Before Jess Franco became the patron saint of softcore sleaze and erotic meandering, before he turned his camera into a drunken peep-show device and started filming entire movies through a martini glass filled with sweat and cigarette ash, there was The Diabolical Dr. Z. And friends, this might just be the last film where Franco gave a damn about coherent plotting, shot composition, or not making you feel like you were watching a basement snuff film projected through a wet sock.
The Diabolical Dr. Z (original title: Miss Muerte) is a beautiful, bizarre black-and-white slice of gothic pulp that flirts with science fiction, horror, and noir, all while giving you a tight, stylish 86-minute ride through a fevered European dream. Franco, just a few years removed from his respectable The Awful Dr. Orlof (and still light-years away from the mind-numbing nudity marathons of his 1970s output), manages to crank out something that feels like a mad love letter to Georges Franju and early Hammer, if both had spent the night huffing chloroform and watching Cat People.
Let’s start with the premise, which is, to put it kindly, demented.
We open with Dr. Zimmer, a quack scientist who looks like he drinks formaldehyde for breakfast, presenting his bold theories about “psychosurgical conditioning” to a room full of skeptical colleagues. These are the kind of grim-faced doctors who would have burned Galileo at the stake while adjusting their monocles. Naturally, they reject his human experiment plans—probably because turning women into mind-controlled assassins tends to raise ethical concerns.
But before he can launch his creepy, electro-shock-revenge fantasy, Zimmer gets murdered by a guy who looks like a less stable Bela Lugosi. Enter his daughter Irma, played with ice-cold vengeance by Mabel Karr. Irma is no shrinking violet; she’s a full-blown proto-feminist mad scientist with a personal vendetta and a makeup budget that rivals an entire drag revue.
What follows is pure pulp insanity. Irma revives her father’s experiments and uses a brain-scrambled exotic dancer named Miss Muerte—yes, that’s “Miss Death”—to carry out her plan. Picture a leggy blonde in a black leotard, fishnet stockings, and razor-sharp fingernails, seducing and slashing her way through a roster of morally ambiguous men like some hypnotized burlesque praying mantis. It’s as if Dr. Mabuse had a one-night stand with Faster, Pussycat! Kill! Kill! and left the resulting cinematic lovechild in a gothic sanitarium to be raised by spiders and decaying wax mannequins.
Franco’s direction here is, shockingly, focused. He holds shots. He frames actors with purpose. There are actual camera movements that aren’t just accidental zooms caused by sneezing while filming. The cinematography by Alejandro Ulloa is dripping in style—harsh shadows, clinical labs, foggy streets, and thick black eyeliner that deserves its own end credit.
For a man who would later make films that looked like they were edited by a raccoon with a meth habit, Franco shows real visual discipline here. There are noirish touches throughout—tight close-ups, deep shadows, and long silences that feel like someone is about to get kissed or killed, maybe both. The whole thing is wrapped in a funereal tone, like a midnight viewing in a funeral parlor that charges extra for popcorn.
And then there’s Miss Muerte herself, played by Estella Blain. She doesn’t have many lines—hell, she barely emotes—but she slinks through this film like a ghost in a Parisian nightclub. She’s got the kind of face you’d see on a perfume bottle or a mugshot. She’s not quite a character so much as an idea with legs, a nightmare projection of desire and death. Every time she shows up, it’s like a jazz riff just walked into the room and lit a cigarette.
The supporting cast is vintage Eurotrash gold. There’s a police inspector who solves crimes the way a cat solves Rubik’s cubes—with disinterest and naps. There’s a wheelchair-bound villainess who delivers sinister monologues like she’s auditioning for a gothic opera. There’s even a train murder scene that feels like Agatha Christie wandered into a horror movie and decided to just roll with it.
Sure, the dialogue is stilted, and yes, the dubbed English version sounds like everyone is whispering into a wet towel, but that only adds to the charm. Franco’s characters speak like they’re in a bad dream, where everyone is on quaaludes and vaguely horny. It works, because nothing in this film feels real—it’s a waking hallucination with cleavage and a vendetta.
And the pacing? Well, that’s another miracle. Unlike most Franco films that make time feel like a sadistic loop of half-naked wandering and surreal jazz solos, The Diabolical Dr. Z moves. It’s got rhythm. Franco’s usual tangents—pointless dance routines, endless walking shots, fog machines that need a union rep—are kept to a minimum. You could almost mistake this for a real movie made by a man who cared.
Of course, the seams still show. This is Franco, after all. Some scenes feel held together with duct tape and wishful thinking. There are medical devices that look like stolen props from a high school production of Frankenstein. And you can practically hear the producer whispering, “We need more legs,” as Miss Muerte slow-dances with another target before slicing them open like a Christmas roast.
But damn it, it works. The Diabolical Dr. Z is slick, stylish, and surprisingly coherent. It’s a twisted genre cocktail that goes down like a smoky bourbon—burns a little, lingers long, and leaves you unsure whether you want another or should call a therapist. It’s got brain control, revenge, fishnets, and enough electro-psychosexual tension to power a small European city.
This is the film you show people when they ask, “Was Jess Franco ever good?” Show them Dr. Z. Let them watch a man flirt with greatness while still giving you a peek at the wild-eyed lunatic he would later become.
And if you’re lucky, maybe Miss Muerte will visit your dreams tonight. Just don’t let her manicure touch your throat.
Verdict: Jess Franco in black-and-white, before the sleaze drowned the genius. A stylish, psychosexual revenge tale with enough shadow and cleavage to make even death blush.
