New review: Son Of Dracula

All together now: “I caaaaan’t liiiiiive, if living is withooouutt yooooo-oooo--ooou, I can’t liiiiiiiiiiive, I caaaaan’t give aaaaannymooooooooooore….”

In case you hadn’t guessed, I’ve been really punishing myself on your behalf recently. Warm on the heels of reviewing the not-exactly-great Bloody New Year (honestly, you’re welcome), here’s another new review of an absolute stinker.

Give me a Dennis Price!

(Yay!)

Give me a Freddie Jones!

(Yay!)

Give me a Suzanna Leigh!

(Hoorah!)

Give me a Nilsson-the-pop-singer!

(Erm, okay?)

Give me a Ringo Starr!

(Shit, you’re kidding?)

What have you got?

(Oh good God, noooooo!)

Yup, you have. 1973’s Son Of Dracula is finally here.

There’s a general view round here that 1973 was the absolute peak year when it comes to British horror classics. That may still be the case despite Son Of Dracula, but it’s a close-run thing given the astonishing drag factor this film presents. And I’ve not yet got around to watching The Sinful Dwarf (also 1973). That may very well tip the scales.

But for the time being, we have this packet-of-cheese-and-onion-Ringos-in-the-crisp-cupboard for your delectation.

Is it any good? Ha - if you need to ask that, you need to read the review. Which you can, right here.

Enjoy.

And remember:

“I caaaaaannnnn’t liiiiiiiiiiiive….”