akasava is a James Bond knockoff without the budget, the wit, or the ability to stay upright. It’s Jess Franco at his most indifferent: style over sense, boobs over story, zooms over everything else. Soledad Miranda tries to rise above it, and occasionally does, but the film is an incoherent, sleazy tumble through bad spy tropes, laughable dialogue, and tropical locations that make you wish for a power outage. Watch only if you’re a Franco completist or have a fetish for being confused while a flute solos in the background.
Otherwise, this devil should’ve stayed in Akasava. Forever.
