DRACULA HAS RISEN FROM THE GRAVE (1968) *1/2 You've seen it all before: the same sets, the same forest, the same stupid stagecoach, the same props, I think even some of the cleavage shots are stock. The only two things that make this "better" than even the average Hammer flick are (1) the infantile but bizarre way that the edges of the film are tinted every time that Christopher Lee shows up with his ridiculous teeth, and (2) Veronica Carlson's dye job: while probably not the very worst in film history it is without question an ignoble contender. "What colour were they even trying at?" I asked. "Strawberry blond...I think," quoth my wife. Against only probability Freddie Francis manages to portray the undead, minor and clichéd blasphemies, cardboard castles, frothy bier and heaving breasts as abnorally dull subject matter. The only life from the thing ("but," my nihilistic detractors insist, "shouldn't vampire movies be lifeless?") comes from Barry Andrews, whose Daltreyesque presence suggests that he was fit for grander things, but instead spent the remainder of his career cast as a peripheral lawman with the lines of an extra.
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