20 minute read
Renfield: It Sucks
Renfield. Renfield is about the most desperate attempt at making 'cool' happen I have seen in a long time that it becomes something of a 15 year olds wet dream complete with 'awesome' fight scenes, 'mean' gangsters and 'non-stop' gore. Had it been solely geared to that audience, I'd have still given it the same score but not been as disappointed. Unfortunately, they lulled me in through their marketing of this as being a 'modern' take on the Dracula story. This extends about as far as a teenager's boastfully 'hip' school drama piece updating Shakespeare. Should have known something was off when they were blasting Radiohead through the trailers. What on earth does Radiohead and Dracula have to do with one another? Only screams that a child has been handed the AUX cable and let loose on Spotify. No thought, no meaning considered. Merely a desperate bid at 'cool'.
This is not to say Dracula and Radiohead couldn't go together. Maybe there could have been some connection between some edgy thing there about their isolated youth fan base and Dracula/Renfield's seclusion from society. This isn't really the angle taken, it's just shoehorned in. Other vampire movies have used the modern soundtrack better. The Lost Boys used '80s pop hits to focus on the hedonism of youth and the endless partying and aids spreading when the sun goes down being akin to a Peter Pan story. The Addiction went to the sample heavy hip hop to suggest this decaying drug addicted society in New York left over from the '80s biting and getting every drop of blood out another person to keep the culture going in a postmodernist sense. Near Dark featured psychobilly to promote this idea of an acid western with vampires roaming the land as though caught in an act of manifest destiny. Only Lovers Left Alive focused on the entire history of music, comparing vampires to the ultimate art collectors, who with all the time given to them could be the perfect subjects to examine how music culture has affected society over the centuries. The irony being with all breadth of art available to them, the knowledge they could acquire from it, they still can't figure out basic human interactions like how to sustain a relationship. Making one wonder how much time does a person need to master that. How could we possibly do it in one single life time?
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Renfield is a missed opportunity then musically speaking. Operating only to shoehorn in a certain set of classics to get a certain set of people to go watch it. Outside of music, about its only contribution to the genre is to be this shaggy dog story demonstrating that theirs is a relationship of codependents. To quote Nicolas Cage himself in Face/Off, "Bravo. Brafucking-vo!". Honestly, I'd have actually admired this more if they'd made an old school atmosphere based throwback to Universal/Hammer horror vampire movie and centred it around Cage's wacky performance. The opening prelude black and white scenes set in a castle before they move to a modern city are by far the superior.
Still, Cage's performance is so easy and obvious that it no longer becomes very watchable. It gives him too much room for weirdness that you begin to expect it and so it loses the thrill. Part of the fun of his other movies he makes is that he'll often start off as these subdued characters like grieving cops investigating murders and he'll gradually and unexpectedly take it to 11. Under this basis, his particular technique of Nouveau Shamanism (the defining method used by some to declare him the most original actor since Marlon Brando) operates best. When he's given this much room from the start, it loses its appeal and weakens the blow. Therefore, Renfield was not a good project for him to unleash this technique.
As for Nicholas Hoult, brother you're 33 years old, if I'm too old for this you definitely are. I can see why Cage had to because someone gave him the chance to play Dracula but you've got no excuse. Stick to roles like those in Mad Max, The Favourite and The Menu You don't need to be taking roles like this anymore. You're not the Skins or About a Boy kid looking for a way in to Hollywood. You've arrived. No need to seek out such juvenile rubbish any more just to get your name out there. It is known my man. When it comes to Awkwafina, the less said the better. What an annoyingly loud and shouty actress. Another woeful entry in her appalling excuse for a career. One of the worst actors currently working.
