Jukebox Heroes III: ‘Killer Barbys vs. Dracula,’ ‘Rock n’ Roll Frankenstein’

The movie’s called Killer Barbys vs. Dracula, but the winner is Jess Franco and the loser is whoever decides to watch.

The Killer Barbies – the spelling was changed in the title to appease the Mattel® gods – are a Spanish rock band whose frontwoman (“Silvia Superstar”) flaunts a figure that does the title justice.  Prancing about in fishnets and a skull-and-crossbones bikini, she belts out surprisingly agreeable pop-punk.  Silvia doesn’t always hit the notes, and apparently doesn’t care; on their website, the band’s mission statement begins, “Perfection is always a matter of opinion.”

Which makes them perfect accomplices for director Jess Franco.  If you think you’ve never seen a Franco film, you’re probably wrong:  Probability is in his favor.  His imdb entry lists sixty-four aliases (including Jesus Franco, Wolfgang Frank, and Betty Carter) and 181 movies... and that was yesterday.  Tomorrow, who knows?  Franco will probably not stop until he makes a movie for every single man, woman, and child on the planet.  And then, on to your pets.

They’re not good movies, of course.  Even the term “movie” might seem a bit kind.  While the proverbial infinite number of monkeys have yet to produce a single Shakespeare play, they’ve probably churned out four or five Franco films.  The editing is haphazard at best, the composition often suggests that someone put the camera down and left it running, the plots are usually as well-defined and entertaining as a wet fart.  The actors may or may not know they’re being filmed.  The same scenes often wind up in several different movies.

Franco is best known as the director of kinky softcore horror flicks (Vampyros Lesbos, Succubus) and loose (ha!) adaptations of the works de Marquis de Sade (Eugenie... the Story of Her Journey Into Perversion), but this Killer Barbys outing barely rates a PG-13.  Were it not for a brief flash of random nudity and a lot of dubbed profanities, I’d suggest it as punishment for wayward children.

Shot on video, this German-Spanish co-production has been dubbed into English by Australians and takes place at a mock-American amusement park.  More countries were involved with this flick than our invasion of Iraq, but it speaks the universal language of Awful. 

The Barbies are giving a concert at the Costa del Sol amusement park when “the mummy of Dracula” (kept in a high-security BARN) comes to life and starts terrorizing the people who work there (because there are no park patrons, ever).  In the mix are the bickering co-owners (who look like Fernando Rey and Paul Bartel), one of whom has fantasies about starring in some sort of musical pirate revue; Bela B., the lead singer of the German outfit Die Ärzte, who is supposedly a descendant of Bela Lugosi; a performer who claims he’s “The Real Dracula” (what he’s doing working at a country-and-western-themed attraction is never made clear); a Frau Blücher-like Transylvanian emissary who screams dated stuff about capitalist decadence; and a blind Van Helsing character gifted with the inability to provide competent comic relief.

None of that matters, ‘cause when Dracula comes to life he pretty much attacks everyone willy-nilly.  He even goes for the neck of another vampire, which doesn’t seem particularly kosher.  All this happens, of course, in broad daylight.  The cemetery scenes take place in the brightest, happiest-looking graveyard I’ve ever seen.  It takes a little while, but the movie finally decides that it wants to be a comedy... which is the scariest thing it could have done.  No one connected with the film – not even I, after having watched it – has a sense of humor. 

There are words to describe how bad this movie is, but those words are so vile that they’ve been banned from the Internet.  It took only eleven minutes before my head started to pound; a half-hour in I started praying that someone would shove a meat thermometer into my ear. 

I could be projecting, but after a while the movie actually starts hating itself.  The “Play” function on the DVD menu reads “Start Sucking” (it’s the only funny and true thing about the whole enterprise).  Franco – who also did the score – starts dubbing urination sound effects over several consecutive scenes.  He fiddles randomly with video f/x, a bored child whose only toy is a TINT knob.  He desperately tries to match stolen carnival footage of a crowd with a scene where he had only a dozen extras.  I guess that when you’re making your infinity-plus-oneth movie, you stop caring much about the content and just keep hacking away.  At some point, Killer Barbys vs. Dracula just gives up on being a movie.  You want to give it a Xanax.

Unlike other rock-star-as-hero movies, the Killer Barbies don’t really have to save the day – though Silvia eventually (and unnecessarily) adds a hammer blow or two to the stake in the Count’s chest; in this context, the Barbies simply have to save us from the movie itself.  It could be an awful movie by design:  No matter how badly shot and badly lip-synched they are, the musical sequences (there’s a catchy number called “Wake Up,” and Silvia and Bela B. cover the Iggy Pop/Kate Pierson duet “Candy”) provide welcome rescue from the barbamulguh the rest of the flick has become.  The band can’t help but look good in comparison.

It’s a futile bit of resistance, though.  Franco is still at the helm, ruling by the twin principles of indifference and ineptitude.  When Silvia finally sings, live, in one scene, Franco drowns her out with an offscreen marching band.  And in the end, no matter how far the KB’s get from Casta del Sol and the undead (or... is he?) Count Drac, they’re still stuck in a goddamn Jess Franco flick.

Yes, I made “barbamulguh” up.  It’s just that bad.

Rock N’ Roll Frankenstein doesn’t fit into the rocker-as-hero genre, but it’s an interesting little horror-comedy that takes some bold chances.  It fails, mostly, but points for trying.

A foul-mouthed agent is sick of rock stars bailing on him just as they get successful; he wants some talent he can own.  His nephew is a brilliant-but-scandalized scientist who has learned how to regenerate body parts.  Together, they assemble the original mash-up:  Hendrix’ hands, Sid Vicious’ ass, Keith Moon’s legs, Elvis’ head get all shook up into a monster known as “The King.” 

The bulk of the low-budget, shot-on-video flick concerns the monster’s sexuality.  In lieu of the Frankenstein brain-swap, it’s the other thinking cap that’s messed with, here:  Drug-addled lab assistant Iggy is sent to swipe Jim Morrison’s lizard king from someone who collects rock n’ roll genitalia; he comes back, instead, with Liberace’s candelabra.  Unfortunately, the movie tries to stitch together modern-day PC talk – King is encouraged to embrace his sexuality, and not to “knock it ‘til he tries it” – with some petty homophobia (the penis – it speaks in voice-over with Liberace’s voice – screams all sorts of nastiness, often pining for “Dingleberries!”); the attitudes reject each other, and the movie falls apart.

There a couple good laughs, and the odd clever idea (at one point, the agent fears what would happen if all the body parts’ original contract-holders claimed royalties).  One huge liability is the music:  Unable to afford a decent soundtrack, there’s one bar-band number that’s supposed to showcase the monster’s brilliance... and it’s less than dim.  Overall, the craft is poor, the acting is rotten and too much of the humor fails to get off the table.

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