Necklines plunge in this sapphic Hammer Horror film. Apparitions clad in shrouds roam misty cemeteries, and chain-link fences encircle tennis courts in the 1700s. After a fake fur with eyes climbs in bed with a young girl, she suddenly becomes ill and weak, and naturally her doctor prescribes a glass of port because that was considered both medicine and blood-thickening food back then. How did we as a species survive vampire attacks in the 1700s if the only people who were capable of curing illnesses went from estate to estate both drinking and prescribing port? Since necklines plunged to women's bellybuttons 300 years ago, why was it hard to diagnose a bad case of breast-biting vampirism since everyone's cans were on display? I don't know. Anyway, no one seems to suspect the couch-surfing, well-appointed lady vampire wearing see-thru negligees, and she roams from estate to estate like a port-drinking doctor causing governesses to rend their toast, probably because the aristocracy were reticent in the 1700s to kick negligee-wearing lady vampires to the curb due to appreciating the lacy, well-appointed view, and probably because they all drank too much port. Can you blame them, really? Are you going to throw a sunset or an oil painting or an oil painting of a sunset out with the bathwater just because that lacy oil painting of a well-appointed sunset might drain you of blood, causing you to waste away in your bed and die a hideous 18th-century death with the port painfully out of reach? No, I don't think so. They know what side their toast is buttered on.
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