d1senior

Okay, so these films were never the most respected of the 1980s, but they at least started off with a nicely foul-mouthed, sexist-pig approach. This, the third film in the series, marks the point at which the sequels began their rapid descent into insipid kid's fare; references to the original simply come across as lazy re-hashes (which, let's face it, they are), and the new characters lack any real bite. As with 'Police Academy's 2 and 4, G.W. Bailey's absence is painfully apparent.

An excrutiating karaoke singalong (complete with Tackleberry on sax and Jones grooving away on bass) rubs salt into the already-chafing wounds. And there was still a long way to go before 'Mission to Moscow.'

Warning the other characters (and, presumably, the audience) that the seance in which they are about to take part could "provoke reactions of quite terrifying proportions," Christopher Plummer proves himself a less-than-reliable guide through this hideous mess. With pompous, over-cooked music blaring out of every scene, regardless of what is actually taking part on screen, and the kind of existential angst that would make a 14 year old goth blush, 'Vampire In Venice' lurches from one flaccid cliche to another. Gypsies dancing around a fire on the beach at night? Check! Street carnival with masks and silly frocks aplenty? Check! Vampires musing on the pain of spending eternity alone? Please, no more.

The 'horror' scenes appear to parody the entire genre. The film's running time - the video case claimed it was just over 90 minutes, an outright lie - stretches out into the black wastes of infinity, making the experience of watching it akin to sitting through one of Warhol's experiments in cinematic endurance. Klaus Kinski, so watchable in almost anything else, never seems sure whether he's the devil incarnate, or an aging rocker out of retirement for one last comeback gig. Even Donald Pleasance drifts by, unable to make a dent in the vast wall of boring, self-satisfied predictability. The horror of eternity was surely never supposed to be THIS bad.

Nick Zedd has a rough sexual playtime with two young women in the film's first half; in the second, whilst dressed in drag, he attempts to fellate a too-drunk Rick Strange. All the while, Killdozer's 'King Of Sex' grinds away on the soundtrack.

Although the film's short length and use of rock music over dialogue inevitably lends 'King Of Sex' the air of an overly explicit music video, there do remain numerous undercurrents and aesthetic pre-occupations which occur throughout Kern's work. The film's structure, for instance, pre-empts his better-known 'The Evil Cameraman' in its first half documenting ritualistic S/M abuse, only for the second half to focus on the humiliation / emancipation of the earlier protagonist. As with all Kern shorts, this is kinky, greasy-looking stuff: tattooed New York punks making tattooed punk sleaze. Good music, too.