You Must Be Pulling My Bluebeard

Last nite's Netflix delight: 1972's horror movie/ misogynistic exercise/ fashion explosion, 'Bluebeard' . 




Richard Burton stars as a sinister lady's man who woos a parade of impossibly made up lovelies before he kills them in elaborate deaths that would make the Crypt Keeper blush.


And what is this power he has over them? Is it his facial follicles of  Benjamin Moore blue or the ornate mansion lush with Technicolor turquoise damask wallpapers and crimson painted wicker chairs? Or is it his air of implied sadism?

("Gee, if only I could train this hawk to rip some white woman's face off on command...")

Not that plot seems to be of importance to the gays that must have ran this show. It's all fashion, fashion, sparkle, diva!

(Forgive the wardrobe department, for they have sinned!)

(The opening credits gave a special "furs by" acknowledgement)

(Oh and a Coiffures credit too. Doin' it!)

("But of course my suit matches my beard...")

Meanwhile, Joey Heatherton plays the one woman who discovers his sinister plot but it's all for naught as she is locked away in the freezer that Bluebeard uses as a sepulchre for his fashion victims

But as Mr G put it so succinctly,  "Joey Heatherton's career was just a good haircut"

Damn that Hollywood engine!  The Nazi resister who shoots Bluebeard at the train tracks manages to save her just before hypothermia kicks in!

(wipe that smirk off your face, you still got 'The Happy Hooker Goes to Washington' ahead of you, B)

But the ending is still a rewarding pastiche of some Charleston tune and credits like Raquel Welch played The Nun...

(you thought I was kidding)