Ok, I hear you, this was never going to be a film of any real substance with anything remotely interesting to add to the vampire genre. Can't it be enjoyed as a bit of silly fun? Think again. How is one to appreciate these fight scenes? I've seen some compare them to John Wick, as though they have the same exquisite and balletic elegance to them. Behave. Chris McKay knows his way round a fight scene like Forrest Gump knows his way round a brothel. There's no skill here involved so they just distract you with clunky editing and digital nonsense. This is where I respected last years Netflix vampire movie Day Shift for bringing in Scott Adkins for those sorts of fight scenes.
Throw in a few lousy therapist jokes, a really tame Marxist reading of Dracula as your work boss and some gangster subplots that wouldn't even make the cut of a Guy Ritchie movie and you've reached the end of the movie. Hurray! Nicolas Cage's Dracula goes out with Devil horns like he's at some rock concert. Cannot recall Christopher Lee or Bela Lugosi ever doing that. An image, which pretty much sums up the entire movie. Shite. Alright, so let me get this clear, you modernised the story of Dracula so you could make a Deadpool movie? You lose Renfield.
*Instead of wasting another sentence ranting about this one, I'd rather just let the kids have their fun and say don't be distracted by its attempts to lure you through using our favourite blood sucker Dracula. Anyone else seeking a good vampire movie to watch, here is the official Kelly top 20 vampire movies for you to watch:
20. The Velvet Vampire (Stephanie Rothman, 1971)
Arrives as part of Roger Corman's New World Pictures, which was along with American International Pictures, the home of great B-Movies in the '60s and '70s. Stephanie Rothman gives this eurosleaze desert freak out a rare feminist touch.
19. Alucarda (Juan Lopez Moctezuma, 1977)
Crosses over into being nunsploitation like The Devils. Throw in some of The Exorcist too with it existing right on that uncomfortable edge between science and religion.
18. The Shiver of the Vampires (Jean Rollin, 1971)
The first of many Jean Rollin to appear on this list. What can we say? That man loved vampires. Perhaps the least gripping of his narratives but aesthetically speaking could be the most appealing with its psychedelic lighting and rocky score. Immaculate vibes.
17. Vampyres (Jose Ramon Larraz, 1974)
Jose Ramon Larraz is one of the most underrated exploitation directors who should be as well-known as Spanish compatriot Jesus Franco. Larraz is a real master of location. Whether it's bisexual vampires drifting across the English countryside or shacked up at a castle, he's got you for the entire movie.
16. A Girl Walks Home Alone at Night (Ana Lily Armipour, 2014)
Marketed as the first Iranian vampire western. That alone should sell it. This one is for post-punk loving women tired of being the victims and wanting to be the perpetrators. Vampirism offering the ability for subversion and to turn the tables on their male counterparts.
15. The Nude Vampire (Jean Rollin, 1970) Runs wilds with the cult aspects of vampires and turns it in to this Eyes Wide Shut type of movie. The closest I've ever seen Rollin get to some decent ideas beyond visual beauty.
14. Twins of Evil (John Hough, 1971)
Among the later gnarlier Hammer Horror films. Basically, the Sisters of vampire movies. John Hough was a legend. Either made movies for the exploitation crowd or Saturday matinee films for the kids. You gotta respect that.
13. Daughters of Darkness (Harry Kumel, 1971)
The essential erotic lesbian vampire eurosleaze movie. One of those where you have to bring out words like 'surreal', 'hypnotic' and 'cerebral' because you don't have a clue what's going on you just know you love it. A very singular experience and the only thing that disrupts the dreamy atmosphere is the unexpected outbursts of violence.
12. Vampyros Lesbos (Jesus Franco, 1971)
There was no way Jesus Franco wasn't going to appear in this list soon enough. Takes the syphilitic subtext of Stoker's classic and converts it into a near masterpiece in erotica. A real high point for softcore.
11. Fascination (Jean Rollin, 1979)
A criminal on the run takes refuge in a mansion. After a brief shootout, he captures a couple of housemaid hostages, who tell him there is going to be a party this evening. A group of black robe donning, axe wielding women show up that never get cold and never cease to entertain.
