So this is the one that started it all, so to speak, so long as you consider “it all” to be the first cycle of films based, sometimes extremely loosely, on the works of Edgar Allen Poe, and directed by low-budget legend Roger Corman. Prior to this film, Corman had made a name for himself slapping together drive-in quickies while Price had become a beloved horror film icon working with William Castle. Film production company AIP had specialized primarily in black-and-white genre pictures, made two at a time with ten-day shooting schedules. Everyone came together for this historic meeting of elements that remains, to this day, one of the best examples of American-made gothic horror films. Corman’s Poe films for American International Pictures became to the United States what Hammer films were in England: low budget, wonderfully acted, gorgeously designed horror films dripping with atmosphere and literary tradition. It was Corman’s first picture in scope, and one of AIP’s first color films to be sold as an individual movie rather than as part of a package. It also had an extended shooting schedule – a whopping fifteen days as opposed to ten.
For many, the first official sequel to Hammer’s groundbreaking Horror of Dracula, an oft-neglected film called Brides of Dracula, was little more than a pit stop on the road to this film, the second sequel but first to feature the return of Christopher Lee in the title role of Count Dracula. Hoping to avoid being typecast as Dracula, Lee resisted doing the sequel, and it was another eight years or so before he agreed to don the opera cape once again and reprise the role that made him famous. In that time, he’d built up a pretty solid and diverse career that would ensure he would not become “nothing but Dracula” to the audience. Of course, in the end, he was best known as Dracula, but what can you do? He would, I assume, remain cranky about people calling him Dracula until, some decades later, everyone just started calling him Saruman.
When people talk about the sequence of films that make up Hammer Studio’s “Dracula” series, a good many of them make the eight-year leap from the first film, 1958’s Horror of Dracula to Dracula, Prince of Darkness in 1966. It’s quite a jump, indeed, but one that seems to land you just about where you need to be, with the latter film beginning with a quick recap of the climax from the former. What gets lost in between the two films is the actual first sequel to Horror of Dracula, which is a shame because it’s one of the best in the series, and one of the best vampire films Hammer ever produced.
Whenever someone is promoting a film as either “getting back to the spirit of the original” or “the most faithful adaptation of the novel,” you know you’re going to be in trouble. They never recapture “the spirit of the original” even when the spirit of the original wasn’t that hot to begin with, and the more they crow about how faithful their adaptation is, the less likely it will be to stick to the source material.
Ahh, Sangster and Fisher. If you want my opinion, and you must or else you’d go read a much better website that this, that screenwriter-director team is as integral to the success of the Hammer horror films as the Cushing-Lee acting team. When you make a list of the best films Hammer produced, the Fisher-Sangster duo comes up quite frequently. The whole quartet is at it again with this, Hammer’s third reimagining of a classic Universal Pictures horror icon. By now, there was no real gamble involved in the Hammer formula. Curse of Frankenstein and Horror of Dracula had proven the effort, and Hammer’s only challenge now lie in maintaining the high standards set by those two films. With two Universal legends left, those being the mummy and the Wolfman, Hammer decided to go all old Egypt and bring the bandaged avenger of desecrated tombs into the Technicolor world of Hammer horror.
Hammer Studio’s Horror of Dracula is, without a doubt (at least in my mind), the absolute best vampire film ever made, and quite simply one of the finest examples of proper Gothic horror that’s ever been filmed. It was a busy couple of years for Britain’s Hammer Studio. In 1955, their sci-fi/horror thriller based on the popular TV character Quatermass became a smash hit, and the studio soon learned it was because audiences were hungry for shocking, boundary-pushing films of the fantastic and horrible that still handled themselves with a degree of wit, intelligence, and dignity as would befit a rousing British tale of terror. Inspired by that film’s success, execs turned to studio director Terence Fisher to rework Mary Shelley’s classic tale of Gothic horror, Frankenstein. It was a risky move for any number of obvious reasons, not the least of which was the fact that Universal’s Boris Karloff version of the monster was practically a global icon. Hammer had to come up with a completely new approach to the monster’s appearance, since the Universal version was copyrighted, and they figured that while doing so, they might as well ratchet up the sex and violence and see just how much they’d be able to get away with in a horror movie.
