I must it Herbert West’s elevator pitch for necrophilia convinced me. I would love for a necrotic assemblage of god’s failures to offer me her still beating heart.

I adore the cold, rock-ribbed beaches where this was filmed. Egregious Massachusetts law provides costal property owners with privatized access that unjustly denies the public from significant tracts of shoreline despite it being considered public land. Also, somebody eats a baby.

Saturn, mad titan and cannibal king, devoured his children rather than resign his throne. Illustrating the unforgiving progression of time that he personifies, Saturn’s hunger consumes everyone. Appropriately, Teri McMinn’s character references the god gorger during her batty astrological reading.

A fraternity of hedonists conspire to resurrect their antediluvian darling, Dracula. Cloaked in cultural signifiers of respectability, the resident elite resort to black magic thrills after overindulging their boorish appetites. Would that I were half the man as Christopher Lee then the world would worship at my elegant feet.

I unironically adore this miscarriage of a movie. No guilty pleasures, just pleasure.

Many reviewers allege the film isn’t redeemed by Sybil Danning flashing her magnificent tits 17 times during the credits. I must disagree.