10. Let's Scare Jessica To Death (John D. Hancock, 1971)
According to a few respected horror critics this is one of the great '70s horrors that didn't get enough appreciation. It has garnered greater acclaim over the years but remains underseen. Whilst I don't think it will ever be considered a masterpiece in the same way as The Texas Chainsaw Massacre or Jaws, as a film about mental health it was ahead of its time.
9. The Addiction (Abel Ferrara, 1995)
The Guardian film critic Peter Bradshaw's favourite film of all time. Does win the award of being the most philosophical of all the vampire movies. In Ferrara style, a disturbing look at the citizens of New York, who in his eyes could all be vampires.
8. Dracula (Todd Browning, 1931)
The OG. Bela Lugosi was a gift of nature. No-one could wrap their voice round syllables the way he could with that Hungarian accent. In our minds forever, that is how Dracula speaks and it can never be matched or recreated.
7. Dracula (Terence Fisher, 1958)
Christopher Lee gives the character an added sex appeal. Lugosi could seduce you with words, Lee would ravish your neck violently. And you would enjoy it. A twisted female fantasy.
6. Habit (Larry Fessenden, 1995)
Almost want to call this mumblecore vampirism. A sort of pre-cursor to Spring and After Midnight. Takes the mental health angle further and views it as potentially a sex game, which gets out of hand between two unstable New Yorkers. Tragic ending.
5. Near Dark (Kathryn Bigelow, 1987)
I'll make this easy for you. Watch the scene on YouTube where Bill Paxton goes in to full Manson mode and wipes everyone out in a pub to The Cramps's Fever. If that doesn't make you want to watch this cracking less popular alternative to The Lost Boys, I don't know what will.
4. The Lost Boys (Joel Schumacher, 1987)
The ultimate crowd pleasing vampire movie that no-one can turn down. Whilst it may not be the best, its inarguably the most popular and understandably so. If this is on at your local cinema, you drop everything you're doing and go see it. Nothing else matters when this is playing. As Tim Roth angrily says in Reservoir Dogs when he gets interrupted by a phone call, "Motherfucker, I'm trying to watch The Lost Boys!".
3. Nosferatu (F.W. Murnau, 1922)
The first real cinematic attempt at converting the vampire literature to the screen. Max Schreck respectably gives the least human performance you've ever seen. Since, this is a silent film, one of my favourite things is mixing this with the droney sounds of Sunn 0))) and their haunting album Monoliths and Dimensions. Try it. Soon as the shadows appear on the walls and he creeps up to the bed, you'll be shitting your pants!
2. Bram Stoker's Dracula (Francis Ford Coppola, 1992)
Coppola studies all the great '70s eurosleaze directors and then achieves a vision so sexually outrageous that it couldn't have been done by any of those directors before him. Why? Cause he had studio backing. The quote that best sums it up is "Civilisation and syphilisation have advanced together" It wipes the floor with any other Dracula adaptation.
1. Martin (George A. Romero, 1976)
The fact you don't even know if this is a vampire movie makes it the King for me. Challenges all the great vampire myths as presented by cinema going all the way back to the beginning. Romero keeps you on your toes. What's even crazier is that they've found the original 3.5 hour cut of this. Will it ever see the light of day as a commercial release? Would it ruin the mysteries of the 96 minute version or add to them? Who's to say?
Right, that's enough pussyfooting. Time to catch up on all things Bonehead and Kelly after last weeks run in with The Pseuds in the peak district. Light began to enter my eyes. How long had I been out? Where was I? I was in a big box on wheels cruising the highways. Where was I going? My heart began to race. "Wait. Where the fuck am I?", I called out. "Don't start that again", spoke a voice next to me. I jumped back not expecting the response. Bonehead was behind the wheel of the box. "What?", I mumbled. "You've been waking up, asking me that, then falling asleep and asking me again every 5 minutes for the last hour and to be honest, I'm starting to get sick of it", said a fuming Bonehead. "I have?", I said. If I didn’t remember it didn't happen. Only defence mechanism one can have in these situations. Why couldn't I remember anything though? The acid. Some fucked up shit had been going on the last few hours and worst of all I didn't have a clue what. Maybe for the best? "Yeah", reinforced Bonehead doing nothing to relieve me of this nightmare.
