It's a certain truth: no one ever thinks about you as much as you think they do. And if you don't believe this truth to be self-evident, you can at least write about how no one ever thinks of you, and in the process change it so they do. And if not, at least you have your animus/anima, your inner voice whose dictation your fingers take while your ego sits to the side in rapt adoration. And like so many before me in the swamps of the East Side and Brooklyn, I've submissively followed my vampire anima like a doting Renfield, scooping up any fly turns of phrase or spider ideas she cares to drop behind her, protected from direct harm (her rabid fangs) only by some half-remembered Hegel quote kept around my neck. Lonely in the throng of my fellow lonesome vampire secretaries, aging and dying as far back as those modernist vagabonds being ejected from the White Horse Tavern and dying on the gum-slicked cobblestones, all of us are always old, decayed, drug from one Annexia to the next while our vampire muses stay young and lush and flush in their coffin pages and occasionally celluloid.
Artistic communities are druggy communities or they're hack communities (craftsmen not visionaries) - this is inevitable. The East Village now can only be afforded by rich NYU students, old bastards with rent controlled apartments, and/or German or Japanese ex-pats. The Allies are chased across to Brooklyn, scrounging in the cracks between the "hood" and the rich hipster zones for a cheap rent that doesn't involve getting jumped when coming home in the dead of night, drunk as a lord, which is too frequent to dismiss.
But back in the 80s-90s, when you could live in downtown NYC for only $500 a month (with a roommate), there was a rash of female druggie vampire artists onscreen, serving well as metaphors for the city itself, and AIDs and drug addiction, and art's constant struggle for balance between inspiration and addiction. The thriving anonymity and the mad dash of youth through the gates of decadent pleasure lent itself to the vampire who relished that the city never slept. Now we live in squalor in Park Slope and make double what we used to but can't afford to go to a bar and buy $15 drinks, so everyone's in bed by midnight; we can barely afford a gallon of Coke Zero, 2 packs of cigarettes, fifth of bourbon, and gram of weed a day habit.
But there's always the 90s to revisit, and now, thanks to a genius female Iranian director, there's an indication some element of the black and white vampire urban druggy denizen dream lives on, in a sub-section of the Interzone where it's always balmy, where it's forever the 80s, and LPs and cassette mix tapes are still the hard currency of connection. Iran's Bad City (aka Bakersfield, CA) the paradise of an eternal spring break in a town one step away from the clankety-clank of Eraserhead. But first.
1995- Dir Abel Ferrara
It all starts when she's accosted on the street by sexy vampire Annabelle Sciorra who throws her into an alley (back when NYC had those) and says "tell me to go away" (the equivalent of "you don't want any part of this, kid" or "just say no") before throwing her against the wall and giving her the reverse fix. Scared but turned on, Taylor just can't say no to Sciorra's hot, exotic promise. Who could? We've all seen her in Jungle Fever. Therefore, it's all the victim's fault, but is that rationalization on the vamp's part, or one of those things, like they have to be invited in or can't cross your threshold?
Well I remember, around the same mid-90s period, scaring girlfriends and co-workers with my own drugged-out wild-eyed rants about how I could see through time, and how space was an illusion. I saw their concern and silence as if from a distance. Taylor's fellow doctoral candidate and study buddy Edie Falco, for example, is similarly horrified by how far off the deep-end diving board her once-sober and timid friend has fallen/risen. Taylor, in terse retort sneers: "Your obtuseness is disheartening as a doctoral candidate." Hot damn! And it's clear just who's gonna ace their thesis dissertation. Falco hurries along the dotted lines of the known, buried in books, made sexless by proximity to library glue, but Taylor's seen beyond the veil, waltzed past all the old dead men still wrestling with phony differentiations between past and present, free will and destiny. And she still has the finely-etched hyper-perspicacity to succinctly elaborate--well within the parameters of dead philosopher quotations--whole new paradigms. In other words, Taylor's addiction--her disease--has organized her life, broadened her perspective, cinched her doctorate, and made her as quintessentially New York as Wendy Kroy in The Last Seduction (1995).
With its artsy black and white photography, The Addiction would look great on Blu-ray, but like so many Abel Ferrara movies, it seems mired in licensing disputes, so all I have to remember it by is my letterbox DVD (of dubious Eastern European origin). Even under such primitive conditions, however, it's a stunner that manages on a flop house budget what Coppola's Dracula couldn't with all its smoke and mirrors. Harkening back to the vampire film's mythopoetic Murnau roots, Nosferatu's hydra polyp magnifying glass lectures finding parallel to Taylor's My Lai massacre microfiche montage. The Holocaust is also seen in photos set to that unforgettable whispery dissertative voiceover, visited by Falco and Taylor at a local museum exhibit --it seems alive, happening in the moment, the 3-D space of the exhibit like an intrusion of the past, of death divorced from history and time, made current through the seeing of it.
