"The Lair of the White Worm" is, after all, truly the last great film by Ken Russell, and one that desperately needs a contemporary reassessment, as it still carries a persistent reputation as mere trash—with all the dismissive implications that follow—but nothing more. That said, my relationship with this adaptation of Bram Stoker by one of the greatest British directors of the last century has shifted from one viewing to the next. For instance, I first stumbled upon this film during a morning broadcast, at a very tender age in the late nineties, and the explosive kitsch, a certain visual excess combined with the deliberate authorial madness of the movie left a profound impression, embedding itself in my consciousness. But I was clearly at that age when criteria for "good" and "bad" cinema hadn’t yet fully formed. Much later, upon rewatching Ken Russell’s movie, it seemed unbearably stupid, inhumanly cheap, and somehow utterly cringeworthy, barely amenable to adequate perception. By age 21, kitsch as a concept had worn thin for me, especially given how ubiquitous it had become in the pop music of the 2000s and 2010s, which had thoroughly mastered Madonna’s provocations (indeed, my entire playlist and viewing list at the time consisted of kitsch of varying degrees of insanity, as that was my first year living outside Ukraine). But it seems that my recent return to this jesuitically ironic and genuinely stylish horror from late Russell has adjusted my perspective. Now, what stands out is how Ken Russell consistently pushes his convenient feminist lens in every direction in "The Lair of the White Worm," while caustically mocking the exclusively masculine horrors of Hammer Studios—foregrounding Lady Sylvia—as well as the aesthetics of video nasties, all while sneering at British aristocracy, portrayed in the film with an unprecedented idiocy in their existence. Naturally, "The Lair of the White Worm" doesn’t reach the heights of "Women in Love" or "The Devils," but even this Ken Russell is far superior to anything from the current Ryan Murphy. Ken Russell, one of the most provocative and visionary filmmakers Britain has ever produced, spent much of his career challenging conventions, blending high art with lowbrow excess, and infusing his works with a wild, unrestrained energy that often polarized audiences and critics alike. By the late 1980s, after a string of ambitious but commercially uneven projects like "Gothic" and "Crimes of Passion," Russell found himself working within the constraints of a low-budget horror commission from Vestron Pictures. What emerged was "The Lair of the White Worm" (1988), a deliriously campy, psychosexual horror-comedy that loosely adapts Bram Stoker’s final novel while incorporating elements of English folklore, particularly the legend of the Lambton Worm. Far from a straightforward adaptation, Russell transformed Stoker’s often incoherent and rambling tale—widely regarded as one of his weakest works—into a feverish, visually extravagant spectacle that revels in blasphemy, phallic symbolism, and subversive humor. The plot centers on a rural English setting where Scottish archaeologist Angus Flint (a young Peter Capaldi) unearths a mysterious skull on the property of sisters Mary and Eve Trent (Sammi Davis and Catherine Oxenberg). This discovery awakens ancient pagan forces embodied by the enigmatic Lady Sylvia Marsh (Amanda Donohoe), an immortal priestess who serves a gigantic subterranean serpent-god known as the White Worm. Local aristocrat Lord James D’Ampton (Hugh Grant, in one of his earliest roles), whose ancestor supposedly slew the beast centuries ago, joins forces with Angus to combat the threat. What unfolds is a whirlwind of hallucinatory sequences, erotic undertones, and outrageous set pieces, including venomous bites, sacrificial rituals, and surreal dream visions that blend Roman centurions with crucified nuns. At the heart of the film’s enduring appeal—and its frequent dismissal as trash—is Russell’s unapologetic embrace of excess. The visuals are a riot of color, with garish lighting, psychedelic montages, and practical effects that border on the absurd. The giant worm itself, a puppet with flickering tongue and gaping maw, is delightfully cheesy yet menacing in context. Synth-heavy score amplifies the 1980s vibe, while the dialogue crackles with witty, deadpan one-liners. Amanda Donohoe’s performance as Lady Sylvia is a standout: seductive, predatory, and gleefully over-the-top, she slithers through scenes in leather and lingerie, wielding a strap-on dildo as a ritual object and biting victims with vampiric fangs. Her character dominates the screen, turning what could have been a standard monster movie into a celebration of female monstrosity. This brings us to the film’s subversive feminist undercurrents, which the original poster seems to intuit but which deserve deeper exploration. Russell, throughout his career—from "Women in Love" (1969) with its groundbreaking male nudity to "The Devils" (1971) and its critique of patriarchal religious hysteria—often centered complex, sexually liberated women. In "The Lair of the White Worm," Lady Sylvia is no mere villainess; she is a powerful, ancient force reclaiming agency in a world dominated by male heroes and Christian symbolism. Her vampirism and serpent worship evoke the monstrous-feminine, drawing on archetypes like the lesbian vampire from Carmilla or the phallic woman who inverts patriarchal fears. By making her the central antagonist—and the most charismatic figure—Russell flips the script on traditional horror, where women are often victims or damsels. Moreover, the film satirizes the macho posturing of Hammer horror films, those beloved British gothics of the 1950s and 60s starring Christopher Lee and Peter Cushing. Hammer’s horrors were steeped in heterosexual male gaze, with buxom victims and heroic men vanquishing evil. Russell parodies this relentlessly: Hugh Grant’s floppy-haired lord is comically ineffectual at times, relying on ancient family lore and bagpipes (yes, bagpipes as a weapon against snake-vampires), while the women drive much of the action and eroticism. The hallucinatory sequences—featuring crucified Christ figures intertwined with writhing snakes or Roman soldiers assaulting nuns—mock religious repression and patriarchal violence, echoing Russell’s earlier controversies. The mockery extends to British class structures. Lord D’Ampton represents the decaying aristocracy—charming but idle, living off ancestral myths in a modern world. Lady Sylvia, inhabiting a crumbling mansion, embodies eternal privilege twisted into predatory immortality. The rural setting, with its bed-and-breakfast quaintness clashing against pagan horrors, underscores a critique of English insularity and repressed desires bubbling beneath the surface. Russell, ever the iconoclast, delights in exposing these hypocrisies through camp exaggeration. Yet over time, it has garnered a cult following for precisely these qualities: the unbridled joy in transgression, the blend of horror and humor, and the sheer visual inventiveness on a shoestring budget. In an era of sanitized blockbusters, Russell’s late-career defiance feels refreshing—even prophetic. My own evolving appreciation mirrors this cult reevaluation. As a child, the film’s bold imagery—snakes, fangs, eroticism—captivated in a primal way, unfiltered by critical judgment. In young adulthood, saturated with ironic pop culture, it felt dated and embarrassing, a relic of 1980s edginess gone awry. But maturity brings recognition of its craftsmanship: Russell’s direction is precise in its chaos, layering symbolism without pretension. The performances, especially Donohoe’s fearless commitment, elevate the material. Compared to contemporary "elevated horror" or the glossy provocations of Ryan Murphy’s television empire—which often prioritize shock over substance—Russell’s work feels authentic, daring, and deeply cinematic. "The Lair of the White Worm" may not be Russell’s masterpiece—that honor goes to earlier peaks like "The Devils" or "Women in Love"—but it represents his final uncompromised burst of creativity before declining health and industry marginalization limited his output. In a career defined by battling censors and conventions, this film stands as a testament to his enduring rebellious spirit. It deserves reevaluation not as trash, but as a masterful fusion of folk horror, camp satire, and feminist subversion—a worm that continues to burrow into the subconscious long after viewing.