So this is what a Playboy-produced film used to look like. You know, back before they modeled themselves after their brainless FHM style spawns and were still at the very least attempting to inject some cutting edge material in between the shots of naked women with badly feathered 1970s hair. I know the joke is old and tired, but you know there used to even be something worth reading in that magazine. Not so much these days, from what I can tell. I have many vices, but Playboy ceased to be one of them round about the time it forsook that dapper jet-set lifestyle and became just another frat boy publication. And Playboy films? Don’t even get me started. Yeah, I’ve seen one or two. They’re awful erotic thrillers, which I know seems like a silly criticism to level at Playboy films until you consider for a moment that there, for a brief spell in the 1970s, Hugh Hefner decided to throw the Playboy name and money at Roman Polanski’s stylish, intelligent, and grim adaptation of one of Shakespeare bloodiest plays.
Anyone claiming that Spirits of the Dead isn’t a good movie is probably only just saying that because Vadim’s contribution to this anthology of Edgar Allen Poe adaptations as conceived by three of Europe’s maverick directors is so sloppy and unengaging. Vadim’s contribution, “Metzengerstein,” is certainly not the way you’d want to start a film. As was par for the man, Vadim casts his current sexy main squeeze in the lead, which just happened at the time to be Jane Fonda. The duo were fresh off Barbarella, and this story was originally envisioned as a feature film follow-up to that piece of sci-fi pop art. How they could have every stretched this thing out to a full running time is beyond me, though it’s not as if Vadim wasn’t a pro at stretching out thin-to-nonexistent plots and pasting them together with eye-popping, mind blowing costume and set design. Fonda plays the Countess Metzengerstein, heir to a vast fortune she squanders by throwing lavish orgies and torturing the underlings. Actually, they’re rather dull and lifeless orgies. You know, orgies always seem like a good idea until you try and hammer out the logistics of the whole thing. As for me, I’d be too worried about people knocking stuff over. Anyway, she delights in hurling barbs over the fence at her more modest cousin, played by none other than Jane’s brother, Peter. Eventually, she becomes sexually obsessed with him — kind of, well, you know, but then this is Roger Vadim we’re talking about, and it was the sixties — until he rebuffs her advances. I mean, heck, Henry was probably already pretty steamed at the both of them for being a coupla hippies. Incest would have really set him off.
As revenge, the mad Ms. Metzengerstein burns down his stables, and he in turn dies in the fire trying to save his horses. Or so it would seem. A big black stallion bursts through the flames and gallops to safety, but there is no record of such a horse in the stable. Metzengerstein becomes convinced that the horse is the reincarnation of her beloved cousin, and her obsession with the horse crosses into madness and, frankly, borders on bestiality. Despite all the weird stuff thrown into the mix, this is a decidedly dull and uninspired way to kick off the film. The costuming, usually one of Vadim’s only strong points, is relatively without shock or beauty. Jane dons some navel-exposing Little Lord Fauntleroy type outfits, but everything else looks like it’s on loan from the local community theater. The cinematography is listless, and Vadim’s usually striking composition of scenes is non-existent. In addition, everything is shot in soft-focus “Playboy-o-vision.” The English speaking actors are dubbed into French in the currently available version, which means the only way we can judge their performances is through body language, most of which consists of them staring half-stoned at the camera.
