Monday, 29 July 2013


Someone once asked me who I'd want to see play my characters. So here goes.

Since I imagined Lust Ever After as the erotic film Hammer never made, it's hard for me not to see actors from the 1960s/70s in the roles. (Although I do think Alan Rickman would make a splendidly sexy and evil Dr Frankenstein. That voice!)

'You know what they say about curious little pussycats, don’t you, Justine? I’ve never expressly forbidden you to come in here when I’m away – you certainly know where the spare key is kept – but I shouldn’t have thought it necessary. Good little chambermaids do not go sneaking around in their master’s private rooms.’

I can see a young Nastassja Kinski as the reanimated Justine . . .

Her long dark hair fell, wet and steaming, about her shoulders and she lifted her head as he unwound the last length of gauze. Her blue eyes gleamed like jewels in the gaslight as she peered around her without blinking. She was nothing like his first creation, that awkward creature that had stumbled and staggered in its first moments of life. The movement of her head was graceful and fluid, like the water in which she had floated for so long. She fixed him with a piercing, curious gaze and for a moment he was unnerved by the intensity of her stare. It was like being watched by a predator.

Flesh for Frankenstein-era Udo Kier as William . . .

Justine felt her breath catch as he moved closer to her. He stared into her eyes with a frankness that made her feel exposed, as though he could see straight into her mind.
‘I’ve been watching you,’ he said.
Her heart fluttered. Tracking was what he really meant. As though he were a hunter and she a rare animal to be captured and displayed.

For the lustful Daisy I envision Francoise Pascal from Jean Rollin's The Iron Rose . . .

Daisy was back in her oldest and most enduring fantasy. She had been captured, along with a bevy of other girls, and taken by ship to a foreign land. There she stood in a line with the others along a platform in a dusty market square. Men called out in a strange language and one by one each girl was led to the front of the platform and made to undress. Those who disobeyed were whipped.
When it was Daisy’s turn she went where she was led and her clothes were forcibly removed with no resistance from her. She stood there, naked in the heat of the unfamiliar sun, exposed to the eyes of all the men before her. The auctioneer made her turn this way and that and she trembled with fear as he displayed her to the crowd. Her eyes filled with tears of humiliation and yet she couldn’t help the fact that his attentions made her wet with desire.

And the nymphomaniacal sexy widow couldn't be anyone but Ingrid Pitt . . .

Frankenstein was again struck by her beauty. The years had been kind to her, and her wealthy husband’s untimely demise had been kinder still, for mourning truly became her. An alluring woman, her face bore few signs of her fortyish years and her black garments and crepe veil suited her surprisingly well. He supposed it was a bit perverse of him to find her widow’s weeds erotic but then, what was his entire practice if not institutionalised perversion? Most of his lady patients were innocent of what was really going on but Sylvia was a shrewd woman who knew a good thing when she found it. It had taken Frankenstein several ‘treatment sessions’ to realise that neither was fooling the other.

All excerpts © Rose de Fer

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