No one actually dies in this vamp universe, there's no time - and they were never living anyway, for one doesn't live below 14th Street. Artists and academics, they're smart enough to know that unless they say yes to dangerous experiences (unprotected anonymous sex, heroin, vampire biting) they'll have nothing interesting to say in their art or thesis and they'll wind up just another flyover college part-time faculty hack. Receiving the disease was their decision, like a "welcome to the disease which there is no cure for" bathroom mirror urban myth.
Re-watching Addiction lately for purposes of this post, I started writing down relevant quotes and found myself wanting to write down the whole script, each line like manna to any starving liberal arts graduate alcoholic or autodidact drug addict: "Existence is the search for relief from our habit, and our habit is the only relief we can find." I lived by those words while drinking myself into oblivion all through the mid-to-late 90s. Watching Taylor convulse on the street in withdrawal reminded me of when I was so far gone it would take hours for me to get myself together enough to go to and from the liquor store, literally right next door, just one flight of stairs. With a twenty dollar bill taped to my shaking hand, trying to get my bourbon and make it back up to safety of The Thin Man without falling, vomiting or convulsing on the street and winding up at Bellevue in the care of old Bim. It being important too that I go and come back before the real shakes and DTs start.
|"... little turkeys in straw hats."|
Today, well, your city is gone, but the buzzy flashback of that first ecstasy and cocaine highball stroll at dawn after an all-night sesh lingers for decades after in the blood, which is why Taylor wants to drink yours. Like all good druggie downtown vamps she wants the good stuff, the blood that's the richest with opiates and pheromone secretions-- pouncing on her prey only after the drugs trigger a massive release from the pituitary gland into their bloodstreams (just ask the drug-dealer alien in Dark Angel  AKA I Come in Peace == that's the best shit there is.
By comparison, sex is strictly for the tourists.
1994 - Dir Michael Almereyda
Like Taylor in The Addiction, Nadja (Elina Löwensohn) talks incessantly, albeit far less philosophically, with much less contentment with eternity. "I want to simplify my life," she blathers at a downtown bar to some future victim, "even on a superficial level." The dude buys her another drink, as if hearing nothing she's saying, and she's barely saying anything, except that compared to NYC, all Europe is a rural village, and that the city actually gets more alive and exciting after midnight (no shit). Born "in the shadow of the Carpathian mountains," she's East Village Eurotrash from old Transylvanian money, currently grieving her father, Dracula (Bela Lugosi, seen via ingeniously overlapped and incorporated images from [the public domain] White Zombie), even though she hated him because he made her "eat butter." Van Helsing (Peter Fonda) has finally staked him, only after finding him strung out on drugs (like the real Bela), old, "confused, surrounded by zombies." Van Helsing's nephew (Marin Donovan)--the most fey boxer ever--is married to Nadja's new love interest (Galaxy Craze). They meet when Galaxy asks her for a cigarette at a nameless coffee house and we fall in love too, right off, with Craze's strung out 'love child of Molly Ringwald and Ally Sheedy' look. We can tell she would make a great vampire --her speech vaguely slurred but very open, like she's talking to a therapist while trying to hide that she's bleeped on Oxycodone. David Lynch is the morgue attendant in charge of Drac/Bela's body. It starts to snow as Nadja walks down the street at night, smoking and gliding, and then Portishead starts, "How can it feel / this moment?"
Nadja's writer-director Michael Almeyreda displays a clear love of the good things in life/death: cigarettes, Universal horror movies of the 30s-40s, and the lesbian vampire movies of the 70s. He wondrously fuses the downtown grit of NYC with the Universal pre-code Expressionism of Karl Freund within a narrative structured like a loose remake of the 1935 Universal horror classic, Dracula's Daughter, (the 'first' lesbian vampire movie) crossed with the more overtly sapphic Vampire Lovers and Daughters of Darkness. The occasional lapses into pixelated imagery, culled from a then-the-rage Fisher Price Pixelvision movie camera, create a feeling of dreamy disconnect, reflecting perhaps the Nadja eye view (especially when she disappears into parallel dimensions, becoming in a sense one of the unseen audience) and making the rest of the film's grainy video-ish look seem like high grade nitrate by comparison. It's under the Pixelvision we're treated to one of the hottest lesbian bite scenes ever. It's subtle, beautiful, strange, and it outclasses Jean Rollin at his own game in one button. Even if heterosexuality triumphs in the end, it's hard to hate Martin Donovan for he's truly man-crushable. (See also: Almereyda's classy and underrated The Eternal.)
