A mess, but much of that must be the fault of producer Martin Ransohoff, who thoroughly mutilated Roman Polanski’s film for its U.S. release. The original title, Dance of the Vampires, suggests what is missing from the present print: grace, atmosphere, ritual. Polanski himself stars as Alfred, the gnomish assistant to a dotty old professor—the great Jack MacGowran—whose sole mission in life is to battle the undead. But his silver crucifix doesn’t work when he comes up against a Jewish vampire. The comedy is never subtle, but the ironies have style and force: it is concentration camp humor, pushed one merciful step away. With Sharon Tate. 1967, 91 min.
