The "Dr. Orloff" films by Jess Franco have long been viewed as an inferior version of the Frankenstein story because the Monster in the former series is little more than a human robot.  But even a human robot has feelings, if the director chooses to expose them and Franco did just that in the second Orloff installment.  It's a fright film that should be better known to classic horror film fans because it provides a bit of a heart and even a smidgen of a soul to what on the surface seems to be just...

By DAVE DUGGINS

This Christmas we celebrate my love for Italian horror--cheesy or otherwise--by taking on one of Jess Franco’s lesser-known sequels, Dr. Orloff’s Monster.

Before we get into this yummy slice of holiday fruitcake, I offer the following by way of perspective: The Internet Movie Database lists 186 Franco-directed films starting in 1957. The most recent is 2205’s Snakewoman. This is without mentioning the hundreds of films he’s produced, written, and starred in.

This guy has literally been making movies longer than I have been alive. You may be a fan; you may think the guy’s a hack. Whatever your opinion, I say unequivocally that the man deserves respect for the energy and drive required to fuel a fifty-year career in one of the most pressured, cutthroat industries on the planet. I can only hope that I’m still kicking out work when I’m in my seventies. Right on, Jess!

Dr. Orloff’s Monster is only the most ethereally connected sequel to 1962’s The Awful Dr. Orlof, which had so many alternate titles for foreign re-release I could make a separate article out of it. There isn’t much in common with the first film apart from Dr. Orlof himself, who apparently decided to add an "f" to the end of his last name sometime between 1962 and 1964. After the first ten minutes it’s pretty much inconsequential, as Dr. Orloff bequeaths his secret formula for reanimation of the dead to Doctor Conrad Fisherman moments before perishing.

What we’re left with after this introduction is a very dark tale of betrayal and misogynist revenge, liberally dosed with bleak existential philosophies. This may seem like a heady mixture for a "B" movie whose top-billed character is a reanimated corpse, but there really is a lot going on here. It doesn’t always work, but Franco sets his sights pretty high and succeeds often enough to make for some interesting viewing.

It’s useful to keep in mind that the European horror film in general and Italian horror in particular is a study in atmosphere above all else. Italian horror films are often peopled with unoriginal characters spouting clichéd dialogue, conveying a staple plot without much in the way of surprises. Dr. Orloff’s Monster borrows from a very broad and deep pool of pop-culture mythos, the most obvious being Frankenstein’s monster. Interestingly, many of the English-language releases make some reference to Dr. Jekyll, but the duality of man’s nature is not a thematic focus here, and was likely employed in the advertising to "get bums on seats," as our British cousins say.

Neither is the focus is on the concept of bringing the dead back to live (Reanimator) or on its societal consequences (any of Romero’s zombie films). It’s about the pathetic nature of one man, brought back to life against his will, returned to death again without resolution. This is also the engine that powers James Whale’s elegant, brooding masterpiece, Bride of Frankenstein. Hey, if you’re gonna steal, steal from the best.

Things really aren’t great at the beginning of the film, and the naturalistic (or fatalistic, depending on your bent) sense that it’s all going sharply south from there is established very early. Juan Manuel (Jose Rubio), Melissa’s love interest, is the one truly happy character in the whole piece, which only makes him seem shallow, blissfully ignorant of the tragic world around him.

Our first glimpse of Conrad Fisherman’s character is a brooding, introverted sequence featuring a sort of audio flashback in which Orloff confronts his wife following her illicit affair with his brother. The camera hovers dispassionately over Orloff as he lies on the bed, smoking. We move closer, then a little closer, finally gaining intimacy - and then Orloff abruptly sits up, breaking frame and shoving us away. Simple, elegant and effective. That’s about as emotionally close as we get to Orloff, but it’s enough to generate sympathy.

