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hekatepoetryxxwriting · 4 years ago

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How is the transgression of boundaries explored in ‘The Bloody Chambers & Other Stories’ by Angela Carter and ‘Carmilla’ by J. Sheridan Le Fanu?

In ‘Carmilla’ by J. Sheridan Le Fanu and ‘The Bloody Chambers & Other Stories’ by Angela Carter, the idea of female oppression being thwarted by the women’s self-awareness of their sexuality and their ability to use it as a form of power is explored through various boundary transgressions in both novels. ‘Carmilla’ be Le Fanu was influenced by real life Countess Elizabeth Bathory and was the predecessor to Bram Stoker’s ‘Dracula’. ‘Carmilla’ is also referenced in Angela Carter’s short story ‘The Bloody Chambers’ (it is the name given to one of the Marquis’ previous wives), thus linking the two novels together.

In another one of Carter’s stories, ‘The Company of Wolves’, there is a transgression of gender roles regarding the girl in the story. In the Gothic genre, women usually fall into three types: The Trembling Victim, The Femme Fatale, and The Crone. However, the child in this story is none of these, and displays strength that defies the stereotypes in her confrontation with the werewolf as seen when she ‘burst out laughing; she knew she was nobody’s meat’[1], which is itself is sexual symbolism that makes the ‘meat’ a metaphor for the sexual objectification of women’s bodies, which she rejects by laughing. Her laughter is also a mockery of the patriarchal expectation of submissiveness that men believe all women possess. It suggests that the girl is aware of the power her sexuality carries, much like a femme fatale. The same could also be said for ‘Carmilla’, where Laura’s father ‘won’t consent to you leaving us’[2]even though he has no familial ties to Carmilla. In both stories, the fathers seem to be in a superior position within the family, and evidence of this can be found not only in that quote from ‘Carmilla’, but also from the line ‘Her father might forbid her’[3]in ‘The Company of Wolves’. The verb ‘forbid’suggests that he hold powers over his daughter and is able to control her actions. This is a reflection of the patriarchal family systems which were in place up until the late 1970s, when men were considered the breadwinners. Angela Carter, a feminist, was part of the movement that broke down those family systems; Carroll Davids referred to this in her review of Angela Carter; “Angela Carter’s portrayal of husbands and fathers not only reflects the ideals of her time, but also contradicts them on occasion with the femininity of the men.”[4]

There is also a transgression of gender through the empowerment of female characters in ‘Carmilla’ and ‘The Werewolf’. In both of these texts, the female character succeeds through her own means, rather than relying on a man to support her. In ‘Carmilla’, it is through death that Carmilla is able to gain power. This idea is strengthened through Laura’s speech to Carmilla in Chapter 4, where she asserts that ‘Girls are caterpillars while they live in the world, to be finally butterflies when the summer comes’[5]. The use of this metaphor suggests that girls are only free of the constraints that surround women when they have died, a suggestion that is supported by Colleen Damman’s analysis of the novel “as a woman, Carmilla can only claim her sexuality after death. Thus, vampirism is the only way she can express her own carnal desires. Besides marriage, becoming a vampire is one of the only ways that female sexuality is licensed in the Victorian era”[6]. Meanwhile, in ‘The Werewolf’, the child represents the New Woman and is pitted against her grandmother, who represents the generation of women who have fallen under the thumb of a patriarchal society. The final line states ‘Now the child lived in her grandmother’s house; she prospered.’[7]which implies that the child benefits from the downfall of the previous generation and is able to live happily without a husband or children. This conclusion suggests that women can live complete and fulfilled lives without needing to be married. Angela Carter’s feminist views on empowerment were controversial during her lifetime, including negative reviews for her book ‘The Sadeian Woman’ due to its defence of the Marquis de Sade, who wrote violent erotic novels that many consider sexist and inspired the word ‘sadism’. In regards to the empowerment in ‘Carmilla’, Elizabeth Signorotti states that “Le Fanu allows Laura and Carmilla to usurp male authority and to bestow themselves on whom they please, completely excluding male participation in the exchange of women”[8].

The inclusion of the female ‘Monster’ in ‘The Lady of the House of Love’ and ‘Carmilla’ also transgresses the boundaries placed around gender and the roles women play in society. The Countess is a vampire, much like Carmilla, and bears similarities to Elizabeth Bathory, the acclaimed ‘Blood Countess' who was rumoured to be a relation of Vlad the Impaler. The Countess in Carter’s tale embodies the idea of a Gothic Femme Fatale through the description ‘Everything about this beautiful and ghastly lady is as it should be, queen of night, queen of terror’[9]- the repetition of ‘queen’ places emphasis upon her position within the story. She is the highest authority within the text, being the queen, and is not subject to male dominance. In ‘Carmilla’, the monster is humanised at its death by Laura ‘a sharp stake was driven through the heart of the vampire, who uttered a piercing shriek at the moment, in all respects such as might escape from a living person in the last agony.’[10]and a simile is used to liken the monster’s pain to that of a human’s, implying that Carmilla is not actually that different from human beings. It seems that Le Fanu, like Carter, is suggesting that women who are free from male dominated societies are not monsters but are in fact just as human as everyone else. Le Fanu’s decision to focus on a female vampire may have been influenced by the legends he would have known growing up, namely the stories of the Leanan Sidhe and the Dearg-Due. These myths revolved around female vampiric creatures that preyed upon Irish youths and left a lasting effect on the victims even after the creature’s death (Laura never fully recovers from the effect of Carmilla, and often imagines she will return.). A connection between Le Fanu and the myths of the Leanan Sidhe and the Dearg-Due can be made as his mother read Irish folk tales to him when he was a child.

The continued transgression of gender moves onto the reversal of gender roles in ‘The Erl King’ and ‘Carmilla’. In ‘The Erl King’, the titular character defies the stereotypical role of men in literature as it states that ‘He is an excellent housewife.’ -[11]Carter ironically using the feminine spousal term for him. Aside from this, he has long hair he frequently combs and he takes part in activities that were frequently considered feminine, such as cooking, basket weaving and collecting flowers. Carter may have taken elements from the traditional Pagan god ‘The Green Man’ and his myth; he completed a loop in which he would conceive a child with ‘The Goddess’, die, and then be reborn as the child he created. Certainly, the Erl King is similar in appearance, as well as the narrator of the story stating ‘I would lodge inside your body and you would bear me’[12]. This is a metaphorical reference to birth, something only females are capable of, which juxtaposes the idea of the Erl King birthing the narrator. ‘Carmilla’ does the opposite, as Le Fanu gives Carmilla masculine qualities, the most obvious being her inhuman strength ‘and unscathed, caught him in her tiny grasp by the wrist.’[13]The use of the adjective ‘tiny’juxtaposes the power Carmilla is able to demonstrate. Moreover, a less obvious trait of masculinity is Carmilla’s lesbianism which was , in Le Fanu’s time, sinful in Ireland, and sexual desire for women would have only been acceptable from men. The inclusion of homoerotic features in ‘Carmilla’ points towards Le Fanu’s possibly relaxed view of homosexuality, as pointed out by Christy Byks, who states “Le Fanu, one of the godfathers of Gothic, appears to draw upon features that women would not have been given during his era, and his writing of Carmilla and her inability to fit in with most female Gothic characters would likely have been a topic of controversy within Ireland, a country ruled by religion.”[14]. This idea is supported by the introduction of Bram Stoker’s ‘Dracula’, which takes many ideas from ‘Carmilla’. Many literary theorists suggest that Bram Stoker wrote ‘Dracula’ as an answer to the female centric ‘Carmilla’, choosing to re-focus the story upon men, with women being forced back into smaller, weaker roles.

Further transgressions of boundaries, including the transgression of religious boundaries, can be viewed in ‘The Company of Wolves’. This story mocks religion through an intrusive narrator who informs you ‘you can hurl your Bible at him and your apron after, granny… and all the angels in heaven to protect you but it won’t do you any good.’[15]This is the intruding narrator mocking the two key aspects that Carter believed held women back, that being the ‘Bible’and the ‘apron’, which is a not just a symbol of stereotypical femininity; a feminist literary study showed that almost every female character in a fairy-tale wears an apron, referencing their roles as the housewife. seems to be Carter herself, who openly stated that she thinks “Mother Goddesses are just as silly a notion as father gods. If a revival of the myths of these cults gives women emotional satisfaction, it does so at the price of obscuring the real conditions of life. This is why they were invented in the first place.”[16]Rather similarly, in ‘Carmilla’, Le Fanu presents Carmilla’s aversion to religion, and portrays a fight between Carmilla and Laura’s father, which could represent an argument about nature versus God. Carmilla speaks against Christianity ‘”Creator! _Nature! _” said the young lady in answer to my gentle father. “And this disease that invades the country… and under the earth, act and live as Nature ordains? I think so”’[17]. The caesura used between the words ‘creator’and ‘nature’ not only symbolises her anger, but in placing a caesura here, Le Fanu separates God from Nature, and therefore denies religion the claim of creating everything. This scene contrasts with Le Fanu’s own background, whose father brought up the entire household with strong Catholic beliefs.

