I don't think that's what gallbladders are for...

Paul Morrissey's Flesh for Frankenstein would have made Mary Shelley blush. Or laugh. Listen, I don't know Mary Shelley, ok? She can react to things however she sees fit. But in any case, Morrissey's 1973 horror-sexploitation comedy turns the 19th century tale of what it is to be human into a sexualized screed against Free Love. Pat and I weren't really sure what to make of it, but give us a listen, won't you?