Neck and Neck

By J.C.

ANDY WARHOL'S DRACULA

Directed and Written by PAUL MORRISSEY

The problem is "wirgin blood."

In this giddy and gruesome camp-out on the bones of Bram Stoker, Count Dracula (Udo Kier) is a vegetarian, fussy about his daily diet, and dying for a heartening draught of blood from an unspoiled young woman. Anton, the count's assistant, insists on classifying young ladies of this type as "wirgins," in his Carpathian accent. The count's homeland being fresh out of them, Anton suggests moving to Italy, where the influence of "Holy Mother Church" promises countless young maidens.

The count, however, is not enthusiastic about the trip. "I suppose this means we'll have to pack," he sulks, and he worries about the appropriateness of his wardrobe, which runs mostly to black evening dress. "Maybe they're a little out of fashion." Anton reassures him about his clothes, "but they suit you." He bundles the count into the back of a touring car, lashes his wheelchair and coffin to the roof, and drives off.

This movie, made virtually in tandem with Andy Warhol's Frankenstein (TIME, June 10), is not quite so spectacular: it is not, like Frankenstein, in migraine-inducing 3-D, and Director-Writer Morrissey goes a little easier on the gore. As a result, the movie is actually funnier--although Morrissey is never going to be a master of restraint.

Like previous Warhol-Morrissey collaborations (in which Warhol appears to furnish mostly his name and a little spiritual guidance), Dracula features a cast of actors who look like stragglers from the Apocalypse. Most are anonymous, possessing a similar flexibility of gender. The one readily identifiable figure, Joe Dallesandro, plays -- badly, of course -- a servant in a rich, decadent household. In such surroundings his New York street accent is in vigorating: "What's the count doin' with you two who-ahs?" he inquires of two sapphic sisters, and gets only a glazed sneer for a response.

Also in the cast are the studious camp follower Roman Polanski (playing a peasant) and the late Vittorio De Sica, who, even acting and primping as broadly as he does, lends the proceedings a few fleeting moments of dignity. Morrissey has little time for dignity, how ever. He has, for the moment, forsaken his customary languor; it is this rejuvenated spirit -- perhaps a result of all the blood -- that gives Andy Warhol's Dracula its few silly, phantom pleasures.

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