Why did the fans turn late-nite screenings of this cult favourite into an elaborate ritual of dressing-up, singing along, throwing rice and waving cigarette lighters? Well, for one thing, the material inspires affection, given its knowing pastiche of everything from Universal horrors to '50s grade-Z sci-fi, and a shamelessly hedonistic, fiercely independent sensibility that must have seemed a welcome relief from the mainstream bombast of other '70s musicals (not exactly Jesus Christ Superstar, is it?). However, dare we suggest that the whole participation angle evolved to boost a movie that is something of an enthusiastic shambles, and collapses altogether in the final reel? Fresh-faced Sarandon and Bostwick are the all-American honeymooners who wind up in the tender care of Tim Curry's camper-than-thou Transylvanian transvestite, O'Brien's hunchback butler and sundry kinky cronies. A string of hummable songs gives it momentum, Gray's admirably straight-faced narrator holds it together, and a run on black lingerie takes care of almost everything else.