So I see this title in the Horror section:
Andy Warhol
D R A C U L A
and I'm thinking, Holly sh*t, Andy Warhol's Dracula! Praise Jesus, I've found a lost gem! Something to brag about and stump the crap out of my colleagues when (not if, when) I get my butt to B-fest.
What do I get for my positive thinking? 106 minutes of pain, that's what. For, less then ten seconds into the credits, what do I discover? That Any Warhol has nothing to do with this picture. No, it's actually an Italian flick made in the 74s and, oh yes, does it ever show its country of origin.
Now, to all you Italian filmmakers in the audience (yeah, right) I have nothing against you guys, or your art. It's just . . . well . . . what the fu*k is wrong with you people? I mean, you have Dracula, one of the most infamous characters of moviedom, one of the most feared names of the screen and what do you do with him? You do this!
Pop quiz, hotshot: You have the money, time and ability to make a Dracula movie do you (a) make a picture about Dracula in the modern world, enjoying all the splendors of (after) life as the head of a multi-national corporation (what else would a former Count be doing these days?), and, in the shadows constructing a plot to turn the heads of modern business into his unholy army of the night, thus assuring his complete takeover of the world, or (b) make a picture about Dracula in the modern world, dying because he's totally deprived of virgin blood to suck on.
Guess what writer/director Paul Morrissey did.
Boy howdy, Bram Stoker did The Twist in his grave when this flick came out. His creation, the Ultimate Evil, turned into a drug addict. I'm sure Dr. Freex will get a kick out of this flick.
Okay, enough stalling. At his castle, the Count (Udo Kier) is arguing with his man, Anton (Joe Dallesandro). It seems his sister (sister?) is dying and Mr. Drac is soon to follow. The cause of this mysterious aliment is a lack of decent virgin blood to suck on. In an very old throw back to vampire days of yore, Dracula and his family can only consume the "pure" blood over virgins. Modern Romania, it appears, has been sucked bone dry. Seeking fresher ground, Alfred--,er, Anton suggests the Count depart for Italy.
Why Italy? Because, apparently, the militant Catholic society will produce a large number of able blooded virgins.
I don't know about you, but I'm moving to Italy.
Also, considering Dracula speaks in a Chekov-esque, fake-Easter European accent, "virgins" becomes "wergins". Photon torpedoes locked, on the Klingon wessle, Keptin.
But wait! We soon learn that Aton's assumption is false at least 50% of the time. We meet the Di Fiore family and its four nubile daughters . . . two of which are making "the beast with two backs" with the Communist Gardener (Joe Dallesandro). Their father, having gambled away all the family assets, has left the Di Fiore's broke. When a certain rich Count from Romania knocks on the door, ready to marry their "wergin" daughters, it's all the matriarch, La Marchesa Di Fiore (Maxime McKendry) can do to keep from busting at the seams and running off in twenty different directions.
Don't worry, the bodily dismemberment will come later.
One by one, Dracula invites the young "wergins" up to his room, and gets his grove on. Unfortunately (for us and the Count), Drac discovers the impurity of the two eldest daughters. They're so impure, in fact, that their blood causes violent projectile vomiting spells. And we get to watch, too! Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy, oh boy!
After discovering his two sex toys no longer have any interest in him, Communist Gardener sniffs out Dracula's undeadness, deflowers the one remaining "wergin" daughter, and chops Dracula up with an axe, before stabbing the Count through the heart. And so the movie ends, approximately four days before it began.
It seems, rather then fall back on the conventions of Vampire Movies, writer/director Paul Morrissey tried to turn the traditional vampire story into . . . something. Something . . . artistic. Something . . . grand. Something (*gasp*) meaningful.
He failed miserably. And, in the process, created one of the most unwatchable little pieces of crap I've watched in quite some time.
Plotwise, what do we have here? The Count drives from Romania to Italy. In a car. Through Romania. Through notoriously impassable mountain country. Am I repeating myself here? Am I stating the same thing over and over again with different words? Well, I'm sorry. It's just I can't believe it. Through Romania. To Italy. In a car!
The movie also beats you over the head with it's theme (new ideas, in the form of the Communist Gardener, triumph over the old symbols of Victorian era power, represented by Dracula) from the first time Communist Gardener opens his mouth. And, to make matters worse, Dracula, Prince of Darkness, is degraded beyond measure.
Think about it. Would Bela be scared of a Communist Gardener? No. He'd suck that bastard dry and feed the pieces to his wives. What Would Christopher Lee do? He'd punch this little maggot across a room. Gary Oldman? Well . . . Gary Oldman would probably pause in the midst of the ass whoopin' to pontificate about his lost love . . . but then he'd morph into some cool looking bat-creature and shatter the guys bones with his high frequency echolocation.
Hey, he would in my movie, by God. And damn the torpedoes.*
Damn the actors, too. Right down there to hell with Albert Pyun and Satan's pitchfork. Everyone here is so bad! Not good bad, but baaad bad. Not to mention the fact that I hate their characters. I don't want to watch four rich twits prattle about stuff I don't care about. If I wanted that, I'd watch presidential debates.
Scoring 10s on the Rich Twit O' Meter are the four daughters (Milena Vukotic, Dominique Darel, Stefania Casini, and Silvia Dionisio). They're so annoying, and so interchangeable it makes me want to gag. The two eldest are 'hoes of the highest order, played by actors of the lowest, and I can only cheer as they get the blood sucked out of them (I had to endure their sex scenes, so they better suffer). The remaining two are forget able. . . who were we talking about again?
Oh. Dracula. He's so whinny. Such a week, pathetic little bastard. And when it comes to spineless, sniveling whelps, nobody's better then Udo Kier. If you want someone who will read their lines dispassionately, without a drop of interest, while still staring intently into the camera with his beady little demon eyes, you call Udo Kier. The only thing he does with any gusto is puke up blood, and I don't want to see that!
But, despite it all, this is the same Udo Kier who stared in Blade. He died, if I remember correctly.
Hero? What hero? You think the Communist Gardener is a hero? He's a womanizing, pedophile pig. I only hope he falls on that axe someday and winds up in hell, with the rest of the cast and Albert Pyun.
And Satan? Get your pitchfork ready.
Gs (out of a possible five)
MOCK O' METER
Actually, I rather liked Bram Stoker's Dracula just the way it was. Hey, where are you going? Wait! Come back! I can change!