A Knight in with Pendragon...

I’m a big fan of genre roleplaying, but I’m not so keen on rules. Let me qualify: I think you do need rules to play a roleplaying game, but I don’t think that each new game which rolls off the production line needs its own rule set. Every time a new game comes out, it has a set of rules of its own and mostly, these are iterations of established older rule sets or are simple variations of a minimalist view of how games are run. The reason that new games have their own ‘new’ rules is that they seem to think they need this to justify copyright regulations – a world or thematic premise is apparently not enough. Drill down hard enough and you’ll find the ‘ur-rules’ that dictate how every game is played, and you’ll find that it looks a lot like the ‘let’s pretend’ games that we all played as children – those are pretty hard to copyright.

I play “Call of Cthulhu” because it uses BRP (or variations thereof) to conduct business. I’ve travelled across the Storyteller system of White Wolf and the Palladium mess; I’ve scrabbled around for extra dice for “Shadowrun”; I’ve checked difficulty levels for “Cyberpunk” and “Feng Shui”: they are all clunky and weird and I find myself coming back to three simple systems:

“AD&D”. BRP. “Pendragon”.

The first two of these are extreme white bread systems: they sit so far in the background as to be mostly innocuous, either because they’re so light or they’re so familiar. They are largely intuitive and simple and built such that, if something occurs that isn’t listed, it’s fairly clear how to use the system to construct something that will do as a workaround or a house rule. “CoC” does this: it’s a genre workaround bolted onto the BRP rules. With “AD&D”, there might be a stack of rule books involved if you need them, but they’re mainly filled with colour material – you only really need about 10 of the pages, tops. “Pendragon” is a different beast.

The only time I use another rule system is when that system is specifically designed to support the genre which it uses. “Pendragon” is a beautiful Swiss-watch of game design wherein every rule that exists, specifically reinforces the concepts and ideals of the game’s setting. This is a game of knights and damsels in the Age of King Arthur; everything that happens in the game concerns and is about the people who live under Arthur’s rule and how they live their lives. The goal is to become a well-known champion of the Court of Camelot: you pursue the Grail; you rescue damsels; you resolve issues of law and morality on behalf of the King; you try to avoid giants (because, in this game, giants are really bad news!). Combat duties and resolution are equally shared by the referee and the players – the decisions that the players make for their characters dramatically impact the results, and there is little room for error. A bad call can get you slain. Oftentimes, gamers decry systems and games because they feel that too much power lies in the hand of the ref.; there’s no such issue here. Character design is involved and intensive: the amount of time required for this is often cited as a game flaw, in a setting where death is only a bad die-roll away. But this is part of the genre as well. Who remembers a character that took ten minutes to compile and half-an-hour to kill off? “Pendragon” characters – lovingly hand crafted and agonised over in play - go down in history.

(Long time readers will remember that I also play “Legend of the Five Rings” and are wondering where that game fits in all of this. Easy: I take the “L5R” world and use it as a skin over the “Pendragon” game system: it works beautifully.)

Consequently, I read a lot of Arthurian material. I’m also a stickler for canon so I like my gaming material to slot nicely between the tentpoles of the genre lore. I’m prepping some stuff to play in the next few months and so I’ve been running through the canon once again: Sir Thomas Malory; T.H. White; Mary Stewart; Chrétien de Troyes; Rudolf Steiner; Wolfram von Eschenbach; the Mabinogion; the Chansons de Geste (you’ll notice I steer well clear of Richard Wagner and Marion Zimmer Bradley, for obvious reasons). “Pendragon” is a game where a shared reality is at play between the referee and the players: everyone needs to have a grip on the genre – and a fairly comprehensive one – in order for a bunch of stuff to make sense. If “Pendragon” has a real flaw, it’s this: that the genre is never really discussed; it’s assumed knowledge, and most modern world players have very little real understanding – at best just a surface gloss – of how this stuff works.

First is the language. Malory turned the whole shebang into Norman French inflected early English and it’s tricky to get your head around. For instance, the French-derived word ‘chirurgeon’ is often the first hurdle that players bumble into. It’s pronounced ‘surgeon’ and to act as a ‘chirurgeon’ is to perform ‘chirurgery’, or ‘surgery’. Once you know how to pronounce it, the mystery falls away, but trying to read passages of this stuff can be a headache until you get used to it. Take this as an example:

“Than within a lytyll whyle they come to sir Marhaus place [which] was in a lytyll pryory, and there they alyght, and ladyes and damesels unarmed them and hastely loked to their hurtes, for they were all three hurte. And so they had good lodgyng with sir Marhaus and good chere, for wan he wyste that they were kynge Arthurs syster-sonnes he made them all the chere that lay in his power. And so they sojourned there a sevennyght and were well eased of their woundis, and at the laste departed.”

You need to give it a few goes before it starts to sound reasonable. Try this one (taken from an easier 1917 translation):

“…Sir Launcelot rode forth with King Bagdemagus unto his castle, and there he had passing good cheer both with the king and his daughter, and they proffered him great gifts. And on the morn he took his leave…

This is a pretty vanilla example, but it opens up a can of worms for the uninitiated newcomer to the “Pendragon” world. What exactly is “good cheer”? And what is the expectation when arriving at the home of an NPC in this milieu?

