Here Morrissey stops pretending that he's making Warhol movies and sets his sights on the US drive-in market, which takes its sex softcore but its violence unbridled. The plot boils down to Baroness Frankenstein entertaining the local stud in her boudoir, while hubby Victor chops up the rest of the peasant population in the lab downstairs. Trouble is, Morrissey just doesn't cut it as a 'real' director: there's no way that he can conjure even a sickie horror comedy from one overplayed concept (yards of bursting entrails), a three-page script, a bunch of game but mostly talentless players, and a few decorative sets. Well aware of his problems, he stakes everything on a gimmick and films in a 3-D process. Somehow, it's not enough.