The tone of the film is all wrong too, at least in my opinion. A tale of mystery and the bizarre, as this is meant to be, should have some sense of menace and the macabre, some sort of tension. There is none of that here, and the film instead unfolds like a languid, ethereal, and intensely boring dream. Fairy tales and Cocteau Twins songs conjure up more darkness and dread than this supposed Edgar Allen Poe tale. There are some nice crumbling castles and decaying seaside scenery, but Vadim doesn’t seem to understand how to take thematic advantage of it or relate it to the decaying morality and mental state of his central Nero/Caligula-like figure (though I must say I bet Jane Fonda’s figure is better than Nero or Caligula’s). When you fail to match even someone as hit-or-miss with similar atmosphere as, say, France’s Jean Rollin, you know you’re way off the mark. It’s like Vadim wasn’t even trying here. The hilariously silly ending was repeated in Vadim’s 1973 film Don Juan (Or if Don Juan Were a Woman), which we covered right up there at the very beginning of this journal.
Things pick up, but only just, for the second story in the trilogy. Luis Malle directs “William Wilson.” Malle is probably most infamous for flirting with child pornography when he introduced the world to Brooke Shields in his 1978 film Pretty Baby. Before that, he was a member of the French New Wave, which helped get him this gig. He’s pretty far off his game for this outing, though, turning in an entry that manages to be less ponderous and a little more tense and eerie than Vadim’s meandering hunk of nonsense, but it still just doesn’t play out the way it should, perhaps because the story itself has been done so many times and this one offers nothing new. French heartthrob Alain Delon stars as the titular Wilson, whom we meet as he stumbles into a confessional and claims to have killed a man. Through a series of flashbacks, we learn the history of Wilson, who in every regard is a grade-a prick. As a young boy attending a military school where his classmate was no doubt Damien from The Omen II, he encounters a boy with the same name as he who seems dedicated to countering everything he does. He encounters this double, who even grows to look exactly like him, throughout various points in his life until, ultimately, they face one another in a fencing duel.
There’s very little to surprise here. The man fighting his doppleganger, and by killing it killing himself, is nothing new, and Malle’s approach is so straight-forward and by the books that the story, while decent for a single viewing, has nothing more to offer. Like Vadim, Malle seems to almost be phoning it in just to collect his paycheck. The primary difference is that the performers, native French speakers, are better and the story is, as I said, OK at least for the first go-round. Brigitte Bardot shows up briefly in a gambling scene. All in all, the segment isn’t bad. Direction is nice, acting is good, and it moves at a fair clip. There are also a few effective moments, chiefly the scene of a young Wilson lowering a new student into a barrel full of rats and a later scene in which Wilson, now a medical student, seeks to practice his dissection technique on a living subject. So OK, it’s not bad. It’s just not that interesting.
If you make it through the awful first story and middling second, they pay-off is Federico Fellini’s entry, the final piece in the trilogy and easily one of the most delirious, grotesque, and utterly insane forty minutes of film you’ll ever come across. Fellini was known for a lot of things, not the least of which was his fondness for the absurd. If you’re familiar with the director, and you should at least try to be, then try to imagine everything about him and his style distilled down and concentrated in one forty-minute sequence. Quite frankly, it’s almost too much, and that’s simply divine.
His story is “Toby Dammit,” based loosely on Poe’s “Never Bet the Devil Your Head.” A wild-eyed, completely mad looking Terence Stamp stars as Dammit, a drunken, wild British film actor who seems to be hovering on the brink of a career collapse. He travels to Italy to star in a film in which Jesus is reincarnated as a pioneer in the American West, but nothing about his trip to Rome is the least bit ordinary. Fellini saturates his film in colors, and they’re all the wrong ones for what should be going on. Think of film that has been cross-processed. The world of Toby Dammit is awash in red and yellow, billowing orange clouds and dust, like driving through someone’s hallucination of the end of the world. Given the Biblical nature of the film Dammit is to be starring in, it wouldn’t surprise me if Fellini’s own inspiration for the look of the film came straight from the Book of Revelations.
Dammit’s biggest problem, besides his addiction to and disdain for fame, is that he is haunted by visions of a smiling young blonde girl (shades of Mario Bava’s Kill, Baby, Kill) who he believes to be The Devil himself. We follow Dammit onto a bizarre talk show, an even more bizarre awards show, and finally a manic, out of control car ride as he attempts to escape the increasingly bizarre and artificial landscape around him (people on the street are frozen in mid-motion, and eventually become mannequins).
