You’ve probably seen the poster. A pale, striking woman in a flowing gown, looking like she just stepped out of a high-end 70s fashion catalog, except for the blood. That’s The Velvet Vampire. Released in 1971, this movie is a total anomaly. Most vampire flicks of that era were stuck in damp European castles or foggy London streets, but director Stephanie Rothman took the genre and dumped it right into the middle of the scorching Mojave Desert.
It’s weird. It’s sun-drenched. And honestly, it’s one of the most misunderstood pieces of cult cinema ever to come out of the Roger Corman stable.
What Actually Happens in The Velvet Vampire?
The setup is deceptively simple, almost like a swinger-era cautionary tale. We meet Lee and Susan Ritter, a young, attractive, and slightly bored couple attending an art gallery opening in Los Angeles. They cross paths with Diane LeFanu (played by the mesmerizing Celeste Yarnall). Diane is wealthy, sophisticated, and has eyes that seem to see right through your clothes.
She invites them to her secluded desert estate. Because this is a 1970s movie, they say yes without a second thought.
Once they arrive, things get hazy. It’s not your typical "jump scare" horror. Instead, Rothman leans into a sort of desert surrealism. The couple starts having identical dreams—vivid, erotic nightmares of a bed sitting alone on a sand dune where Diane seduces them. There’s a lot of staring through two-way mirrors and strange local mechanics meeting grisly ends with pitchforks.
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Basically, Diane isn't just a vampire; she’s a predator who doesn’t hide in the dark. She drives a bright yellow dune buggy in broad daylight. Think about that for a second. A vampire in a dune buggy. It’s the most "1971" thing to ever happen on film.
Why Stephanie Rothman Changed the Game
You can’t talk about The Velvet Vampire without talking about Stephanie Rothman. She was a trailblazer. In an industry that was—and let’s be real, still kind of is—a boys' club, Rothman was the first woman to bag a Director’s Guild of America fellowship. She worked under Roger Corman at New World Pictures, where the mandate was usually "more skin, more blood, keep it cheap."
But Rothman had an agenda.
She took the "lesbian vampire" trope—which was huge at the time thanks to movies like The Vampire Lovers—and flipped the power dynamic. In most of those films, the female vampire is a tragic victim or a mindless monster to be staked by a heroic man. In The Velvet Vampire, Diane is the one in total control.
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Subverting the "Himbo"
Take Lee, the husband. In any other movie, he’d be the hero. Here? He’s basically a "himbo" foil. He’s easily seduced, kind of arrogant, and ultimately disposable. Rothman treats the male body with the same voyeuristic lens usually reserved for women. There’s just as much of Michael Blodgett on display as there is of the female leads. It was a deliberate move to level the playing field of the "exploitation" genre.
The Sunlight Problem
Traditional lore says vampires go poof in the sun. Rothman threw that out the window. Diane handles the desert heat just fine, though she’s usually decked out in massive hats and layers of chiffon. It’s a "loosey-goosey" interpretation of vampirism that feels more like a biological condition or a psychological state than a supernatural curse. Some critics argue she isn’t even a vampire in the magical sense, just a woman with a very specific, lethal hunger.
The Cultural Ripple Effect
At the time, the movie didn't set the world on fire. It was too "arty" for the grindhouse crowd and too "sleazy" for the critics. It lived in this awkward middle ground. But over the decades, its reputation has shifted.
- Feminist Reclamation: Modern film scholars like Pam Cook have highlighted how Rothman used the "exploitation" formula to smuggle in radical ideas about female autonomy and sexual fluidly.
- The Aesthetic: The "California Gothic" look—all harsh light, Joshua trees, and 70s interior design—influenced later directors. You can see echoes of this vibe in everything from The Hunger to modern indie horror like A Girl Walks Home Alone at Night.
- The Score: The music by Roger Dollarhide and Clancy B. Grass III is fantastic. It’s this trippy mix of bluesy guitar licks and eerie synths that perfectly captures the "bad trip" feeling of the desert.
Is It Actually Good?
Look, if you’re expecting a fast-paced slasher, you’re going to be bored. The acting from the "hero" couple is, frankly, a bit wooden. Michael Blodgett and Sherry Miles give performances that feel like they’re reading off cue cards half the time.
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But Celeste Yarnall? She’s incredible. She brings a regal, detached menace to Diane that keeps the whole thing from falling apart. The movie is a slow burn. It’s about the atmosphere. It’s about the way the camera lingers on a mirror propped up in the sand. It’s a mood piece that happens to have some blood in it.
How to Experience The Velvet Vampire Today
If you want to actually "get" why this movie is a cult classic, don't just watch it on a grainy YouTube rip.
- Seek out the Shout! Factory Blu-ray: The desert colors are meant to be vibrant and blinding. A high-def restoration makes a huge difference in appreciating the cinematography by Daniel Lacambre.
- Watch for the symbolism: Pay attention to the mirrors. Rothman was obsessed with the idea of the mirror as a portal to death—a nod to Jean Cocteau’s Orpheus.
- Double feature it: Pair it with Harry Kümel’s Daughters of Darkness (also 1971). They’re like weird, telepathic twins from across the Atlantic, both exploring the "vampire as a chic, bisexual seductress" angle.
Ultimately, The Velvet Vampire is a time capsule. It captures a moment when the counterculture was curdling, when "free love" started to feel a little dangerous, and when a woman behind the camera decided to show the world that the most terrifying thing in the desert isn't the heat—it’s the person who invites you to stay for the weekend.
Next Steps for the Cult Film Buff:
Check out Stephanie Rothman’s other work, specifically The Student Nurses (1970) and Terminal Island (1973). Both films follow the same pattern: taking a low-brow exploitation premise and injecting it with surprising political and feminist depth. If you’re tracking the history of women in horror, these aren't just "extra credit"—they're the syllabus.