Blood for Dracula (a.k.a. Andy Warhol's Dracula)
1975 (Dir. Paul Morrisey)
"Punc, chic, and nauseating," was how Pauline Kael once described the modernized vampire classic The Hunger (starring David Bowie, Susan Sarandon, and Catherine Deneuve, and based on a novel by Whitley Strieber). Spelling aside, she might just as easily have been talking about Andy Warhol’s Dracula—a.k.a. Blood for Dracula.
Directed by Paul Morrissey and starring the late, great Udo Kier—alongside gay icon and Seventies super-hunk Joe Dallesandro—Blood for Dracula is the companion piece to Flesh for Frankenstein, though a little less enjoyable. Still: a bloody good romp.
Slow, deliberate, and peppered with odd comic touches (and a sheer will to offend), Blood for Dracula posits the Count—a Romanian royal—traveling with his servant to Italy to ensconce his wheelchair-riding undead self in the home of the fallen aristocracy (fallen as in “fallen into genteel poverty”), the Fiore family. They’re a mismatched bunch: a dotty father (Vittorio Di Seca) whose chief preoccupation seems to be the meaning and resonance behind noble names—such as “Drak-You-Lah” (and although he provides essential comic seasoning, he’s only sometimes intelligible through that heavy accent).
The mother (the inestimable Maxine McKendry) is a regal British dame with sad, strange, 1927 Mabel Normand eyes—a woman we swear we’ve encountered in half a dozen BBC dramas. And then there are the daughters: Milena Vukotic as Esmeralda di Fiore., Dominique Darel as Saphiria di Fiore , Stefania Casini as Rubinia di Fiore , and Silvia Dionisio as Perla di Fiore. These young’ns are, shall we say, a little on the tainted side.
The sisters indulge in incestuous lesbianism, at least two of them, and the eldest seems to be a vampire herself. The youngest becomes the target of Count Kier, who needs the blood of “wergins.” When he’s not downing vegetarian stew or berating his Renfield-adjacent servant, Anton (Arno Juerging), he’s hunting for pure blood he can actually keep down.
Enter Mario Balato (Dallesandro): a Brooklyn-accented thug and wannabe revolutionary. His incredible looks and total lack of charm form a strange counterpoint to the elegant aristocratic oddballs he keeps colliding with. He also ensures none of the alleged “wergins” in this household are anything of the sort (believe me). Brutal, thuggish, and full of proletarian fire, he’s the liberated Worker whose resentment of the ruling class is acted out on the Fiore daughters—each of whom displays enough fresh flesh to feed an army of voyeurs. (Note: this is most definitely not one for the kiddies.)
Dracula MUST have the unsoiled blood of a virgin, or else he graphically vomits it all back up—into bathtubs, all over his chest, wherever gravity demands. It happens often. The film drags a bit toward the end, but one scene will absolutely send audiences running for the toilet. Yet there’s enough high-camp satire and self-referencing fang-doodle to make the entire endeavor a joyously warped riff on the oldest storyline in the coffin.
And there’s subtext: the aristocrat—crippled, ill, tainted by a loss of stamina, a living death—seeking what he believes to be the pure blood of innocents. Only the unsoiled blood of a commoner will suffice. As Balato observes: “He lived off everyone and did nothing!” (close enough). And so the climax, predictable for the genre, unfolds—no less deliciously or bloodily red for its familiarity.
And of course, a Red dispatches the aristocratic parasite, consumed by his own vulgar thirst for the lifeblood of others—perhaps a Marxist reading, if you’re into that sort of thing.
The ending is comic in the same way Monty Python and the Holy Grail is comic—especially that scene. Blood for Dracula is a sharp, reconceptualized modernization with all the crass humor that implies. It deserves a viewing, and it won’t cost you an arm and a leg.
(It cost Udo Kier considerably more.)
A sanguinary treat, ‘tis—just keep the wergins in their coffins until sunset paints the sky.
Ciao, baby.
Note: There's a brief scene where Roman Polanski plays a man in a tavern, whom Anton engages in a game which I never quite understood.
Trailer: Blood for Dracula (1974)
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The Station Without Trains
Seen (1) At the far end of a desert highway stood a train station that no map acknowledged. There were no tracks leading to it, no schedules posted, and no trains that ever arrived. Still, every evening at sunset, the lights turned on. Maya found the station by accident while driving cross-country to escape a life that felt too heavy. Her radio had gone silent miles ago, and her phone showed no signal. When she saw the station glowing in the distance, she pulled over, relieved to find signs of life. The station was clean, almost untouched by time. Wooden benches lined the platform, and an old clock hung above the entrance, forever stuck at 6:40. The air smelled of dust and iron, like a place waiting to be used. “Hello?” Maya called. No answer. She sat on a bench, telling herself she would leave in five minutes. But as the sun disappeared, the lights grew warmer, softer. Calm settled over her in a way she hadn’t felt in years. A man in a conductor’s uniform stepped out from the shadows. His clothes looked old-fashioned, but neatly pressed. His face was kind, though tired. “You’re early,” he said. “Early for what?” Maya asked. “For the train,” he replied. Maya frowned. “There are no tracks.” The man smiled gently. “Not all journeys need them.” He explained that this station was a place between leaving and arriving—a pause for those who were lost, grieving, or running from something they couldn’t name. People didn’t come here on purpose. They arrived when they needed stillness. “Does the train ever come?” Maya asked. “Yes,” he said. “But only once for each person.” Maya felt a tightness in her chest. “Where does it go?” The conductor looked at the horizon. “To the life you stopped believing in.” Maya thought of the dreams she had abandoned, the version of herself she no longer recognized. Tears surprised her, sliding down her face without warning. “I don’t know if I’m ready,” she whispered. The conductor nodded. “That’s why the train hasn’t arrived.” They sat in silence as the stars appeared. For the first time in years, Maya didn’t feel the urge to run. She felt seen. Slowly, the station lights dimmed. The conductor stood. “When you leave,” he said, “you won’t remember this place. But you’ll remember how you felt.” A distant sound echoed—not a train horn, but something close to a heartbeat. Maya blinked. She was back in her car, parked on the side of the empty highway. The station was gone. The road stretched endlessly ahead. But her chest felt lighter. She turned the key and drove forward, not knowing exactly where she was going—but certain, for the first time, that she was finally on the right track.
By Do bol ho jaaye 4 days ago in Horror
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