I finally watched Bram Stoker's Dracula, directed by Dan Curtis and written by Richard Matheson. Yes, that Richard Matheson (I Am Legend, Duel, What Dreams May Come, The Shrinking Man, Hell House, and a shizzton of Twilight Zones). It's long been considered one of the best horror TV-movies of the Nixon-era '70s, and I think deservedly so. Curtis was the brain behind Dark Shadows and he knew how to squeeze all the creepy out of the cast. The production values are also first rate, featuring less-than-lush film locations in both Hungary and England.
A lot of the stylistic touches and inventiveness Francis Ford Coppola took credit for in his Bram Stoker's Dracula were born here. What truly elevates this flick from the pack, though, is the performance of Jack Palance. Each year of Dracula's undead life is written in every nook and cranny of Palance's craggy face. Gary Oldman needed two hours of makeup to accomplish the skin tone Palance simply garnered from smoking a thousand packs of Lucky Strikes.
As you can imagine, Palance's Dracula comes across as more he-man woman-hater than hopeless romantic, smacking men aside and ripping women's throats open. You know... just a typical Thursday night at a bar for Jack Palance. Because of this, he's far more believable (albeit less likable) than Oldman's pretty-boy count. Though, to be honest, Palance seldom comes across as fully human in any role he's ever done. In fact, if he rocked the prosthetic fangs in all his other movies, his performances might have been more believable.
Curtis and Matheson would reunite to kick more TV-movie ass in Trilogy of Terror, Dead of Night and The Death Strangler, but sadly there was no Bram Stoker's Dracula sequel, as Palance turned down several offers to reprise his role. I for one lay awake at night heartsick that we were denied Dracula 2: The Legend of Curly's Blood.
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