Terror Transmission

Last Rites (Dracula’s Last Rites) – 1979 – USA – Televista

I’ll never forget the first time I saw this picture on VHS as it granted me a most refreshing two-hour nap and a drool-drenched pillow. 20 years (and several thousand horror films) later, I figured I would re-visit it. I have been woefully short on sleep of late and am entirely out of chloroform, so what the fuck, how bad could it be? Unfortunately, my instincts towards self-preservation seem to have ebbed over the years as I could not bring myself to fall asleep lest I lose count of the boom mikes in frame. Somebody call Guinness, as these dimwits must have set a record for incompetence with this one.

An ineffectual hubby stumbles into the midst of a conspiratorial cabal of vampires when his geriatric mother-in-law becomes their latest victim. Seems the town rotary club has been harvesting the moribund as sustenance and staking them before they can rise as rogue wanderers and bring attention to their own dastardly vampirism. The town funeral director, A. Lucard (ooh, that’s clever!), tries to stake the old hag before revivification but has his progress continually impeded by aforementioned hubby who becomes wise to their wicked ways. Dusty cooch rises and is interminably hunted by vampires and “good-guy” alike, setting up a final showdown that I would tell you about if it was worth mentioning. Crap on a crepe, Batman, the parties responsible for this sham should have been served with a cinematic restraining order after this dung-beast was dropped on our heads. Assholes probably work for the Syfy network now.

Where do I start? The pacing is languorous to the point of frustration and nothing of note occurs during the entire (monotonous) running-rime. The film completely lacks in both style and substance and is one of the most drab exercises in tedium I have ever sat through. The geriatric-lady-as-vampire is marginally creepy except that she spends all of her time in close up and looks terminally confused. Maybe the old bat died of Alzheimer’s and I missed something, but I’m leaning toward inane direction. The climactic car chase is anything but, and the acting is stiffer than a Catholic priest at the kiddie-pool. In short, this film sucks (and priests are scary).

If the late Tipper Gore (c’mon, she’s not dead yet?) or the M.V.O.A.A. (Mini-van Owners Association of America) were forced to make a horror film, I am convinced it would play out exactly like this somnambulistic steamer. In fact, I am not entirely un-convinced that Domonic Paris is not a pseudonym for the T. Gore whore. The devil wears many faces, after all. Dull, lifeless, and about as much fun as your own lynching, this one will see your eye-rollings turn to eye-gougings by the half way point. I’d recommend you opt for that hangman’s noose before I’d recommend this movie. Now where is that fucking pillow?

Jason’s Grade: D-