This questioning of religion perhaps suggests why there is also a transgression of moral boundaries in both texts. The ‘Trembling Victims’ within ‘Carmilla’ and ‘The Lady of the House of Love’ are Laura and the Soldier. Both texts include a similar juxtaposition of feelings towards the ‘monster’. In ‘Carmilla’, Laura portrays the Gothic feature of ‘The Uncanny, in people’s reaction to her; “but there was also something of repulsion. In this ambiguous feeling, however, the sense of attraction immensely prevailed.’[18]This shows that Laura subconsciously knows that something is wrong with Carmilla, because like most Victorians of the time, she reflects the belief that the appearance of a person was an indicator of their moral standing. Carter’s ‘The Lady of the House of Love’ has a similar scene in which ‘Her huge dark eyes almost broke his heart with their waiflike, lost look; yet he was disturbed, almost repelled, by her extraordinarily fleshy mouth’[19]The descriptive imagery and modified noun phrases work to emphasise the Countess’ appearance and how the soldier is affected by this, and it also represents the notion of the ‘Male Gaze’, the theory presented by Laura Mulvey, that women are either sexual objects there to satisfy men, or the housewife. The two notions are represented in the Gothic genre as the Femme Fatale and the Trembling Victim, and the Countess in ‘The Lady of the House of Love’ has facial features that are stereotypical of both women. Her ‘huge dark eyes’ and ‘waiflike, lost look’ are used often in the description of innocence, whilst her ‘extraordinarily fleshy mouth’ is a sign of sexualisation. Freud’s theory of ‘The Madonna and the Whore’ also comes into play here, as the Countess and Carmilla both bear qualities (both physically and metaphorically) of innocence and sexuality. The presentation of the soldier as a Trembling Victim links with Angela Carter’s view that not only should women become more masculine, but that men should also embrace femininity.

Laura in ‘Carmilla’ transgresses the sexual boundaries placed around her by choosing to refuse medical treatment from her father and the doctor. In doing so, she rejects the idea of curing her illness, which is a metaphor for lesbianism, and becomes free to make her own decisions in regards to her body. She takes on the dominant role in saying ‘I would not admit that I was ill, I would not consent to tell my papa, or to have the doctor sent for’[20]by making her own decisions regarding her wellbeing. The first-person pronoun ‘I’ is used so that the readers understand that Laura is the sole maker of these decisions. Through this illness, she has been able to gain freedom from her father. According to Christy Byks, Laura’s illness is a visualisation of what Victorian’s believed homosexuality was: a disease that needed to be cured. Byks says “Two ideas are at work in this passage. First is Laura’s father’s attempt to control the women who are becoming “ill” and dying; the men want to “cure” her (Laura) by making her well and keeping her among the living, for it is in death that the women break free… By making these interactions with Carmilla a medical problem, the situation can be contained and defined, thus still under the control of men”[21]. Angela Carter also provides transgressions of sexuality when placing women in the dominant position. In ‘The Company of Wolves’, it is the girl who makes the first move towards sexual intercourse, as suggested by the removal of her clothes in the extract ‘The thin muslin went flaring up the chimney like a magic bird and now came off her skirt, her woollen stockings, her shoes, and on to the fire they went, too, and were gone for good[22]’. A simile is used to present the girl’s clothes as a ‘magic bird’, and this personification of her clothing suggests that by removing her clothing, the girl, like a bird, is free to go wherever she wants to. The use of listing used within this quote also suggests that layers are being removed, eventually revealing the girl’s real desires beneath. Angela Carter herself believed that women were not given an equal role in sex, as stated in her book ‘The Sadeian Woman: The Ideology of Pornography’. In her comparison of Justine and Juliette, she states “Women do not normally fuck in the active sense. They are fucked in the passive tense and hence automatically fucked-up, done over, undone.”[23]and it is clear that this idea of a preference of submissive women over dominant ones had a large influence on how Angela Carter shaped her female protagonists and their attitudes to sexual desire, especially in regards to ‘Wolf-Alice’, who’s title character, like the Marquis De Sade’s Justine and Juliette, was originally housed in a convent after being found with the wolves.

The portrayal of the convent in ‘Wolf-Alice’ itself does not conform to the traditional view of religion, and instead transgresses religious boundaries by presenting the nuns not as kind, helpful religious figures, but instead as oppressive matriarchs; the nuns’ only purpose in the story is to attempt to integrate Wolf-Alice into the human society they live in, evidenced when ‘The nuns poured water over her, poked her with sticks to rouse her’[24]and ‘Therefore, without a qualm, this nine days’ wonder and continuing embarrassment of a child was delivered over to the bereft and unsanctified household of the Duke’[25]. When they find they are unable to manipulate her into becoming like everyone else, their choice is to pass her off to a male figure instead, whose house is described as ‘bereft and unsanctified[26]’, which is ironic, as it means the nuns, extremely religious beings, abandon their ward in a house that is considered unholy. This irony serves the purpose of being a metaphor for how society treats outcasts as whole, by isolating them from those considered normal. Angela Carter herself believed religion to be mythical, and stated “I’m interested in myths because they are extraordinary lies designed to make people unfree”.[27]The second transgression of religious boundaries in ‘Carmilla’ is during the funeral scene where Carmilla states ‘Besides, how can you tell your religion and mine are the same… everyone_must die; and all are happier when they do.’[28]and uses a caesura, perhaps to indicate the way she views life. The use of ‘Why you must die--_everyone_must die’[29]indicates how short life is, and the suddenness of death is reflected in the caesuras. Furthermore, the use of ‘your religion and mine’ seperates the two, and conflicts with Victorian ideas of religion. Christianity was considered the one true religion, and therefore Carmilla suggesting she followed another religion would have been heresy. As well as this, her pain at hearing religious hymns in the line ‘”There! That comes of strangling people with hymns!”’[30]presents the idea of a supernatural aversion to religion and foreshadows the reveal of Carmilla’s vampiric nature.

In conclusion, the varied transgressions presented within the two novels provide solid evidence of both authors’ awareness of the problems that are faced by females within traditional literary roles, and both Carter and Le Fanu are able to present their arguments using a variation of language features and characters whilst managing to keep a strong theme of female sexuality at the forefront of their stories.

[1]‘The Bloody Chambers & Other Stories’ by Angela Carter [2]‘Carmilla’ by Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu [3]‘The Bloody Chambers & Other Stories’ by Angela Carter [4]Carroll Davids on: How Does Angela Carter Deconstruct Conventional And Repressive Gender Identities In The Bloody Chamber [5]‘Carmilla’ by Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu [6]Colleen Damman on: Women's sexual liberation from Victorian patriarchy in Sheridan Le Fanu's Carmilla [7]‘The Bloody Chambers & Other Stories’ by Angela Carter [8]Elizabeth Signorotti on: Repossessing the Body: Transgressive Desire in Carmilla and Dracula [9]‘The Bloody Chambers & Other Stories’ by Angela Carter [10]‘Carmilla’ by Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu [11]‘The Bloody Chambers & Other Stories’ by Angela Carter [12]‘The Bloody Chambers & Other Stories’ by Angela Carter [13]‘Carmilla’ by Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu [14]Christy Byks on: Women's sexual liberation from Victorian patriarchy in Sheridan Le Fanu's Carmilla [15]‘The Bloody Chambers & Other Stories’ by Angela Carter [16]‘The Sadeian Woman: The Ideology of Pornography’ by Angela Carter [17]‘Carmilla’ by Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu [18]‘Carmilla’ by Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu [19]‘The Bloody Chambers & Other Stories’ by Angela Carter [20]‘Carmilla’ by Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu [21]Christy Byks on: Women's sexual liberation from Victorian patriarchy in Sheridan Le Fanu's Carmilla [22]‘The Bloody Chambers & Other Stories’ by Angela Carter [23] ‘The Sadeian Woman: The Ideology of Pornography’ by Angela Carter [24]‘The Bloody Chambers & Other Stories’ by Angela Carter [25]‘The Bloody Chambers & Other Stories’ by Angela Carter [26]‘The Bloody Chambers & Other Stories’ by Angela Carter [27]Angela Carter on: Religion by SlideShare [28]‘Carmilla’ by Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu [29]‘Carmilla’ by Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu [30]‘Carmilla’ by Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu

#literature #academics #literature essay #gothic writing #gothic literature #carmilla #dracula #angela carter #joseph sheridan le fanu #feminism #writing #academic writing #academic essay #gothic essay #writing essay #essay

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aquilaofarkham · 5 years ago

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Much like his infamous father, the aesthetic of Alucard has changed tremendously since Castlevania’s start in the 1980s—yet certain things about him never change at all. He began as the mirror image of Dracula; a hark back to the days of masculine Hammer Horror films, Christopher Lee, and Bela Lugosi. Then his image changed dramatically into the androgynous gothic aristocrat most people know him as today. This essay will examine Alucard’s design, the certain artistic and social trends which might have influenced it, and how it has evolved into what it is now.

