Count Dracula (1970)
Jess Franco's 1970 film Count Dracula is an oddity. Its amateurish quality gives it the feel of a movie made by an inexperienced film school student who inexplicably had access not only to gorgeous locations at which to film, but to the considerable acting talents of Christopher Lee and Klaus Kinski.
But that description does not quite fit, for, every once in a while, the slow pacing and inexplicable lack of urgency exert a hypnotic influence on the viewer, lulling them into an odd complacency and making the clearly hastily filmed shots (it's never quite clear whether it's day or night, for each frame seems to contradict the previous one) acquire a poetic lilt. It occupies some sort of in between universe, with frequent hints to the Hammer films of Christopher Lee's past contradicted by the atmosphere of Murnau's Nosferatu.
Before seeing this film, I had often heard it referred to as lifeless and unimaginative aside from Klaus Kinski's performance as Renfield. This, I believe, is clearly not the case. However, those who come to this film expecting the risque sexual material which I hear the Jess Franco is known for will be sorely disappointed. Though, at this point in vampire film history, we were fast approaching the performance of Frank Langella's that would begin the popular conception of the Dracula story as a romance, no hint of that is present here. Maria Rohm as Lucy has a blank, barbie-doll face which displays no pleasure when she is bitten by the Count, and Soledad Miranda plays a true Hammer film Mina, displaying the same generic beauty, lack of threatening sexual energy, and upswept blonde hair as her counterpart in Horror of Dracula. The Vampire Brides' insubstantial quality (they begin transparent and slowly gain solidity) diminishes from the sexual role they play in most movie adaptations. Even the stakings of the women - province of Freudian literary critics for decades - are curiously not sexualized, with no one but the final vampire bride making any sound at all during her dispatching. And, at the last vampire bride's death, one is more struck by the unpertrubed faces of Jonathan and Quincey than anything else, I think.
Those who call this adaptation strikingly accurate to the book are also wrong, I'm afraid. True, the beginning sections in the Count's castle are fairly faithful, but any adaptation can be faithful in those sections (which makes it all the more puzzling when they're not, but no matter). After that, we wave farewell to the book. Carfax Asylum is no longer Jack's, in this adaptation, but belongs to Van Helsing (a thoroughly unlikable character here), who specifically takes patients who seem to have some connection to the dark arts, so that he can observe them more closely. For some reason, however, he continues to let these patients - who, in another departure from the book, include Jonathan for some time after his return from the Count's castle - believe themselves thought mad by all around them. Thankfully, Jonathan does confront him on this issue, but he, like the audience, recieves no answer as to Van Helsing's inpenetrable logic.
The usurping of his asylum is only the first of several detractions to Jack (Paul Mueller)'s character over the course of the film. One would almost expect that he no longer be a suitor of Lucy's (he rarely is, in the films), but he is frequently absent from the men's vampire hunting exploits, for no clear reason. One feels sorry for the poor man, whose mentor is leaving him out of all these things. The character seems to be there only to interrogate Renfield, but even that job is mostly taken by a gruff, slightly sinister orderly.
Where Jack loses, though, Quincey (Jack Taylor) gains. For this turns out to be the first Dracula film I've seen in which Quincey gains the coveted role of Lucy's fiancee. Unfortunately, he has to give up all his accustomed character traits to do so, becoming a British barrister with the blond hair that everyone (including myself) seems to imagine for Quincey.
This is one of those movies, however, where the heroes fade into the background as a group of mildly sympathetic bumbling fools, here with no Peter Cushing or Laurence Olivier to lead their daring company. Herbert Lom's Van Helsing is a cowardly an ineffectual man who never even gives a crucifix to Lucy or Mina and who has a stroke the first time he does anything at all. One feels badly for the other characters who have to deal with such a mentor, but he captures neither our interest nor our imagination.
Particularly when the forces of evil are so fascinating. For here we have Christopher Lee, at the height of his acting powers and released from the constraints of terrible Hammer film scripts. Here, he is given lines from the books, whole monologues of them occasionally, and, oh, dear gods, is he clearly happy about it. He plays a very human, very dignified, very aristocratic version of the Count, and it is amazing. Early on, he gets the speech on his ancestry from the book, and, as he stands and delivers the monologe nearly directly to the camera, one shivers because there is an amazing sense that this, what he's saying at that moment,, and the way he's saying it, in the gorgeous old castle of a set (frightfully cluttered with tacky Halloween store props) is a Shakespearean monologue, Macbeth and Lear and Richard III all at once.
And then there is Klaus Kinski as Renfield, in a superb bit of typecasting, giving an immensely powerful performance all with his startlingly vivid blue eyes and his ability to piteously curl up like a hurt and unloved child. This is a Renfield who the audience finds not at all despicable, despite his habit of eating flies of throwing his assigned meals against the white padded walls of his cell. We love this Renfield (who, forever silent, never calls out "Master!" and, as a matter of fact, doesn't seem to like obeying the Count) much as we love Toby in Sweeney Todd. He even gets a heart rending back story, with a daughter killed by the Count. His death, characteristically for this movie, is unhearalded and quiet, yet haunting.
All in all, it's an erratic movie, with severe missteps (the Count appears to have a penchant for taxidermy, and one incredibly odd scene has the dead animals moving in a way that can't look anything but ridiculous) and very nice moments (Lucy as a vampire, all in black, as calm and dignified as her Maker, calling a little child to her). See it for Klaus Kinski, and for Christopher Lee giving one of the best performances of his career, but don't expect logic or consistency.