*****

The big issue here is the custom of Hospitality. It boils down to the idea that being able to treat strangers well reflects well on those so doing; in return, making a great display of enjoying the treatment one receives shows that the treatment is appreciated and is worthy of one’s time and energy. It’s a two-sided exchange, although from a modern perspective, it might not be immediately obvious. Here’s a run-down of what might happen when a wandering knight approaches a moderately sized manor for the evening:

Firstly, the knight rides into the estate. This might be a small gate in a fence or wall; it might be a courtyard or an open area enclosed by the wings of the building where most deliveries and arrivals happen. If the entrance is barred, he may have to knock and declare himself – this is often the case if the place is besieged in some way. While on the road outside, he might pass members of the local peasantry who will note his passing and spread word that there is a Knight in the vicinity.

Next the knight’s horse is taken in care: this will be the duty of a groom or stable-boy; in some cases, it might be a squire or a smith, depending upon the status of the dwelling. This person will help the knight to dismount and will take the horse away to be fed and watered (along with any other maintenance that it or its equipment might require). Think of it as ‘valet parking’.

The seneschal of the estate or a head functionary of the household - possibly a noble of junior status, a child of the manor’s lord perhaps, or their wife - will then greet the knight and welcome them to stay. While this is happening, other members of staff or the household will scope out the heraldic devices or badges that the knight is displaying and relay this information to whomsoever is in charge of the armorial scrolls, usually a herald, if the place is sufficiently important. If the knight is not recorded (or there are no such records in the establishment), the seneschal or herald will ask the knight their name and reason for arriving.

If all this is above board and no ill-intent is detected from either party, then the knight is taken inside and “unarmed”. Simply put, this means that his armour and weapons are removed, he is given the option of bathing and medical services are provided, if needed. He is then given new clothes, while his own gear is taken away to be cleaned and repaired. This includes mending any tears and rents, patching holes and polishing plates, sharpening swords and re-weaving torn mail. At this point, the knight might be invited to attend prayers and be “shriven”, or blessed after confession, by a local holy person attached to the place.

Finally, the knight is brought to the main dining hall of the residence and introduced to the lord and/or lady in charge. They will be shown to a position of eminence – usually a spot at the “high table” – and greeted warmly by all present. Music will begin and food will be served.

During the feast, the knight will be asked to speak of what they’ve seen in recent times and will hear, in return, of any marvels that have taken place locally. Issues of law and any problems that should concern an Agent of the Crown - such as the presence of bandits, say, or a border dispute – will be presented, and the knight will be expected to talk about ways to resolve these, especially if it lies within his power to do so.

Entertainments will be provided and the knight will be expected to involve himself in these or to respond with performances of his own. This includes dancing and singing, telling stories (especially his own ongoing narrative), displaying feats of prowess or skill, and encouraging debate. All the while he should be flirting with the local damosels and listening to the local gossip.

At all times, the knight should be feeling the ‘vibe’ of the gathering and helping to promote an easy, fun-filled event. He should be mindful of discord and should be quick to smooth over any undiplomatic shows or instances of unpleasantness. His goal is to “be of good cheer” and facilitate the good times which these people are trying to provide.

Occasionally, the lord of the manor will provide gifts to the knight especially if they’ve been particularly delightful as dining companions. Gifts are never expected – after all, the knight’s equipage is being given a lengthy and expensive overhaul while he is in residence – but their receipt either in front everyone else at the revels or as the knight departs the next day, should be in a spirit of graciousness and humility (and, technically, such gifts are for the King, not the knight himself).

The provision of Hospitality, therefore, can be seen as a two-way street. It must be offered and given in good faith and received with grace and a spirit of duty. It’s a mark of respect for the King’s representative and that representative must always be aware of their role as a symbol of Regal authority.

*****

At its most basic, I see this process as a kind of Roomba recharge. The Knight is an appliance wandering across the land and working for the King; periodically, they need to be recharged and mended or given some form of maintenance. Then they are set loose to go about their business once more. When the process works, it’s mostly unremarkable; when it breaks down, then there are problems.

If there is a malaise over the region – famine or oppression from neighbouring bullies or a monster – this will be instantly spotted by the knight. Perhaps the entertainment is lacklustre, or the food is less than copious, or fresh, then the knight may tune in to the fact that there’s something wrong. This naturally prompts them to ask – diplomatically – if there’s anything that they can do to help. Of course, if the place is poor and the food being served is all that there is, the knight will find ways to minimise any embarrassment that their presence might cause, as a drain on available resources. If the lord or ruler of the manor is a Bad Hat, then the poor reception might simply be an extension of their evil nature – servants and minions always take a lead from their masters. This will be the way that the knight discovers that there is something rotten in the state of Denmark…

Of course, bad behaviour might come from the knight as well. They might pursue the local women too lustfully, or recklessly try to drain the cellar of its wine stores. They might poke fun at attendees of the feast or pour scorn upon the food being offered. They might also, like some bad penny distant relative, show up unannounced and overstay their welcome. This indulgent behaviour can seriously drain the capabilities of any small community, especially if the knight does nothing to justify or aid the work being undertaken to maintain him. Remember that the power and capability of a king is often measured by the number of knights he can maintain and that kind of maintenance ain’t cheap.