☽ Read the full piece here or click the read more for the text only version ☽

INTRODUCTION

Published in 2017, Carol Dyhouse’s Heartthrobs: A History of Women and Desire examines how certain cultural trends can influence what women may find attractive or stimulating in a male character. By using popular archetypes such as the Prince Charming, the bad boy, and the tall dark handsome stranger, Dyhouse seeks to explain why these particular men appeal to the largest demographic beyond mere superfluous infatuation. In one chapter titled “Dark Princes, Foreign Powers: Desert Lovers, Outsiders, and Vampires”, she touches upon the fascination most audiences have with moody and darkly seductive vampires. Dyhouse exposits that the reason for this fascination is the inherent dangerous allure of taming someone—or something—so dominating and masculine, perhaps even evil, yet hides their supposed sensitivity behind a Byronic demeanour.

This is simply one example of how the general depiction of vampires in mainstream media has evolved over time. Because the concept itself is as old as the folklore and superstitions it originates from, thus varying from culture to culture, there is no right or wrong way to represent a vampire, desirable or not. The Caribbean Soucouyant is described as a beautiful woman who sheds her skin at night and enters her victims’ bedrooms disguised as an aura of light before consuming their blood. In Ancient Roman mythology there are tales of the Strix, an owl-like creature that comes out at night to drink human blood until it can take no more. Even the Chupacabra, a popular cryptid supposedly first spotted in Puerto Rico, has been referred to as being vampiric because of the way it sucks blood out of goats, leaving behind a dried up corpse.

However, it is a rare thing to find any of these vampires in popular media. Instead, most modern audiences are shown Dyhouse’s vampire: the brooding, masculine alpha male in both appearance and personality. A viewer may wish to be with that character, or they might wish to become just like that character.

This sort of shift in regards to creating the “ideal” vampire is most evident in how the image of Dracula has been adapted, interpreted, and revamped in order to keep up with changing trends. In Bram Stoker’s original 1897 novel of the same name, Dracula is presented as the ultimate evil; an ancient, almost grotesque devil that ensnares the most unsuspecting victims and slowly corrupts their innocence until they are either subservient to him (Renfield, the three brides) or lost to their own bloodlust (Lucy Westenra). In the end, he can only be defeated through the joined actions of a steadfast if not ragtag group of self-proclaimed vampire hunters that includes a professor, a nobleman, a doctor, and a cowboy. His monstrousness in following adaptations remains, but it is often undercut by attempts to give his character far more pathos than the original source material presents him with. Dracula has become everything: a monster, a lover, a warrior, a lonely soul searching for companionship, a conquerer, a comedian, and of course, the final boss of a thirty-year-old video game franchise.

Which brings us to the topic of this essay; not Dracula per say, but his son. Even if someone has never played a single instalment of Castlevania or watched the ongoing animated Netflix series, it is still most likely that they have heard of or seen the character of Alucard through cultural osmosis thanks to social media sites such as Twitter, Instagram, Reddit, and the like. Over the thirty-plus years in which Castlevania has remained within the public’s consciousness, Alucard has become one of the most popular characters of the franchise, if not the most popular. Since his debut as a leading man in the hit game Castlevania: Symphony of the Night, he has taken his place beside other protagonists like Simon Belmont, a character who was arguably the face of Castlevania before 1997, the year in which Symphony of the Night was released. Alucard is an iconic component of the series and thanks in part to the mainstream online streaming service Netflix, he is now more present in the public eye than ever before whether through official marketing strategies or fanworks.

It is easy to see why. Alucard’s backstory and current struggles are quite similar to the defining characteristics of the Byronic hero. Being the son of the human doctor Lisa Țepeș, a symbol of goodness and martyrdom in all adaptations, and the lord of all vampires Dracula, Alucard (also referred to by his birth name Adrian Fahrenheit Țepeș) feels constantly torn between the two halves of himself. He maintains his moralistic values towards protecting humanity, despite being forced to make hard decisions, and despite parts of humanity not being kind to him in turn, yet is always tempted by his more monstrous inheritance. The idea of a hero who carries a dark burden while aspiring towards nobility is something that appeals to many audiences. We relate to their struggles, cheer for them when they triumph, and share their pain when they fail. Alucard (as most casual viewers see him) is the very personification of the Carol Dyhouse vampire: mysterious, melancholic, dominating, yet sensitive and striving for compassion. Perceived as a supposed “bad boy” on the surface by people who take him at face value, yet in reality is anything but.

Then there is Alucard’s appearance, an element that is intrinsically tied to how he has been portrayed over the decades and the focus of this essay. Much like his infamous father, the aesthetic of Alucard has changed tremendously since Castlevania’s start in the 1980s—yet certain things about him never change at all. He began as the mirror image of Dracula; a hark back to the days of masculine Hammer Horror films, Christopher Lee, and Bela Lugosi. Then his image changed dramatically into the androgynous gothic aristocrat most people know him as today. This essay will examine Alucard’s design, the certain artistic and social trends which might have influenced it, and how it has evolved into what it is now. Parts will include theoretical, analytical, and hypothetical stances, but it’s overall purpose is to be merely observational.

What is Castlevania?

We start this examination at the most obvious place, with the most obvious question. Like all franchises, Castlevania has had its peaks, low points, and dry spells. Developed by Konami and directed by Hitoshi Akamatsu, the first instalment was released in 1986 then distributed in North America for the Nintendo Entertainment System the following year. Its pixelated gameplay consists of jumping from platform to platform and fighting enemies across eighteen stages all to reach the final boss, Dracula himself. Much like the gameplay, the story of Castlevania is simple. You play as Simon Belmont; a legendary vampire hunter and the only one who can defeat Dracula. His arsenal includes holy water, axes, and throwing daggers among many others, but his most important weapon is a consecrated whip known as the vampire killer, another iconic staple of the Castlevania image.

Due to positive reception from critics and the public alike, Castlevania joined other titles including Super Mario Bros., The Legend of Zelda, and Mega Man as one of the most defining video games of the 1980s. As for the series itself, Castlevania started the first era known by many fans and aficionados as the “Classicvania” phase, which continued until the late 1990s. It was then followed by the “Metroidvania” era, the “3-D Vania” era during the early to mid 2000s, an reboot phase during the early 2010s, and finally a renaissance or “revival” age where a sudden boom in new or re-released Castlevania content helped boost interest and popularity in the franchise. Each of these eras detail how the games changed in terms of gameplay, design, and storytelling. The following timeline gives a general overview of the different phases along with their corresponding dates and instalments.

Classicvania refers to Castlevania games that maintain the original’s simplicity in gameplay, basic storytelling, and pixelated design. In other words, working within the console limitations of the time. They are usually side-scrolling platformers with an emphasis on finding hidden objects and defeating a variety of smaller enemies until the player faces off against the penultimate boss. Following games like Castlevania 2: Simon’s Quest and Castlevania 3: Dracula’s Curse were more ambitious than their predecessor as they both introduced new story elements that offered multiple endings and branching pathways. In Dracula’s Curse, there are four playable characters each with their own unique gameplay. However, the most basic plot of the first game is present within both of these titles . Namely, find Dracula and kill Dracula. Like with The Legend of Zelda’s Link facing off against Ganon or Mario fighting Bowser, the quest to destroy Dracula is the most fundamental aspect to Castlevania. Nearly every game had to end with his defeat. In terms of gameplay, it was all about the journey to Dracula’s castle.

