The Iron Rose and Jean Rollin have a cult following but there are little redeeming qualities about this campy, juvenile film. It accomplishes no meaningful social or political work and breaks no boundaries. No self-reflection on French post-colonial identity, gender relations or a world economy undergoing drastic collapse and reform in the early 70s. A frivolous exercise organized around Françoise Pascal’s breasts.
A movie to project on the front of your house at halloween. BUT, the monologic parts of the script were contrived, and the plot willy-nilly. The actors are sort of interesting and so is the general premise of the flick. However, for me, it didn't stick. I'd say skip.
Somehow captivating in its moodiness and latent eroticism despite making little sense. The transition of the woman from being scared of the cemetery to loving those dead people (maybe she seems dead people, too), the walkthroughs of Bozo the Clown, the leering monk and Count Chocula, the impulse of the lovers to jump into an open crypt for "privacy," all make this high on the weirdness quotient.
Given the more than passing resemblance of the main man to Bryan Ferry I almost expected Brian Eno to rise from the crypt amidst an array of keyboards whilst some of the statuary monuments metamorphosed into Andy Mackay and the rest of the band for a rendition of Do The Strand. Sadly it wasn't to be.
Such was what the so-called "Baby Boomers" had to contend with in Western Europe: reconcile a recent past of unfathomable destruction and death with a present of youthful yearnings and an uncertain future. A beautifully shot allegory that doesn't provide any easy answers.