*****

You can see that this type of interaction between character and NPCs only works if all the parties involved expect the same situation. So often, when dealing with newcomers to the game, the players all treat the situation as a free party turned on for them with no expectation that they have to do anything in return. In fact, this is the best time for roleplaying to commence. So many players bitch and whine about having to spend points on skills like Dance or Play Instrument or Intrigue, but this is exactly when investment in those skills starts to pay off.

It's an instance where the rulebook doesn’t cover what is essential to the world in which the game takes place. None of this material is explicitly covered in the “Pendragon” rules set; it’s just a given that those playing will know how the medieval world works. On the one hand, as it so often happens in the canon literature, it can be dispensed with in a single sentence – “that night they came upon a pleasant castle and made good cheer”; on the other, it can be turned into the start of a great adventure. Below are some house rules for running this sort of interaction:

Encounter Description:	Mechanics & Result:
The Arrival. The Knight enters into the territory controlled by a local authority, either a Manse or Mansion; an Abbey, Priory or some other religious outpost; or a Castle.	Roll Awareness, based upon the skill of the local ruler or using a base 15 value. Success means that the knight has been spotted and preparations for their arrival will be underway; Failure means that the knight arrives unexpectedly, and their presence causes confusion.
The Unhorsing. This is usually executed by stablehands: a Squire of the local lord, one of their competent Grooms, a Smith (if present) or, at worst, a Page.	Roll Horsemanship: Squire 16; Groomsman 15; Smith 17; Page10 Success means that this is a smooth event; Failure indicates that the Horse is uneasy and recalcitrant – further Rolls or intervention by the knight are needed to calm things down.
Identifying the Knight. This is undertaken by Heralds (if present), Squires, Stablehands, Ladies-in-Waiting or Smiths	NB: the knight may wish – for various reasons – to travel incognito; have them roll Disguise and make sure that they are wearing a cloak. A Knight reserves the right not to identify themselves if they want. Roll Heraldry, using the Lord’s skill or a base standard of 10. This Roll is a contested one if the Knight is Disguised.
The Welcome. This is by the head functionary of the establishment or by its Lord or Lady.	Use the Lord or Lady’s Courtesy skill; otherwise, a base of 16; if the locale has special requirements for entry – attending Mass; eating no meat; removing shoes – these should be discussed now. If the Knight has chosen not to identify themselves, this should be taken into account. It is permitted that the Hosts ask the Knight if there are any special reasons for their arrival.
The Unarming. If there are no hiccups, the Knight is taken indoors and his armour and clothing are removed; they will be offered a bath, their wounds will be seen to, and they will be given new clothes.	Roll either First Aid or Chirurgery, depending upon the severity of the wounds; the skill is equal to the Lord or Lady of the locale or a base score of 15. Run Successes or Failures as per normal.
The Shriving. The Knight will be asked to attend a Mass or other Blessing ritual. This might be private (one-on-one with the Priest) or a regular session.	This depends upon the religious persuasion of the Knight, and maybe be deflected or embraced as needed. Run Blessings and any other religious effects as per normal.
The Feast. The Knight is led into the space where the evening’s festivities will take place; they will be shown to a place of prominence and will be served a generous portion of wine and some food. The Lord or Lady will welcome them, in person or via their head functionary or Herald.	This is a space wherein the Knight can exercise whatever skills they feel are appropriate. They will need to roll their Courtesy at least three times to pass muster. As well they can choose to roll any of the following skills in order to join in with the festivities: Compose; Dancing; Gaming; Orate; Play Instrument; Singing; Tourney Any Failures can be smoothed over by Courtesy roll from either the Knight or the Hosts (as the Lord or Lady’s skill, or base 15).
The Gossip. As the evening progresses, the Knight will hear many interesting things concerning the locality.	The Knight can roll any of the following: Flirting; Heraldry; Hunting; Identify; Industry; Intrigue; Recognise; Religion; Stewardship; Tourney If there are things to be learned, the Knight will hear about them in this fashion and may act upon this information as they see fit. Failures should be managed as seems best, but most Failures can be smoothed over by a Courtesy roll from either the Knight or the Hosts (as the Lord or Lady’s skill, or base 15).
The Giving of Gifts.	This is based upon whether or not the Knight has had any Critical Successes during the evening. If affirmative, the Knight will be given something splendid or highly useful (but not so much as to unbalance the story) as they take their leave. This might be a Faery Steed, or a Sword with a magical property, or simply a nice new suit of Armour. Match the gift with the amount and quality of the successes.

While it’s possible to organise all this activity into a timetable as shown above, it remains the goal of the Referee to provide an elegant and easily-flowing story. Treat the above information as a guideline for the event and never let it get in the way of your purpose and your story’s intent. In fact, if staying overnight at a Castle, Priory, or Manse seems likely to slow things down too much, just say this:

“They had good lodgyng and good chere, and at the laste departed.”

Things Vampiric...

 

“Deep in the heart of Germany

Lucy clutched her breast in fear;

She heard a beat of her lover's heart,

For weeks she raved; in dreams he appeared,

From far off Transylvania.

Only a woman can break his spell

Pure in heart who will offer herself

To Nosferatu…”

-“Nosferatu” by Blue Öyster Cult

With the release of Robert Eggers’ do-over of the classic film “Nosferatu” I thought I’d take a stroll backwards through the lore and see the derivation of things. I’ve already heard anecdotes about how excited some people are to see the remake of “that Dracula film with Keanu Reeves!” so I thought I would attempt to get the history straight, at least in my own head. As well, my horror book reading group has just waded through Bram Stoker’s Dracula, so it seems apropos that we (bat)wing our way through the material. Let’s go back to the source…

Bram Stoker, Dracula, Archibald Constable & Co., London, 1897.