As video games grew more and more complex leading into the 1990s, Castlevania’s tried and true formula began to mature as well. The series took a drastic turn with the 1997 release of Castlevania: Symphony of the Night, a game which started the Metroidvania phase. This not only refers to the stylistic and gameplay changes of the franchise itself, but also refers to an entire subgenre of video games. Combining key components from Castlevania and Nintendo’s popular science fiction action series Metroid, Metroidvania games emphasize non-linear exploration and more traditional RPG elements including a massive array of collectable weapons, power-ups, character statistics, and armor. Symphony of the Night pioneered this trend while later titles like Castlevania: Circle of the Moon, Castlevania: Harmony of Dissonance and Castlevania: Aria of Sorrow solidified it. Nowadays, Metroidvanias are common amongst independent developers while garnering critical praise. Hollow Knight, Blasphemous, and Bloodstained: Ritual of the Night are just a few examples of modern Metroidvanias that use the formula to create familiar yet still distinct gaming experiences.

Then came the early to mid 2000s and many video games were perfecting the use of 3-D modelling, free control over the camera, and detailed environments. Similar to what other long-running video game franchises were doing at the time, Castlevania began experimenting with 3-D in 1999 with Castlevania 64 and Castlevania: Legacy of Darkness, both developed for the Nintendo 64 console. 64 received moderately positive reviews while the reception for its companion was far more mixed, though with Nintendo 64’s discontinuation in 2002, both games have unfortunately fallen into obscurity.

A year later, Castlevania returned to 3-D with Castlevania: Lament of Innocence for the Playstation 2. This marked Koji Igarashi’s first foray into 3-D as well as the series’ first ever M-rated instalment. While not the most sophisticated or complex 3-D Vania (or one that manages to hold up over time in terms of graphics), Lament of Innocence was a considerable improvement over 64 and Legacy of Darkness. Other 3-D Vania titles include Castlevania: Curse of Darkness, Castlevania: Judgment, and Castlevania: The Dracula X Chronicles for the PSP, a remake of the Classicvania game Castlevania: Rondo of Blood which merged 3-D models, environments, and traditional platforming mechanics emblematic of early Castlevania. It is important to note that during this particular era, there were outliers to the changing formula that included Castlevania: Portrait of Ruin and Castlevania: Order of Ecclesia, both games which added to the Metroidvania genre.

Despite many of the aforementioned games becoming cult classics and fan favourites, this was an era in which Castlevania struggled to maintain its relevance, confused by its own identity according to most critics. Attempts to try something original usually fell flat or failed to resonate with audiences and certain callbacks to what worked in the past were met with indifference.

By the 2010s, the Castlevania brand changed yet again and stirred even more division amongst critics, fans, and casual players. This was not necessarily a dark age for the franchise but it was a strange age; the black sheep of Castlevania. In 2010, Konami released Castlevania: Lords of Shadow, a complete reboot of the series with new gameplay, new characters, and new lore unrelated to previous instalments. The few elements tying it to classic Castlevania games were recurring enemies, platforming, and the return of the iconic whip used as both a weapon and another means of getting from one area to another. Other gameplay features included puzzle-solving, exploration, and hack-and-slash combat. But what makes Lords of Shadow so divisive amongst fans is its story. The player follows Gabriel Belmont, a holy warrior on a quest to save his deceased wife’s soul from Limbo. From that basic plot point, the storyline diverges immensely from previous Castlevania titles, becoming more and more complicated until Gabriel makes the ultimate sacrifice and turns into the very monster that haunted other Belmont heroes for centuries: Dracula. While a dark plot twist and a far cry from the hopeful endings of past games, the concept of a more tortured and reluctant Dracula who was once the hero had already been introduced in older Dracula adaptations (the Francis Ford Coppola directed Dracula being a major example of this trend in media).

Despite strong opinions on how much the story of Lords of Shadow diverged from the original timeline, it was positively received by critics, garnering an overall score of 85 on Metacritic. This prompted Konami to continue with the release of Castlevania: Lords of Shadow—Mirror of Fate and Castlevania: Lords of Shadow 2. Mirror of Fate returned to the series’ platforming and side-scrolling roots with stylized 3-D models and cutscenes. It received mixed reviews, as did its successor Lords of Shadow 2. While Mirror of Fate felt more like a classic stand-alone Castlevania with Dracula back as its main antagonist, the return of Simon Belmont, and the inclusion of Alucard, Lords of Shadow 2 carried over plot elements from its two predecessors along with new additions, turning an already complicated story into something more contrived.

Finally, there came a much needed revival phase for the franchise. Netflix’s adaptation of Castlevania animated by Powerhouse Animation Studios based in Austen, Texas and directed by Samuel Deats and co-directed by Adam Deats aired its first season during July 2017 with four episodes. Season two aired in October 2018 with eight episodes followed by a ten episode third season in March 2020. Season four was announced by Netflix three weeks after the release of season three. The show combines traditional western 2-D animation with elements from Japanese anime and is a loose adaptation of Castlevania 3: Dracula’s Curse combined with plot details from Castlevania: Curse of Darkness, Castlevania: Symphony of the Night, and original story concepts. But the influx of new Castlevania content did not stop with the show. Before the release of season two, Nintendo announced that classic protagonists Simon Belmont and Richter Belmont would join the ever-growing roster of playable characters in their hit fighting game Super Smash Bros. Ultimate. With their addition also came the inclusion of iconic Castlevania environments, music, weapons, and supporting characters like Dracula and Alucard.

During the year-long gap between seasons two and three of the Netflix show, Konami released Castlevania: Grimoire of Souls, a side-scrolling platformer and gacha game for mobile devices. The appeal of Grimoire of Souls is the combination of popular Castlevania characters each from a different game in the series interacting with one another along with a near endless supply of collectable weapons, outfits, power-ups, and armor accompanied by new art. Another ongoing endeavor by Konami in partnership with Sony to bring collective awareness back to one of their flagship titles is the re-releasing of past Castlevania games. This began with Castlevania: Requiem, in which buyers received both Symphony of the Night and Rondo of Blood for the Playstation 4 in 2018. This was followed the next year with the Castlevania Anniversary Collection, a bundle that included a number of Classicvania titles for the Playstation 4, Xbox One, Steam, and Nintendo Switch.

Like Dracula, the Belmonts, and the vampire killer, one other element tying these five eras together is the presence of Alucard and his various forms in each one.

Masculinity in 1980s Media

When it comes to media and various forms of the liberal arts be it entertainment, fashion, music, etc., we are currently in the middle of a phenomenon known as the thirty year cycle. Patrick Metzgar of The Patterning describes this trend as a pop cultural pattern that is, in his words, “forever obsessed with a nostalgia pendulum that regularly resurfaces things from 30 years ago”. Nowadays, media seems to be fixated with a romanticized view of the 1980s from bold and flashy fashion trends, to current music that relies on the use of synthesizers, to of course visual mass media that capitalizes on pop culture icons of the 80s. This can refer to remakes, reboots, and sequels; the first cinematic chapter of Stephen King’s IT, The Dark Crystal: Age of Resistance, and both Ghostbusters remakes are prime examples—but the thirty year cycle can also include original media that is heavily influenced or oversaturated with nostalgia. Netflix’s blockbuster series Stranger Things is this pattern’s biggest and most overt product.

To further explain how the thirty year cycle works with another example, Star Wars began as a nostalgia trip and emulation of vintage science fiction serials from the 1950s and 60s, the most prominent influence being Flash Gordon. This comparison is partially due to George Lucas’ original attempts to license the Flash Gordon brand before using it as prime inspiration for Star Wars: A New Hope and subsequent sequels. After Lucas sold his production company Lucasfilms to Disney, three more Star Wars films were released, borrowing many aesthetic and story elements from Lucas’ original trilogy while becoming emulations of nostalgia themselves.

The current influx of Castlevania content could be emblematic of this very same pattern in visual media, being an 80s property itself, but what do we actually remember from the 1980s? Thanks to the thirty year cycle, the general public definitely acknowledges and enjoys all the fun things about the decade. Movie theatres were dominated by the teen flicks of John Hughes, the fantasy genre found a comeback due to the resurgence of J.R.R. Tolkien’s classic works along with the tabletop role-playing game Dungeons & Dragons, and people were dancing their worries away to the songs of Michael Jackson, Whitney Houston, and Madonna. Then there were the things that most properties taking part in the thirty year cycle choose to ignore or gloss over, with some exceptions. The rise of child disappearances, prompting the term “stranger danger”, the continuation of satanic panic from the 70s which caused the shutdown and incarceration of hundreds of innocent caretakers, and the deaths of thousands due to President Reagan’s homophobia, conservatism, and inability to act upon the AIDS crisis.

