A 15th-century prince denounces God, is cursed with immortality, and walks amongst people for centuries, waiting for the return of his beloved.
A Count with European flavour… Notes of German Expressionism, gothic excess, gore, and folklore blend into a story that feels at once familiar and stylistically refreshed. For over a century, from Dracula’s Death (1921) and Nosferatu: A Symphony of Horror (1922) to Bram Stoker’s Dracula (1992): https://kaygazpro.com/bram-stokers-dracula-1992-horror/, Nosferatu (2024):https://kaygazpro.com/nosferatu-2024/ and now Dracula: A Love Tale, the eternal return of the Count is practically part of cinema’s DNA – yet this iteration attempts to dress the myth in more operatic garments.
While the script structurally echoes previous versions, co-writer/director Luc Besson transforms the material into a choreographed, occasionally “blasphemous” audiovisual spectacle that deliberately sidesteps Hollywood’s more conventional storytelling rhythms. The relocation of the narrative from London to Paris reinforces the film’s commitment to a distinctly continental mood and aesthetic.
The score, composed by one of the most recognisable film composers and music storytellers working today, Danny Elfman, finds the musician comfortably in his element. His long-standing creative relationship with Besson once again yields moments of dark lyricism that elevate the film’s more atmospheric passages.
This also marks the second major collaboration between Besson and Caleb Landry Jones, following DogMan (2023): https://kaygazpro.com/dogman-2023/, which previously highlighted Jones’ diverse range. Here, too, his presence adds texture to an otherwise uneven dramatic landscape. With him, Zoë Bleu, Christoph Waltz, Matilda De Angelis, and the rest of the cast shine through the film’s darkness.
Because uneven it is. The film’s pacing, rhythmic control, and emotional modulation fluctuate noticeably. Yet at its best, Dracula taps into something genuinely evocative – the aching romanticism that has always pulsed beneath the myth of the cursed prince.
The film inevitably circles the eternal questions: Does Dracula embody the pure, destructive force of love that humans endlessly seek? When we say “love conquers all,” is he its ultimate, corrupted manifestation? Can a supernatural entity appear more emotionally authentic than humans who have never truly loved – or who commit atrocities in hatred’s name? Perhaps most provocatively: is love always love, or can it metastasise into obsession, paranoia, even a kind of beautiful madness that haunts the human psyche?
Every Dracula adaptation has wrestled with these ideas. This one simply refracts them through a darker, more European lens – uneven, yes, but not without its hypnotic bite. (TikTok episode will follow up on that soon!)
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