…Except that it’s not really the source. Stoker was a dedicated picker-up of unconsidered trifles and spent serious time on his research before starting to pen this work. It’s an epistolary text which means that it’s comprised of many documents supposedly assembled from a diverse array of sources – diary entries; ship’s logs; telegrams – all placed in chronological order to reveal the events which caused them to be written. There was a false start when he began writing – the short story “Dracula’s Guest”, which was originally meant to be the start of the book but which was excised by the publisher to keep things short – but it rips along at a steady pace once he gets going. As a writer with a theatre background, Stoker pays close attention to the spoken vernacular of various characters within the book and sometimes this gets in the way of clarity, especially when we’re reading the contributions of Abraham van Helsing – this is one of the book’s only real shortcomings. Otherwise, by bringing together all the folklore concerning vampires that he could find and building on the works which had gone before – “Carmilla” by J. Sheridan LeFanu; “Varney the Vampire” by Thomas Rymer; “The Vampire” by John Polidori – Stoker was able to create a body of canon lore that would work to underline what we know of vampires right up until today. What Dracula is, is a synthesis of folkloric and literary tradition, and a demonstration of how such a creature might work in reality. And it rocks (despite the incoherent ramblings of van Helsing!).

Upon release, the book was largely ignored, mainly because it was not “worthy” but also because there was something else available that had caught the public’s attention: this was The Beetle by Richard Marsh – a turgid and shocking page-turner that spoke of ancient Egyptian magic and revenge by bloodthirsty cults. Compared to Dracula, this is an exercise in excess: it’s vague, it doesn’t follow any sort of internal logic and the author uses the word “naked” as often as he can to ramp up the sauciness. It’s the Fifty Shades of Grey of its era. It’s easy to see that it was a bad book – Dracula is still being printed today and the character of Count Dracula has been called the most depicted character in our culture, beating even Sherlock Holmes; on the other hand, who has even heard of The Beetle (outside of this blog)? Dracula was always considered a non-starter – even the publishers weren’t convinced and thought that giving it a bright yellow binding might be a catchpenny move. Sadly, the colour was instantly associated with the Aesthetic Movement – led by the disgraced Oscar Wilde – and the Symbolists of Europe, and it put the workaday readership on high alert about the possible dubiousness of the contents. Dracula was almost a stillbirth. It’s easy to see, therefore, why F.W. Murnau and Co., thought that they might be able to get away with ripping it off for their movie.

For our present purposes, we’ll consider this offering our core text. Every person or agency who has come afterwards goes back to this well for inspiration in some form or other. The narrative as presented in Dracula remains a core manifestation of the canon lore; even when a creator changes the features of the literary landscape, the tentpoles of the canon remain fixed and can be seen as the pentimento beneath the colours. Without Dracula, there is no body of vampiric literature.

*****

F.W. Murnau (Dir.), “Nosferatu – Eine Symphonie des Grauens” (“Nosferatu – A Symphony of Terror”), Prana Film/Film Arts Guild, Germany, 1922.

“He screamed in fear he'd stayed too long in her room;

The morning sun had come too soon.

The spell was broken with a kiss of doom,

He vanished into dust left her all alone”

-“Nosferatu” by Blue Öyster Cult

The translation of the book version of Dracula into film is an interesting tale in and of itself. The head of Prana Film – who bankrolled the movie – was one Albin Grau, an artist and occultist who was a member of the mystical order Fraternitas Saturni; it was he who created the look of the final film and who added many mystical overtones to the final product. As the production designer of “Nosferatu”, Grau contributed much to the film’s final aesthetic, including the emaciated Count Orlok and the weird contract and other documents that appear in the movie, which are all written in the Enochian alphabet and are laced with hermetic symbols. Grau constructed many fanciful tales around the movie many of which cannot be substantiated or verified; he claimed that the idea for making the film came from his encounter with a farmer during World War One who told Grau that his father had been a vampire. Grau intended that Prana Films would go on to make many more occult movies, but the bankrupting of the production house after the Stoker injunction put paid to all that.

Murnau was a less mystically colourful individual than Grau, but regardless, much of the occult atmosphere of the film gets laid at his door. He was a World War One aviator who survived many crashes, finally being forced to ditch in Switzerland where he sat out the War in an internment camp. Establishing himself as a cinematographer thereafter, he gravitated towards Grau and his occult shenanigans and bent to the making of “Nosferatu”. Murnau was an inspirational director and went on to create other masterpieces of the silent era including his take on “Faust” (1926) and “Sunrise” (1927), nowadays considered to be one of the greatest movies of all time. Murnau was killed after being thrown from a car during an accident outside Hollywood and his body was later exhumed to be taken to Germany and re-buried. Greta Garbo had a death mask made of his face which she kept on her desk for the rest of her life; in 2015, his grave was pillaged by satanists who stole his skull for mystical purposes – it’s still missing.

