Dracula

The Universal Monsters are a cinematic world that I love to inhabit. Yes, the sets are obviously artificial creations comprised of plywood, paint and an overactive fog machine, but with the proper cinematography, they can be given a dramatic, atmospheric spark. It’s a deliciously oddball world where misfits and damaged souls turn into devilish, monstrous ids who leave carnage and destruction behind, but really are just poor misunderstood souls who need a friend and to be loved. Having said all of that, I must admit to a bit sacrilege: Dracula has always been my least favorite of the major players. I love the novel, and other film adaptations, and while this particular one does have its charms and high points, I think the parts are more interesting than the total.

Before it descends into a drawing room melodrama with too much chatter and not enough creepy, expressionistic gothic horror, Dracula lives up to the acres of prose and critical analysis describing why it’s a classic and thought of as a masterpiece. The whole lead-up to England is rendered in a dream-like, hallucinatory manner which has more in common with grotesque fever dreams than anything else.

Dracula’s castle, seemingly filled to the brim with spider webs, rats, and, for some inexplicable reason, armadillos, lit mostly by torches and giant shattered windows which seem to illuminate all of the dust and rot in the air, is a masterpiece of visual invention. This is the kind of setting that only could be brought to life through cinema. It is fully realized, a completely original creation which seems to isolate the film somewhere between the Victorian era and the 1930s. A castle made up of equal parts European elegance gone to waste, and a living castle from some fairy-tale’s wicked aristocracy.

This opening (roughly) 30 minute stretch is a film firing on all cylinders, creating something wholly unique and original, a film that easily marries German expressionism to the American cinema. It’s aided by two fantastic performances which liven up even the deadest of scenes in the second and third sections of the film. Dwight Frye as Renfield essays the transition from cheerful, plucky, green English solicitor to insane, blood-thirsty madman with remarkable skill. The shot of him looking up through the hold of a ship is not only deservedly famous, it’s still disturbing after all these years; his manic smile, bulging eyes and laugh alone are enough to give you nightmares for days. It also signifies the last time Dracula is ever anything of interest.

Once we exit the ship and make our way through London, the film comes to a crashing bore. Many films have been leveled with just being a “filmed play,” but Dracula is that actual insult being put into practice. The word “uncinematic” shouldn’t be the first thing that pops into your head when discussing the film that married expressionistic techniques to the American film industry, but it’s an apt one. You’re now stuck with 45 minutes of characters sitting around talking and not doing much of anything else. Occasionally an action will happen, but it leads to nothing but more scenes of the characters sitting around talking about the actions they should be taking.

So, thank god for Bela Lugosi’s central performance. Not only does he electrify the film into being watchable and enjoyable during the sloggy second and third chunks of the story like Frye, but his essaying of the character is so much more than the pop culture shorthand of “I vant to suck your blood!” that we’ve come to think of it as in our collective psyche. His Dracula is a collection of European gentlemanly elegance, an undertone of sexual predator and pregnant pauses which speak louder than the actual words he is saying. His seduction of Renfield is highly disturbing for what he doesn’t say, and how freakishly polite and gracious a host he is, before being punctured by moments of aggression and outright violence. His Dracula is a hideous monster interior wrapped up in a sophisticate from the Old World.

I will never question why Dracula is considered a masterpiece, or a great film: the two central performances, the sets, the cinematography, being the first film to marry a European sensibility to a burgeoning American genre, and that it was one of the first super-sized hits to launch the horror genre out of the American film ghetto are all reasons enough to admire it, watch it, even love it. But it’s imperfect – frequently stage bound, unbearably dull and tedious as it goes on – yet, I can’t help but feel a little bad for kicking a classic. Especially the one that launched a group of films that I have always held dear to my heart, but Dracula just doesn’t hold up on its own or when compared to, say, The Bride of Frankenstein.