But that description does not quite fit, for, every once in a while, the slow pacing and inexplicable lack of urgency exert a hypnotic influence on the viewer, lulling them into an odd complacency and making the clearly hastily filmed shots (it's never quite clear whether it's day or night, for each frame seems to contradict the previous one) acquire a poetic lilt. It occupies some sort of in between universe, with frequent hints to the Hammer films of Christopher Lee's past contradicted by the atmosphere of Murnau's Nosferatu.
Before seeing this film, I had often heard it referred to as lifeless and unimaginative aside from Klaus Kinski's performance as Renfield. This, I believe, is clearly not the case. However, those who come to this film expecting the risque sexual material which I hear the Jess Franco is known for will be sorely disappointed. Though, at this point in vampire film history, we were fast approaching the performance of Frank Langella's that would begin the popular conception of the Dracula story as a romance, no hint of that is present here. Maria Rohm as Lucy has a blank, barbie-doll face which displays no pleasure when she is bitten by the Count, and Soledad Miranda plays a true Hammer film Mina, displaying the same generic beauty, lack of threatening sexual energy, and upswept blonde hair as her counterpart in Horror of Dracula. The Vampire Brides' insubstantial quality (they begin transparent and slowly gain solidity) diminishes from the sexual role they play in most movie adaptations. Even the stakings of the women - province of Freudian literary critics for decades - are curiously not sexualized, with no one but the final vampire bride making any sound at all during her dispatching. And, at the last vampire bride's death, one is more struck by the unpertrubed faces of Jonathan and Quincey than anything else, I think.
Those who call this adaptation strikingly accurate to the book are also wrong, I'm afraid. True, the beginning sections in the Count's castle are fairly faithful, but any adaptation can be faithful in those sections (which makes it all the more puzzling when they're not, but no matter). After that, we wave farewell to the book. Carfax Asylum is no longer Jack's, in this adaptation, but belongs to Van Helsing (a thoroughly unlikable character here), who specifically takes patients who seem to have some connection to the dark arts, so that he can observe them more closely. For some reason, however, he continues to let these patients - who, in another departure from the book, include Jonathan for some time after his return from the Count's castle - believe themselves thought mad by all around them. Thankfully, Jonathan does confront him on this issue, but he, like the audience, recieves no answer as to Van Helsing's inpenetrable logic.
The usurping of his asylum is only the first of several detractions to Jack (Paul Mueller)'s character over the course of the film. One would almost expect that he no longer be a suitor of Lucy's (he rarely is, in the films), but he is frequently absent from the men's vampire hunting exploits, for no clear reason. One feels sorry for the poor man, whose mentor is leaving him out of all these things. The character seems to be there only to interrogate Renfield, but even that job is mostly taken by a gruff, slightly sinister orderly.
Where Jack loses, though, Quincey (Jack Taylor) gains. For this turns out to be the first Dracula film I've seen in which Quincey gains the coveted role of Lucy's fiancee. Unfortunately, he has to give up all his accustomed character traits to do so, becoming a British barrister with the blond hair that everyone (including myself) seems to imagine for Quincey.
This is one of those movies, however, where the heroes fade into the background as a group of mildly sympathetic bumbling fools, here with no Peter Cushing or Laurence Olivier to lead their daring company. Herbert Lom's Van Helsing is a cowardly an ineffectual man who never even gives a crucifix to Lucy or Mina and who has a stroke the first time he does anything at all. One feels badly for the other characters who have to deal with such a mentor, but he captures neither our interest nor our imagination.
Particularly when the forces of evil are so fascinating. For here we have Christopher Lee, at the height of his acting powers and released from the constraints of terrible Hammer film scripts. Here, he is given lines from the books, whole monologues of them occasionally, and, oh, dear gods, is he clearly happy about it. He plays a very human, very dignified, very aristocratic version of the Count, and it is amazing. Early on, he gets the speech on his ancestry from the book, and, as he stands and delivers the monologe nearly directly to the camera, one shivers because there is an amazing sense that this, what he's saying at that moment,, and the way he's saying it, in the gorgeous old castle of a set (frightfully cluttered with tacky Halloween store props) is a Shakespearean monologue, Macbeth and Lear and Richard III all at once.
And then there is Klaus Kinski as Renfield, in a superb bit of typecasting, giving an immensely powerful performance all with his startlingly vivid blue eyes and his ability to piteously curl up like a hurt and unloved child. This is a Renfield who the audience finds not at all despicable, despite his habit of eating flies of throwing his assigned meals against the white padded walls of his cell. We love this Renfield (who, forever silent, never calls out "Master!" and, as a matter of fact, doesn't seem to like obeying the Count) much as we love Toby in Sweeney Todd. He even gets a heart rending back story, with a daughter killed by the Count. His death, characteristically for this movie, is unhearalded and quiet, yet haunting.
All in all, it's an erratic movie, with severe missteps (the Count appears to have a penchant for taxidermy, and one incredibly odd scene has the dead animals moving in a way that can't look anything but ridiculous) and very nice moments (Lucy as a vampire, all in black, as calm and dignified as her Maker, calling a little child to her). See it for Klaus Kinski, and for Christopher Lee giving one of the best performances of his career, but don't expect logic or consistency.