Good sense has prevailed in Romania! The government has agreed to return Dracula’s castle to the descendants of the legendary bloodsucker. It was surely wrong to deprive people of their property because their ancestor was a bit eccentric. We all have skeletons in our cupboards, quite possibly the remains of some night prowler who got a stake through the heart. Who really knows? My lineage is as untainted as they come, but even I can’t be certain there wasn’t a neck-nibbling gibbon in the Bananas family tree. Let he among you who is free from fangs suck his own toes.
Now the Romanians claim that Vlad Dracul was unfairly maligned. They insist that he only ever bit women in the normal rough-and-tumble of coital frenzy. All that stuff about chasing English virgins and drinking their blood was revisionist history dreamt up by Bram Stoker. The real Count Dracula was the leader of national liberation movement. He slew Turkish invaders without mercy, impaling their bodies on well-greased skewers like so many kebabs. Crooked merchants and cantankerous women were punished more severely. The historical sources agree that he was sadistic but fair.
Dracula films have been banned at the safari camp since the Great Chimpanzee Riot of ’98. In a moment of queer fancy, the camp manager decided to screen an obscure Brazilian version of the story in which the lunatic Renfield is played by a man in a chimp mask. The chimpanzees watching at the window smacked their lips in annoyance when Renfield started jumping about in his cell. All hell broke loose when he was shown trying to rape his bedside cabinet. If there is one insult that drives chimps crazy, it’s the suggestion they have unnatural relations with trees. Depicting a chimpanzee trying to mate with an item of furniture is tantamount to an accusation of necrophilia. Swarms of infuriated chimps besieged the guesthouse for three whole days, digging up the shrubs and shitting in the swimming pool. I eventually negotiated peace terms in which the offending videocassette was handed over for ritual dismemberment.
The last good Dracula film I saw was the one starring Gary Oldman, who hammed it up in grand style. It was all quite diverting, yet I left the cinema feeling that the real Vlad couldn’t possibly have been that light-hearted. Remember the scene where the old Count shaves Jonathan Harker with a cutthroat razor, licks up a dollop of his blood and lets out one of those rip-roaring evil laughs? Very ironic, but there is no historical record of Vlad Dracul moonlighting as a barber, let alone laughing at his own jokes. The one surviving portrait of him presents the face of an utterly humourless bugger. Not that one can blame him, of course. It must have been hell waking up every morning to the stench of rotting flesh and the din of caterwauling widows which he himself had created. No peace for the wicked, as the saying goes.
Vampire films are past their sell-by date anyway. Watching slender virgins having their necks bitten gets boring after a while. We gorillas are rump apes. I’d like to see more booty in the cinema, both virginal and non-virginal. I’m currently working on a movie plot about a toothy dwarf who preys on women with big wobbly arses. He is eventually undone by a lady with a posterior as firm as it is enormous, thanks to her daily “buns of steel” exercise regime. The dwarf breaks his teeth on her taut flesh and is led away in shame to a new career as a horse-fellatiator. I like films to have a strong moral message.
Now the Romanians claim that Vlad Dracul was unfairly maligned. They insist that he only ever bit women in the normal rough-and-tumble of coital frenzy. All that stuff about chasing English virgins and drinking their blood was revisionist history dreamt up by Bram Stoker. The real Count Dracula was the leader of national liberation movement. He slew Turkish invaders without mercy, impaling their bodies on well-greased skewers like so many kebabs. Crooked merchants and cantankerous women were punished more severely. The historical sources agree that he was sadistic but fair.
Dracula films have been banned at the safari camp since the Great Chimpanzee Riot of ’98. In a moment of queer fancy, the camp manager decided to screen an obscure Brazilian version of the story in which the lunatic Renfield is played by a man in a chimp mask. The chimpanzees watching at the window smacked their lips in annoyance when Renfield started jumping about in his cell. All hell broke loose when he was shown trying to rape his bedside cabinet. If there is one insult that drives chimps crazy, it’s the suggestion they have unnatural relations with trees. Depicting a chimpanzee trying to mate with an item of furniture is tantamount to an accusation of necrophilia. Swarms of infuriated chimps besieged the guesthouse for three whole days, digging up the shrubs and shitting in the swimming pool. I eventually negotiated peace terms in which the offending videocassette was handed over for ritual dismemberment.
The last good Dracula film I saw was the one starring Gary Oldman, who hammed it up in grand style. It was all quite diverting, yet I left the cinema feeling that the real Vlad couldn’t possibly have been that light-hearted. Remember the scene where the old Count shaves Jonathan Harker with a cutthroat razor, licks up a dollop of his blood and lets out one of those rip-roaring evil laughs? Very ironic, but there is no historical record of Vlad Dracul moonlighting as a barber, let alone laughing at his own jokes. The one surviving portrait of him presents the face of an utterly humourless bugger. Not that one can blame him, of course. It must have been hell waking up every morning to the stench of rotting flesh and the din of caterwauling widows which he himself had created. No peace for the wicked, as the saying goes.
Vampire films are past their sell-by date anyway. Watching slender virgins having their necks bitten gets boring after a while. We gorillas are rump apes. I’d like to see more booty in the cinema, both virginal and non-virginal. I’m currently working on a movie plot about a toothy dwarf who preys on women with big wobbly arses. He is eventually undone by a lady with a posterior as firm as it is enormous, thanks to her daily “buns of steel” exercise regime. The dwarf breaks his teeth on her taut flesh and is led away in shame to a new career as a horse-fellatiator. I like films to have a strong moral message.
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