The 1980s also saw a shift in masculinity and how it was represented towards the public whether through advertising, television, cinema, or music. In M.D. Kibby’s essay Real Men: Representations of Masculinity in 80s Cinema, he reveals that “television columns in the popular press argued that viewers were tired of liberated heroes and longed for the return of the macho leading man” (Kibby, 21). Yet there seemed to be a certain “splitness” to the masculine traits found within fictional characters and public personas; something that tried to deconstruct hyper-masculinity while also reviling in it, particularly when it came to white, cisgendered men. Wendy Somerson further describes this dichotomy: “The white male subject is split. On one hand, he takes up the feminized personality of the victim, but on the other hand, he enacts fantasies of hypermasculinized heroism” (Somerson, 143). Somerson explains how the media played up this juxtaposition of “soft masculinity”, where men are portrayed as victimized, helpless, and childlike. In other words, “soft men who represent a reaction against the traditional sexist ‘Fifties man’ and lack a strong male role model” (Somerson, 143). A sort of self-flagellation or masochism in response to the toxic and patriarchal gender roles of three decades previous. Yet this softening of male representation was automatically seen as traditionally “feminine” and femininity almost always equated to childlike weakness. Then in western media, there came the advent of male madness and the fetishization of violent men. Films like Scarface, Die Hard, and any of Arnold Schwarzenegger’s filmography helped to solidify the wide appeal of these hyper-masculine and “men out of control” tropes which were preceded by Martin Scorcese’s critical and cult favourite Taxi Driver.

There were exceptions to this rule; or at the very least attempted exceptions that only managed to do more harm to the concept of a feminized man while also doubling down on the standard tropes of the decade. One shallow example of this balancing act between femininity and masculinity in 80s western media was the hit crime show Miami Vice and Sonny, a character who is entirely defined by his image. In Kibby’s words, “he is a beautiful consumer image, a position usually reserved for women; and he is in continual conflict with work, that which fundamentally defines him as a man” (Kibby, 21). Therein lies the problematic elements of this characterization. Sonny’s hyper-masculine traits of violence and emotionlessness serve as a reaffirmation of his manufactured maleness towards the audience.

Returning to the subject of Schwarzenegger, his influence on 80s media that continued well into the 90s ties directly to how fantasy evolved during this decade while also drawing upon inspirations from earlier trends. The most notable example is his portrayal of Robert E. Howard’s Conan the Barbarian in the 1982 film directed by John Milius. Already a classic character from 1930s serials and later comic strips, the movie (while polarizing amongst critics who described it as a “psychopathic Star Wars, stupid and stupefying”) brought the iconic image of a muscle-bound warrior wielding a sword as half-naked women fawn at his feet back into the collective consciousness of many fantasy fans. The character and world of Conan romanticizes the use of violence, strength, and pure might in order to achieve victory. This aesthetic of hyper-masculinity, violence, and sexuality in fantasy art was arguably perfected by the works of Frank Frazetta, a frequent artist for Conan properties. The early Castlevania games drew inspiration from this exact aesthetic for its leading hero Simon Belmont and directly appropriated one of Frazetta’s pieces for the cover of the first game.

Hammer Horror & Gender

Conan the Barbarian, Frank Frazetta, and similar fantasy icons were just a few influences on the overall feel of 80s Castlevania. Its other major influence harks back to a much earlier and far more gothic trend in media. Castlevania director Hitoshi Akamatsu stated that while the first game was in development, they were inspired by earlier cinematic horror trends and “wanted players to feel like they were in a classic horror movie”. This specific influence forms the very backbone of the Castlevania image. Namely: gothic castles, an atmosphere of constant uncanny dread, and a range of colourful enemies from Frankenstein’s Monster, the Mummy, to of course Dracula. The massive popularity and recognizability of these three characters can be credited to the classic Universal Pictures’ monster movies of the 1930s, but there was another film studio that put its own spin on Dracula and served as another source of inspiration for future Castlevania properties.

The London-based film company Hammer Film Productions was established in 1934 then quickly filed bankruptcy a mere three years later after their films failed to earn back their budget through ticket sales. What saved them was the horror genre itself as their first official title under the ‘Hammer Horror’ brand The Curse of Frankenstein starring Hammer regular Peter Cushing was released in 1957 to enormous profit in both Britain and overseas. With one successful adaptation of a horror legend under their belt, Hammer’s next venture seemed obvious. Dracula (also known by its retitle Horror of Dracula) followed hot off the heels of Frankenstein and once again starred Peter Cushing as Professor Abraham Van Helsing, a much younger and more dashing version of his literary counterpart. Helsing faces off against the titular fanged villain, played by Christopher Lee, whose portrayal of Dracula became the face of Hammer Horror for decades to come.

Horror of Dracula spawned eight sequels spanning across the 60s and 70s, each dealing with the resurrection or convoluted return of the Prince of Darkness (sound familiar?) Yet these were not the same gothic films pioneered by Universal Studios with fog machines, high melodrama, and disturbingly quiet atmosphere. Christopher Lee’s Dracula and Bela Lugosi’s Dracula are two entirely separate beasts. While nearly identical in design (slicked back hair, long flowing black cape, and a dignified, regal demeanor), Lugosi is subtle, using only his piercing stare as a means of intimidation and power—in the 1930s, smaller details meant bigger scares. For Hammer Horror, when it comes time to show Dracula’s true nature, Lee bares his blood-covered fangs and acts like an animal coveting their prey. Hammer’s overall approach to horror involved bigger production sets, low-cut nightgowns, and bright red blood that contrasted against the muted, desaturated look of each film. And much like the media of 1980, when it came to their characters, the Dracula films fell back on what was expected by society to be ‘masculine’ and ‘feminine’ while also making slight commentary on those very preconceived traits.

The main theme surrounding each male cast in these films is endangered male authority. Dracula and Van Helsing are without a doubt the most powerful, domineering characters in the story, particularly Helsing. As author Peter Hutchings describes in his book Hammer & Beyond: The British Horror Film, “the figure of the (male) vampire hunter is always one of authority, certainty, and stability (...) he is the only one with enough logical sense to know how to defeat the ultimate evil, thus saving the female characters and weaker male characters from being further victimized” (Hutchings, 124). The key definition here is ‘weaker male characters’. Hammer’s Dracula explores the absolute power of male authority in, yet it also reveals how easily this authority can be weakened. This is shown through the characters of Jonathan Harker and Arthur Holmwood, who differ slightly from how they are portrayed in Stoker’s novel. While Dracula does weaken them both, they manage to join Helsing and defeat the monster through cooperation and teamwork. In fact, it is Harker who lands one of the final killing strikes against Dracula. However, the Jonathan Harker of Hammer’s Dracula is transformed into a vampire against his will and disposed of before the finale. His death, in the words of Hutchings, “underlines the way in which throughout the film masculinity is seen (...) as arrested, in a permanently weakened state” (Hutchings, 117).

This theme of weakened authority extends to Holmwood in a more obvious and unsettling manner. In another deviation from the source material, Lucy Westenra, best friend to Mina Murray and fiancé to Arthur Holmwood, is now Holmwood’s sister and Harker’s fiancé. Lucy’s story still plays out more or less the same way it did in the novel; Dracula routinely drains her of blood until she becomes a vampire, asserting his dominance both physically and mentally. This according to Hutchings is the entirety of Dracula’s plan; a project “to restore male authority over women by taking the latter away from the weak men, establishing himself as the immortal, sole patriarch” (Hutchings, 119). Meanwhile, it is Helsing’s mission to protect men like Arthur Holmwood, yet seems only concerned with establishing his own dominance and does nothing to reestablish Holmwood’s masculinity or authority. Due to the damage done by Dracula and the failings of Helsing, Holmwood never regains this authority, even towards the end when he is forced to murder his own sister. His reaction goes as follows: “as she is staked he clutches his chest, his identification with her at this moment, when she is restored to a passivity which is conventionally feminine, suggesting a femininity within him which the film equates with weakness” (Hutchings, 117).

