There is something curious about my relationship to classic horror. In general, I adore Mary Shelley and Frankenstein (1931) is among my all-time favorites. Comparatively, I don’t like vampires all that much. They’re often too melodramatic and full of gimmicks that I don’t care about. Oh sure, now and then you’ll get a masterpiece like Vampyr (1932), but I wouldn’t call Bela Lugosi’s version of Dracula (1931) to be a favorite. To me, he was always about those passionate eyes, and frankly… it always seemed goofy. Sure I liked Lugosi in general, but as a horror icon, his work strikes me as a tad overrated.
Which is bizarre when you consider my relationship to literature. While I love the mythology surrounding Shelley a whole lot more, I think that “The Modern Prometheus” is at best a decent book. I’m not discrediting how it helped to create the horror genre or that its symbolism was rich, but it’s not my favorite book. Instead, I feel like I need to stand up for one that is frankly overlooked, so much so that there’s even a film with this name that you’re likely to think of before you even pick up the novel. Bram Stoker’s “Dracula” is, to me, more of a quintessential text of horror literature and deserving of the recognition that Shelley has usually gotten.
I didn’t expect to feel this way, but it was shortly into the novel that I began to understand what made this novel worth holding onto, adapting into such wild iconography. It’s a story that launched several noteworthy archetypes for horror, whether they be Count Dracula, Abraham Van Helsing, or even to a lesser extent Renfield. These were characters who from the moment they were introduced popped with a life that was haunting, making you want to learn more about their every movement, to understand if Dracula truly was this murderous vampire who preyed on those around him. For as pulpy as it could’ve been, it’s more rooted in the tradition of romantic novels, presented through letters that convey differing perspectives while staying in The Carpathian Mountains.
I would even go so far as to say that I had the pleasure of seeing an adaptation of the 1924 stage version a few years back at The Long Beach Playhouse. In some respects, there was a need to adjust your expectations for a simpler kind of theater, as Act II ended so abruptly that you kind of understood why Act I was packed with so much exposition and foreshadowing. It’s the type of craft that you can appreciate, but also is jarring when compared to the theater that feels more modern. Even with these eccentric characters, so much of Dracula was about the dark mystery that lied at the center. Who was Dracula, and how did you ever seek to prove his evilness?
The thing is that for all of the faults I had with the show, it perfectly embodied what I loved about the book. Renfield was a mental patient who waltzed across the stage in a manic frenzy. Dracula himself was just distant enough that you always suspected him. Everyone else seemed normal. They were our entry into theater, and it made sense because their fear was ours, needing to find personal strength to overcome these horrific circumstances. For as much as this is a dialogue-driven play, there is something about the posturing about the more supernatural characters that you can at least appreciate from an acting standpoint.
This is where a lot of modern horror originated from, managing to romanticize evil, making it feel accessible to general audiences. What happened when the one most likely to kill us looked familiar? As far as “monsters” go, Dracula was the sexy one, able to seduce you with his luxurious outfits and cadence that hypnotized you into not noticing the traps you were being thrust into. Oh sure, characters like Renfield felt more deliberately terrifying, but that mostly served to reflect how humanity can succumb to this nightmarish trap of a man with a snazzy mansion in a lightening-infested area.
As one can guess, I am definitely more attracted to Francis Ford Coppola’s version of Bram Stoker’s Dracula (1992) than the Universal Horror alternative, if just because of closer accuracy. There is something about this world that would suggest making the most elaborate and dramatic production in history, but there needs to be some melodrama and camp, this awareness that without laughter this plot would be unbearable. You need to have gallows humor or even quick surprises to make you understand the fear in context to humanity.
Stoker does it by allowing a couple to express their love for each other as they attend Dracula’s mansion. Every chapter is presented via a letter that conveys their own concerns in the observation. It’s not a direct plot, but something that draws from their own personal fears, finding each voice having differing views on how this story is playing out. Some will be more attracted to the lingering disturbance that Dracula brings. Others will be entranced by what he is offering to his guests. Everything has a romanticism to it that makes you sympathize with the protagonists solely because they feel familiar. Their love is something tangible that we’ve all felt at different times in our lives.
Of course, it’s all just a perfect example of why vampires have continued to allure us. It’s a story of how death doesn’t hold weight anymore. It’s the fear that one will live forever, stuck in eternal ruin as someone feeding off of the blood of others, desperate for sustenance, and the crushing loneliness that they can only come out at night. So much of the vampires as an archetype are tragic because of this. You recognize their humanity, even as you have Van Helsing ready with his crossbow ready to attack. Dracula may be evil, but Stoker does an incredible job of giving him a richer dynamic, making you see that under that suspicious cloak is a man who once was normal.
It goes back to the idea that everyone can be corrupted, that we can lose our souls. It’s the fear that danger could be staring us right in the face and we don’t even know it. Sure, the symbolism is insatiable on its own. The idea of a vampire sleeping in his coffin, only ever able to be destroyed by a crucifix is brilliant imagery – itself likely pulled from a more religious time – and reflects something morbid. Could we harm our fellow man, even if they were coming directly at us with death in their eyes? So much is compelling about facing a vampire that Stoker understands how to use him with a dramatic license.
I think a big issue for me with vampires is that most interpretations since aren’t nearly as compelling in dynamic. Dracula is a decent drama, but it’s clear that you’re supposed to be repulsed by his sight. Others, later on, will either seek to make them violent or sexy in ways that are designed more for eroticism that also takes away from conventional stories. Sure, I’m not opposed to a monster with hormonal desires, but there has to be so much more going on. There has to be something more than a scary-looking man that we’ve seen hundreds of times before.
I understand those who love the iconography. The idea of popping in pointy teeth and donning a cape (turning into a bat if that’s your thing) is fun. More than anything, Stoker created an image that you could enjoy loping around in, scaring people with your own fake dark secrets. On the other end, he had characters that embodied how horror is supposed to make us feel. At first, we must be concerned, but eventually, we must find ways to overcome our hurdles. There have to be ways to fight off demons and rue the world of festering forces that live under the ground.
For the play version, there is something vital in just witnessing the atmosphere of the location. So much of it is built like a mystery, forcing you to question where the suspiciousness lies. Sometimes it takes minutes to unveil, but others will be observed immediately. It’s a strategic tale, not unlike Sherlock Holmes, of finding a kosher way of destroying evil. What makes the whole experience particularly wonderful in this case was that it ended with the familiar crucifix chest-shoving only to be accompanied by loud yelling and a light show coming out of this coffin. Sure, the anatomical effects were limited, but that was an incredible moment in budget-saving.
To those who hate vampires, I say to give “Dracula” a chance. I am not one who really likes much of the legacy that this book bestowed, but for a few hundred pages, it felt perfectly captured as this Gothic drama. Every character has this rich complexity that makes you intrigued by the mystery, but also sympathetic to the humanity buried deep inside the evil. There are so many layers that will keep you perplexed by every page, making you want to read the next shocking twist. It’s delightfully strange, and it also sets up several archetypes that will only grow more familiar in the centuries since.
If you had to ask me, Stoker’s “Dracula” is the definitive classic horror novel. I don’t wish to put “Frankenstein” down, but everything about the human condition in relation to supernatural interference is present in those pages, and it can catch you off-guard with how human it all comes across. This isn’t dealing with an unknown force entirely, but one that is also misunderstood, able to connect with us on a personal level while being devoid of soul. It’s one that we can become if we’re not careful. It is desired that we hold onto our humanity for as long as possible, and that’s the brilliant goal of “Dracula” and why it continues to endure.
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