The film “Nosferatu – a Symphony of Terror” retains all of the hallmarks of the Dracula narrative, but, allegedly, changes were made in order to skate past any copyright issues stemming from the Stoker estate. I say “allegedly” because, while many have assumed that this was the reason the alterations came about, some cinema historians have noted that the movie itself makes no bones about its origins. An early intertitle card in German clearly states that the movie is based upon Stoker’s book; further, Prana Films never intended to distribute the movie outside of Germany and always meant the movie to be reserved exclusively for a mystical German audience. Nevertheless, Stoker’s descendants were outraged and the issue went to court. The final ruling was that Prana Films had infringed copyright and that all copies of the film were to be destroyed – this was done in a lacklustre fashion, with a few prints escaping, including one which had been shipped to America and from which the movie was finally restored. Prana Films sued for bankruptcy and Grau’s vision of an occult movie industry went south.

When making a film from a literary source, those in charge usually try – especially if funds are tight – to minimise the number of actors required. In a nifty move here, the characters of Jonathan Harker’s employer and Renfield the lunatic are conflated in the character “Knock”. Harker himself undergoes a name-change to “Thomas Hutter” and his new wife becomes “Ellen”. Thomas’s best mate is a shipbuilding magnate named “Harding” who has a wife named “Ruth”. The wealthy Harding is a parallel of the character of Arthur Holmwood, Lord Godalming, from Dracula, while the two women are flip-flopped – Ellen is the excitable Lucy Westenra while Ruth is based upon the steadfast Mina. Dr. Seward becomes “Dr. Sievers” in the film while Abraham van Helsing is portrayed as “Professor Bulwer”. The rest of the cast are the ship’s captain and some knife-holding crew members.

The action moves from fictional Wisborg in Germany to Transylvania and back. We see some bucolic scenery and some fearful peasants as Hutter gets closer to the Count’s castle and then we return to the land of milkmaids and gingerbread shortly before plague breaks out and everything goes to Hell.

(I need to point out that modern sensibilities crash somewhat upon the shore of this movie. The jerky, sped-up movement that surrounds Orlok seems laughable to us in the Twenty-first Century but it was distinctly unnerving to viewers in the 1920s. I know I'm not the only one who has the "Benny Hill Theme Song" running through my head while Orlok tosses around caskets in his castle forecourt, but I try to make allowances for it.)

The character of Count Orlok is a subtle reimagining. His appearance is definitely weird: his eyes are staring and his ears are pointed and fluffy; he moves in a stiff and uncomfortable fashion and he has rodent-like teeth. Much of his performance is transmitted by his hands which are large and taloned. In fact, if you read the description of Count Dracula in Stoker’s book, this depiction is very close to the source. We are told that Orlok craves a modern world and that he needs to move to a more enlightened society; upon seeing Ellen’s painted miniature portrait he becomes infatuated and decides that Hutter is suddenly excess to requirements. Whereas Dracula kept Harker around for reasons of business, Orlok decides that Hutter is an inconsequence. Hutter is forced to escape precipitately after spotting Orlok in his grave and he jumps from the castle walls into a river to do so.

Once Orlok’s obsessive nature is focussed upon Ellen, she starts to have vivid dreams that plague her, along with bouts of sleepwalking. These are a compounding of the prophetic misgivings which she voiced about Hutter’s journey to the east. As her fits become wilder, first Sievers and then Bulwer are called upon to help her. Predictably, Bulwer begins to cite some supernatural doggerel about ‘beauty catching the beast’ and Ellen decides that it’s up to her to deal with the dreaded Nosferatu. As this is all happening, the doomed ship has washed up in Wisborg and rats have poured out of the hold. The captain is found tied to the wheel and his log recounts the steady diminishing of his crew. Orlok and Knock are united and the rule of Death is instituted.

Given the time that this film was made, there were some technological restrictions that impinged upon the narrative; nevertheless, these are all charmingly and innovatively resolved using the skills and ideas of the day. Orlok effortlessly carries his boxes of dirt, because Max Schreck was hauling plywood props filled with air; filmic dissolves remove the need for Orlok to open pesky doors; the use of shadows enables the audience to feel Orlok’s pervasive ability to infiltrate supposedly safe sanctuaries both physically and psychologically. The shadow motif is especially effective and obviously informed Carl Theodor Dreyer’s imaginative use of them in his 1932 film “Vampyr”. Talking about influence, there’s a moment here where we’re shown a strange looking canid lurking near some grave statuary: this is a Striped Hyena which – while weird-looking – would not have been native to Transylvania. It put me in mind of Todd Browning’s 1931 version of “Dracula” which shows a brace of Opossums and some Armadillos at various points. I guess ‘weird’ is just whatever you choose to throw at your project…

The resolution of all this comes down to the single innovation that the movie brings to the body of vampiric lore – the notion that vampires are destroyed by sunlight. In Stoker’s work, Dracula happily wanders about during the daylight hours; we are specifically told that his many supernatural powers are quelled during the day but, other than this, he suffers no particular disability. What we get with Murnau’s take is the complete destruction of the Undead by sunlight. Ellen lets Orlok in and offers herself to him; he spends the whole night draining her, like some kind of effete gourmet, and by the time the first rooster crows, he realises that he’s overstayed his welcome. A shaft of sunlight strikes him and he undergoes a cinematic dissolve from the movie frame. It’s quite nifty really, that the first movie vampire should be undone by means of a filmic trick.

*****

Werner Herzog (Dir.), “Nosferatu: Phantom du Nacht” (“Nosferatu the Vampyre”), Werner Herzog Film Produktion/Gaumont/Zweites Deutsches Fernsehen, Germany, 1979.