The story moves to Dr. Orloff’s theory of stimulating dead cellular matter with sound waves, as preposterous and far-fetched a theory as ever decorated a grade-Z second bill at the drive-in. The funny thing is, it really doesn’t matter. It’s referred to again at the end of Act II, only when the need arises to create a weakness in the robot-like Andros so he can be destroyed in the film’s conclusion, but apart from that it’s inconsequential. I have never been a part of the "you-must-explain-it-to-me" camp. For all I care, Dr. Fisherman could have stuck black candles in his armpits and recited the book of Revelation backwards to raise Andros. Presto, reanimated dead guy.

Now that you have him, what are you going to do with him?

Dead-guy Andros (Hugo Blanco), is pretty damned creepy, his cadaverous look accomplished through simple waxy-skin makeup and effective lighting. It would have been easy--particularly in 1964--to go totally overboard and have him looking like Gary Conway after a bad weekend drunk, but Italian cinema is all about atmospherics (think I’m kidding? Check out Mario Bava’s ultra-cool Planet Of The Vampires to see how far you can go with a cheesy spaceship model and some colored lights). No papier-mâché face here.

Of course, there’s no such thing as horror cinema without concessions to commerciality. I say there is great attention paid to mood and attempts at conveying something meaningful through the story, and in the same breath I tell you that there are jazz clubs and strippers in fishnets. Yep. Reviewer opinions vary across the Internet as to whether or not the nude scenes were inserted with the director’s permission (one of the sequences features Franco himself as a hepcat piano player, so it’s difficult to imagine him not being at least aware of them). The point is moot, and I’ve been staring at strippers in fishnets for the past three or four months, so I’m used to it. If there hadn’t been any, I probably would have written Renfield a nastygram. Hey, pal, where are my strippers?

Are the scenes necessary? No. Do they detract from the overall proceedings? I’d have to say no. The sequences are brief, and one rather charmingly recalls the shower scene in Psycho. It’s hard not to like just for that reason.

After the first stripper is murdered, we meet Melissa, Dr. Fisherman’s niece. The cliché wheels click neatly into place. She doesn’t want a ride from Juan Manuel, the masher who tried to hit on her at the bar last night, but ends up forced to when her bus departs without her.

The dialogue interplay between Melissa and Juan is genuinely funny. By the end of the ride they’re suddenly chummy enough for Juan to hang around and keep her company, which is a bit of a stretch--but you didn’t think that wasn’t going to happen, did you? Damsels in distress require rescue. Juan Manuel is the resident paladin – or Don Juan, as Melissa herself says.

Ciceron--this film’s version of Frankenstein’s assistant, Fritz--meets Melissa at the gate, scaring the crap out of her in the process. Creepy butlers are all part of the game, too. So are tortured, drunken aunts. Aunt Ingrid fits the bill. Is there a dark secret in her past? She’s clearly unhappy with good old Uncle Conrad.

Melissa sneaks into her uncle’s lab (conveniently situated in a Gothic castle) while he’s trying to get Andros to respond to voice command. She’s only there to introduce herself, but Doctor Fisherman chases her out. Shades of Bluebeard, another myth pool classic that goes all the way back to Pandora.

Dinner is full of stilted, awkward pauses and nasty little glances. Aunt Ingrid’s just a big ball of fun to be around. The doctor explodes on her, shouting at her to be silent. She refuses. Later, the Prof sings the film’s theme song with some choice dialogue. "Is there reason to think youth makes us immune to death? I know that my days are numbered in this vale of sorrow." This is life in the Fisherman household.

Later that night, Melissa sees her uncle sneaking out of the house on some midnight errand. My first bet was the nearby graveyard. Instead, he hits a local jazz club. Apparently, he’s been there before, since the sexy singer and her manager both recognize him. He gives the girl a gaudy necklace, which she apparently considers the height of taste.

