Red Roses of Passion (1966)

Red Roses of Passion: Directed by Joseph W. Sarno. With Judson Todd, Jean James, Carol Holleck, Helena Clayton. Jaded Carla drugs her stuck up aunt and her daughter with mind-altering aphrodisiac concocted from a rose by an ominous Pan sex cult. The women become crazed nymphos and the only way to cure them is for Carla to give herself to “Pan”.

“No accounting for taste, but this ludicrous Joe Sarno film fails in both the porn and fantasy/suspense realms. Iu0026#39;ve watched it several times, and have yet to be hypnotized by its nonsensical plot u0026amp; direction.u003cbr/u003eu003cbr/u003eQuite bluntly, itu0026#39;s about getting even, with an indigestible dollop of fake-spiritualism and mumbo jumbo added. Had Sarno gone for a more straightforward (and appropriate) voodoo plot line, I suspect fans would have rejected it outright.u003cbr/u003eu003cbr/u003eInstead he has blonde heroine Carla (Patricia McNair, appearing using a pseudonym and punished with 9th billing) bamboozled by her co-worker Enid (tall but unattractive Carol Holleck) to become mixed up with Cult of Pan leader Martha (big-bosomed Helena Clayton). (This is hardly at the level of classic fantasy writing on the subject by Arthur Machen.) Itu0026#39;s established early on, killing suspense stone dead, that Martha is using her retarded brother as part of the Quarter Moon rituals held by scantily clad priestesses of the cult. Of course thereu0026#39;s a brother/sister incest scene inserted (but tame) by Sarno, as is his wont.u003cbr/u003eu003cbr/u003eRidiculous fantasy involves an aphrodisiac, one of Sarnou0026#39;s lamest and most oft-used plot ploys. In this case it becomes a fantasy motif. Carla is angry with her relatives who repress her, Aunt Julie (Bella Donna, equally lousy in Sarnou0026#39;s MY BODY HUNGERS) and Julieu0026#39;s daughter (her cousin) Tracey (blank 1-shot thesp u0026quot;Laura Londonu0026quot;). She uses Marthau0026#39;s magic potion to turn them into uncontrollable nymphomaniacs.u003cbr/u003eu003cbr/u003eKey element, and you have to be a card-carrying Sarno sycophant to buy it, is the title roses (black u0026amp; white hardly does them justice), which are not just the cultu0026#39;s chief fetish but the nympho trigger. They are delivered like clockwork to the victims, triggering the unquenchable lust in conjunction with the aphrodisiac potion. They also come in handy at the rituals, for sexual stimulation by rubbing them all over the woman designated as Panu0026#39;s chosen one, after drinking the wine of Delphi. I much prefer Sarnou0026#39;s explicit lesbian dramas to this sublimation approach.u003cbr/u003eu003cbr/u003eWatching this asinine nonsense, mainly played with a straight face, though fortuneteller Martha occasionally recites cliché howlers like u0026quot;It was in the cardsu0026quot; or u0026quot;The moon waits for no oneu0026quot;, is a chore. Iu0026#39;m not sure whether RED ROSES qualifies as high camp or low camp, but an adaptation for the stage by Charles Busch might be in the cards.u003cbr/u003eu003cbr/u003eThe scenes of aunt and daughter going sexually mad are not titillating but merely stupid, as they attack the rose-delivery-men with a u0026quot;me firstu0026quot; attitude. Incest between the two is also implied, this being a Sarno film. For ultra-cheapness, the first delivery boy is played by the filmu0026#39;s assistant gaffer! Also cheap is the use of a crummy library music score, and basically two under-dressed sets: the dim-lit ceremony room where the gals get freaky with nights of wine u0026amp; roses, and the desultory apartment where Carlau0026#39;s family lives. Supposedly ironic ending has little impact -Sarno could have taken a few lessons from William Castle before treading on his suspense u0026quot;shockeru0026quot; territory.”