The difference between the two French directors and the Italian Fellini couldn’t be more obvious. He seizes his story with gusto, indulging every bizarre notion that crosses his mind and throwing it all onto the screen with a madcap zeal totally lacking in Vadim’s entry and an absolute lack of predictability as seen in Malle’s. Nothing is the slightest bit real. It’s all highly stylized and has its grotesque alien factor cranked to the very top. Everyone is grossly overdone. Their make-up is outrageous; their movements are more the movements of stage props and puppets. Lights flash and glitter from every angle, and a non-stop of psychedelic detail and sheer lunacy require that you watch the segment several times just to catch everything that goes on in each scene.
And standing above this gaudy, gorgeous horror show, this gleeful dissection of fame and the film industry (or rather, the industries that affix themselves to the film industry) is Terence Stamp, white-faced and genuinely looking like he’s just come of a weeklong binge. He’s haggard and sweaty and pasty and looks utterly spent, while at the same time seeming completely and utterly hysterical. Although in the currently available version all his dialog has been dubbed into French, unlike the Fondas in the first segment, he gives you plenty more by which to judge his frenzied performance. He’s a whirlwind of agitated energy, and it’s one of the best performances in the career of one of England’s best actors. It’s impossible not to compare him here to Malcolm McDowell’s equally cracked performance in 1971’s A Clockwork Orange. I’m no expert on the film, but I’m willing to bet Stamp’s turn as Dammit (right down to the wild driving scene) was a major influence on both Kubrick as director and McDowell as actor. Spirits of the Dead is owned by Fellini’s segment, and Stamp owns that segment. It is sublime, and a must-see.
Where Vadim and Malle try, or we assume they try, to invoke dreamlike and Gothic horror atmospheres respectively, grounding themselves in historical settings and costumes, Fellini sets his film in a warped and twisted version of the present, a fever dream where the mood he goes for is more one of psychosis and hysteria than creeping dread (or oozing boredom, in Vadim’s case). “Toby Dammit” is as funny as it is warped. It is a celebration, in it’s own way, and by dispensing entirely with the “typical” Poe setting, Fellini seems to have achieved the only truly eerie Poe feeling in the entire anthology, though it might be Poe on one of his famous drug binges. Every scene drips with the promise of menace, albeit a completely absurd one, and his ending is as comical as it is spooky. And those images of the maniacally grinning little girl/Satan? Positively brilliant. The whole thing is an orgy of a psychotic, surreal Hell on Earth populated by annoying comedians and glittering women in gigantic false eyelashes.
So skip the first segment. Sit through Malle’s middle segment, but for the devil’s ball-bouncing sake, don’t miss Fellini’s finale. It’s the sort of lunatic filmmaking that makes you happy to be watching a movie. It’s a five-star segment trapped in an otherwise two-star film, but more than justifies the effort of getting through the film.
Chor Yuen’s mind-blowing Magic Blade is a prime example of something I’ve always appreciated about kungfu films. You see, there are certain things that, while deemed horrible in real life, are perfectly acceptable and even admirable activities for the hero of a kungfu film. I’m not talking about the obvious will-nilly killing of anyone who offends you in some way. No, I’m talking about, first foremost, the stamp of approval kungfu films put on beating up senior citizens. Outside of an Adam Sandler film, no one is going to cheer for a hero who beats grannies and tries to skewer them with elaborate bladed weapons. Even street thugs who don’t give a damn about anything won’t stoop so low as to mess up someone’s grandma. That’s why grandmas can get in between two jackasses waving guns at each other and send them home with tail between legs using nothing but harsh words and an umbrella or oversized pocketbook or maybe an oversized copy of The Bible.
This sun-drenched French production set in St. Tropez, one of the first for that country shot in color and scope, is famous — or notorious, if you prefer — for several reasons. For starters, it is the film that launched the career of Roger Vadim, a member of the French new wave in cinema who looked at his films as more of a fashion and art design show than as a way to actually tell a story. His tendency to romance beautiful women, them feature them in his films wearing as little as he could get away with, is among his many great contributions to global society. And here, in his debut film, he decided to give the world Brigitte Bardot.
