Thirst (Rod Hardy, 1979)

Wherein our heroine endures a range of inconveniences, viz. a frightful coffin; the waxy face of her decomposing housekeeper; a cabal of wealthy industrialists harvesting both Aryan dreams of pure exsanguinations and vats of unpolluted blood; pitiful masonry, wretched carpentry, poor plumbing; unseen beasties; and a fanged lady with blue hair, glowing red eyes, and Dame Edna glasses. Wherein the audience endures an oft-interesting and stylish array of generic markers (vampires as hyperintelligent walking-among-us asexual kings and queens of society, well-versed in Báthory and Taylor and Leary, given over to bloodlust and biotechnology and bureaucracy; their victims as eroticized yet docile acid-fried blood cows) and an oft-jarring tonal inconsistency, where quiet subtlety gives way to fisticuffs and terror gives way to camp.

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