The vampire story dwells among the undead of literary and cinematic genres, ever available for reanimation. This year alone has seen the publication of more than 30 vampire novels in the US (from Rachel Harrison’s So Thirsty to K. M. Enright’s Mistress of Lies), alongside the release of several vampire movies, including Abigail (with Nosferatu, rebooting the silent German classic, due at Christmas).
Now comes Salem’s Lot. Written and directed by Gary Dauberman, it’s the first feature-film adaptation of the 1975 novel in which Stephen King set himself the thought experiment of transposing Bram Stoker’s Dracula to contemporary New England. The book has been adapted twice before, in 1979 and 2004, but each time as a TV miniseries.
Of these precursors, the more interesting is the first, directed by Tobe Hooper. Made five years after The Texas Chain Saw Massacre, it signified Hooper’s move towards the mainstream, while retaining some gory scenes and choppy editing reminiscent of his old grindhouse aesthetic.
The new Salem’s Lot begins with a series of maps that trace how the master vampire, concealed in a chest, has reached Maine. The film’s own passage, stalled for years by the calculations of marketers and schedulers, has been equally arduous. It arrives now rather belatedly and without blockbuster flourish. While UK King fans can enjoy it on the big screen, it is consumable in most other locations only via the streaming service Max.
Literary and film scholar Robert Stam offers a profusion of terms to describe the work undertaken by screen adaptations. They may, for example, “rewrite”, “transmute” or even “critique” their source-texts. Indicating a gentler kind of process, however, Stam also allows that an adaptation can offer an “incarnation” or “performance” of the material it is adapting. Performing Salem’s Lot in this sense, responding in audio-visual form to King’s prompts and refusing major reinventions, appears to be Dauberman’s goal.
King is a successor not only to Stoker and other horror writers such as H. P. Lovecraft, but to the late-19th century “local colorists” in New England, who attentively documented the sights and sounds of their region. On the page, Salem’s Lot is visually abundant. The new adaptation attempts to be similarly conscientious.
Dauberman takes care in matters of colour and lighting. A church’s doors, shut against the vampiric menace, glow a vivid red. Two boys walk through a wood silhouetted at sunset, their bodies ominously already lacking substance against a sky that is turning from pink to black. There are other visual pleasures, too, representing a shift away from Hooper’s version, where the shots are rougher-edged and decidedly non-pictorial.
The cast of this Salem’s Lot is likeable and struggles gamely, in the face of regular jump scares, to solicit audience engagement. Unlike Hammer’s Dracula adaptations, say, in which the monster has all the charisma, this is something of a democratic vampire film and devolves interest to members of the opposing force.
A pleasing modification is also made to the overbearing whiteness of King’s narrative world, with two of the pluckiest vampire hunters reimagined as African American.
Beyond the scare
But if this latest adaptation of Salem’s Lot is easy enough on the eye, intellectually it is shallow. This matters, because the best vampire fictions prompt us not merely to be terrified, but to start interpreting – they generate meanings as well as scares.
What, precisely, is signified by their monstrous protagonists? As expert in Victorian literature, Nina Auerbach, wrote in her still valuable book Our Vampires, Ourselves (1995): “No fear is only personal: it must steep itself in its political and ideological ambience, without which our solitary terrors have no contagious resonance.”
Writing his novel in 1975, as the progressive dreams of the 1960s faded, King found in the vampire an apt image of power and cruelty in America. In his own words, from the afterword to Salem’s Lot: “I saw a metaphor for everything that was wrong with the society around me, where the rich got richer and the poor got welfare … if they were lucky.” When vampires strike in the book, there is therefore the sense of a nation at risk, not merely a few families or a handful of individuals.
The new adaptation, by contrast, represses rather than invites such interpretive effort on our part. It carries across the novel’s mid-1970s setting, but is interested more in accurate period detailing – the right model of car, the appropriate hairstyle – than in substantive historical exploration. It also doesn’t use the category of the vampire movie to say something insightful about our own time: the post-COVID moment, for example, or the era of Donald Trump (a figure with rich vampiric possibilities).
Dauberman’s version of Salem’s Lot is certainly respectful of its source-text (unsurprising, perhaps, with King himself listed among its executive producers). And it functions perfectly well as a showcase for the varied skills of props designer, prosthetic artist and special effects engineer. But, as a work of cultural and social inquiry, this latest vampire story is disappointingly de-fanged.
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Andrew Dix does not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organisation that would benefit from this article, and has disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.
This article was originally published on The Conversation. Read the original article.
