Girls just wanna have…girls!
Everyone knows the Three Mothers. Thanks to Dario Argento and his soon-to-be-completed trilogy, we have born unspeakable witness to the evil atrocities of Maters Suspiria and Tenebrarum. Good old Moms Lachrymorum is just waiting in the wings to befoul the planet with her veil of vile tears. But I bet you didn't know that this trio of nasty nursemaids had an Americanized equivalent, a set of alchemist triplets who want to control the vicious underworld (or maybe it's the Velvet Underground). They hope to rule over demons and vampires by owning the three parts of the ruby heart stone. The Sisters of Sin, siblings enslaved to Avarice, Anger, and Greed, are about to meet their match in Johnny "The Monk" Blake, some goofy guy who may have once been a religious rude boy but has since dropped the hirsute holiness to wage war against the supernatural. And practice private detection. And pick up hot chicks! Apparently, the universal battle between good and evil comes down to all the forces of darkness, every awful entity in the entire known ephemera…and this guy. Well, when malevolence knows it's whipped, they resort to "if you can't beat him, bore him" tactics. Sister Avarice hires the skulking hunk to retrieve the empowered red rocks. She will be able to call up the Devil himself and ask for his microwave brimstone recipe. Monk does his job, his jealous secretary comes along to cause plot-elongating trouble, and there are many mediocre confrontations between principles and peccadilloes. For Mr. Monastery, it's time to shut up the newly christened Blood Sisters of Lesbian Sin once and for all.
Let's do a scientific analysis of Blood Sisters of Lesbian Sin, shall we, and try to dissect why a film with so much subject matter potential would end up blowing decrepit donkey bottom. First on the checklist is nudity. Looking over the 89 minutes of this meandering mess, we can see that there is plenty of female pulchritude—both natural and enhanced—to satisfy a teat and/or tush craving. All right, let's move on to the natural byproduct of showing skin: interpersonal bed ballet. Is there sex in this here movie? Well, since technically, two people in the act of an embrace while cornball soft core music plays in the background does in principle qualify under Vatican II as doing the dirty boogie, the answer is "yes," Blood Sisters of Lesbian Sin does contain a couple of Skinemax moments. Again, going with our close association assumptions, if there is canoodling, and the title suggests that it is enjoyed by those of the same sisterhood, does that mean that there is ample carpet munching in this moldering motion picture? Sadly, no, not really. We have hit our first speed bump in the road to real cheese-fest enjoyment. Seems that BS of LS has a very weird idea of Sappho sensuality. There is only one woman who likes it on the Lesbos side and she will only kiss you. Or at least that's what the director wants you to believe. There is no boob bongoing. No butt trumping. No soft, soothing gropes with scented, skin-slicking oils. Frankly, there ain't much female friskiness in this heavily hyped and poorly titled trick.
But this is not the worst crime Blood Sisters commits. Oh no. Once you realize that this is going to be a creature feature, a vixen vampire saga without one fluid ounce of creepy claret, you'll immediately understand why this is a mere excuse for eeriness. One imagines that, with the lack of liquid onscreen, the closest these ladies got to spewing vein juice during the production was when they all simultaneously got a visit from Aunt Flo while onset. Joe Bob Briggs, that denizen of the drive-in, argues that a good B-movie needs to have three "b"s in order to be successful: beasts, breasts, and BLOOD! That's gore we're talking about, and we don't mean Tipper. Blood Sisters of Lesbian Sin is devoid of the good old gross-out fodder that will save even the most sinking stinking scare film from flopping on its belly like a beached beluga. Even with the lackluster lesbian antics, if arteries spewed gallons of grue on the cast of characters, if livers developed a life of their own and went on a killing spree…heck, if someone just pricked their finger and let a Goth-wannabe slurp on the droplets for a couple of seconds, it would be more grisly that what happens here. These neck biters obviously went to the Vogue school of vampirism. Their denture indentations are so stylish and subtle, like a fashion accessory instead of the creation of a circulatory drainage system. Indeed, everything about Blood Sisters of Lesbian Sin is overly polite and pathetic, from the poorly staged fight scenes, where the participants wait for each other to finish flailing before they take another swing, to the Crowley meets crap Wicca involved.
It's all Anne Rice's fault. Ever since she took the "ire" out of our favorite Nosferatus, all bloodsuckers have become overly permed pretty boys more than happy to "vamp" like they're preparing to sing show tunes. Turning up the erotic and easing off on the clot slopping has made Dracula disposable, just a misguided monster who uses his fangs instead of his…well, his "thing" to explore and express his sexuality. Something like Blood Sisters of Lesbian Sin (actually the direct-to-video leprosy known as Sisters of Sin with some cleverly Tromatized re-titling) is the direct spawning of such sloppy literary loopiness. But the New York Times Best Seller Mistress of the Dark need not worry her earth-mother head. This stupid movie would have buried itself even without her fictional falderal influence. Anything that stars a former cast member of The Young and the Restless is asking for failure, especially when it's the immobile wax statue sultriness of someone named Justin Gorence. With a resume that includes such cinematic ruminations as From Justin to Kelly and The Sexperiment, it's safe to say that BS of LS is not the worst experience this inert idiot ever had in front of the camera. But those American Idols better start praying that their career trajectory doesn't follow Mr. Gorence's. His appearance here makes a stagnant movie lifeless. His costars are all of the mid-'80s school of spandex and silicone, except this movie was made in 1997, long after Kajagoogoo fired their last hair stylist. Everyone sleepwalks through the action, delivers their lines like they're being forced to, and ends up so far down in plot holes and illogical ravines that experienced rescuers of wellbrats could not find a way to extract them. As a title, Blood Sister of Lesbian Sin is a winner. As a film, it should be put out of its misery like any other loser that comes up lame.
You've got to hand it to Troma. There is no middle ground in their release schedule. They either put out something of infinite trash (Citizen Toxie), spectacular talent (Superstarlet A.D.), or sniveling garbage (Ferocious Female Freedom Fighters). And the same can be said for their DVD presentations. They either look digitally acute or like 10th generation VHS vomit. Blood Sisters of Lesbian Sin is in the regurgitation pool of pictorial puke. This is a horrible transfer with some of the most pixelated, muddy visuals available on the new medium. If you ever wondered what a 1.33:1 direct-to-video film would look like after it passed through the alimentary canal, then cue up this itchy image and feel the urge to purge. The sound is equally uninvolving. The Dolby Digital Stereo is just an excuse to have a front speaker session of vague fussiness. The '80s ideal is prevalent again in the horrible electronic musical menses the movie employs. There haven't been this many synth flourishes and overdramatic keyboard dookies since Ultravox released "Reap the Wild Wind." And indicating their faith in this title, Troma adds only the usual Lloyd Kaufman introduction (that must have seemed funnier in the creating than in the final presentation), a series of trailers, and some product promotion. There is nothing here to give Blood Sisters of Lesbian Sin a contextual case for existence. It's as if the Tromatizers knew the dreck they had drawn from and wanted to get it out into the world as quickly as possible to spread the burden. Proof that simply changing a title to something a little more titillating definitely doesn't make the object any better, Blood Sisters of Lesbian Sin probably functions as the first marquee designation that can be successfully sued for truth in advertising based on the misuse of each and every word in its makeup…and that includes "of." There is nothing worse than a toothless vampire film, unless you're talking about this ring around the collar crud.
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Scales of Justice
• Introduction by Troma Founder Lloyd Kaufman
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