Okay, so this is a parody of the sexy vampire trope with which we’ve all been confronted at every turn just lately. It is a lampoon of horror movies, and buddy movies, and even loser sex-romp comedy movies, and one painted in broad and kinda sexist strokes, at that. It is all nubile lasses in filmy nightwear caressing each other suggestively to a vaguely seductive soundtrack of “ahs” and “oohs” while mist swirls around them and visions of Sapphic orgies dance wantonly in teenage boys’ heads.

But there is one thing that saves this movie from utter unwatchable nonsense, and that is the performance of James Corden. As sex-obsessed, self-involved, petulant and prosaic Fletch, Corden brings an immaculate sense of comic timing and a likeable though grubby laddishness to his role as the much harried lout. From the start of the movie, when he is fired from his job as a children’s clown for hitting a kid (again), we are left in no doubt as to who this guy is. The comic relief. The sidekick. The would-be Lothario with delusions of charm. Fletch is the Jack Black to Jimmy’s Jon Cusak, Turtle to The Vicar’s Eric, Warren to Lotte’s Willow. But then he surprises and delights with…

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

The movie starts with a 300-esque narrated flashback in almost sepia tones, telling of the Queen of the Damned, uh, Carmilla, the Vampire Queen (Silvia Colloca), who was born of Hades and driven by a hatred of men and a love of “the vagine.” (Thank you, Ali G.) She is sent back to Hell with a magic sword, but before she goes she is given just enough time to curse the small English town of Cragwich with an eternity of having their daughters turn into vampires (lesbian vampires) on their eighteenth birthday.

Oh. The title begins to be clear. This is not the story of lesbians who kill vampires, it is of the killers of lesbian vampires. Got it.

In London, Present Day…

The oddly-coiffed and horribly-voiced Judy (Lucy Gaskell) has just dumped doormat Jimmy (Matthew Horne) for the severalth time, and so the lovelorn young sap and his best friend Fletch head into the country for some restorative country air. Fate lands them in the town of Cragwich, the very town in which Jimmy’s ancestor -- oh, yes, it was indeed Jimmy’s ancestor -- forged the sacred sword that dispatched Carmilla. Spying four statuesque Nordic backpacking beauties who have been directed to a local bunkhouse for the night, the boys join them, and in between Fletch getting a little stoned, very drunk, and really very horny, almost all the women in the film become… vampires! Lesbian vampires! (Even Judy.)

Desperate to end the curse is the town Vicar (Paul McGann… yep, it’s just like when Bela Lugosi did Plan 9 From Outer Space), whose daughter is about to turn 18 and who believes Jimmy to be the key to her salvation. While Jimmy and the lovely, scholarly Lotte (Myanna Buring), student of the occult and honest-to-God virgin, flirt uncertainly and get captured by lesbian vampires hoping to bring their Queen back to them once more, Fletch and the Vicar team up to fulfil an ancient prophesy by unearthing the legendary sword that slew Carmilla (it is called the “Sword of Daeldo“ -- yep -- and, as Fletch points out in the throes of hysteria, “It’s got a big metal cock for a handle”… so, not exactly big with the subtlety, here), and when they get the sword, well, all’s well that ends… well, all’s well that ends.

This movie does have some clever moments of genre-taunting comedy -- the use of crosses is particularly amusing -- more than a touch of funny slapstick, and there is no doubt that the lesbian vampires are hot, hot, hot, especially Vera Filatove as vampy ancient vamp, Eva. It shows a nicely pointed mockery of its source material, and the fact that the women-loving vamps, when they die, spurt a sticky white liquid (usually all over Fletch), is gross, but very in keeping with its juvenile vibe.

But, as already mentioned, Lesbian Vampire Killers would be less than nothing without the presence of James Corden. He is simply unmissable in this film, and the only possible reason I would ever have to see it again. (Except, maybe, for when McGann’s righteous Vicar demands “Are you fucking with me?” But even then, Corden’s taken aback consternation -- “Are you allowed to swear?” -- overshadows even this agreeable surprise.) Fletch goes from sidekick to hero and back again and Corden manages this with a consummately petulant ease; by turns endearing and pitiful and entertaining and crass, he gives us a manchild who would be an incredibly annoying acquaintance, but is a joy to watch.

And, miraculously, he makes Lesbian Vampire Killers so as well.

  -- Rachel Hyland