“So chaste, so calm, she gave herself

To the pleasure of the dreaded master;

He sucked her precious drops of life

Throughout the long and cold dark night.

Only a woman can break his spell,

Pure in heart who will offer herself.”

-“Nosferatu” by Blue Öyster Cult

Werner Herzog is a great fan of F.W. Murnau and has been quoted as saying that “Nosferatu” is one of the greatest movies to come out of Germany. Accordingly, he decided that he would do a remake. He arranged things so that the release of his version of the film in 1979 coincided with the emergence of Stoker’s novel into the public domain and thus, the film was issued using the original names of the characters from the text (which shows that this version was obviously the inspiration for the Blue Öyster Cult song that I’ve been quoting throughout this piece). The film was shot so that every scene was filmed twice – once with German dialogue and again with English. Given that this is a Herzog movie, there is a heavy use of subtext and allegorical meaning: Herzog has said that the movie depicts a bourgeois capitalist society yielding to the pressures of uncontrollable outside forces; I leave that for individual viewers to decide.

Compared to the original version, this film is slow almost to the point of motionlessness. It’s a very listless interpretation and – along with Klaus Kinski’s bloodless performance – makes for very dull viewing. The cast is stellar, including Isabelle Adjani as Lucy Harker and Bruno Ganz as Jonathan, but everything is washed in the same dreamy, enervated palette and the audience gets to feel every last tick of the clock. Kinski, on top of it all, looks as though he’d rather be somewhere else.

Herzog made an effort to film the piece in the town in which it was set by Murnau – Wismar, although Murnau called it Wisborg – but was unable to do so; it was actually filmed in and around Delft in the Netherlands with parts of Czechoslovakia standing in for Transylvania (Ceaucescu’s regime would not let the film be shot there). As well, Herzog faithfully recreates shots taken by Murnau, where possible, using the same locations and angles. Patently though, there are moments where important plot developments were not scripted and these are filmed in the town square as static shots with the characters moving like puppets and telling rather than showing the necessary narrative beats. It looks clunky and badly thought out, which, I’m guessing, it was.

The one thing that really captured my interest in this version was an opening sequence that Herzog shot in Mexico. The footage shows a collection of mummified bodies, exhumed for lack of space from a cemetery and awaiting reburial. The still footage of a seemingly endless array of dead faces and bodies is mesmerising and amounts to the only thing creepy about the movie as a whole.

There was some criticism after the release about the treatment of animals during the filming: Herzog was only able to obtain white rats for the filming and insisted that they all be dyed grey, much against the on set animal handler’s protests. Given that most of the rats died on the way to the set due to poor logistics options, the remainder either perished while being dyed or were poisoned afterwards while trying to lick themselves clean. The animal handler also made veiled critical remarks about the way in which other animals on the set were handled too, although no specific instances were cited.

A sequel to this film was made which was done some years later in 1988 with Kinski again as Dracula, although this time it was shot in Venice. Whereas Kinski was relatively sedate on the set of “Nosferatu”, he was thought difficult to work with in this “not a sequel” sequel. Maybe, without the constant threat of murder at the hands of Herzog, he allowed himself space for bad behaviour.

In the final analysis, besides giving the finger to the Stoker estate by reinstating the original names of the characters, this version does nothing at all to add to the canon in any way. It’s soporific, overly self-important and feels very much like it was filmed as an afterthought. If you’ve already seen the original version, feel free to switch this off after the dead bodies at the start.

*****

E. Elias Merhige (Dir.), “Shadow of the Vampire”, BBC Films/Saturn Films/Metrodome Distribution/Lions Gate Films, Luxembourg/UK/USA, 2000.

“One last goodbye (goodbye!) He was blinded by love;

One last goodbye (goodbye!) He was blinded by love.

Blinded by love…”

-“Nosferatu” by Blue Öyster Cult

The single conceit which gave rise to this film is as follows: what if the weird-looking vampire in “Nosferatu” was actually a real vampire? Once you take this concept on board, the narrative looks ready for all kinds of high-jinks. Take the original film, the setting and period, the behind-the-scenes ambience of a film crew in the throes of production, then it almost writes itself. Almost.

This movie takes “Nosferatu” as its starting point but it owes a bigger debt to something like “The Producers” (1967 & 2005) than it does to F.W. Murnau. The set-up is pure Hollywood, with a visionary and self-involved director, a long-suffering producer, grumbling financiers, acerbic camera operators, vapid and vain actors and a harried film crew hustling to do their dogsbody best amidst a haze of sexual and pharmacological misadventures. In actual fact, none of the real creators of the original film fit easily into these stereotypes (with the possible exception of the real-life Grau) so right off the – ahem! – bat, any notion that this will be a documentary examination on some level goes right out the window.

All that being said, this is a hoot. John Malkovich and Willem Defoe are great as the director and the vampire that he’s vainly trying to control, and Udo Kier works well – not as Albin Grau, because he patently isn’t – as the put-upon producer. Everyone here is having a fun time and, until the final few scenes, it’s eminently enjoyable. Sadly, everything goes suddenly from high-concept comedy to tragic conclusion right at the finish and the end result firstly, doesn’t square with reality, and secondly, doesn’t pay off satisfactorily. It’s still fun though and, well worth watching if you’ve seen any of the iterations of “Nosferatu”. In fact, despite using Murnau’s lost masterpiece as its springboard, this is actually a film about Herzog and Kinski and their indulgent entry into the canon. It works even better when you look at it through this lens…

*****

André Øvredal (Dir.), “The Last Voyage of the Demeter”, DreamWorks Pictures/Reliance Pictures/Storyworks Productions/Studio Babelsberg/Phoenix Pictures/Universal Pictures, USA, 2023.