So Van Helsing succeeds in his mission to defeat his ultimate rival, but Dracula is victorious in his own right. With Jonathan Harker gone, Lucy Holmwood dead, and Arthur Holmwood further emasculated, he succeeds in breaking down previous male power structures while putting himself in their place as the all-powerful, all-dominant male presence. This is the very formula in which early Hammer Dracula films were built upon; “with vampire and vampire hunter mutually defining an endangered male authority, and the woman functioning in part as the site of their struggle (...) forged within and responded to British social reality of the middle and late 1950s” (Hutchings, 123).

Alucard c. 1989

As for Castlevania’s Dracula, his earliest design takes more from Christopher Lee’s portrayal than from Bela Lugosi or Bram Stoker’s original vision. His appearance on the first ever box art bears a striking resemblance to one of the most famous stills from Horror of Dracula. Even in pixelated form, Dracula’s imposing model is more characteristic of Christopher Lee than Bela Lugosi.

Being his son, it would make logical sense for the first appearance of Alucard in Castlevania 3: Dracula’s Curse to resemble his father. His 1989 design carries over everything from the slick dark hair, sharp claws, and shapeless long cloak but adds a certain juvenile element—or rather, a more human element. This makes sense in the context of the game’s plot. Despite being the third title, Dracula’s Curse acts as the starting point to the Castlevania timeline (before it was replaced by Castlevania: Legends in 1997, which was then retconned and also replaced by Castlevania: Lament of Innocence in 2003 as the definitive prequel of the series). Set nearly two centuries before Simon Belmont’s time, Dracula’s Curse follows Simon’s ancestor Trevor Belmont as he is called to action by the church to defeat Dracula once he begins a reign of terror across Wallachia, now known as modern day Romania. It is a reluctant decision by the church, since the Belmont family has been exiled due to fear and superstition surrounding their supposed inhuman powers.

This is one example of how despite the current technological limitations, later Castlevania games were able to add more in-depth story elements little by little beyond “find Dracula, kill Dracula”. This began as early as Castlevania 2: Simon’s Quest by giving Simon a much stronger motivation in his mission and the inclusion of multiple endings. The improvements made throughout the Classicvania era were relatively small while further character and story complexities remained either limited or unexplored, but they were improvements nonetheless.

Another example of this slight progress in storytelling was Castlevania 3’s introduction of multiple playable characters each with a unique backstory of their own. The supporting cast includes Sypha Belnades, a powerful sorceress disguised as a humble monk who meets Trevor after he saves her from being frozen in stone by a cyclops, and Grant Danasty, a pirate who fell under Dracula’s influence before Trevor helped him break free from his curse. Then there is of course Adrian Fahrenheit Țepeș who changed his name to Alucard, the opposite of Dracula, as a symbol of rebellion against his tyrannical father. Yet Castlevania was not the first to conceptualize the very character of Alucard; someone who is the son of Dracula and whose name is quite literally the backwards spelling of his fathers’. That idea started with Universal’s 1943 venture Son of Dracula, a sequel to the 1931 classic that unfortunately failed to match the original’s effective atmosphere, scares, and story. In it, Alucard is undoubtedly the villain whereas in Dracula’s Curse, he is one of the heroes. Moral and noble, able to sway Trevor Belmont’s preconceptions of vampiric creatures, and with an odd sympathy for the monster that is his father. Alucard even goes as far as to force himself into an eternal slumber after the defeat of Dracula in order to “purge the world of his own cursed bloodline” (the reason given by Castlevania: Symphony of the Night’s opening narration).

When it comes to design, Castlevania’s Alucard does the curious job of fitting in with the franchises’ established aesthetic yet at the same time, he manages to stand out the most—in fact, all the main characters do. Everyone from Trevor, Sypha, to Grant all look as though they belong in different stories from different genres. Grant’s design is more typical of the classic pirate image one would find in old illustrated editions of Robinson Crusoe’s Treasure Island or in a classic swashbuckler like 1935’s Captain Blood starring Errol Flynn. Sypha might look more at home in a Dungeons & Dragons campaign or an early Legend of Zelda title with a large hood obscuring her facial features, oversized blue robes, and a magical staff all of which are commonplace for a fantasy mage of the 1980s. Trevor’s design is nearly identical to Simon’s right down to the whip, long hair, and barbarian-esque attire which, as mentioned previously, was taken directly from Conan the Barbarian.

Judging Alucard solely from official character art ranging from posters to other promotional materials, he seems to be the only one who belongs in the gothic horror atmosphere of Dracula’s Curse. As the physically largest and most supernaturally natured of the main cast, he is in almost every way a copy of his father—a young Christopher Lee’s Dracula complete with fangs and cape. Yet his path as a hero within the game’s narrative along with smaller, near missable details in his design (his ingame magenta cape, the styling of his hair in certain official art, and the loose-fitting cravat around his neck) further separates him from the absolute evil and domination that is Dracula. Alucard is a rebel and an outsider, just like Trevor, Sypha, and Grant. In a way, they mirror the same vampire killing troupe from Bram Stoker’s novel; a group of people all from different facets of life who come together to defeat a common foe.

The son of Dracula also shares similar traits with Hammer’s Van Helsing. Same as the Belmonts (who as vampire hunters are exactly like Helsing in everything except name), Alucard is portrayed as one of the few remaining beacons of masculinity with enough strength, skill, and logical sense who can defeat Dracula, another symbol of patriarchal power. With Castlevania 3: Dracula’s Curse, we begin to see Alucard’s dual nature in aesthetics that is automatically tied to his characterization; a balance that many Byronic heroes try to strike between masculine domination and moralistic sensitivity and goodness that is often misconstrued as weakly feminine. For now though, especially in appearance, Alucard’s persona takes more from the trends that influenced his allies (namely Trevor and Simon Belmont) and his enemy (Dracula). This of course would change drastically alongside the Castlevania franchise itself come the 1990s.

Gender Expression & The 1990s Goth Scene

When a person sees or hears the word “gothic”, it conjures up a very specific mental image—dark and stormy nights spent inside an extravagant castle that is host to either a dashing vampire with a thirst for blood, vengeful ghosts of the past come to haunt some unfortunate living soul, or a mad scientist determined to cheat death and bring life to a corpse sewn from various body parts. In other words, a scenario that would be the focus of some Halloween television special or a daring novel from the mid to late Victorian era. Gothicism has had its place in artistic and cultural circles long before the likes of Mary Shelley, Edgar Allan Poe, Bram Stoker, and even before Horace Walpole’s The Castle of Otranto, a late 18th century novel that arguably started the gothic horror subgenre.

The term itself originated in 17th century Sweden as a descriptor of the national romanticism concerning the North Germanic Goths, a tribe which occupied much of Medieval Götaland. It was a period of historical revisionism in which the Goths and other Viking tribes were depicted as heroic and heavily romanticised. Yet more than ever before, gothicism is now associated with a highly specific (and in many ways personal) form of artistic and gender expression. It started with the golden age of gothic Medieval architecture that had its revival multiple centuries later during the Victorian era, then morphed into one of the darkest if not melodramatic literary movements, and finally grew a new identity throughout the 1990s. For this portion, we will focus on the gothic aesthetic as it pertains to fashion and music.

Arguably, the advent of the modern goth subculture as it is known nowadays began with the 1979 song “Bela Lugosi’s Dead” from Northampton’s own rock troupe Bauhaus. The overall aesthetic of the song, accompanying live performances, and the band itself helped shaped the main themes of current gothicism including, but not limited to, “macabre funeral musical tone and tempo, to lyrical references to the undead, to deep voiced eerie vocals, to a dark twisted form of androgyny in the appearance of the band and most of its following” (Hodkinson, 35-64). This emphasis on physical androgyny in a genre that was predominantly focused on depictions of undeniable masculinity was especially important to the 80s and 90s goth scene. Bauhaus opened the gates in which other goth and post-punk bands gained popularity outside of underground venues, including The Cure, Siouxsie and the Banshees, and Southern Death Cult. Much like Bauhaus’ “twisted form of androgyny”, these other bands pioneered a romantic yet darkly feminine aesthetic which was then embraced by their fans. It wasn’t until the producer of Joy Division Tony Wilson along with members from Southern Death Cult and U.K. Decay mentioned the word “goth” in passing that this growing musical and aesthetic subculture finally had a name for itself.