I said when I reviewed the final Vadim-Bardot collaboration the dreary-yet-intriguing Don Juan (Or if Don Juan were a Woman), that a film of that sorry caliber was not the proper place to discuss the life and times of Brigitte Bardot, that she deserved something a little more impressive. Well, you can’t find a much better place to discuss her than here, the film that launched her to superstardom. She had been working in film since 1952, but this was the one that turned her into the endearing cinematic icon she would become. She started out training in music and dance but quickly moved into modeling and, as seems to often be the case, film. During the first year of her film career she met Vadim, and they planned to wed just as soon as it was legal (she was 17 at the time). Hey, it was France after all. Their marriage only lasted five years. Vadim was a legendary womanizer, after all, and a young Jane Fonda was waiting to become his next muse.
But the Bardot juggernaut was rolling, and she became a huge hit in America despite remaining a wholly French performer. Her photos and dubbed movies created a sensation and outraged Puritanical thinkers who were shocked at the level of sauciness her films often displayed. Yeah, that old chestnut. Will grumpy, uptight American blowhards ever get tired of being shocked and outraged at everything? This overblown reaction to everything, this desperate attempt from so many people to seem shocked and outraged by everything just so they can create a scandal or a sensation where none exists, is perhaps one of my least favorite things. It would be different if the shock was ever genuine, but no, it’s always something concocted purely to make waves in the media, who being utterly and fantastically idiotic and useless and an insult to the entire history of journalism, lap it up like mad dogs (if, indeed, mad dogs lap things up more fervently than regular dogs. You know what I mean). And lest you think I’m aiming my criticism purely at “the Conservative right,” let me throw into the ring that colossally moronic parade of indignation that was parades through the Left simply because Dick Cheney told someone to go fuck themselves, or way back when G.W. called a NY Times reporter an asshole. Or any of the countless times some innocuous something or other sends a money-hungry lawyer into fits of hysteria because it might offend someone somewhere, possibly.
Man alive, it’s enough to send me into fits of moral outrage. We live now in a society where sexuality comes in two flavors: either we’re totally repressed or we’re totally pornographic. That middle ground where things are playful and fun and teasing and healthy seems to have been eliminated from our concept of sex. We’re either uptight moral watchdogs fuming over some pop star’s boob or we’re ten-year-olds in thongs freak dancing in some lewd video full of sweaty strippers and guys in needlessly baggy trousers. We’re a nation of extremes growing ever further apart, even though in reality, I would bet most people are somewhere in the middle wishing the nutjobs on either edge would just shut the hell up. But that’s not going to happen, and as long as the middle doesn’t speak up and increase the noise even more, we just have to endure the crazies around us and hope that they keep canceling each other out as we remind ourselves most of them don’t even believe what they’re screaming about. They’re just trying to get more time on television.
So what does any of this have to do with Brigitte Bardot, Roger Vadim, and And God Created Woman? Well, it’s that same old story, though I guess it was newer in 1956 than it is now, but it was still pretty old even then. The film opens with a playful nude profile of BB as she sunbathes amid sheets of flapping laundry. This is back when people hung things out on lines to dry, you know. This was pushing what you could show in any film that wasn’t playing in the grindhouse and featuring a plotline about an escaped gorilla that terrorizes a nudist colony, but the French seemed to roll with it (the nudity, that is; not hanging laundry out to dry). Say what you will about their snootiness. At least they know not to get totally outraged at something like a naked butt. That could be their national motto.