Melissa awakens to the sound of Aunt Ingrid thrashing in her sleep. "You murdered him! You murdered him!" The dutiful niece, Melissa goes to her. Ingrid seems more concerned about having revealed names and places during her dreamtime confession. She has said nothing specific…but there’s that picture of Melissa’s father on Aunt Ingrid’s mantelpiece. Ingrid says Melissa’s father died suddenly—mysteriously--on one of the mansion rooms. For any but the most inexperienced viewer, the puzzle pieces practically assemble themselves. But that’s not really the point.

Andros is stuck in his glass cell, staring sightlessly into nowhere (well, everywhere but the camera lens).

Melissa asks Ciceron for the key, who in a roundabout way says he’ll just give it to her, completing his transition from Creepy Butler to Kind Benefactor. Still, just because someone willingly offers you the key to Pandora’s Box doesn’t mean you should open it.

Juan Manuel pays a visit. Ciceron tells Melissa not to let him in the house, as Orloff has sworn that he’ll kill any stranger who sets foot inside. Bad manners, or an extension of that governing pathological hatred of women?

Andros manages to escape his glass prison. At the same time Melissa discovers her father’s old room in the castle. She snoops around with a flashlight, checking out her father’s paintings, his clothes. Andros surprises Melissa. She sees her supposedly dead father, up and walking around, screams, and faints. Dr. Orloff bursts in, appalled at Andros’ ability to move around on his own.

Reanimating the dead never works out the way it’s supposed to. You’d think these mad scientist guys would get a clue after awhile …

Jess Franco plays a jazz pianist in one of the cooler sequences. He tickles the ivories, pondering some unknowable mystery in the middle distance while his blonde hipster girlfriend, wearing shades indoors, works at touching up a stuffed bird. The hipster piano man and his taxidermist girlfriend. Is that cool? Sadly, post-Norman Bates, taxidermy will never be considered a great hobby.

The blonde taxidermist takes a bath, giving us our second nude scene with its kitschy nod to Hitchcock’s best-known thriller. Andros attacks her--unbidden and uncontrolled by Dr. Fisherman--and her towel falls off in the process. It probably gave somebody a thrill in 1964, but these days it’s practically PG-13. Andros kills them both. Thou shalt not suffer a hipster jazz piano player to live.

Ciceron and the good doctor go out into the wilderness (the very creepy boggy wilderness) activating the sound-wave device in an attempt to track down their pet walking cadaver. They find him at his own gravesite in a marvelous scene that features beautiful cinematography, evocative scoring and spare, effective performance. Andros is quite obviously doing his own thinking now. There are only a few moments like this, but they are well worth the price of admission.

We return to the jazz club where Dr. Fisherman previously gave hottie torch singer Rosa a necklace. She’s not a great dancer, but her audience obviously doesn’t mind. The club is packed.

She goes backstage. Andros pursues, strangling her. Andros, the automaton, the personification of Dr. Fisherman’s hatred of women following the thoughtless betrayal of his wife. Heavy psychology, baby. Don’t say I didn’t warn ya.

Andros makes his escape through the thick of the club crowd. Rosa’s manager tries to feed him a knuckle sandwich, but since he’s dead, it doesn’t work out so well.

The cops show up and begin their normal, marginally competent investigation, which is mostly about intimidating drunks and putting two and two together to equal five. Cops cannot be trusted or relied on in horror films. They either don’t believe you or they’re monsters themselves.

Doctor Fisherman convinces Juan Manuel that Melissa doesn’t want to see him again. Melissa has a little heart to heart with him. It goes something like this: Uncle, what’s wrong with me? Nothing. No, I mean, really, what’s wrong with me? I saw my dead father. You hallucinated. The stress of being in your father’s room, of wanting so desperately for him to be alive. But…would I have imagined him with that crap all over his face? What’s wrong with this picture?

Melissa, like any gothic heroine worth her salt, is not buying what the good doctor is selling. She’ll be getting her own answers from now on.

Dead-but-not-really-dead Andros pays another visit to Melissa. This time she doesn’t freak out. She just stares him down, convinced now that he’s really there, for whatever reason. He doesn’t immediately attack her, so he probably doesn’t pose any immediate danger. What do you want? Can you talk?

