Let’s get something out of the way early: Venus in Furs (1969) has nothing to do with the famous Leopold von Sacher-Masoch novella it’s allegedly named after. If you came here expecting psychosexual games of domination and submission in fur-trimmed rooms full of Viennese decadence, tough break. What you get instead is Jess Franco’s jazz-drenched attempt at arthouse necrophilia. It’s a softcore ghost story wrapped in gauze, slathered in body oil, and presented with all the urgency of someone whispering plot details through a bong hit.
Venus in Furs is not a movie. It’s a hangover with a saxophone. It’s a dream where nobody wakes up, nothing makes sense, and everyone is incredibly sweaty for no apparent reason. It’s what happens when you give a horny surrealist a camera, three days at a beach resort, and a crate of LSD. And worst of all? It thinks it’s profound.
The “plot” follows Jimmy Logan, a trumpet player (because of course he is) played by James Darren, who sleepwalks through this role like someone trying to remember if they left the stove on. Jimmy stumbles upon the body of a woman washed up on a Turkish beach. That woman is Wanda (Maria Rohm), a mysterious beauty last seen being abused and possibly murdered at a masquerade orgy. Naturally, Jimmy is disturbed. So disturbed, in fact, that he immediately begins having hallucinations, guilt flashbacks, and dream sequences edited by a drunk with blunt scissors.
Soon, Wanda is back — alive? dead? undead? who the hell knows — seducing Jimmy and tracking down her abusers one by one, all of whom conveniently look like extras from a Eurotrash remake of Eyes Wide Shut. There’s a lot of whispering. A lot of jazz solos. And just enough softcore writhing to keep the late-night cable crowd awake.
This is Jess Franco trying to make art. But rather than channeling Buñuel or Bergman, he ends up closer to an erotic version of Matlock scored by Charles Mingus’ evil twin. There’s voiceover narration from Jimmy that’s supposed to sound like inner torment, but instead sounds like a man narrating a brochure for regret.
“She was a dream… a nightmare… a vision in furs… I don’t know what she was. But I couldn’t stop blowing my horn.”
Yes, Jimmy. We get it. You’re a tortured soul. Now maybe put the damn trumpet down and call a therapist.
The film is drenched — absolutely soaked — in jazz. Not good jazz. Not Miles Davis at Montreux jazz. This is bad, wailing, relentless jazz, the kind that follows you down alleys and into your dreams. Every moment of the movie is accompanied by screaming saxophones, bongos that sound like someone slapping wet laundry, and the occasional screeching organ for maximum chaos. It’s the soundtrack equivalent of being cornered by a guy in a turtleneck who insists you “feel the dissonance.”
The performances are as lifeless as the characters they’re portraying. James Darren looks like he’s constantly trying to remember his lines, or maybe just regretting agreeing to star in a Franco film. Maria Rohm, while stunning to look at, delivers her lines with the conviction of someone ordering soup in a language they don’t speak. Klaus Kinski is also here, chewing scenery like it owes him money, but even he can’t save this parade of nonsense. He’s in and out like a fever dream, throwing tantrums in dark corners before vanishing for most of the runtime — which, frankly, is generous to the audience.
As for Franco’s direction, he’s in full “wander into a room and see what happens” mode. The camera zooms in and out like it’s possessed. Focus is optional. Continuity is laughed at. Entire scenes repeat themselves, possibly by accident. You’ll see Wanda walking down a staircase in slow motion no fewer than three times — and not for symbolic reasons, but because Jess Franco probably forgot he already filmed it.
There’s no tension. No horror. Just moaning, whispering, and saxophones — always the saxophones — filling every crevice of your brain until you start to wonder if death is real and if Wanda is coming for you next.
The sex scenes are oddly cold. Franco was known for his eroticism, but here it’s like he left the libido in the glovebox. Bodies touch, sure, but there’s no heat. No passion. Just slow-motion caressing set to jazz solos that sound like a goose being murdered in an alleyway. Wanda seduces people the way a ghost might flirt — distant, detached, and with a lot of soft lighting.
Oh, and the dialogue. Let’s not forget the dialogue.
“She came from the sea… like a dream wrapped in silence.”
That’s an actual line. Another gem:
“I played my trumpet, but the notes fell like tears on the floor of my soul.”
You can’t make this stuff up. Jess Franco could, though. And did. Repeatedly.
The ending? Don’t even ask. It’s the kind of ambiguous, pseudo-intellectual nonsense that people pretend to understand at film school parties while trying to get laid. Is Wanda real? Is she a ghost? A hallucination? The embodiment of Jimmy’s guilt? A metaphor for Franco’s tax problems? Who knows. Who cares. By the time the credits roll, you’re just glad it’s over and that your speakers survived the jazzpocalypse.
Final Verdict: 1 out of 5 haunted trumpets
Venus in Furs is what happens when you mistake fog machines and saxophones for storytelling. It’s not sexy. It’s not scary. It’s not deep. It’s a moody, meandering mess that thinks it’s saying something about guilt and desire but mostly just says, “Please take away Franco’s editing scissors.”
Watch it only if you’re conducting a sleep deprivation experiment or need background noise while throwing all your jazz records into the ocean.