“The ship pulled in without a sound,

The faithful captain long since cold;

He kept his log 'til the bloody end,

Last entry read: ‘Rats in the hold

My crew is dead, I fear the plague’."

-“Nosferatu” by Blue Öyster Cult

I’ve thrown this film in here as well for a few reasons: first, it’s based upon the original text, essentially filling in the blanks about the sea voyage that Dracula makes to England on board the Demeter; secondly, while it’s not particularly coy about being Dracula-related material, it never uses his name outside of the title sequence; third, it uses tropes introduced by the Nosferatu films; and lastly, it’s a vehicle which takes Stoker-generated characters and presents them as canon without direct authorisation (not that it’s needed these days, of course). It’s a difficult entry into the vampire landscape. It’s rather like Murnau and his “Nosferatu” in that it tries to play fast-and-loose with the source material, but obviously some producer or marketer somewhere insisted that the ‘D’ word got dropped into the title and the effect was simply to gum up the machinery.

[Also, when looking for this in order to watch it, I was told by IMDb and other sources that the title of the film was “The Last Voyage of the Demeter”. When you begin watching the film however, the title is different – “Dracula: The Voyage of the Demeter”. Confusion reigns.]

The main problem with this film is as follows: the audience knows (or at least they should know) – from canon – that no-one survives the voyage; that the Captain and his logbook wash up on the rocks at Whitby with all hands dead. That means the end is a foregone conclusion. The task for the writers and director therefore is to do something else – defy expectations or stick the course and do something unexpected en route. Unfortunately, throwing the word 'Dracula' into the title means that they were committed.

This is a case of those in charge wanting their cake and getting to eat it as well. They want the Dracula connexion because it shortcuts a bunch of explanation to the audience (with the HUGE caveat that the audience has actually read the book). Then they go and break canon. Yes, folks – spoiler alert! – there are survivors. At the end of the voyage ship’s doctor, Clemens, gets away with the Romany girl Anna (although she dies later), after untying the Captain from the wheel! At the movie’s end, we see Clemens trailing the vampire through London, Hell-bent on seeing justice done as he tracks his quarry inevitably to Carfax Abbey…

Now, I’m left asking, what happens next? Because Clemens isn’t seen at Dracula’s demise in the book. Does he try to kill the vampire and fail somehow? Is this a set-up for a sequel? Again, there are cakes and there is the eating of them. If this was just a story about a vampire aboard a ship it would be fine; but because it’s Dracula aboard a ship it’s a different situation altogether and one that has to be wrestled with.

Other iterations of this trend try to put their own stamp on the proceedings either by introducing a new wrinkle to vampiric existence (such as the vampire turning to dust when the sun hits) or by emphasising to a greater or lesser degree something that is already established. Here, it’s bats. Dracula spends a huge amount of time winging around the ship and loitering in the rigging. There’s nothing to not like here – the character and creature design are awesome – and while it dominates the bulk of the third act, it’s not unwarranted or overused. The other thing they do is to take the “Nosferatu” ‘dies at dawn’ trope and dial it up to maximum, a la “30 Days of Night”: when the sun hits, these vamps explode.

All in all, this is okay, for something that was hamstrung from the beginning. The director’s heart must have sunk when they got the gig – a movie where everyone knows the outcome going in? Gee, thanks. It’s very pretty to look at, the acting is great, there are some nice musings on the lives of the Carpathian denizens, and it’s a beautiful ship. They sail a little close to the wind in terms of canon, leaving all sorts of questions in their wake, but nevertheless it’s a good romp.

*****

Robert Eggers (Dir.), “Nosferatu”, Maiden Voyage Pictures/Studio 8/Birch Hill Road Entertainment/Focus Features/Universal Pictures, USA, 2024.

“Mortal terror reigned!

Sickness now, then horrible death!

Only Lucy knew the truth

And at her window:

Nosferatu!”

-“Nosferatu” by Blue Öyster Cult

Robert Eggers began his movie career as a costume designer before moving to production design and then on to directing. This speaks to an incredible attention to detail and this aspect is a definite hallmark of his filmic creations. As in all his films things such as dialogue and set details, lighting, costume and every other conceivable element on the screen have a crafted feel which elevate them to a level far beyond mere entertainment. This is what strikes you about his “Nosferatu” – that it’s layered; built from the ground up. However, if you do your research (which is the implicit takeaway from this post) you can see the care and attention to detail that goes far beyond just fashion and dialogue.