I looked around trapped in endless paradoxes. My head felt like it had got the Michael Myers meat grinder treatment in Halloween Ends. Not even Inspector Poirot could have figured out just what went down last night. "Ok, can you tell me just one more time? And I promise you I'll remember this time. I'm awake now", I beg of bonehead. He caved in and began to explain, "fine. The Pseuds had us cornered. I had to get us out of there. We both rolled down that hill. I went one way. You went another. Took me a while to find you. But eventually I came across you lying in some bush. You kept repeating someone's name. What was his name? That was it. Who's Melvin Purvis?". I didn't want to know any more. "Jesus. And what happened to you?", I asked. "That's a tale for another day. Let's just get home. I want to get some sleep and be in a safe place for the next few hours while I get my head screwed back on. An incident like this can get you thinking. I don't want to be doing any of that", answered Bonehead.
"I feel you, brother. That bush must not have been a sensible choice of rest. My back feels like it's been sleeping on a fooking bed of nails", I replied, putting a hand under my shirt to massage an irritated region. "Na, that wouldn't do that", countered Bonehead. "What?", I threw out angrily, in no mood for shit like whatever that comment was supposed to be.
"Your bodyweight spreads out evenly so there's no pain. It's maths, Kelly. Mathematicians have worked it out. It's simple maths, Kelly", explains Bonehead. "Well it's not going to be fucking comfortable is it?", I argue. "They've tested it. There was no pain. It's maths, Kelly", Bonehead doubles down. "Shut the fuck up, Bonehead", I snapped back, too tired to argue with him. "Either way, I think we can both agree. Our dogging days are over?", Bonehead says. By far the most logical point he'd made since I regained consciousness. "Sure, Florence", I said in agreement. "Oh and the answers four thousand", stated Bonehead as if I had any idea what he was talking about. "Four thousand what?", I probed. "When you were drifting in and out of conscious, you kept asking how many holes it took to fill the Albert Hall. The answers four thousand", clarified Bonehead. I had had no idea what to do with this piece of information.
The next time I would see Mr. B would be at a Weedeater concert about 4 days later. On the way down, I had been telling him that I'd thought about what happened out in the peaks and decided it was time for me to be packing my bags and leaving. Whilst I was browsing the merch section, he began questioning my desire to depart. "Please tell me you're not leaving Sheffield cause of the fucking Pseuds?", Bonehead demanded to know. I informed him it had nothing to do with those losers. He kept wanting to know more. Even I didn't fully understand why yet. It was something to do with what happened on the acid. Bonehead couldn't get to grips with how I could make a decision without understanding why I was making it. I couldn't explain. It just felt right. When it was a man's time to go, you didn't argue with it. You moved swiftly on and let the winds take you in to the next adventure wherever that may be.
"Do I get the Godspeed T-Shirt or the Outlaw Josey Wales one?", I wondered aloud. Bonehead smile and said, "has to be Clint, don't it?". I nodded and the merch man handed me one over in exchange for a 20. I stared at this incredible piece of art I was holding in my arms for perhaps 5 seconds or 5 minutes. Everything around me disappeared. It was just me and the Weedeater shirt. My loving gaze was interrupted by Bonehead's filthy fingers reaching across to touch my new baby.
