Considering when I happily checked it out from the library for the first time five years ago, I shut it off before the opening scene had finished… it went about as well as expected. And by “well,” I mean very painfully.
Really, I like Francis Ford Coppola most of the time– but after sitting through just a half hour of Dracula I felt like either I was being punished for my sins, or that I owed the spirits of Bela Lugosi and Peter Cushing acts of penance. And pretty serious ones at that– not that I’m all that familiar with the subject. Just that it might be a sacrament and could involve eating only dry Cheerios and a glass of water for breakfast (actually, my dad just has very little imagination when it comes to food) or saying The Prayer for Peace. Neither of those particularly applies to this current situation, so I’ll assign myself a couple of acts.
Think about and report in a calm manner exactly why I dislike the movie so much. Justify the reaction. Then honor the memories of the aforementioned figures in a way that will not upset the landlord or the roommate (which eliminates candles).
Therefore, for the next two posts I will carry this out. Part II details why Bram Stoker’s Dracula makes me weep for the days of yore (1977 and back), and Part III will rhapsodize about those days of yore. Lastly, I will drink some Coppola Rosso wine to show there are no lasting hard feelings. And my roommate can just deal with that.