|Vintage Pulp||Mar 16 2009|
In Frankenstein’s Daughter Victor Frankenstein’s grandson Oliver lives in Los Angeles, but the perfect Southern California weather has done nothing to cure his gloomy familial obsession with creating life from dead body parts. The poor monster he constructs has both male and female chunks, most notably the head of Playboy model Sally Todd. Sally doesn’t look as hot here as she did in her nudie layouts, but that’s because those magazine photos are mostly make-up, lighting and airbrushing—oh, and she got fatally run over by a car, which is why her head is available in the first place. Anyway, Oliver’s creation mainly shuffles confused and inarticulate through a film that is itself confused and inarticulate, and which many claim is the worst Frankenstein flick ever made. We don’t think so and we can tell you why with one word—Frankenstein Meets the Space Monster. Okay, five words. The point is, Frankenstein’s Daughter, filled with rich, creamy badness though it may be, is merely a worthy runner-up. Always the bridesmaid, never the bride. It premiered in France and Belgium as La fille de Frankenstein today in 1962.