Dracula, and the Question of Retelling An Old Tale

    The Dracula miniseries is no joke.

    Well, it is actually full of jokes. Deftly written, in-character humour that makes the tone of show just right for horror.

    Allow me the indulgence of describing it in some sort of attempt at poetic prose.

     We are invited to the dinner table, where a banquet awaits. Our host is nowhere to be seen, but a plate has been set for us.

    We sit.

    A darkness soaks the dining room, like sanguine wine served in a greedy glass.

     Soon a hypnotism takes us, like an exotic snake charmer dancing with death, persuading us to come closer. And we do, with heart racing.

     Something catches our notice. Something off putting. We’d be wise to pay closer attention…

     Instead, mischief reveals its ugly and absurdly distracting face to us with impeccable timing. This laughing jester refills our glass, and gives his assurances that "da horror ain't so 'orrible as all that, innit? It's kinda funny, if ya fink abou' it."

     Then, disarmed and open, we finally succumb to the seduction of the feast. The deep red allure, made all the more stark and vibrant by the light of fire, in an otherwise pitch black room.

    Which brings us back to the wine.

    But of course, we have been told, the Count "doesn't drink... wine."

…

    Horror.

    A single, pure drop of it.

    Gripping. Shocking. Chilling.

…

    The food gets cold. The fires burn out. No one alive ever eats there fill in this place. The blue silence only reveals the muffled cries of the previous dinner guests somewhere deep below - try as they must, they will never find sleep.

     Restless, wretched things. “Such sweet songs they make.”

    That was fun. But here's some other stuff about the show that you might find useful, in doing whatever it is you do with review/blog things. (That was a long, confusing sentence - you should probably delete that...)

    I haven't read Bram Stoker's, "Dracula," in a long, long time, so I'm not sure how accurate this take is on the source material.

    It really doesn't matter.

    Some stuff is obviously different. Some stuff is nostalgically familiar, in the good kind of way.

    But all of it is written with a balance of care and daring that only the most skilled story-crafters can execute.

     There is always a risk with adapting a novel to screen, and even more so when that novel has already been adapted in the past. Those who are familiar with the source material are already loaded with mental and emotional expectations – some may be excited, and some may be suspicious.

     Either way, the final product is always inevitably different to the picture conjured up in the mind’s eye of the individual. And being that reading a novel is a collaborative experience between writer and reader, each reader will have their own unique experience of it.

     This is part of the magic of storytelling using the written word.

     So anyone bold enough to take their vision to the screen is doomed to fail for a lot of people. Especially when they dare attempt to adapt a classic.

     Here we have a seemingly impossible task. Dracula. The name by itself holds immense power and evokes so many different emotions and responses just in the act of speaking it – even those who have never read the novel are likely to have some connection to it.

     For my money – besides an appreciation for the novel itself – I am quite in love with the 1992 adaptation, in which Gary Oldman gives a masterful performance of Dracula worthy of Shakespeare. It also features the greatest worst attempt at an English accent from Keanu Reeves I’ve ever heard (which only makes me love that dude more). Plus, Tom Waits showing he could've been a virtuoso actor, if he wasn't already a song writing genius. Add Hopkins to the mix, glue it all together with a truly chilling atmosphere of horror and drama, and I am left content.

     There is your bonus recommendation of one of my favourite films of all time, at no free cost but for the extra strain on your word-reading eyeballs.

     That said, why then would I need to watch another version of this story?

     No need, really. Curiosity. The urgings of my brothers, (who are both equally fond of Keanu’s English accent – “Bloody wolves chasing me through some blue inferno!”) And to practice the art of discarding my preconceptions and expectations when it comes to experiencing media. I think we often underestimate how much mindset affects our experience – a negative mindset is capable of ruining even the most exceptional things, and without us even realising it has done so.

     So watch I did.

     And now I know why I needed to do so. I was reminded of something important, when it comes to the tradition of storytelling. Some stories deserve retelling, even those seemingly told to death. Some stories are so uniquely powerful, they enter the realm of what we might call myth. And myth, in the way that I have come to define it, is a story that profoundly succeeds at capturing the spirit of its time and place, so that we might later be possessed by it.

     In this way, if we are doing things correctly, we can live in the spirit of every age past; we can viscerally experience the wisdom of our history, so that its lessons are not lost to us.

     This “possession” is a powerful tool. Just like switching between different colour-tinted glasses, we can use a “mythological filter” to examine the spirit of our own time. We can recognise patterns of similarity, and discover important contrasts.

     Thus, we are able to observe our time with greater clarity.

     Dracula is such a myth. There was something special being captured at that time in England, augmented by the genius of the likes of Mary Shelly and Edgar Allen Poe – we know it now as Gothic Horror. In writing Dracula, Bram Stoker fashioned a coffin of such elegance and depth, that it proved the perfect vessel to house the heart of Gothic Horror. It is no coincidence that the story of Dracula, like the undead character himself, continues to resurface, time and time again.

     In the depth of that coffin, there is much to discover, much to explore. It is well worth the storyteller’s time to light up a lantern, enter the ancient tomb, and see what treasures they may find within.

     This is the potential power of a retelling.

     But too often, especially in recent trends, those who choose to retell a story fail to understand this potential. They confuse the heart of a story with its makeup. They use grass to make green soup, not understanding that the green is but a symptom of the peas that truly give the soup its flavour.

     (A random food metaphor? Surrounded by grim, graveyard imagery? Jesus, dude…)

     Thus, can the myth fall victim to forgery. Counterfeiters and charlatans inevitably pounce at the opportunity to cash in on the appeal of the myth, flooding the bazaar with their hollow imitations.

     Meanwhile, the true myth becomes neglected with time, lost in the web-covered attic of an antique store, amidst all the other forgotten baubles and trinkets. An ancient coffin, dust covered, yet still in remarkably good condition considering its age, waiting to be rediscovered.

     This is what the Dracula miniseries achieves. It isn’t so much about accuracy, but about spirit. I could feel it drawing me in as I watched, seeking to possess me. And in the fever of that possession, it compelled me to face the mirror of our time and behold our naked reflection.

     What I saw was revelatory and horrifying and hopeful all at once.

     I cannot promise you will enjoy this latest take on the timeless myth of Dracula, (I should mention is was created by Mark Gatiss and Steven Moffat, shouldn’t I?). There is no accounting for tastes. What I can say is I was a hard sell – cynical of remakes, and generally unforgiving of bad writing. And now I’m writing a blog about it.

     The invitation has been sent. The banquet will be held at midnight in the Count’s very own estate. Will you attend?