|Because nothing says sexy like a Beatle-esque, aesthete Dracula.|
|Not this one.|
|This one. Minus the Beetlejuice armor.|
Coppola's film is campy in all the best ways. I mean, at one point, blood actually shoots out of every single wall in Lucy Westenra's bedroom. Several smart people I know absolutely hate this stuff, and I value their opinion. But I find that it makes the film, for me, ... well, fun. Coppola almost seems to be sending up his movie while he is making it. I absolutely love Anthony Hopkins's version of Van Helsing. Perfect.
Obviously, my young attraction to this filmic representation of the vampire is disturbing. Nonetheless, I own it. In fact, I continue to be enamored by Oldman's portrayal of this monstrous being, primarily because he does such a wonderful job capturing Dracula's monstrosity (his duality, his doubleness). I couldn't make sense, even in my young brain (I recall debating this then, in fact), why I would be attracted to an entity that destroyed one woman all while courting another. Dracula's destruction of Lucy is utterly reprehensible; everything that he does, in fact, outside of the circle of Mina's purview is disgusting, something to be reviled. If I am being perfectly honest, I see my youthful attraction to Oldman's Dracula, partly, as demonstrative of my cultural brainwashing as a young, developing female. It's like falling in love with that guy who, while he hated everyone else in the world, loved you (been there, done that). "Hey there Little Red Riding Hood, you sure are lookin' good ..." A/J