Late October. Halloween, a time for happiness, candy, costumes, and rediscovered cinematic joys. For many this is the time of year for Hocus Pocus, The Nightmare before Christmas, or Mike Myers bloody tale in Halloween. You know fun adventures to share with your children and bring the family close together.
But for me Halloween brings up different memories: crueler, harsher truths that my family forced upon me. Even outside the season it occasionally rears its head. I will say this has helped define me. I have broken friendships over this…thing. But as the election season has drudged up scandal and other memories of the 90’s best left forgotten, I couldn’t help myself… couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t say this.
Bram Stoker’s Dracula is the worst film ever made.
I say this with the certainty of any Jehovah’s Witness who may come to your door. I say it with determination, conviction, faith and a little admiration. Other works fall short. The cannon of dreadful movies spirals ever outward, collecting new terrible plots, obvious costumes, wooden performances, and directors who live as caricatures. Ed Wood and Tommy Wiseau produced truly awe inspiring bad films. But these contain a charm, an idealism, that no matter the lack of money or talent some people will try to make a film.
But Bram Stoker’s Dracula was directed by Francis Ford Coppola, a visionary. It stared Gary Oldman, Anthony Hopkins, Wynona Ryder, that guy from Princess Bride, and Keanu “Neo” Reeves. This combination of talent, vision, and production value promised something greater. But let me start with a personal pet peeve before my objective critical review commences.
I think two bestiality sex scenes is two many.
After they shot the first werewolf sex scene I imagine everyone looked at Mr. Coppola:
“Whew, Francis. That was intense… I don’t know.”
“You’re right. We need more.”
“Jesus! Francy-baby. More Werewolf sex?
“God no! Do you think I’m a monster. It will be a full wolf. No human parts at all.
Indeed poor Lucy (played by the fierce Sadie Frost) must again moan into the arms of a wolf in the process of eating her. That is literal- the wolf kills her within the scene.
Now I already hear the counter. The movie’s themes involve repressed sexuality. The Victorian sensibilities are challenged by the powerful masculine other. I have a question, which of these characters is repressed? It is certainly not Lucy, Mina maybe… maybe, but not Lucy.
But it is this surface sensuality that drives almost all of the film’s imagery. Lesbian overtones never revisited, viciously bright costumes that deserve an epilepsy warning, an almost Noh Theatre sensibility without any of the focus, and a self indulgent vision that corrupts the brilliance of any performer as surly as Dracula’s bite.
Because these are brilliant actors and they perform brilliantly. Let’s start with Mr. Oldman, a man perfect for the role.
Oldman’s performance is brilliant… in the sense he achieves everything he wanted. Each contradictory moment is highlighted, the vast mood swings are epic in scale, his physicality predatory and refined.
It’s a shame that this makes the movie worse because brilliantly executing painfully bad choices does nothing to improve the experience. The contradictory line to line reading do not indicate complexity but rather confusion. Within his own personal journey I’m forced to ask,
“Wait if he’s been waiting through time for Mina why the three wives?”
“He’d given up hope. He didn’t know his love had come again until later.”
“Wait, you mean when he’s ‘eating’ Lucy and spots her.”
“Exactly, at that moment…”
“Then why does he keep haunting Lucy if his love is there?”
“Well… he can’t deny his nature…”
“Then why doesn’t he turn Mina?”
“Well, he loves her.”
“So he can deny his nature?”
“Well only when…”
“And why does he then stop needing to feed later when…”
“Shut up!”
And this is only the inconsistency within the character alone. It stains belief that any person would interact with him for more than a moment. Let alone the time necessary to haunt and murder others. If this insanity included a sort of maniacal sense of fun all the above could perhaps be forgiven. But it is the dull teenage self absorbed quality, the idea that this collection of cliche’d breathy exclamations are something special that not only offends but bores.
This seriousness of tone contrasts bitterly with the ridiculousness of the visual framework. For instance when we first meet him Dracula…
He reminds me of another old crotchety mystic.
That is to say Billy Crystal’s equally sensual performance in the Princess Bride.
I wish I could say this was the only ridiculous comparison I had…
Or…
Moments of seriousness are repressed by consistent giggles.
Oldman’s virtuosity hurts him partially because it digs him deeper into this mess and partially because he never shares the screen with anyone at his level. There is only one other actor in the film at Oldman’s level, Hopkins, and they never really meet. This leaves the impression that Dracula is monopolizing an empty room, not a good thing during a sex scene. The mediocrity is shared by the vast majority of the cast. Not necessarily because they are bad actors but because they have nothing to do. Dracula rages, the lovers pout, and the rest of the boys are introduced as the doctor, the noble, and the guy with the big knife. No more is provided, needed or ever…ever desired.
The pouting lovers (played by Keanu Reeves and Winona Ryder) do the best they can. Reeve’s Harker goes from demonic foursome, vicious battle, nunnery, London back to the ends of the earth all without breaking an expression. Ryder is asked to play both the sensual love sick Mina invented for the movie and the innocent soul from the novel. She fails but the attempt is noble and I dare anyone to whisper the line “take me away from all this death” after just having been intimate with green fog while staring into the chest of a Tom Petty impersonator.
There are in fact two performances that stand out and can even be described as mildly enjoyable. he first is my child hero Tom Waits as the deranged and delightful Renfield. Waits seems to be the only performer who manages to synchronize the contradictory elements. His bursts of temper are motivated. His physicality both subtle and exaggerated. He is able to convey a tenderness and gentility that has been violated by the insanity of the world around him. In other words the one actor who seemed to embody the style that the movie promised.
So naturally we have to kill him as quickly as possible.
The next is the Great Sir Anthony Hopkins.
His performance can only be compared to a rabbit caught by a camp of starving pioneers. Yes, it’s to late to turn around, yes it isn’t much, and yes we’ve probably already cannibalized the body of those lost on the way. But that makes each bite or moment with his character all the sweeter the more meaningful.
For those used to the reserved aristocratic demeanor Hopkins mastered in works such as Remains of the Day, Silence of the Lambs, or The Lion in Winter check those expectations. He does not arrive in any force until after an hour into the film. When he does he brings an outrageous accent, forceful strides, and wicked comedic timing. He is responsible for the scene in which he dry humps a man’s leg while screaming “she is the devil’s CONCUBINE!” A moment that in my mind earned him an Oscar. My own theory is that he having read the script correctly concluded he was in a comedy and nothing anyone said would convince him otherwise.
But that is in fact what makes this film simultaneously amazing and painfully awful. Do not get me wrong. There is nothing enjoyable about this film. Along with being nonsensical, visually unappealing, contradictory, over the top, it is most damning of all… dull. But the sheer ambition that Coppola brought to his work is worthy of admiration. No other director could have accomplished this feat. Most other films are awful because they ignore craft or lack production values. Not here. This film could only fail this badly because it reached so high. But isn’t that what we want. In an era of mediocrity where so many films are based on focus tested, preconceived criteria I’d rather have a truly awful film. A film so bad I have re watched it over a dozen times and find new elements, new tricks I hadn’t seen before. I can replay scenes from this film in my head. Act them out. So by that matrix while this film was terrible I cannot call it a failure.
On second thought... Yes I can.
Till next time,
Lane McLeod Jackson
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