The goth movement of the 1990s became an interesting mesh of nonconformity and individual expression while also emphasising the need for a mutual connection through shared interests and similar aesthetics. Unique social outsiders looking for a sense of community and belonging—not unlike Stoker’s vampire hunting troupe or the main cast of Castlevania 3: Dracula’s Curse. Paul Hodkinson author of Goth: Identity, Style and Subculture describes the ways in which goths were able to expand their social networking while making the subculture their own. In order to gain further respect and recognition within the community, “they usually sought to select their own individual concoction from the range of acceptable artefacts and themes and also to make subtle additions and adaptations from beyond the established stylistic boundaries” (Hodkinson, 35-64). This was one of the ways in which the goth subculture was able to grow and evolve while maintaining some typical aesthetics. Those aesthetics that had already become gothic staples as far back as classic Victorian horror included crucifixes, bats, and vampires; all of which were presented by young modern goths, as Hodkinson puts it, “sometimes in a tongue-in-cheek self-conscious manner, sometimes not” (Hodkinson, 35-64).

The vampire, as it appeared in visual mass media of the time, was also instrumental to the 90s gothic scene, reinforcing certain physical identifiers such as long dark hair, pale make-up, and sometimes blackened sunglasses. This was especially popular amongst male goths who embodied traditional gothic traits like dark femininity and androgyny, which had already been long established within the subculture.

As always, television and film did more to reinforce these subcultural trends as recognizable stereotypes, usually in a negative manner, than it did to help people embrace them. In media aimed towards a primarily teenage and young adult demographic, if a character did not possess the traditional traits of a hyper-masculine man, they instead fit into two different molds; either the neurotic geek or the melodramatic, moody goth. However, there were forms of media during the 90s that did manage to embrace and even relish with no sense of irony in the gothic aesthetic.

Two films which helped to build upon the enthusiasm for the vampire were Francis Ford Coppola’s lavish adaptation of Stoker’s novel titled Bram Stoker’s Dracula starring Gary Oldman in the titular role of Dracula and another adaptation of a more recent gothic favourite among goths, Anne Rice’s Interview with the Vampire with Brad Pitt and Tom Cruise. The majority of the male goth scene especially emulated Oldman’s portrayal of Dracula when in the film he transforms into a much younger, more seductive version of himself in order to blend in with society, everything down to the shaded Victorian sunglasses and the long flowing hair; a vision of classic, sleek androgyny combined with an intimidating demeanor without being overly hyper-masculine.

Primarily taking place during the 18th and 19th century, Interview with the Vampire (the film and the original novel) also encouraged this very same trend, helping to establish European aristocratic elements into the gothic aesthetic; elements such as lace frills, finely tailored petticoats, corsets, and a general aura of delicacy.

Going back to Hodkinson’s findings, he states that “without actually rendering such categories insignificant, goth had from its very beginnings been characterized by the predominance, for both males and females, of particular kinds of style which would normally be associated with femininity” (Hodkinson, 35-64). However, it is important to acknowledge that the western goth subculture as described in this section, while a haven for various forms of gender expression, placed heavy emphasis on thin, white bodies. Over the years, diversity within the community has been promoted and encouraged, but rarely do we see it as the forefront face of gothicism.

The Japanese Goth Scene & Ayami Kojima

Modern gothicism was not limited to North America or Europe. In Japan, the subculture had evolved into its own form of self-expression through clothing and music that took inspiration from a variety of 18th and 19th century themes (mostly originating from European countries). Yet despite the numerous western influences, the eastern goth community during the 1990s and early 2000s embraced itself as something unique and wholly Japanese; in other words, different from what was happening within the North American movement at the same time. To refresh the memory, western goth culture focused primarily on the macabre that included completely black, moody wardrobes with an air of dark femininity. Japanese goth culture maintained those feminine traits, but included elements that were far more decadent, frivolous, and played further into the already established aristocratic motifs of gothicism. This created a new fashion subculture known as Gothic Lolita or Goth-Loli (no reference to the Vladimir Nabokov novel Lolita or the themes presented within the text itself).

In Style Deficit Disorder: Harajuku street fashion, a retrospective on the history of modern Japanese street fashion, the Goth-Loli image is described as “an amalgam of Phantom of the Opera, Alice in Wonderland, and Edgar Allan Poe” (Godoy; Hirakawa, 160). It was an aesthetic that took the western notion of “gothic” to higher levels with a heavier emphasis on opulence and an excessive decorative style—think Gothic meets Baroque meets Rococo. Teresa Younker, author of Lolita: Dreaming, Despairing, Defying, suggests that during the early years of the Gothic Lolita movement, it acted as a form of escapism for many young Japanese individuals searching for a way out of conformity. She states that “rather than dealing with the difficult reality of rapid commercialization, destabilization of society, a rigid social system, and an increasingly body-focused fashion norm, a select group of youth chose to find comfort in the over-the-top imaginary world of lace, frills, bows, tulle, and ribbons”. One pioneer that helped to bring the Goth-Loli image at the forefront of Japanese underground and street fashion the likes of Harajuku was the fashion magazine Gothic & Lolita Bible. Launched in 2001 by Index Communication and Mariko Suzuki, each issue acted as a sort of catalogue book for popular gothic and lolita trends that expanded to art, music, manga, and more.

According to Style Deficit Disorder, during this time when Gothic & Lolita Bible had helped bring the subculture into a larger collective awareness, the Goth-Loli image became “inspired by a yearning for something romantic overseas (...) and after taking on the “Harajuku Fashion,” ended up travelling overseas, while remaining a slightly strange fashion indigenous to Japan” (Godoy; Hirakawa, 137). Then came KERA Maniac, another magazine launched in 2003 that had “even darker clothing and international style points and references, such as features on the life and art of Lewis Carroll, Japanese ball-jointed dolls, or interviews with icons like Courtney Love” (Godoy; Hirakawa, 140). The fashion trends that both Gothic & Lolita Bible and KERA Maniac focused on also found popularity amongst visual kei bands which were usually all male performers who began sporting the very same ultra-feminine, ultra-aristocratic Goth-Loli brands that were always featured in these magazines.

Similar to traditional Kabuki theatre, “this visual-kei placed great importance on the gorgeous spectacle created onstage” (Godoy; Hirakawa, 135). One particular visual kei performer of the early 2000s that became Gothic & Lolita Bible’s biggest and most frequent collaborator was Mana. Best known for his musical and fashion career, Mana describes his onstage persona, merging aristocratic goth with elegant gothic lolita, as “either male or female but it is also neither male nor female. It is both devil and angel. The pursuit of a middle ground” (Godoy; Hirakawa, 159).

Opulence, decadence, and femininity with a dark undertone are all apt terms to describe the image of Japanese gothicism during the 90s and early aughts. They are also perfect descriptors of how artist Ayami Kojima changed the face of Castlevania from a franchise inspired by classic horror and fantasy to something more distinct. As a self-taught artist mainly working with acrylics, India ink, and finger smudging among other methods, 1997’s Castlevania: Symphony of the Night was Kojima’s first major title as the lead character designer. Over the years she worked on a number of separate video games including Samurai Warriors and Dynasty Warriors, along with other Castlevania titles. Before then, she made a name for herself as a freelance artist mainly working on novel covers and even collaborated with Vampire Hunter D creator Kikuchi Hideyuki for a prequel to his series. Kojima has been dubbed by fans as “the queen of Castlevania” due to her iconic contributions to the franchise.

Kojima’s influences cover a wide array of themes from the seemingly obvious (classic horror, shounen manga, and East Asian history) to disturbingly eclectic (surgery, body modification, and body horror). It is safe to assume that her resume for Castlevania involves some of her tamer works when compared to what else is featured in her 2010 artbook Santa Lilio Sangre. Yet even when her more personal art pieces rear into the grotesquely unsettling, they always maintain an air of softness and femininity. Kojima is never afraid to show how the surreal, the intense, or the horrifying can also be beautiful. Many of her pieces include details emblematic of gothicism; skulls, bloodied flowers, the abundance of religious motifs, and lavish backgrounds are all commonplace, especially in her Castlevania art. Her models themselves—most often androgynous men with sharp cheekbones, flowing hair, and piercing gazes—look as though they would fit right into a gothic visual kei band or the pages of Gothic & Lolita Bible.

