Dracula (2025) (France, 2025)

Having watched Luc Besson’s Dracula as a companion piece to Guillermo del Toro’s Frankenstein, I have reached a grim conclusion: it is time to let these two iconic monsters sleep forever. No matter how "unique" a director’s vision may be, or how assuredly they speak of finding a "new wrinkle" in the shroud, these justifications are merely window dressing. The narrative skeleton remains the same, and the hitherto "unexplored" angles are more apt to degrade the story’s structural integrity than enhance it.

In this iteration, Besson leans heavily into a sweeping romanticism, positioning Mina Murray (Zoe Bleu) as the reincarnation of the Count’s long-lost 15th-century love. It is a pivot that effectively neuters the character; all the unholy, predatory desires that motivated Stoker’s original creation are sacrificed at the altar of tragic longing. Caleb Landry Jones portrays a Dracula who is more pathetic than ferocious—the inevitable result of reframing a cosmic predator as a misunderstood soul. The film often feels like a jarring fusion of Stoker’s prose and the feverish scribblings of erotic fan fiction. This is further hamstrung by Besson’s long-standing inability to craft genuine onscreen romance or eroticism, a weakness that has haunted his filmography since his days as an international wunderkind. With romance serving as the film's structural spine, this failure proves fatal.

Despite the narrative anemia, there are flickers of life. The sequence in which Jonathan Harker (Ewens Abid) dines with the Count is largely faithful to the text and infused with a cheeky, macabre humor that briefly lifts the mood. Furthermore, Christoph Waltz, playing a Van Helsing surrogate, acts as the film's saving grace. His dialogue crackles and his performance sizzles, particularly during a confrontation with Maria (Matilda De Angelis), one of Dracula’s followers. It is easily the most electric sequence the movie has to offer, standing in stark contrast to the surrounding melodrama.

However, the film’s prologue serves as a warning of the choppy waters ahead. Set during a 15th-century battle between Prince Vlad the Impaler and the Ottomans, the sequence depicts the death of his wife, Elisabeta, and his subsequent renunciation of God. It is so overwrought and filled with unlikely beats that it borders on unintentional parody. This tonal unevenness persists as the film fast-forwards to the late 1800s, where it abruptly transforms into a gothic version of Bridgerton.

The concept of Dracula as a sex symbol was popularized by Frank Langella in 1979, and since then, the Count has been increasingly viewed as a charismatic figure of desire. Even Francis Ford Coppola’s 1992 version—which should have been titled Francis Ford Coppola’s Dracula—leaned heavily into this tragic backstory. Caleb Landry Jones brings "rock star" aesthetics to the role, playing the vampire as an emo icon rather than a monster. While this interpretation works within the narrow framework of Besson’s reimagining, it underscores the film’s identity crisis.

Ultimately, the decision to use the "Dracula" name is the film's greatest failing. Had the script been scrubbed of its Stoker connections and the vampire presented as an original creation, the film might have stood on its own. By claiming the mantle of an "adaptation," Besson creates expectations that his heavy-handed directorial style simply cannot satisfy. If the legend of Dracula has become tired through overuse, there is certainly nothing in this iteration to grant the old Count a new lease on life.

Dracula (2025) (France, 2025)