Shadow of the Vampire

"Shadow of the Vampire" is a gory and grandiose metaphor for the torments and sacrifices made, extracted, and endured in the name of art.

Vampire satire has some creepy moments.

The screenplay, by Steven Katz, suffers from arch, almost unspeakably theatrical dialogue, and, as Murnau, John Malkovich recites his lines as if monomania were synonymous with monotonic: He drains the drama of blood.

Wholly absorbing and inspired in parts, this carefully crafted curio dares to suggest that Murnau made a Faustian pact with an actual vampire to play the title role in exchange for the neck of the film's leading lady at production's end.

Intriguing, eccentric, sporadically entertaining tosh (but tosh all the same).

It's a marvelous, resonant joke that never quite succeeds: Stretches of the film resemble a Dario Argento horrorfest crossed with a Mel Brooks spoof.

Ultimately, this picture’s entertainment value will depend largely on the audience’s knowledge of the source material – receiving such a comically morbid spoofing – even if modest amusement can be easily obtained from the performances.

Does this mean Shadow of the Vampire is good? Sort of. Does it means it's bad? Sometimes. But it's usually entertaining.

Catherine McCormack is an over-the-top delight as the neurotic object of Schreck's affection, and Dafoe, in a performance that's both skin-crawling and sympathetic, more than lives up to the prerelease hype.

It’s a puerile premise, made even sillier by highfalutin dialogue and somnolent pacing that makes us wonder at times if they are pulling our leg or embalming a classic silent picture in the process of trying to emulate it.