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, or change it so they do. And 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 harm 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. The East Village now can only be afforded by rich NYU students, old bastards with rent controlled apartments, and German or Japanese ex-pats. The rest of us, the Allies, are chased across to Brooklyn, scrounging in the cracks between the ghetto 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 when you could live in downtown NYC for only $500 a month (with a roommate), there was a rash of female druggie vampire artists there, too, 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
Well I remember, around the same mid-90s period, scaring girlfriends and co-workers with my own rants about how I could see through time, and how space was an illusion, my eyes wild, hands shaky, lips dry. Taylor's fellow doctoral candidate and study buddy Edie Falco, for example, is pretty horrified by how far off the deep-end diving board her once sober 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 the thesis dissertation. Falco hurried along the dotted lines of the known, buried in books, made sexless by proximity to library glue; Taylor's seen beyond the veil, she's 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, 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, 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 Zoetrope 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 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.
Maybe that's because no one actually dies in this vamp universe, there's no time - and they were never living anyway, not in the sense you mean, for one doesn't live that way below 14th Street. Instead, their cool undoes them, as being 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 wind up just another flyover college part-time faculty hack. Victims are told all the time that receiving the disease was their decision, like a "welcome to the disease which there is no cure for" bathroom mirror urban myth.
Re-watching it 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 would try to get to and from the liquor store, literally right next door, and one flight of stairs, a twenty dollar billl taped to my shaking hand, trying to get my bourbon and vodka 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.
|"... little turkeys in straw hats."|
Meanwhile, your city is gone but the buzzy flashback of that first ecstasy and cocaine highball stroll at dawn after an all-night sesh lingers decades in the blood, which is why Taylor wants to drink it. Like all good druggie downtown vamps she only wants the blood rich with opiates and pheromone secretions once the drugs trigger massive release from the pituitary gland into the bloodstream (just ask the drug-dealer alien in Dark Angel  AKA I Come in Peace). That's the best there is, the dope shit.
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, more true to the city rather than NYU grad school. "I want to simplify my life, even on a superficial level," she blathers at a bar to some future victim dude who 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. "I was born near the Black Sea, in the shadow of the Carpathian mountains," she says. Dig. She may be rich East Village Eurotrash from old Transylvanian money but she's grieving her father, Dracula (Bela Lugosi, 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 just staked him after finding him strung out on drugs, old "confused, surrounded by zombies. He was just going through the motions," Van H's nephew Marin Donovan plays the most fey boxer ever and just happens to be married to Nadja's new love interest, a cute little closeted-even-unto-herself Galaxy Craze. Nadja is weary of her jet set life and longing to love again, even if she knows it will hurt in the long run: "Life is full of pain, but I am not afraid. The pain that I feel is the pain of fleeting joy." She's also dying... "for a cigarette."
They meet when Galaxy asks her for one 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 know right off that 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 sailing along the Oxycodone sea. Nadja and her pretty boy servant pick up Drac's body from a confused David Lynch as the morgue attendant. It starts to snow as she 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 cigarettes, Universal pre-code horror, and the lesbian vampire movies of the 70s, with Gothic shots that wondrously fuse the downtown grit of NYC with the Universal pre-code Expressionism of Karl Freund. Structured like a loose remake of the 1935 Universal horror classic, Dracula's Daughter, there's also unambiguous references to The 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, like Frodo when he puts on the ring) 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 outclasses Jean Rollin at his own game in one button. Even if heterosexuality triumphs in the end, it's hard to hate Martin Donovan. (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 amidst 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 on the walls and days are marked by a junkie father's itchy paranoia. "The first western Iranian vampire movie" has a startling doppelganger effect in Sheila Vand's similarity to the film's writer-director Ana Lily Amirpour, as a specter of feminist vengeance for oppressed women in Iran's repressive milieu. Wrapped in her black cape 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, not all men are fit for killing. Most just yammer away like spoiled vain children, figuring out how to come onto her or why she's shadowing them. All but young, insecure but semi-cool Arash (Arash Marandi), a Lynch-ish young 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). Thanks to a chain of events, Arash gets his car back, and a suitcase full of drugs and money. Even with his blood rich in ecstasy, though, after a costume rave, our girl holds off indulging, instead engaging 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 come so guileless and true, the Let the Right One Inverse of Sixteen Candles: "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." I've been listening to it on my phone ever since.
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. They all try though. A Girl Walks Home Alone might be the first where not only does a song enhance the mood, pages of dialogue are being beamed silently outwards while characters barely move and the music plays. In other words, it does what Jarmusch tries to.
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 vibe, and the 'down and out' black and white 16mm post-neorealist movement from the early 00s in South America vibe (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 via the rush of blood in the ear sound editing and the way a teasing hottie will surround you with auric tentacles of come hither only to brush you off in an instant and send 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... and no drug ever so sweet as to turn the city ever again to color...