BlaculaAs blaxploitation pictures go, Blacula and Scream, Blacula, Scream! seem less about the struggles of urban blacks and more of a cautionary tale of wife swappin’ gone wrong.

Way back in 1780, William Marshall‘s Mamuwalde seeks the cessation of the slave trade, except he inexplicably pitches this notion to COUNT DRACULA who’d much prefer bedding down with the African royal’s bride than speak of anything remotely noble. BOOM! That by way of a bi-racial pair of "interior decorators" gets us a 200-year-old vampiric brother of a different color stalking the streets of LOS ANGELES in search of romance and a neck or two to nosh. Mr. Marshall’s enthralling poise lends this tired territory surprising sophistication, though the socially conscious really have to stretch to derive any greater meaning from the proceedings. Meanwhile, CineSchlocker idol Pam Grier is unrecognizable as the sad sequel’s mousy voodoo priestess. Someone get Ms. Grier a saw’d off scattergun stat!

All told: No breasts. 42 corpses. Rampant stake driving. Telepathic bitch slapping. Coffin catnaps. Vampiric hari-kari. Gratuitous Bloody Mary swilling. Multiple firesuit stunts.

Ol’ snaggle puss gets this party started: "You shall pay, black prince! I shall place a curse of suffering on you that will doom you to a living hell! A hunger! A wild, gnawing, animal hunger will grow in you! A hunger for human blood! Here you will starve for an eternity torn by an unquenchable lust! I curse you with MY name! You shall be BLACULA!!!"

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