Sooner or later anyone doing the rounds of horror is confronted with Rollin; the sensually paced, purely ephemeral wanderings around mansions or cemeteries, at least in his better films, pale naked skin dripping with blood, almost always. It is relatively easy to deal with them, with none of the hard anchors in story or characters one either concedes to dream with him or not.
So yes, largely nonsense in conventional terms, here about a man who is stranded in a secluded château with a host of beautiful women who are waiting for midnight to perform a mysterious ritual, but attached to a poetry of images.
The frequent comparison is to Jess Franco; but whereas Franco at his best intuited feverish images that always seemed to zoom at the verge of cacophony, Rollin exhibits painterly control over his. His gaze is methodical, attuned with the aural qualities of film; notice here for example how the winds howling outside the mansion stop and start every time someone opens a door.
It's simple really, the ritual a tone poem about the unveiling of naked beauty. The twist, if it can be called that, is that what we expect to be vampires imbued with some supernatural capacity are only women lusting for blood. The man - our surrogate viewer in the midst of beauty - is lusting himself and so concedes to be part of the dream.
