Ushered away by the undercurrent of some uncharted territorial waterway, the mostly unknown films of José Ramón Larraz are a warped ride like no other. Not well known enough to be placed on any chart or map, likewise, they are near inexplicable. . . stuck within the cracks of multiple genres, but not beholden to, or perhaps, even accepted by any one of them. A Spanish filmmaker, the early portion of his career is comprised of his English work – five features shot in the rural British countryside, with the two that bookmark this period being looked at here today, 1970’s Whirlpool (a film that was long thought to be lost) and 1974’s Vampyres.
Comprising many of the same themes, the first thing that stands out within the man’s oeuvre is its atmosphere. . . striking doom and gloom – you almost feel like The Rolling Stones’ tune is echoing their mystery – “I had a dream last night, That I was piloting a plane, And all the passengers were drunk and insane, I crash landed in a Louisiana swamp, Shot up a horde of zombies. . . What’s it all about? Guess it just reflects my mood, Sitting in the dirt, Feeling kind of hurt. When all I feel is doom and gloom, And all is darkness in my room. . .”. Whether you are watching the boggy fall forests that surround a picturesque country home in Whirlpool, or the Hammer-esque, dilapidated mansion, with its side doors guarded by two ominous gryphons in Vampyres, there is something unsettling in every minute detail of the way the auteur builds his narratives.
Often, his visual poetry is quite simple, the camera tracking the main character in a close-up from the side. . . trees feel like they are hitting you as they unexpectedly pass in front of the camera (a sort of natural jump scare), or the masterful establishing shots of the jarring shadow and light falling on the overrun gothic abode, but, whatever technique is used, it is effective. In many ways, these movies give the sense of a creative arthouse vibe, even though the subject matter arguably falls outside this realm.
For instance, Whirlpool could be called a possible murder mystery, a voyeuristic thriller, an eccentric horror flick, or a taboo erotic picture. Set at the above mentioned rural home, it is surrounded by a thick, somehow austere forest and an uninviting waterway – the semblance of a near inescapable situation. Within this private setting lives Sarah (Pĩa Andersson), and her so-called nephew, Theo (Karl Lanchbury). Working in the photography realm, middle-aged Sarah continuously brings amateur models (ingenues looking for their big break) home for her unrelated nephew to photograph. With his gaunt cheeks, severe blond hair, unnatural walk, and overly piercing eyes, there is something immediately off-putting about Theo. . . yet you cannot deny that he is good at his craft.
With its title being a major clue as to how the story is told, everything has an almost vertigo-inducing quality. . . its cyclical manner is not in fact twisty, simply mesmerizing in an almost déjà vu type of way. Their most recent find is Tulia (70s glamour model Vivian Nieves), a woman that the unusual pair hope will have the same ‘je ne sais quoi’ as their previous houseguest Rhonda (an Irish lass who has gone missing and has never returned to collect her belongings). . . in essence, Tulia becomes a stand in for this already lived story.
Along the way, unsettling flags pop up – Sarah’s custom cigarettes, the severe amounts of alcohol consumed, the ominous elderly man who always seems to be around (and playing a handmade wooden flute), the way Theo is overly protective of his dark room (barred by two locks), and, of course, Rhonda. Though, in a very un-horror like way, the narrative drive never really speeds up, plodding along at its own meandering pace, the captivating visuals holding you instead of the promise of consistent doses of blood and violence.
Pulling from multiple sources, its poster reads, “More shocking that “PSYCHO”! More sensual than “REPULSION”! More nerve ripping than “BABY JANE”!”, and though you can see the connection to all three – a near androgynous peeping Tom of a young man who is obsessed with his mother figure; the mental degradation of human beings; and the power struggle found within a household – it is still not truly like any of these examples. 1960’s Peeping Tom and 1966’s Blowup should also be thrown into the conversation. . . while the mod styles of the time are also noteworthy (Tulia always looks more than fashionable). And, while we are on the topic, kudos is in order in regards to the film’s tagline, for the lurid “She died with her boots on. . . and not much else”, definitely catches the eye and inflames the imagination.
So, in the end, what is there to say about Whirlpool? Feeding off of a sense of isolation, being trapped and manipulated (it does not necessarily play particularly well in the Me Too era), it really is an unusual watch. . . even more so than Vampyres, which leans a touch more to the traditional horror side. As fringe as you can get, it won’t speak to those who like their films fast paced, over the top, or conservative, but, for adventurous film fanatics, this one might just be the right picture for you.
Vampyres feeds off of the same themes – isolation, entrapment, power, and control, but this time within a ‘creatures of the night’ narrative – so, blood should also be added to the list. Set amongst the crumbling facade of a once stunning manor home (lingering on castle – exteriors shot at Oakley Court – used in many Hammer horror features as well as The Rocky Horror Picture Show, interiors at Harefield Grove), bisexual vampires Fran (Marianne Morris) and Miriam (Anulka Dziubinska), in their outlandish capes, use the British countryside to ensnare local motorists. . . what red blooded, dim-witted man wouldn’t pick up one or two seductive women in Dracula-like attire?
Meanwhile, a young couple, John (Brian Deacon) and Harriett (Sally Faulkner), travelling across country with their camper, have decided to spend a few days on a plot of unkempt land that they think is unowned – it just happens to overlook the same looming derelict building. Another problem arises when Fran falls for one of the men she enmeshes – Ted (Murray Brown), who can’t seem to shake the allure of the ‘unknown’. With the man causing a divide betwixt the two, and a couple infringing on their predatory nature, their life, as they know it, is endangered like never before. Will these present distractions lead to their demise, or can they overcome these hurdles?
Living on the erotic side of horror, Larraz sucks out the sensual nature of the Dracula tale, infusing the story with copious amounts of sex and blood (and, once again, alcohol – this time, fittingly, red wine). With a similar pacing, he once again sets things in motion in an almost predestined way. . . like when everything slows down prior to a car crash and you can already see that it is going to happen. Matched by its authentic settings, the gothic, crumbling architecture echoes the long agelessness of the female vampires – the catacombs of the basement feeding off an almost Vlad the Impaler style disquietude. And, when you consider producer Brian Smedley-Aston mortgaged his house to raise around eighty grand (all that was spent on the movie), it is quite impressive in just how rich and vibrant it looks. An interesting sidenote – the females suck blood from a cut almost like a real vampire bat – somehow more perturbing than straight-forward fang bites.
Though José Ramón Larraz is generally an unknown to most film fans, his abstract style (which is all his own) deserves some note along with other cult filmmakers of the era – whether talking about giallo directors like Lucio Fulci and Sergio Martino, or the gore and nudity infused works of a Jess Franco or Jean Rollin. So, discover what lies even further beneath cult status and take a chance on these two near indefinable motion pictures, pull them out of the locked dark room and into the light (as much as that is unappealing to vampyres).