Garlic bulbs at the ready for Chris McKay’s horror-comedy: a cynical side-hustle of a picture, come to drain the extremities of the Bram Stoker estate and install a lowly pretender as king. As embodied by Nicholas Hoult, foppish Renfield wouldn’t look out of place in a genteel period romance. Instead, he’s spent the past century as Dracula’s grotesque familiar, gobbling insects for breakfast and sourcing new meat for his master. “A busload of cheerleaders,” demands the count at one point, as though he’s perusing the menu at his favourite bistro.
Every generation, perhaps, gets the monster movie it deserves. This one practically bounces off the analyst’s couch, spouting the language of trauma, recovery and self-empowerment. Attending a support group, Renfield learns that he’s in a “codependent relationship” with a toxic narcissist and duly tries to strike out on his own, fighting big-city crime alongside Awkwafina’s lone honest cop. This, one assumes, is his big redemption arc, although in practice it chiefly involves indiscriminate comic-book slaughter. Limbs are lopped off. Heads explode like bombs. McKay gives us gallons of blood. Not much of it is fresh.
The film’s most lively inhabitant, ironically enough, is Dracula himself, Renfield’s outraged boss. He’s played with a knowing gusto by Nicolas Cage, who appears to have reached the point in his career where he is essentially called on to play the role of Nic Cage. Here, he provides some fabulous B-movie fireworks, sporadically channelling the spirit of Bela Lugosi and making the most of his scant screen time. Your standard vampire film would have put Cage centre stage. Renfield, God help it, elects to bury the lede and drive a stake through his heart.
