Bloody Moon is the work of an insane person.  That is the only explanation for its existence.  It is not purposefully avant-garde or experimental, it is merely the kind of movie that makes no sense from a narrative standpoint, something that only an insane person could watch and say, “wow, that was well-constructed entertainment.”  While it is certainly not a “good” film, calling it a failure seems somehow inappropriate as it never aspires to be anything remotely resembling “good.”  Director Jesus Franco’s only desire seems to be to show topless women, women getting killed, and women getting killed while topless.  In this sense, the film is a success, especially considering the mind-boggling, and sometimes strangely amusing, nature of the events onscreen.  

      What elevates Bloody Moon well above the level of unwatchable (and into the realm of hypnotizing slow-motion car crash) is how laughable many of the plot elements really are.  From one character sporting a facial disfigurement resembling Salisbury steak, an illogically evil wheelchair-bound old woman randomly getting two minutes of screen time, a female murder victim being disemboweled by the killer slowly rubbing his closed fist against her stomach, to a casually introduced incest sub-plot, Bloody Moon defies conventional wisdom as boldly as it defies sense and reason.  Even the title seems to celebrate incongruity, as frequent shots of the moon are entirely irrelevant to the events surrounding them, with the possible exception of it causing women to bare their breasts for no reason.

      What remains most disturbing about the film, as there is nothing resembling suspense or dramatic tension within the actual plot, is Franco’s pathological dismissal of women.  The director portrays them as nothing more than sex-crazed morons or manipulative psychopaths.  While the protagonist is a slight exception to this rule, she is still regarded as sub-humanly stupid by the male and female characters. When the main character makes repeated claims that she has witnesses a murder, everyone, including other women, tell her she is “imagining things” and that she should just calm down.  I guess women routinely claim that one of their friends has been murdered because of their over-active imagination?  Spain must be a weird place.  Perhaps even stranger, a gaggle of supporting female characters follows a male named Antonio around, constantly blathering on about what a great lay the guy is to anyone who will listen.  Meanwhile, the Latin lover in question stares blankly into space like he can’t fathom what these nymphomaniacs are talking about, but it would take too much energy for him to utter a mere “huh?” to find out.  

      To give perspective on how low Franco’s opinion of women really is, one female character meets her end thusly (this really isn’t a spoiler since this character’s end is more obvious that a red-shirted member of an Enterprise away team): the woman in question is shown riding in a car with an unseen man as she proclaims that she has never let a man she doesn’t know pick her up. She then admires her companion’s mask and comments that she has never done “it” with anyone who was wearing one (even though the man is clearly not wearing anything of the sort).  The pair drive to an abandoned factory where the woman lets herself be tied to a wooden table that is conspicuously close to a giant saw, all the while babbling about how she “likes it rough” and “kinky.”  It should be noted that this is one of the only times a woman is shown fully clothed, which is odd since the character seemed to believe she was getting prepared for sex.  Then she dies. 

      Even with the rampant misogyny, Bloody Moon somehow manages to include a somewhat capable actress, Olivia Pascal, for the lead role of Angela.  She almost seems transported into the movie from another Universe; a logical being suddenly surrounded by polyester-clad idiots more concerned with disco dancing to public domain music (this happens a lot) than people getting killed.  Despite the fact that the mechanizations of the plot, if one can call it that, have absolutely nothing to do with her, Pascal anchors the movie in a way that makes her character sympathetic and contributes mightily to making the film watchable.  Whether it was intentional or not, her performance gives the lunacy surrounding her something to play off of and become occasionally hilarious.  If one so chooses, one can examine the meta-dichotomy of the congruent absurdity of Pascal’s presence in Bloody Moon and Angela’s presence in its plot, but that would be silly.  If you actually choose to watch, it’s better to just sit back and let the insanity of the movie wash over you.  Be careful, it might leave a sticky residue.