You know you’re in for a long night when the title promises erotic rites, but what you get is a silver-painted Frankenstein with disco pecs, a bird-woman who looks like she fell out of The Muppets After Dark, and a plot stitched together with leftover nudity and duct tape. The Erotic Rites of Frankenstein is Jess Franco at his most Franco—a delirious cocktail of Euro-horror, softcore sleaze, and surreal nonsense. And like most of Franco’s cinematic cocktails, it’s mostly ice, cheap booze, and a dead fly floating somewhere near the bottom.
Let’s begin with the opening scene—because that’s when you’ll start regretting your life choices. Dr. Frankenstein is murdered almost immediately by a villain who looks like a haunted wax statue of Aleister Crowley in a bedazzled bathrobe. His name is Cagliostro (played by Howard Vernon, alternating between bored and baffled), and he plans to use Frankenstein’s monster—not for terror or world domination—but for… uh… sex rituals? World purity? Making his bird-woman girlfriend happy? Honestly, it’s hard to say. Even Franco seems confused.
Speaking of the monster: he’s played by a bodybuilder covered in metallic silver paint from head to toe, like someone left the Tin Man in the gym too long. He’s shirtless, he’s stiff, and he growls like a broken blender. This Frankenstein doesn’t just walk—he clomps, stomping through scenes like a man trying to remember his lines and the last time he blinked. Franco, in his infinite wisdom, decided this version of the monster didn’t need bolts, charisma, or dialogue—just killer abs and a strong commitment to standing very still.
Then there’s the bird-woman. Oh, the bird-woman.
Named Melisa (played by Anne Libert), she’s Cagliostro’s sidekick, lover, and part-time bird of prey, depending on how much absinthe you think Franco had that day. She wears feathered pasties, gold glitter makeup, and a constant expression of, “I was told there would be a real script.” Her powers include hypnosis, orgasmic screeching, and the ability to seduce people into death using bird noises and heavy breathing. Watching her “hunt” is like watching a burlesque performer attack someone in a haunted aviary. It’s not erotic. It’s ornithological horror.
What little plot exists is loosely strung between these feverish vignettes. Dr. Frankenstein’s daughter (Lina Romay in her first Franco appearance, still learning how to act in a film that barely qualifies as one) shows up to carry on daddy’s work. There’s also a blind woman who might be psychic, some random villagers who are angry for reasons not entirely explained, and a group of robed figures who stand around like they’re waiting for instructions from the director that never come.
Every scene plays like it was shot in the middle of a different movie. One moment we’re in a fog-covered graveyard, the next we’re in a dungeon where someone’s chained up and being groped by rubber bats. The transitions make zero sense. Characters appear and vanish like ghosts. Dialogue is minimal and mostly whispered, screamed, or lost under the weight of Franco’s ever-present jazz-funk-flute soundtrack, which screeches and wails like a dying goose caught in an organ grinder.
The sex, which should be the selling point of something titled The Erotic Rites of Frankenstein, is—predictably—about as erotic as a cold shower in a prison laundry room. Franco stages these scenes with all the finesse of a man trying to open a condom wrapper with boxing gloves. The lighting is dim, the actors look confused, and the camera zooms in on skin like it’s searching for meaning in a rash. At one point, two naked women writhe on top of Frankenstein’s monster, who remains perfectly still, as if unsure whether this counts as medical malpractice or an art installation.
It’s all meant to be provocative, of course. But instead of sexy or shocking, it’s mostly exhausting. Franco drowns his film in fog machines and canted angles, mistaking confusion for atmosphere and nudity for narrative. The result is a film that feels like an extended hallucination induced by watching Rocky Horror while recovering from dental surgery.
The production design is either weirdly inspired or laughably cheap. The castle sets are cobbled together from thrift store furniture and paper-mâché. The dungeon chains are clearly made of plastic. And the laboratory? A flickering lightbulb, some dry ice, and whatever props Franco could scrounge from the set of Barbarella’s Discount Cousin. It’s not so much gothic horror as it is “gothic adjacent,” with a side of softcore and a generous sprinkling of glitter glue.
The dialogue—when it shows up—is pure Franco word salad. Characters say things like, “The blood of virgins flows through the serpent’s eye,” and “We must awaken the cosmic phallus of death.” Does it mean anything? Of course not. But Franco delivers it with such baffling conviction you start to question whether you’re the idiot for asking.
By the final act, when the villagers storm the castle and the bird-woman is squawking her way through a death scene that looks like interpretive dance gone horribly wrong, you’ve lost all hope. The monster gets chained up, unchained, and re-chained multiple times. People die. People moan. Cagliostro starts monologuing about purity and power while looking like he’s waiting for his dry cleaning to be ready. The whole thing ends in a fire, of course—because nothing says “we ran out of ideas” like burning your set to the ground.
Final Verdict:
The Erotic Rites of Frankenstein is a cinematic swamp of smoke, silver body paint, and softcore screeching. It’s neither scary nor sexy, neither profound nor funny. It’s just Franco doing what Franco does: pointing a camera at sweaty, confused actors in weird costumes and pretending it’s art. It’s the kind of film that promises titillation and delivers tetanus.
Watch it only if you’ve lost a bet, inherited a cursed VHS collection, or are conducting a study on how many times you can zoom into a cleavage shot before the audience commits seppuku. Otherwise, stake it, burn it, bury it, and pray the monster never rises again.
