Bloodsucking Freaks (1976)

Movie: Bloodsucking Freaks (1976), directed by Joel M. Reed

Watched on: Shudder

Ran: 6.30 miles, 8’49”/mile, 55:35 (recovery run)

 

I’d never seen Bloodsucking Freaks, though I’d certainly heard of it—most horror fans probably have, as it’s one of those infamous titles that gets thrown around as an example of a Z-grade movie that would be too sick to stomach were it not so laughably inept. I hadn’t heard any details about it, though, and wasn’t even aware that it was a Troma film—you know, the folks who brought us The Toxic Avenger? But it turned up on a list of the 50 Worst Films Ever Made that I’d stumbled across in my travels, so I checked around, and, yep, wouldn’t you know it, it was available on Shudder. So I gave it a shot, and it was both not at all what I expected and 110% EXACTLY what I expected.

 

First off, I should probably get this out of the way: it’s an extraordinarily ugly film. It’s vile. It’s contemptible and gross, and not just because of the gore. Basically, you really don’t want to watch this unless you have a VERY strong stomach—not for blood, nor even for graphic violence (the effects are poor enough that I doubt anyone’s going to be much put off by them). The thing about Bloodsucking Freaks that will really get to a lot of viewers is a streak of misogyny so far advanced it’s essentially a gangrenous limb that fell off, became self-aware, and is happily living out its days as a self-sustaining infection.

 

Let’s talk about the plot. Oh, you heard there wasn’t a plot? So did I—I was under the impression that Bloodsucking Freaks was little more than a series of unconnected scenes of gory violence—sort of a Faces of Death dynamic—but I was laboring under a misapprehension: it’s actually a series of scenes of gory violence connected via an ACTUAL STORY, albeit a thin and preposterous one. Master Sardu, assisted by the diminutive Ralphus, has an off-off-Broadway “theater of the macabre,” basically a Grand Guignol nudie show in which naked women are brutally tormented and killed onstage. The audience thinks it’s all fake, but nope, it’s real. Sardu, who funds his theatrical endeavors via international white slavery, craves validation from the art world, and thus takes exception to some harsh words from critic Creasy Silo. Sardu has Ralphus kidnap both Silo and renowned ballerina Natasha Di Natalie to star in his grand vision of a ballet of torture and death. Natalie’s boyfriend, pro football player Tom Maverick, enlists the help of crooked cop John Tucci to find the missing Natalie, while the opening night of Sardu’s twisted vision draws nearer…

 

…Aaaand while all that’s going on, Sardu and Ralphus are happily gambling with severed fingers, decapitating schoolgirls and having sex with the remains, giving women to a demented doctor so that he can drill into their heads and suck out their brains with a straw, etc. etc. etc. It’s an ever-escalating list of outrages that reminded me of how Pink Flamingos keeps upping its shock value, except the outrages in Bloodsucking Freaks almost exclusively deal in the torture, rape, and murder of naked women. If I thought that this was strictly because the filmmakers knew it would be the easiest way to shock their audience, that would be one thing, but that is not at all the impression I get. Everything about the violence-on-women scenes feels… mean-spirited, I guess? Like, the film could have taken a satiric approach, or even just remained repugnantly neutral about it all, but instead somehow you get the very palpable sense that this movie is taking the plausibly deniable but ultimately unmistakable stance that raping and dismembering women for fun is the bee’s knees.

 

One could imagine that position to be slightly at odds with the movie’s attempts at social commentary. What’s that? You also heard that Bloodsucking Freaks doesn’t have any social commentary? Well, it doesn’t have much, but surprisingly, it does make a distracted and feeble attempt at it. For one thing, you do get a sense that at least on some level you’re watching a satire of the ’70s New York City art scene, with the critics as haughty gatekeepers that suppress “true art” in favor of what’s safe and commercial. For another, you’ve got Sardu, a rich white guy with a posh accent, taking visible delight in both literally and figuratively bleeding the rest of humanity dry while he satiates his deviant desires. I don’t mean to say this film is an intentional satirical indictment of capitalism, but hey, one can dream. Oh, and let’s not forget how the cops are portrayed: Sgt. Tucci flat out tells Tom that the NYC police won’t lift a finger to help unless he hands over $10,000. And who can forget the scene when Tom first calls 911 to report Natalie’s disappearance, and gets an answering machine? So yeah, it has things to say, though not overly much and not especially well.

 

That said, though, there is definitely more to Bloodsucking Freaks than I had been led to believe, and when I caution people about seeing it, it’s more out of concern for viewers’ sensibilities than because I think the film ought not to be seen. If you do watch it, though, and you’re not completely irredeemable, be forewarned that you might need six or eight Silkwood showers before you start to feel clean again.