The Great Villain Blogathon: Paul Morrissey’s Baron Frankenstein

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Just a laboratory and a dream

…and a lot of disemboweling

There is a lot of yelling in Paul Morrissey’s Flesh for Frankenstein, primarily overbred aristocrats shouting at peasants. One of the things that makes this film so special is what the rich are yelling about: zombies. And sex.

If Shelley’s Victor Frankenstein was a man driven by grief (and sex), Paul Morrissey’s Baron Frankenstein is a mad scientist by way of a porn film. Don’t let the porn put you off, though. Flesh for Frankenstein is a great parody of sex and violence in films, with some giggles tossed in the direction of nationalism and upper-crusty aestheticism.

03 nasumThis Frankenstein, played by naturally villainous Udo Kier, is looking to create a master Serbian race. The plan is to piece together a male zombie and a female zombie who will mate, producing perfect “children” who will take orders only from the Baron. “How can I wait for nine months?!” he moans to Otto, his lab assistant. The Baron is only half of a repulsive duo, however. He’s married his sister, Katrin (Monique von Vooren), with whom he’s had two predictably appalling children in the more usual way. Katrin speaks all her lines in a tone of magnificent, indignant outrage. All her favorite sentences start with “How dare you—”

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She’s not a nice person, either.

The film is a glorious unraveling of absurdity, all emanating from Kier’s Baron. Frankenstein, as portrayed by Kier, is the crazed cousin of Shelley’s anti-hero, godfather to the grown-up children of Spider Baby (1967). Kier is able to maintain a pitch of insanity so over the top that we aren’t often distracted by Otto, played by Arno Juerging, who is bonkers enough in his own right. Left alone with the female zombie he begins tonguing the enormous incision on her torso, eyes popping out of his head.

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It would be hard to take your eyes off Otto…

 

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…if it weren’t for this sort of thing. And the screaming.

It’s hard to think of the Baron as evil because his villainy is so performative and so histrionic. Because he says things like:

“Make him unconscious! But don’t kill him or damage his head in any way. I need his brain for my zombie!”

Words can’t really do justice to Udo Kier’s operatic nuttery. Below is the climactic end of the Baron and almost the end of the film. It won’t exactly ruin the film to see this part first, and, believe it or not, there are several other sequences that rival this one’s cavalier sprint past the limits of decency and moderation.

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If you’re wondering why the liver spends so much time dangling in front of you there, it’s because the movie was filmed and meant to be screened in 3D. Yum.

The voyeurism and even some of the shot set-ups of Morrissey’s film reminded me a bit of Peter Greenaway’s A Cook, the Thief, His Wife, and Her Lover (1989). The characters in Flesh spy on each other and the Baron’s rooting around in opened torsos is a viscous sort of voyeurism. The Greek roots of “autopsy” mean “to see for oneself,” after all. Old-fashioned planimetric staging is used in both films as well–around dinner tables, even.

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As much fun as Flesh for Frankenstein is, however, I have to say I much prefer Greenaway’s film. Maybe it’s just Greenaway’s use of color.

Perhaps the ultimate villainy in Flesh is that the Baron and Katrin appear to have passed along their aristocratic desire to toy with the lives and bodies of lower class persons to their stock creepy kids. They reminded me a bit of the children in The Innocents (1961), the adaptation of Henry James’s ghost story, The Turn of the Screw. The final shot of the children and the surviving adult—poor Joe Dellasandro—is easily the most horrific moment in the film.

If you’ve heard anything about Flesh for Frankenstein, you’ve probably heard the infamous line about knowing death. It’s been noted that the line “is a pointed parody of Marlon Brando’s pretentious line from Last Tango in Paris about “crawling up the ass of death.” It’s hard to fault a film that parodies the pretension of that film with the line, “To know death, Otto you have to f**k life…in the gallbladder!” Pile the innards sex on top of hearty servings of hedge clipper beheadings, sprays of arterial blood (regardless of the source), and Udo Kier, and how can you say no?

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