I slapped three loose fingers away and screamed, "don't touch the fucking shirt!". A wild light came into my eyes, "Stand away! Don't touch it!", I cried. "It is mine, I say. Be off!". My hand clenched in to a fist, ready to go to war. But then quickly my voice changed. "No, no. Bill", I said sadly. "But you must understand. It is my burden and no one else can bear it. It is too late now, Bill dear. You can't help me in that way again. I am almost in its power now. I could not give it up and if you tried to take it I should go mad", I ranted and raved. Bonehead could see it in my face, the shirt had taken over me, I was no more. "Alright. It's your precious. It's your precious", said Bonehead, accepting the situation as we made our way to the stage.
We had two support acts before the legendary stoner metal trio would arrive. Telekinetic Yeti who played respectably loud and didn't disappoint. Covid had robbed us of the live experience for too long. It was time to come a gig man again. Catch him, a recognisable and sociable face, in the front row at the shows. Sipping on a respectable amount of beers at a moderate rate. Cause he's here for the music and not to make a fool of himself. That guy who checks out all the new talents. Nothing gets past him. Knows what's happening in the 'scene'. He's on every trail. If the scent hasn't reached his nostrils it isn't worth smelling. I'd probably been about 5 gigs since the world re-opened up again. Randomly, I had listened to Telekinetic Yeti's debut album back in 2017. Completely slipped my mind. Either it's due a re-listen, they've come a long way or sometimes you just can't factor in how good something sounds live. It was one of the three.
Mars Red Sky were a bunch of white senders from Bordeaux, France. No-one was really quite prepared for their accents or really knew what to do with them. When it came to the usual back and forth between numbers, the crowd looked at each other all wondering the same thing, "is he having us on with that accent?". Nope, these guys were just French. Something they should have played on a bit more cause the music itself was well... on the dull side. Don't get me wrong, they were all competent musicians but none of it was really going anywhere.
Had they worked on their white sending image, that might have given them some much needed personality to carry it. They seemed a funny bunch though. Jimmy Kinast looked like an IT technician by day, basement bassist by night. Mathieu Gazeau looked like an out of work prowrestler that had been asked to help out on drums for one night only and he was loving every second, bless him. One of those guys that looks like he could tear you limb from limb but actually turns out to be secretly the nicest person you've ever met once the intimidating initial impression tears away. Frontman Julien Pras was the least frontman looking person you've ever seen. Think French Charlie Day but all the years of glue has finally got to him. They looked more like characters from a TV show than a band. Who knows how they've made it this far and for some reason I hope they keep going. Always good to see weirdos and white senders doing well. It gives us hope.
A little while after their slot time but better late than never, the North Carolina ched chompers rocked up on stage. Dixie Collins lifted his whiskey bottle to the air on his middle finger in ritual salute, confirming this was indeed a Weedeater gig. No need to pinch yourselves folks. It's all happening. This act was met with great cheers from the audience. They're gonna have to credit that whiskey bottle as one of the band soon enough. He's putting in a real shift. Clothes wise, they were dressed in near enough the exact same clothes as their previous gigs available on YouTube. Dixie donning that Reggies TShirt that doesn't look like it's been washed since Keko was slapping cymbals. Dixie plays like he's been strapped to the death chair and is having 40,000 volts zapped right through him. He looks like he carries every disease that's ever manifested itself in to this sorry world. You could fool me in to thinking on his days off he wrestlers with alligators. For what reason? This guy doesn't need reasons.
On the other side of the stage, Shep stands cool as ever, near unmoving, lost in his own epic soundscapes, his mind wandering the hills of Doradilla. Ramzi scrambles away at everything in front of him, be it hi hats or beers. Midway through, he lights up and nobody dares stop him. He tosses it across to Dixie, who near burns his hand on the fumble but manages to get hold of it and takes a few hits.
