Word on the street, albeit absent from any of the “official” “news” “wires” as of this writing, is that the French director, one of the most potent and indefatigable purveyors of what we old-school types like to refer to as “authentic sadistic cinema,” passed away last evening. I will go on record now as saying if Dave Kehr can convince the New York Times to run an obit on the guy, there’s a bottle of single-malt in it for him. Assuming Dave likes single malts.
Above, an evocative glimpse, not, of course, of Rollin himself, but of his sometime muse and my own imaginary girlfriend Brigitte Lahaie, in the director’s delightful 1978 eco-undead opus The Grapes of Death.
Late-night television showings of Rollin’s films were a godsend in the days before teenage boys enjoyed open access to actual porn.
His best films are also, you know, somewhat artfully rendered and whatnot. For the most part. And that Brigitte Lahaie has got a hell of a kisser, by which I mean her entire body.
Bummer! Always hoped I’d get a chance to meet Rollin (and Lahaie too, for that matter).
A Rollin tribute marathon is definitely called for. But where to begin? SHIVER OF THE VAMPIRES? DEMONIACS? GRAPES OF DEATH? FASCINATION? In recent years I’ve grown more fond of LIPS OF BLOOD, which may be his most perfectly realized film. That might be a good candidate with which to start.
The biggest problem with Rollin films is that the whole doesn’t always equal the sum of its parts, if you know what I mean. That’s why I’ve always found it difficult to recommend a single title to newbies interested in sampling his oeuvre.