When the film sought release in the United States, however, we trotted out our usual shock and outrage. Or rather, the handful of cranky sons of bitches in charge of such things trotted it out on our behalf without ever stopping to inquire as to whether the greater portion of America was actually going to be as offended as they were telling us we were. But even more so than a glimpse of Bardot’s behind, the powers in charge of national outrage were outraged, it seems, simply by the naked sensuality in the film, even though it wasn’t accompanied by actual nakedness, and by the open depiction of a woman who is at ease with her sexuality, her own body, and not prone to play the demure and loyal housewife. It seems, almost, that Vadim’s picture was made specifically for this sort of reaction. It is the story of a sexually liberated woman named Juliete who is perfectly nice and friendly but, because of her tendency to do things like mambo with them colored folks, is considered a trollop by the small-minded villagers around her. Conversely, the men in the film are all highly regarded and can do no wrong because they are successful and society-minded men, never mind how rotten they may actually be. Their transgressions can be forgiven since they are men, and well-dressed men at that.
Compounding Juliete’s problem is that she is an orphan adopted by a stern couple that doesn’t approve of her free spiritedness and are planning to send her back to the orphanage unless she settles down and gets married. I didn’t know you could send grown adults back to the orphanage, but I guess there are a lot of things I don’t know. She eventually finds a man she could love, but he treats her like a one-night stand and takes off the next day. His younger, more sensitive brother takes pity on her and falls in love, and eventually the two are married against the wishes of nearly everyone. Things get more complex with a wealthy shipping magnate takes an interest in her as well, and even more complicated when the older brother returns with romance on his mind. Although the men think of Juliete as a “destroyer of men,” Vadim’s film is positively on the side of the heroine. She’s the victim not just of opportunistic men, but also of the backward attitudes of those around her.
Though the film is somewhat sympathetic to Juliete, she is not without her faults. She is unable to remain faithful to her husband, though you could say this was simply because she was more or less forced into the marriage by circumstance. She seems less malevolent than she is simply innocent and ignorant of the fact that she, as a woman, is expected to do anything other than behave like the men around her, which means she should be free to flirt and sleep with whomever she wants. She comes across at times and thoughtless and impetuous, sometimes selfish, and as unable to control herself as the men around her. Like them, she wants to disregard any responsibility she should take for her own actions. All of them deserve a good kick in the bum to wake them up. However, it’s not Juliete fault the men turn into a bunch of leering goons every time she comes around — even though that seems to be the pervading (and damnably persistent) attitude of society at large, where the woman is always to blame when a man gives in to temptation or acts like a vicious cur.
It became difficult, if not impossible, to separate the movie from the controversy it caused. Well, it’s been a few years since 1956, so it’s easier now to look at the film on its own merits, though it certainly gets points still for having caused such a stir. And separate from said controversy, it’s an enjoyable film for me. Vadim would become famous for his art design and composition, and though this film lacks the eye-popping op-art madness of films like Barbarella, it’s still supremely gorgeous. Vadim takes full advantage of color and the richness of the lush Mediterranean setting. He alternates between painfully composed art shots and wild naturalism, using the wide scope format to its fullest to convey a sense of serene beauty and haunting desolation amid the color-drenched French seaside.
Of course, let’s not kid ourselves, since this is a Vadim picture. It is a serviceable psycho-sexual drama, but like most of his films, it’s rather sloppy in the narrative department and wanders without a care between art and exploitation. The plot is breezy at its heaviest, and the few times it attempts to inject serious drama into the proceedings are clumsy. It’s unevenly paced and drags in spots, but I’m partial to a slower film these days anyway. And of course, every single reviewer will refer to the formerly shocking scenes like the bare bottom or the mambo finale as “rather tame by today’s standards,” which has always been a phrase that I don’t like. Can’t say exactly why, other than to relate it to my even more fervent distaste for the “looks dated” criticism. Maybe it’s because it just seems stupid. Okay, we get it. Standards have changed in the past half a century. That’s not exactly a news flash. Personally, I think this film remains plenty daring and sexy, if not for what it shows then certainly for what it has to say. The “woman in touch with her sexuality” line has been trotted out countless times since this film as if it remains something new, daring, or unique. It’s much more enjoyable to go back to a film where it was new, daring, and unique. What the film manages to do with its daring, however, is where the wheels start to come off.