She escapes the mansion to find Manuel, putting together a plan to solve the mystery (not that it’s really much of a mystery). In an inspired moment of James-Bondian pluck, she tells Juan to wait for her signal in the car outside. Smart girl.

The plan involves her sneaking out of bed after lights out, which means Melissa spends the entire third act running around the mansion in a see-through nightie, which is just fine. She confronts Aunt Ingrid about the terrible secrets of the house. Aunt Ingrid spills the beans in no uncertain terms, just in case this is the first horror movie you’ve ever seen in your life. She had an affair with Conrad’s brother Andros. Conrad found out about it, killed Andros in a fit of rage, and the rest is just under an hour and a half of film footage. There’s your whole story.

Doctor Fisherman hits the bars again. This one’s an opium den, which is way cool. The music in this sequence is really cracked. One completely stoned chick crawls along the floor like a snake, pressing herself all over him. You know she’s not going to last, but she’s great while she does. Life is short. More’s the pity.

Andros takes the body of the stoned chick through the streets of the city and throws her into the canal. Not the smartest move in the world, as you’re bound to be detected. They are, and the watcher makes his report to the cops, leading them (finally) to the discovery that the necklaces are actually ultrasonic transmitters used to attract Andros to the doctor’s victims. A phone call from Aunt Ingrid helps to make this a no-brainer for the boys in blue. They also consult with a scientific geek who tells them that Andros’ Achilles heel is actually at the base of his skull. Now we’re all set for Act III.

In a moment as classic as any "Tales From The Crypt" comic, Andros comes back to visit Ingrid, the love of his youth. He frightens her to death, which sounds like the stalest of clichés (along with hair that goes dead white from sheer terror!) but actually works very well here. The sequence demonstrates Franco’s capabilities in terms of lightning, mood and texture; and in his ability to model a truly great performance. Luisa Sala is wonderful, her reaction a mixture of joy and terror, clutching her heart, breathing her last in the confusion of these warring emotions, her eyes fixed on Andros, the object of her terror and desire.

Dr. Orloff catches Melissa in her plan, trying to strangle her. Andros comes in and polishes off the good doctor. A classic Frankenstein moment. In the ensuing confusion, Melissa sends her signal to Juan Manuel. Manuel rushes in, trying to kill an already dead guy with a gun. But now we know about the weak spot at the base of the skull, so they’re quick to improvise a solution. Melissa will lead Andros to Juan’s hiding place, setting him up for ambush.

Daughter confronts father. They stare at each other meaningfully. Melissa extends her hand … he raises his to take it. She walks. He walks with her--right into Juan Manuel’s bullet. A dead man dies again.

There’s a fascinating disparity between the dubbed English versus the French with subtitles. Andros’ last word is very different in each version. Watch both and see which interpretation you believe Franco would have preferred. As far as I’m concerned, only one makes perfect sense. What’s your take on it?

Andros, Like Frankenstein’s monster, never really wanted to be alive again in the first place. This is where the film really lives, the heart of his message: life is suffering, death much-deserved relief. It is to be welcomed, not feared. It is part of the natural order of things. Resurrection violates that order.

Given a chance, Andros’ last words might even have been, "We…belong…dead."

(Dave Duggins has a poem called "Confession" that  appears in Descending Darkness this month.)

Thanks, Dave.  Although Dr. Orloff's Monster is often overlooked or disregarded by horror fans in general and even some Jess Franco fans in particular, it's a strong entry in the Orlof/Orloff series, a good example of Franco in his early structured Gothic period, and an interesting attempt to bring genuine pathos to what would have passed as a mere bogeyman in the hands of a less talented director.  As in the Frankenstein saga, the monster of Orloff is more of a horror in terms of human tragedy than of sinister science.  It's a classic horror film in that respect, one that deserves your kind attention.

Article copyright © Dave Duggins 

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