The 1971 British “horror” flick Virgin Witch was somewhat notorious in its day. While it was initially rejected by the British Censor, the Greater London Council eventually gave it an X rating. Now, I’m not sure how that would translate into an American rating. Personally, I’ve never been able to figure out the British monetary system, let alone their labyrinthine systems of education and film rating. One thing is for sure, this movie has only one thing on its mind: sex, sex, sex. That’s made abundantly clear in the opening credits, where each name is accompanied by nude women. And though the rest of the flick is somewhat tame by today’s standards, its boldness still feels a little shocking. Funny how that works, isn’t it?
Sisters Christine and Betty (played by real-life sisters Ann and Vicki Michelle) run away to the big city to become models. On the way to London, they get a ride from the conflicted hero-to-be Johnny, who warns them to beware unscrupulous photographers who have only one thing on their mind. This is ironic, because Johnny has the same one thing on his mind. Actually, this is a film where everyone has sex on their mind—especially Sybil Waite (whose name I assume is derived from witch Sybil Leek and the classic Rider-Waite Tarot deck). Sybil is the owner of the modeling agency to which the Christine goes to find work. As soon as the leering Sybil lays eyes on Christine, it’s all she can do keep her tongue in her mouth and her hands to herself. Christine can’t help but notice and plays it for all she can. It quickly becomes obvious that this girl is willing to do whatever (and whoever) it takes to succeed because, as she puts it, she’s a “career girl.” We know something is awry when Sybil immediately sets Christine up on a phony modeling assignment to take place at a countryside manor house called Wychwold (this name should’ve set off some alarms).
When Christine arrives at Wychwold with the innocent Betty in tow, things begin to take off—things like clothes, that is. Before long, she’s making it with a fashion photographer in the woods, much to Sybil’s dismay. Meanwhile, Betty discovers a sinister ritual room in the manor house. Betty also discovers the smarmy owner of the house, Gerald Amberly, who is the high priest of a coven that, coincidentally, is holding a sabbat that very evening. It seems Sybil, who serves as high priestess, has procured Christine to be the sexual component of the ritual. Of course, Christine is thrilled at the prospect. In fact, she’s so thrilled that she asks if she can become a witch too. (Like I said, anything and anybody.) Apparently, Gerald sees great power in Christine (heh) and agrees to “initiate” her immediately.
After a wild ritual with Gerald and a wilder night with Sybil, Christine is nigh unstoppable. Though she became a witch only the night before, Christine awakes with the power of pyrokinesis. But that’s not all. She can also control whomever she chooses, and she chooses pretty much everyone around her. It’s soon clear that Christine is power mad and out to claim Sybil’s role in the coven—but at what price?
Overall, Virgin Witch is a nice looking flick—quite atmospheric and full of the era’s filmmaking artifacts, such as fast zooms and trippy editing. Whether lulling with sophisticated melodies or alarming with atonal wails, the score is very effective in establishing and maintaining mood. For me, the high points of the movie are the two ritual scenes. While the high priest and penitent are humping away on the altar, the rest of the coven starts swaying rhythmically back and forth. But as the altar action heats up, the coven breaks into gyrations that wouldn’t be out of place in a go-go bar. Yes, the hills are alive with the Watusi and the Frug! But even with all the nudity and psychedelic effects, the refined British aura definitely leaks through. Director Ray Austin’s camera lovingly documents stately greens almost as much as it ogles naked women. Leave it to the Brits to try to class up sexploitation.
Essentially, what we have in Virgin Witch is a British witchcraft nudie version of All About Eve filtered through a late ‘60s sensibility. It feels a little like a film that would be made by Hammer Studios’ smuttier cousin. Of course, by this time, with flicks like The Vampire Lovers, Hammer was well on its way to becoming its own smuttier cousin. But Hammer never made anything as salacious as Virgin Witch. Not even close. And I can’t think of a better reason to see it. Can you?
~Theron Neel
Here we are on day three of Slammed & Damned’s 
Kill, Baby…Kill! is a wonderful film and an excellent example of what’s great about Mario Bava as a filmmaker. It’s interesting to step back and view this film in context of the times in which it was made. In the mid-sixties, Britain’s Hammer Studios was making solid, Gothic horror flicks, while in America, Roger Corman was doing the same through American International Pictures. Over in Italy, Bava was making similar films, but he brought a level artistic skill that far surpassed that of his peers. Kill, Baby…Kill! is full of what we love about Bava: artful compositions, expert utilization of shadow and light, an active camera, surprising use of color. Watching this movie today, it’s easy to see the line connecting Bava and Dario Argento, who seems to have picked up where Bava left off—maybe more so than Bava’s son, Lamberto, who acts here as his father’s assistant director.
In honor of the recently knighted Christopher Lee, I declare it Hammer time at Slammed & Damned. In my opinion, you can’t touch Sir Christopher’s portrayal of Count Dracula in the films produced by Hammer studios. So today, we’re going to look at what is usually thought of as the last of Lee’s truly great Dracula movies, 
Young Lord Courtley promises the men delights previously unimagined, if only they trust him and pony up 1,000 guineas ($5,250). For this then-kingly sum, they will purchase Dracula’s cape, signet clasp and a vial of his powdered blood. With that, they will supposedly be able to resurrect the Master by performing a satanic rite and, apparently, enjoy pleasures not of this world. Granted, it’s all rather vague but they go along with it, fools that they are. And as any sane person might expect, these fools are soon in fear for their lives as an annoyed Dracula hunts them down to take vengeance for Lord Courtley, who died in the ceremony. Here’s the twist: Dracula uses the men’s teen children to exact his revenge.
Taste the Blood of Dracula, directed by Peter Sasdy, picks up right where Dracula Has Risen From the Grave (directed by Freddie Francis) ends, and it’s an interesting contrast. Sasdy started directing in the late ‘50s and Taste the Blood of Dracula looks like a film directed by a journeyman trying to adapt to a new era. It moves slowly, but has a few of the “freak-out” camera moves popular at the time. Freddie Francis got his start as a camera assistant in the ‘30s and moved up to cinematographer, working on classic films such as 
But even if he becomes king, Sir Christopher Lee will always be Count Dracula to me. His Dracula wasn’t the suave bloodsucker that Bela Lugosi gave us. Lee’s Dracula was a “love ‘em and leave ‘em” fanged feral animal. He might not have been politically correct, but he knew what he wanted and he got it. Actually, his Dracula really did get it. I believe he died at the end of each of his films but, like Jason Vorhees today, he always managed to come back. Now that I think of it, that’s not a bad description of Christopher Lee himself.
