This tony 1983 horror film plays like an anthology of the most annoying manners of the British mannerist directors: Tony Scott combines his brother Ridley’s penchant for smoky, unreadable images with Nicolas Roeg’s pointlessly elliptical editing, and slugs in a little of Ken Russell’s sexual hysteria for good measure. The plotline is nebulous, though it seems that Catherine Deneuve is in possession of a vampirish secret of eternal life, and is preparing to transfer her affections from lover David Bowie to research physician Susan Sarandon. The obsessive conjunction of lesbian sex and flowing blood suggests a deep-seated misogyny, but neither this nor any other theme is registered with enough clarity to offend.