Movie Review: Lesbian Vampire Killers (2009)

Leave it the Brits to throw a spot of humor into the realm of horror movies again. Shaun of the Dead relentlessly poked fun at zombies in 2004 and in doing so made Simon Pegg a star here in the states. Lesbian Vampire Killers isn’t going to make anyone a household name — not by a long shot — but it certainly makes light of the whole undead, bloodsucker genre.

Conspicuously missing, however, is the whole lesbian thing, which, in my oh so humble opinion is an inexcusable omission.

It starts with an introduction to two schlubs: Jimmy (Mathew Horne) and Fletch (James Corden). They’re best buds and neither can catch a break — Jimmy routinely gets dumped by his girlfriend and Fletch can’t keep a gig at the menialist of jobs (his latest being a clown). During pints (what the Brits do best I am told), they toss a dart to determine the setting of their backpacking trip; a trip that is supposed to set them onto the right path. Cragwich, a rural town in the middle of nowhere, hardly sounds like a beacon of hope for the downtrodden, but as fate would have it that’s where their adventure begins.

And ain’t fate a cruel bitch. It just so happens that Cragwich is home to Carmilla (Silvia Colloca), a vampire queen with a deep hatred for men. Even more of a coincidence, Jimmy, unbeknownst to him, is a direct descendant of the man who vanquished her several hundred years ago. Mix in a virgin and the sword of Dialdo (yes, there is a sex pun in there), and Carmilla is either going to be reborn stronger than ever or cast back to the depths of lesbian hell. A lesbian hell that I would have to assume is filled to the brim with smokin’ hot chicks since all the vampires doing her bidding are most pleasing to the eyes.

Yet in spite of their smokin’ hottedness, glaringly absent is the deluge of nakedness — a prerequisite, you’d think, for a movie titled Lesbian Vampire Killers. With my rudimentary counting skills, I summed up two bare breasts. Yep, T-W-O. On the other hand, I lost count of the girls who should have bared something other than their midriff and long legs. I’ll also take the time to jump up and down to exclaim that having a few girls kiss and a few others sexually gesticulate and/or tickle each other does not, I repeat, does not amount to lesbianism.

Nearly though, the quick wit banter between our lesbo killing heroes is enough to make one forget about the lack of female skin and of girls touching other girls. Fletch, the fat one of the duo, is the funniest of the lot — pointing out the obvious and dotting his observations with various vulgarities as he begrudgingly tags along. Jimmy, now and again, comes up with something clever to say, but more often than not, he’s a bonafide pansy, offering up no reason whatsoever for a girl to want him (yet amazingly they do). The rest of the cast is pretty much all girls who haven’t got a thing of importance to say or do, except for Lotte (MyAnna Buring) — she’s got plenty to say and, quite frankly, I’d have been happier if she didn’t speak quite so much.

Had Lesbian Vampire Killers avoided the gimmickry or had actually employed it, I believe I would have enjoyed the film more, even though, as a critic I shouldn’t (you know, the “grade a movie on its merits” thingy). Its got a fair amount of laughs and absurdity to it, but in the end I couldn’t help but feel cheated.