Dixie launches it to the other side of the stage to Shep, who catches it cleanly with ease and tokes away. It somehow improves their playing. By the time Wizard Fight is pumping out, the pits have opened and a hole lies in the floor. Anyone with any good sense has separated to the sides and the nutcases are left to their own devices. Only a few beers in and it being a school night, I edge off joining the chaos for as long as possible until one of the lunatics on the loose knocks in to Bonehead Bill, who in turn spills his drink all down me. I stare forwards, mouth closed and breathing through my nose. Bonehead awaits my response with each passing moment of my inaction intensifying the situation. In the end, I opt to down the rest of my drink and dive in to the pit ready to give it to any fuck that wants it. It was elbow sharpening time. Bonehead smiled and lunged in right after me.
One guy was so drunk he climbed up with the band and ended up stage diving four times in a row to God Luck and Good Speed. The first time was pretty funny but after about the third, everyone was just wondering, "Is this going to do this all night?". Some people just can't handle the Weedeater. Not that I could talk, the noise gave me temporary tinnitus for an entire week with my ears ringing like it was Vietnam. Every day sat in work, struggling to hear, thinking my time has come, dropping to my knees and launching both arms in to the air like Willem Dafoe in Platoon. But other than that, they put on a good show. After it was over, Dixie was playing spin the bottle with his now empty whiskey. It took him about 10 spins to sort it out because he was clearly too fucked to function. Some unfortunate guy on the front row ended up being his victim and now carries more diseases than he knows what to do with. Having now seen the big man live, I can finally understand how he accidentally shot himself in the foot whilst cleaning his favourite shotgun. I guess that's what eating weed does to a man. Raise your glass to a true legend there. They don't make them like that anymore.
On the way home, Bonehead brought up my Sheffield exit plans again. Obviously, I mentioned he was welcome to join me but my time in Sheffield was up. She'd bit the dust. She was over and any time staying here was just prolonging the inevitable. She'd had synthpop. She'd had industrial. She'd had bleep. She'd had trance. She'd had Niche. And maybe that was all she'd ever have. She'd dried up after Covid and become a ghost town. The steel mills were going down and the student flats were going up. This was a different era and one that didn't involve me. Time to abandon ship. The dream was over. And it has been coming for some time. When you know, you know. The peaks would always have my heart but the city had gone to the dogs. Bonehead just didn't want to face but I knew he knew it too. We had to start again somewhere. "What, so we'd just live in some flat together in like Liverpool or Manchester?", he asked. Had to correct him and say, "same city, not the same flat", cause there's no way there's no way I could put living with that filthy creature. I was bad enough myself. He kept adding, "But this is my home town! The magnet. the woodbines. The snuff. The greasy chip butty!"
"Look, it's like The Animals said man, we gotta get out of this place!", I exclaimed. Bonehead was still unconvinced and just kept going back racking his brains as to why I'd decided this. Since, no answer was satisfying him, I stopped for a minute to think about a proper answer. "I know Michael Jackson said and did a lot of things that weren't good. But I can't stop thinking about one thing he said " "I'm looking at the man in the mirror?", Bonehead interrupted. "No. I mean he said that too. But he also said something else. What did he say? Wanna be startin' somethin'. That's what he said. That's what I wanna do. I just wanna do things. No contemplating. No sitting back. No missing the boat. I want to do. It's now or never", I replied. Bonehead stops for a minute too, taking this in properly with his hands on his hips, he looks up towards the towering Park Hill flats in the distance that forever keep their gaze on Sheffield's residents, then looks me dead in the eyes and says, "Right, so you wanna be startin' somethin'. What do you wanna be startin'?"
Director: Chris Mckay
Starring: Nicholas Hoult, Nicolas Cage, Awkwafina
Cinematography: Mitchell Amundsen
Music: Marco Beltrami
Production Company: Skybound, Giant Wildcat
Distribution: Universal Pictures
Country: USA
Run Time: 93 Minutes
Budget: 65 Million
Plot Synopsis: Here's one that's never been done before. Dracula in present day. It doesn't get more original than that. Dracula and his assistant Renfield in the modern world. Nobody has ever thought of this. What if these two were really co-dependents?
