Perverse Countess, The (Jess Franco, 1974)

Silvia is naked—and running for her life. In pursuit: Countess Zaroff—striking, Amazonian, armed with bow and arrow. And—also naked. In the undergrowth, the Count—played by Howard Vernon—is watching!

Even before Silvia was being chased down for sport, things were starting to unravel. But how, exactly, did Silvia find herself in this predicament?

Well, since The Perverse Countess is a Jess Franco film, any attempt to explain this via synopsis would probably be a mug’s game—because this cautionary fairytale—Franco’s riff on The Most Dangerous Game—operates through subtext, foreshadowing, and power dynamics, often expressed through the unspoken: through gestures, through cutaways, through framing.

But, long story short, things went pear-shaped because Silvia was just too damn soft. Joining a lineage that, by the early ’70s, had already included Romina Power in Justine, Marie Liljedahl in Eugenie… The Story of Her Journey into Perversion, and, later, Susan Hemingway in Love Letters of a Portuguese Nun, she was just the latest in a line of doe-eyed naïfs that Franco would put through the Sadean wringer. Because Silvia—played, uncredited, by 19-year-old Lina Romay—finds herself drawn into a world of betrayal and cruelty, where sex isn’t about intimacy, but about control.

Here, fucking becomes violence: the body an instrument of power. The orgasm is used to dominate, restrain, break resistance, and demand obedience—all under a cold, detached, fetishistic gaze.

There are two such scenes in The Perverse Countess—both ménage à trois, both involving Silvia. Each is meticulously staged, framed, and choreographed—each serves to express key themes through eroticism.

Initiated by Silvia’s so-called friends: Tom, played by Robert Woods, and Moira, played by Tania Busselier—the first represents a betrayal of trust. Nothing about the encounter with this malevolent, mercenary couple, feels especially consensual! Yet, as Silvia, already plied with alcohol, finds herself pushed into a bedroom—towards a waiting Moira—she offers no resistance. As Moira’s caresses find their spot, Silvia immediately succcumbs—crumbling under breaking waves of intense pleasure.

However, this is not really presented, purely, as a seduction. Instead, it is staged as a form of degradation—and for the amusement of the onlooker! Indeed, throughout the film, the very act of gazing—the subjugation-and-voyeur dynamic—becomes a form of ritualised sadism. And this is a theme, to which, the director returns—time and again. Here, Tom embodies that particular motif: the voyeur as Master of Ceremonies. Captured in low angles, with wide lens and deep focus, he stands upon the balcony—drinking in the moment, savouring his power. Until, eventually, with patience spent, he violently casts Moira aside—he claims his property. Silvia is to be his—and he will take her!

Later, at the hands of Count and Countess Zaroff, sex takes on a slightly different symbolic role. It becomes an expression of naked class power—this time with Alice Arno’s Countess recycling Tom’s dom role. Meanwhile, the Count cuts a somewhat pathetic figure—as he lurks in the shadows.

With this encounter, Silvia relinquishes yet more of her self. And, by the time she is cut loose—for a Richard Connell–inspired denouement—it becomes clear that this nothing but an elaborate process of conditioning. The result? Well—

Put simply, Silvia is no longer a person—Silvia is now prey!

Cool It Carol! (Pete Walker, 1970)

Cool It Carol! was oft regarded as part of the decade-long wave of comedies featuring the likes of Eskimo Nell, Au Pair Girls, Come Play With Me, and the Confessions series. This association was underscored by an early star turn from British cinema's saucy seventies mainstay and perennial cheeky chappie, Robin Askwith. However, the film, while nominally a comedy, played more like a kitchen sink drama—with tits.

Indeed, were one to have taken Janet Munro’s Jennie Jones from Peter Graham Scott’s Bitter Harvest, paired her with Tom Courtenay from John Schlesinger’s Billy Liar, then set them loose upon London, à la Smashing Time, the result may have been something akin to this third foray into sexploitation cinema from Pete Walker.

Robin Askwith portrayed Joe Sickles—a young, bored, small-town butcher’s boy with dreams of a better life. Hoping to impress, he regaled seventeen-year-old petrol pump attendant and former beauty contest winner Carol—played by Janet Lynn in her sole starring role—with tales of celebrity friendships and lucrative job offers in high-end, London car showrooms. Fueled by self-belief and aware of the opportunities for an aspiring model, Carol persuaded a reluctant Joe to join her in a move to the capital—seducing him en route. This significant encounter served to suggest a matter-of-fact approach to sex and the actions of a fully grounded, self-assured young woman, guiding a naïve, if somewhat hubristic, companion.

However, no sooner had the couple arrived at the capital, than the dynanamic of this relationship seemed to shift—the mood darkened. For, what initially played out in breezy sex-comedy territory—with montage, and nod to swinging London counterculture—quickly turned sour, as mishaps and missteps befell our babes in the wood.

As money dwindled, and so too the job opportunities, an unemployed Joe pressured Carol into sex work—effectively pimping her on the street. Fashion shoots gave way to glamour sessions, and ultimately to 8mm Soho stag loops—shot on hand-cranked Bolex. While, throughout, Carol was watched by an ever-present fringe of lip-licking, raincoated, predatory older men, loitering at the edges of the frame.

Viewed through an almost documentarian lens, Carol’s descent reached its nadir in a brilliantly handled, yet extremely harrowing, extended scene, in which she was forced to endure a procession of men soliciting sex—even while, beyond the curtain, boyfriend Joe paced to the discomforting diegetic beat of grunts and the rhythmic clatter of the kettle.

This sequence left a lingering sense of unease, which did not dissipate—even as the road ahead glimmered with the bountiful wages of perseverance—as Carol, betwixt pimp and pornographer, and inundated with photoshoots and upmarket Johns, became drawn into an increasingly lucrative, yet amoral, world. At this point a tonal shift, and an accompanying attempt to restore breathless levity, failed to land. As a result, Cool It Carol! ultimately felt more a grim cautionary tale than comedy.