Among the cinematic cornfields of Hollywood’s golden age, there stands a colossus—a wrong-way titan of B-movies whose low-budget high-concept genre mash-ups make you as likely to laugh as to grimace during a good freak-out. In this patchwork playground of sublime schlock, a fabric so sleek, so mysterious—it’s impossible not to respond. Yes, we’re talking about velvet. A material that embodies luxury and sophistication as much as the decadence and darkness of Corman’s work.
One of only a very few films in Roger Corman’s vast oeuvre to really appreciate the sensuality of velvet, The Velvet Vampire explores vampirism through a lingering lens of velvety darkness. In this film, a couple move into an isolated house in the desert, where the new neighbour is a glamorous vampire with opaque motives, played by the stunning Catherine — a name too obviously taken from the Italian language for it not to be real.
Just what is it about velvet’s ‘secret sheen’ that made it such a powerful storytelling device – or, more exactly, such a powerful prop – in horror and sci-fi cinema? Why does velvet appear in so many of Corman’s atmospheric scenes – lining the cloaks of vampires, creating the striking colours of haunted castles? Why does it seem to wrap characters in layers of mystery and danger?
Its deep composition furnishes a visual density that balances cinematographic chiaroscuro (an effective tool for horror and sci-fi cinema) to further ramp up the film’s erotic charge. Corman manages to make all of this work for *The Velvet Vampire*, less necessarily as titillating melodrama or horror movie, but more as a luxurious spectacle luring us into its moonlit seduction.
It’s hard to say what’s more thrilling about velvet: the classics contain it, but modern anxieties gloat in its shadows One way or another, Corman’s worlds – and the characters within them – are anchored in velvet, binding the past to the present and the mortal to the undead. Classical velvet is current in the shadows of the modern, for it is easy to bring things to the surface, while difficult to unearth that which is buried. It is difficult for me to turn a question about his work back on him, but then, difficult isn’t the right word. Questioning the auteur is risky. After all, your own world’s bed might be a coffin. Look. Don’t blink. See? The body is a shape we don’t often consider, except in acts of desire or protest. The body is a collection of angles. Velvet universally flows over all that would otherwise be sharp. Just as in Corman’s worlds, this softens things. It flattens them. It metamorphoses.
In films such as The Velvet Vampire, however, rather than being anything so mundane as a textile, velvet is a character on the level of the actors who play out a story – its presence is felt as a silent protagonist, made visible in how it adds a dimension of emotional intensity to the narrative, thickening the filmic tension and potentiating the sensuous erotic pull of the illicit.
It is no exaggeration to say that the late, and still very active, film producer Roger Corman’s legacy is as influential on cinema as velvet is on design — dating back to the B-movie queen Ed Wood’s Plan 9 from Outer Space (1959), through Corman’s own gothic adaptations of Edgar Allan Poe, Vincent Price’s portrayal of Frederick Edward Oakley in his fan favourite, The Terror (1963), John Waters’s 1972 drag comedy Multiple Maniacs, with Divine, all the way to Jim Henson’s more innocent versions in his Muppets Take Manhattan (1984). Viewed through this wide lens, the combination of velvet with the macabre and fantastical implicitly reminds us that, if pop culture has taught us anything, it is that the opulence of luxury and the titillation of danger are two sides of the same velvet cloth.
The beauty at the centre of Corman’s velvet-draped tales could also take a terrifying, murderous turn: lust become godlike despair-ridden narcissism, and then destruction. It’s why the stories in Corman’s films are timeless, why they continue to fascinate audiences all over the world.
Thus she is the original con artist, and velvet is the original criminal, a material that somehow transcends its own materiality in order to become a conduit for all kinds of irrational and unverifiable feelings and emotions – not only fear, desire and awe, but also dread. Corman gave us a series of visions of the power of the material, but he also gave us something more: a vast, compulsively watchable archive in which velvet was always both visibly present and profoundly absent onscreen.
For velvet is more than merely luxurious; it is a symbol of the complicated and multivalent worlds of deepest shadows and richest emotional tones and – at its most original and provocative – the velvet campaign has always offered the promise that the veil, poetically speaking, rendered its material world – our world – alive in new ways: not just materially but spiritually as well. And it is in Roger Corman’s cinematic universe, that the promise is redeemed, that velvet truly becomes his badge of interpretive expertise – if not his filmmaking masterstroke.
Even when thinking about resale, particularly with a marketplace such as mine where all items are inspected, luxury items like velvet hold their value better because they’re perceived as high quality – and retain retro-chic appeal over time.
They are especially important if the items are made of velvet, something so potentially tawdry in the right context (Grandma’s bappy-wedding relics) that the condition, age and rarity of a piece can make a huge difference. A case in point: for collectibles, obviously, the connection to a cult movie or person (think of Roger Corman’s The Velvet Vampire, 1971) can make a world of difference in the re-sale market.
Yes, devotees of classic film, horror and sci-fi, who crave anything from a cult classic, are a lucrative market for velvet collectibles.
Gizmogo empowered a new model of using simple online market places to enable buyers and sellers of velvet and other collectibles to find each other and conduct transactions easily.
Photographs that show the velvet’s texture and wear (or provide more information on its history or position, for instance, that it once belonged to Roger Corman’s film set) can increase interest – and the price.
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