THE DIABOLICAL DR. Z (1966), aka MISS MUERTE

Director: Jesús Franco

Writers: Jesús Franco (as David Kuhne), Jean-Claude Carrièrre

Producers: Michel Safra, Serge Siberman

Cast: Mabel Karr, Estella Blain, Fernando Montes, Howard Vernon, Guy Mairesse, Marcelo Arroita-Jáuregui, Cris Huerta, Alberto Bourbón, (and remaining uncredited cast members follow) Ana Castor, Mer Casas, Antonio Jiménez Escribano, Lucía Prado, Jesús Franco, Daniel White, Francisco Camoiras, Rafael Hernández, José María Prada, Javier de Rivera, Vicente Roca, Ángela Tamayo 

When elderly Dr. Zimmer (Antonio Jiménez Escribano) and his daughter Irma (Mabel Karr) attend a neurological science convention, he announces his desire to experiment on convicted criminals using surgical techniques to reform them. This provokes outrage and ridicule from other doctors at the assembly. Dr. Zimmer is so upset by their reaction that he has a fatal stroke. Irma plans to avenge her father’s death by killing his three most severe critics. Using her father’s techniques, she turns the beautiful dancer Nadia (Estella Blain), whose stage name is Miss Death, into her slave. Then Irma sends Nadia out to lure each of her father’s enemies to their doom. 

The Flashback Fanatic movie review

In yet another offshoot of his The Awful Dr. Orlof (1962), Jesús Franco presents another tale of mad medical science and uneasy sexuality. The Diabolical Dr. Z is another return to the tropes and obsessions that recur in many of Franco’s films: the elder Dr. Zimmer references theories of Dr. Orlof inspiring his own experiments; the experiments of Dr. Zimmer and his daughter Irma create not only a brutal and obedient henchman, but two beautiful and obedient henchwomen; a cabaret scene features the erotic and macabre Miss Death dance routine; and the police inspector played by director Franco is also named Tanner like the inspector in The Awful Dr. Orlof.

Mabel Karr, as Irma Zimmer, provides the impetus for the entire film. Her character is even more diabolical than her father. Karr’s performance is always controlled, yet seething with an obsessive intensity. She was not Franco’s first choice to play the role, but she is just right for it. In a rather strange detour in the plotline, Irma’s face gets severely burned. This seems of almost no consequence, as she has already set her plans of vengeance into motion and her disfigurement does not alter her character or MO one iota. In fact, she conducts facial surgery on herself immediately after the injury that almost completely removes the damage from her face. I have always puzzled over why this was included in the story. 

Fernando Montes is the handsome hero Philippe who has his way with the bereaved Irma Zimmer just before she begins her series of murders. Soon after, he becomes the live-in boyfriend of Nadia, aka Miss Death. His character has one of those incredible movie intuitions about the missing Nadia and how she might be involved in the murders of his fellow doctors. I guess Philippe’s ego just couldn’t handle the idea of the lady ditching him for a couple months to pursue a career opportunity. In another Orlof connection, Montes played the inspector’s right hand man in The Awful Dr. Orlof. 

The awful Dr. Orlof himself, Howard Vernon, is featured here as Dr. Vicas, one of the targets of Irma Zimmer’s revenge. 

Estella Blain is almost otherworldly as Miss Death/Nadia. Her supple and curvaceous body is always shown to great and often nearly nude advantage. She has eyes that are almost luminous and is equipped with a set of outrageously long fingernails that are used as weapons. This is probably Blain’s most famous role. She had a very troubled life that ended much too soon with suicide in 1982, just as Franco was considering casting her in another film. 

The black-and-white cinematography makes this the finest looking Franco film I have ever seen. The lighting and framing of shots make almost every frame demand attention. For those who gripe about Franco’s later haphazard use of the zoom, they will note here that the zooms are always used to great effect. Much of the visual credit must go to the cinematographer Alejandro Ulloa. Unfortunately, this was the only time he worked on a Franco film. Ulloa was the cinematographer on another of my all-time favorite Spanish fright flicks Horror Express (1972). 

The Diabolical Dr. Z concludes Jesús Franco’s early black-and-white period of horror films in fine fashion. It has Franco’s recurring fixations, another avant-garde music score, and an ending that leaves the viewer a bit uncertain about the fates of its surviving leads. These offbeat elements contrast with the bizarre but coherent plot to make perhaps the finest film in Franco’s vast, increasingly weird, and often frustrating filmography.