To think that Polanski's nebbish Alfred was the one to have the fate of mankind in his possession, if only he were able to hammer the stake into the heart of Ferdy Mayne's Count von Krolok while the vampire sleeps in the coffin of his castle's crypt. The world was in deep shit. Everything that could go wrong does in Fearless Vampire Killers (1967) for the unlikeliest of heroes, as gaunt, spindle-legged Jack MacGowren, with his Einsteinian coif and whispery-voiced assistant Polanski, nervy and mousy, fail to capitalize on the best chance to annihilate the fiercest of foes: von Krolok. The grand ball with the decadent aristocratic undead dancing regally to an old melody as the vampire hunters try to figure out what to do next, eventually disguising themselves and intermingling with them. Sharon Tate is Polanski's paramour. Hell do what he can to rescue her, not knowing that doing this condemns him and the world. Not only that but Count von Krolok and his congregation remain unharmed. To say success escaped these vampire killers is an understatement! Soundtrack chants with vocal harmonies most disconcerting don't allow us to find comfort in the film concluding on a high note for our...snicker...heroes.
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