The two things we know from Stoker’s Dracula is that the Count is revolting and that he is dead. Stoker’s description of Dracula is grotesque, from pointy ears to hairy palms, but this gets jettisoned the moment that cinema steps up to interpret the work, with the exception of the “Nosferatu” movies which embrace the look as canon. ‘Dracula’ (whether Vlad Dracul or Count Orlok) is always festy and weird-looking in these films. Todd Browning dressed the vampire up in 1931 as someone the audience would be more familiar with – Fantômas, the gentleman robber of French potboiler fame – in order to communicate a sense of suavité for the character and this has been the stereotype that has been adopted wholesale for vampires ever since. But this is wrong: a vampire is a corpse, forced into motion by supernatural agencies, and any social capability it once had is lost forever. Max Schreck took pains to convey these notions in his 1922 portrayal of count Orlok; Bill Skarsgård absolutely belts it out of the park in his turn. At the cinema where I saw this film, the row behind me was filled with sparkly goths all in their sexy leather, pungent cologne and cute fangs; I think they all slunk out of the building afterwards with much to muse upon...

The vampire concept is often played as a metaphor for sexual permissiveness and coded as a campfire warning against the transmission of sexual disease. Consequently the ‘sexiness’ of the vampire is what gets pushed to the fore, leaving the reality that such beings are actually walking corpses far behind. Not so here: this Count Orlok is palpably dead. His lungs don’t work; he talks haltingly; his skin is sloughing off and he has trouble keeping control. We can feel the disgust dripping off those around him. This is vampires as they should be, not twinkly Stephenie Myers pretty boys, or pouty Anne Rice boy-band wannabes.

Rather than simply enact a do-over of the first “Nosferatu” film (in the manner of Herzog), Eggers seems intent on creating a version of the narrative which contains all of the best elements of the project. To this end he works with the aesthetic qualities of the original movie in combination with the other iterations, using Stoker’s original novel and a laser-fine understanding of the 1830s period to paper over any cracks that had appeared during past translations. His goal would seem to be to fashion an über-model of the “Nosferatu” tale, cherry-picking all the best bits for an ultimate – and tonally, very bleak - distillation.

Eggers is focussed upon recreating the 1922 film, but he’s not averse to mining Stoker and Murnau and Herzog for any further details that would pay off onscreen. In the book there are bats; there aren’t any in “Nosferatu”. Therefore, we have no bats in Eggers’ movie. We have wolves (standing in for the Striped Hyena of Murnau’s take and lending real menace to the proceedings) and the lengthening and mysterious shadows. There are also rats; a disturbing amount of them, and I’m confident that there was no repeat performance of Herzog’s nastiness here, given Eggers’ animal rights cred from previous films.

But he also takes time to add his own refinements. In previous versions, the reason why Orlok is coming to Germany is glossed over. Why Wisborg? ‘Why not?’, we’re tacitly informed. Here, we’re told that the reason is that Ellen invited him to come. Alone as a young woman, plagued by psychic visions and somnambulism, she calls out rashly to the spiritual world and asks for companionship, only to be answered by the Seed of Belial, Count Orlok, vampire. This notion falls in line with ideas of demonic possession and obsession that have held sway in the public consciousness since Friedkin’s “The Exorcist” (1973) in which demoniac forces must be invited in before they can begin their mischief. There is also the belief that vampires must be invited into buildings before they can begin their assaults.

Eggers has done his research on vampiric lore. While among the Romany tribes in Transylvania, Thomas sees a strange procession by night, wherein a virgin seated upon a white horse leads the villagers to the resting place of an undead entity. This creature is dug up and despatched, in line with reports from the earliest works of vampiric lore. Here again, we see Eggers’ painstaking attention to historical accuracy in play.

The mash-up continues: in Murnau’s vision, Thomas Hutter is relatively impotent against the vampire’s incursions; in Stoker’s book, Jonathan Harker – after the outrage of his first encounter with Dracula – tools up to motivate the hunters with righteous anger. Murnau’s Ellen Hutter is a docile sacrifice to pacify the beast; Herzog’s Lucy and Eggers’ Ellen are determined aggressors against the creature’s defilement, taking their cue from Stoker’s dauntless Mina Harker. Stoker’s van Helsing is an avuncular (although incoherent) stalwart against the undead; Murnau’s Bulwer and Herzog’s van Helsing are patently useless; while Eggers’ Albin Eberhardt von Franz is a crazed and cranky also-ran with vested interests, making for a fresh and illuminating take on the character.

As to the monster itself, past iterations toss around the notion that Orlok is in love with Mina/Ellen/Lucy: does he love her? Does she yearn for him? Will they, or won’t they? Eggers dispenses with all of this tediousness in a clever and satisfying way – Ellen is his way into this new world of bloody possibilities; he is simply an unquenchable appetite loosed upon the world and he must devour her first in order to begin his despoliation. It’s a smooth and chilling move, and I applaud it.

It’s true that Murnau’s version of Dracula arrived ensconced within an ideal of German Cinema which explored certain established concepts and tropes – along with the mystic overtones thrust upon it by Albin Grau: there are deeper meanings and themes to explore along with the entertaining narrative. Herzog’s version is arguably ponderous, held down by the baggage of implicit meaning and political theorising, along with a stated aim of obliterating an interregnum of artistic emptiness in the wake of Nazi excess. What does Eggers bring? Well, nothing more than what you see on the screen in the final analysis, but this is still more than simply a pretty entertainment. Eggers’ take is a distressing and harrowing amalgam of all the best bits of what has gone before, alongside his own deftly handled vision of how all the parts of the Swiss watch can sing together. If there’s a subtext, then it’s what Murnau was saying; it’s what Stoker was saying; it’s possibly also a bit of what Herzog was saying. Eggers has simply perfected the delivery system.