A GIRL WALKS HOME ALONE AT NIGHT
2014 Dir Anna Lily AmirpourAt last there's an Iranian vampire love story, told in resonant black and white and set in "Bad City," (actually the graveyards and oil derricks of Bakersfield, CA.), "pumping up money" as Hank Quinlan would say, or "blood" as vampire Plainview would say. A place where rock anthems are still and forever relevant, a timeless variation of the 80s with Madonna posters on the walls and where the days are marked by a junkie father's itchy paranoia. "The first western Iranian vampire movie" has a startling new talent in Sheila Vand, perfect and strange as a specter of feminist vengeance for oppressed women in Iran's repressive milieu. Wrapped in her black hijab like Dracula's cape (or Nadja's hood), she preys mainly on male predators, waiting until they've shot up heroin or done some lines of coke before making her move, all the better to get high off the blood (though this is never spelled out). Gauging their response to her silent staring and playfulness as she stalks and mirrors her quarry, she knows all men are not fit for killing. Most just yammer away like spoiled vain children, figuring out how to come onto her or why she's shadowing them, and if so, they may die. The glass slipper right response comes from the young, insecure but semi-cool Arash (Arash Marandi), a go-getter forced to give up his prize car to dad's evil drug dealer, a giant, buff, coked-up, abusive tattooed pimp with a habit of sticking fingers in girls' mouths (big mistake). Even with his blood rich in ecstasy after a costume rave, our girl holds off indulging, instead engaging with him in a slow motion moment, beautifully set to a madly whirling disco ball and White Lies' "Death," a perfect song to bring them together as it builds slowly from just another click track into emotional sweep and grandeur all the more special for seeming to be coming so guilelessly true, "I love the quiet of the nighttime / the sun is drowned in deathly seas / I can feel my heart beating as I speed from / the sense of time catching up with me." It's the Let the Right One Inverse of Sixteen Candles:
A lot of movies use pop songs, but how many 'get' the heady deep tissue impression pop music makes on the young, how the right songs come pouring from radios like poems conjured from their own unconscious, there to linger and associate this moment, this now, which has completely stopped, or at least slowed way down, with this song? Dazed and Confused, Perks of Being a Wallflower, Rushmore, The Big Chill, i.e. not very many. Most just try to force new songs from sister corporation labels down the synergy pipe--they don't get it. Kids dazzled by surging hormones are way better at feeling then analyzing or conveying their desires with any eloquence, so music fills the gap like a translator-cum-DJ wedding planner, and each song that does this hangs in the person's history like a combination scrapbook photo and emotional high replay. A Girl Walks Home Alone might be the first where pages of unspoken dialogue beams out between two quiet characters who barely move as the music plays. In other words, it does what Jarmusch hasn't been able to since Stranger than Paradise.
Slight as it is, Amirpour's film sits nicely between the druggie black and white vampire girl genre, the Tom Waits graveyard at the edge of town junkyard LA beatnik Jarmuschia, and the 'down and out' black and white 16mm post-neorealist movement from the early 00s Argentina new wave (as in Bolivia and Suddenly). I would have dug it if the film slowly turned to color during the ecstasy scene, then slowly back down to black and white for the come-down, but I'm always hoping more films will try that. Or any, besides Coffin Joe's Awakening of the Beast (1969) and Wizard of Oz. God damn it.
Either way, the film does nail exactly what ecstasy is like, capturing the rush of blood in the ear and the way a teasing hottie will surround you with auric tentacles of come-hither, leading you on only to brush you off the instant you bust a move, sending you reeling with the double kick of heady intoxication and sudden, short-shock shame. And in its own way, Amirpour's film does it all one better, the slow motion really reflects the temerity of the moment, while we wait for Anash's hand to come out of a glove compartment and the slow drone music drives us onwards, we move into the future, tapping our typewriter train ride way to Annexia, Zentropa, and on and on, loyal as Oskar, doomed as Håkan before him, ready for our William Tell routine, one goddamned Seward asylum fly at a time... but no drug so sweet as to turn the city again to color...