The film seems confused about what to do with its theme and often comes across as reactionary as it is progressive. It seems unable to make up its mind whether it wants to stick by Bardot’s character or pull the ol’ morality tale ending and teach us all a valuable lesson about the wanton ways of womanhood. If it seems hesitant to support the woman, it’s also hesitant to condemn the men, resulting in a film full of mixed messages. It doesn’t help that the dialogue is often campy and stilted. Vadim was never one for a stellar script, after all. Rather than try to decipher the message the film itself seems unable to bring into focus, it’s best to look at the film as something of a time capsule, of masculinity on the cusp of a new era trying to come to grips with a new breed of woman it fears and cannot fully comprehend.
But Brigitte is the main attraction, and she truly shines here in a film that could almost be summarized as a series of provocative postcards, or as a love letter to the form of Brigitte Bardot. She’s playful, charismatic, and hints at a touch of devilishness. It is quite easy to understand why the men around her are willing to throw their lives into disarray (even as they blame their weakness on her) for her affections. She is hypnotic and possessed of a quality few women have been able to convey onscreen. Her supporting cast is quite good too, including a turn by future James Bond villain, Curd Jurgens, here as the charming older captain of industry Carradine and later in The Spy Who Loved Me giving Roger Moore and Barbara Bach a hard time. But everyone else pales in comparison to BB, who was one of the few mode-turned-actress sex kitten types with real acting ability behind the pout to die for. Her mambo madness during the film’s finale is a sight to behold, that’s for sure.
Ultimately, the film’s aspirations slightly outreach its ability to deliver, but we’re left, if nothing else, at least with a film that had aspirations and looks damn good while trying to attain them. Bardot is stunning, the cinematography is divine, and the story may not be perfect, but it’s still a satisfying film for me. Is it art or cheap titillation? Well, does it really even matter? Is there a difference? As I’ve always maintained, what counts in a film, and with any sort of medium isn’t whether or not some body of strangers pronounces it as “art” or as “important.” What matters is, “did you enjoy it?” and “did it entertain or move you?” And you know, I did and it did, and that’s that. Like any Roger Vadim film it’s flawed, and things really start to fall apart the closer you examine the confusing messages behind the pretty pictures and see a movie that manages to be sexy, sexist, and sexually liberating all at once, that somehow is pro- and anti-feminist at the same time. In the end, what you have to remember is that this train wreck of moral messages is simply more proof that even at the beginning of his career, Vadim was far more interested in the image than the story. And God Created Woman emerges as an exploitation film wrapped in a art film — something that would become Vadim’s trademark. You can’t necessarily take it seriously, but that’s probably for the best. If you did, it would just make your head spin.
Bardot would go on a spectacular career full of many bad movies and a few more good ones. Her marriage to Vadim crumbled shortly after the completion of this film. In the end, the fact that she was reportedly a rather kind and generous person got the better of her, and relentless tabloid attention (you didn’t think those were new inventions, did you), crazed fans breaking into her home, and ultimately demonization simply for the fact that was sexy and willing to show the fact off, drove her to the brink of a breakdown. She retired from film in the early 1970s and did her best to disappear entirely from the public eye, eventually becoming active in the fight for animal rights. Vadim would reunite with her for her final picture, and then in 1988 go on to remake/rewrite And God Created Woman with Rebecca DeMornay in the lead.
Release Year: 1956 | Country: France | Starring: Brigitte Bardot, Curd Jurgens, Jean-Louis Trintignant, Jane Marken, Jean Tissier, Isabelle Corey, Jacqueline Ventura, Jacques Ciron, Paul Faivre, Jany Mourey, Philippe Grenier, Jean Lefebvre, Leopoldo Frances, Jean Toscano, Marie Glory | Writer: Roger Vadim | Director: Roger Vadim | Cinematography: Armand Thirard | Music: Paul Misraki | Producer: Raoul Levy | Original Title: Et Dieu… crea la femme