Castlevania: Harmony of Despair was the final Castlevania game Kojima worked on, as well as her last game overall. It wasn’t until 2019 when she reappeared with new pieces including promotional artwork for former Castlevania co-worker Koji Igarashi’s Bloodstained: Ritual of the Night and a collaboration with Japanese musician Kamijo on his newest album. Her work has also appeared in the February 2020 issue of TezuComi, depicting a much lighter and softer side of her aesthetic. Ayami Kojima may have moved onto other projects, but the way in which she forever influenced the Castlevania image is still being drawn upon and emulated to this day.

Alucard c. 1997

There were actually three versions of Alucard during the 1990s, each of which were products of their time for different reasons. The first example is not only the most well known amongst fans and casual onlookers alike, but it is also the one design of Alucard that manages to stand the test of time. Ayami Kojima redesigned a number of classic Castlevania characters, giving them the gothic androgynous demeanour her art was known for. Most fans will say with some degree of jest that once Kojima joined Konami, Castlevania grew to look less like the masculine power fantasy it started as and more like a bishounen manga. No matter the differing opinions on the overall stylistic change of the series, Kojima’s reimagining of Alucard for Castlevania: Symphony of the Night is undoubtedly iconic. His backstory has more or less remained the same, carried over from Castlevania 3: Dracula’s Curse. After killing his father Dracula, Alucard, unable to fully process his actions or his bloodline, decides to force himself into a centuries long slumber in order to rid the world of his dark powers. Symphony of the Night begins with the Byronic dhampir prince waking up after nearly 300 years have passed once Dracula’s castle mysteriously reappears in close proximity to his resting place. The only difference this time is there seems to be no Belmont to take care of it, unlike previous years when Dracula is resurrected. Determined to finish what was started during the 15th century, the player takes Alucard on a journey throughout the castle, which has now become larger and more challenging than past incarnations.

Despite being somewhat of a direct sequel to Dracula’s Curse, Symphony’s Alucard is not the same dhampir as his 80s counterpart. Gone are any similarities to Bela Lugosi or Christopher Lee; now Alucard bears more of a resemblance to Anne Rice’s own literary muse Lestat de Lioncourt from her ongoing Vampire Chronicles. Instead of slicked back dark hair, thick golden locks (which were originally black to match his father) cascade down Alucard’s figure, swaying with his every pixelated movement. Heeled leather boots, a black coat with gold embellishments along with an abnormally large collar underneath a flowing cape, and a high-collared cravat replace the simplistic wardrobe of 80s Alucard—from a traditional, minimalist goth mirroring his father’s masculinity to an extravagant, aristocratic goth with his own intense, almost macabre femininity.

With the early Metroidvanias came the inclusion of detailed character portraits designed by Ayami Kojima which would appear alongside a dialogue box to further establish the illusion of the characters speaking to each other. Symphony of the Night was one of the first titles where players got to see Alucard’s ingame expression and it looked exactly as it did on every piece of promotional poster and artwork. The same piercing glare, furrowed brow, and unshakeable inhuman determination, the sort that is also reflected in his limited mannerisms and character—all of which are displayed upon an immaculate face that rarely if ever smiles. Just by looking at his facial design nearly hidden behind locks of hair that always seems meticulously styled, it is clear that Alucard cannot and will not diverge from his mission. The only moment in the game when his stoic facade breaks completely is when he faces off against the Succubus, who tempts Alucard to give into his vampiric nature by disguising herself as his deceased mother Lisa. Yet even then he sees through her charade and, depending on the player’s ability, quickly disposes of her.

Despite his delicate feminine features, emotional softness is not one of Alucard’s strongest suits in Symphony. Though for someone in his position, someone who must remain steadfast and succeed in his goal or else fail the rest of humanity, where little else matters, Alucard’s occasional coldness (a trait that would return in recent Castlevania instalments) makes sense. There is a scene near at the climax of the game where he exposits to the other main protagonists Richter Belmont and Maria Renard about how painful it felt to destroy his father a second time, but he reframes it as a lesson about the importance of standing up against evil rather than an admission of his own vulnerability. However, he does choose to stay in the world of mortal humans instead of returning to his coffin (depending on which ending the player achieves).

The second 90s version of Alucard is a curious case of emulation, drawing inspiration from both Kojima’s redesign and other Japanese art styles of the 1990s. Castlevania Legends was released for the Game Boy the exact same year as Symphony of the Night and acted as a prequel to Dracula’s Curse, following its protagonist Sonia Belmont as she traverses through Dracula’s castle alongside Alucard and becomes the first Belmont in history to defeat him. It was then retconned after the release of Castlevania: Lament of Innocence in 2003 due to how its story conflicted with the overall timeline of the series. As with most of the earliest Game Boy titles, the ingame graphics of Legends are held back by the technological limitations, but the box art and subsequent character concepts reveal the game’s aesthetic which seems to take the most inspiration from other Japanese franchises of the decade. The biggest example would be Slayers, a popular comedic fantasy series that included light novels, manga, and anime. Legends Alucard is portrayed in this particular animated style, yet his design itself is very similar to how he looks in Symphony of the Night with only minor exceptions.

The third and arguably most obscure 90s Alucard comes from the animated children’s show Captain N: The Game Master, a crossover that brought together popular Nintendo characters like Mega Man, Kid Icarus, and Simon Belmont. The episodes were presented as traditional monsters of the week, meaning each one focused on a brand new story or environment usually taken from Nintendo games. One episode that aired in 1993 centered on Castlevania and featured a comedic and parodied version of Alucard. Although the episode took elements from Dracula’s Curse, Alucard was meant to be a stereotypical representation of rebellious 90s youth, i.e. an overemphasis on skateboarding and “radical” culture. A colorful, kid-friendly version of the character that was never meant to be taken seriously; much like the rest of the show.

Out of the three variations, Ayami Kojima’s Alucard is the one that made the biggest and longest lasting impact on Castlevania. Redesigning an iconic franchise or character always comes with its own risks and gambles. In the case of Symphony of Night, the gamble made by Kojima—and by extension Konami and director Koji Igarashi—paid off. Unfortunately, the same cannot be said regarding Alucard’s next major change as a character and an image.

Lords of Shadow

“What motivates a man to confront the challenges that most of us would run from?” This is a question put forth by Castlevania: Lords of Shadow, the first attempt by Konami to reinvigorate and inject new life into the Castlevania brand name by completing rebooting the universe. Starting from scratch as it were. Originally, Lords of Shadow seemed to have no connection to the Castlevania franchise. Announced by Konami during a games convention in 2008, this was meant to give more attention and not distract from the upcoming Castlevania: Judgment. However, merely a year later at Electronic Entertainment Expo, it was revealed that Lords of Shadow was in fact the next major step that Konami was taking with Castlevania. From its announcement and early trailers, the game was already generating a healthy amount of media buzz due to its updated graphics, design, and gameplay. Having Konami alumni, video game auteur, and creator of the critically acclaimed Metal Gear series Hideo Kojima attached to the project also helped to generate initial hype for this new phase of Castlevania (though it should be noted that Kojima was only credited as a consultant and advisor for the Lords of Shadow development team). After nearly a decade of near hits, substantial misses, and a lack of focus for the franchise, Castlevania had once again become one of the most highly anticipated upcoming games. To quote gaming news and reviews website GamesRadar+ at the time, “this could be a megaton release”.

And it was—so to speak. As mentioned in previous sections, the first Lords of Shadow did relatively well, garnering critical and commercial success. By November of 2010, nearly one million copies had sold in North America and Europe alone. While not a monumental achievement or a record breaker, Lords of Shadow soon became the highest selling Castlevania game of all time. But enough time has passed since its release and nowadays, fans look back upon this reinvented Castlevania timeline pushed by Konami with mixed feelings, some more negative than others.

The main criticism is that when it comes to gameplay, environment, and story, Lords of Shadow changed too much from its original source material. Change is not always a terrible thing especially in regards to long-running franchises and Castlevania had already gone through one massive upheaval with Symphony of the Night. Although the difference is how well that dramatic change was executed and how players reacted to it. For many, Lords of Shadow felt less like the game it was supposed to be emulating and more like other action hack-and-slashers of the time. The gameplay didn’t feel like Castlevania, it felt like Devil May Cry. Elements of the story didn’t feel like Castlevania, they felt like God of War. Each boss fight didn’t feel like Castlevania, they felt like Shadow of the Colossus (a frequent comment made by fans). Despite the familiar elements from past games that made their way into this new instalment, for many, Lords of Shadow was too little of Castlevania and too much of everything else that surrounded its development. Meanwhile, the afformented familiar elements seemed like attempts at fanservice in order to make sure that longtime fans felt more at home.

Does the game and its following sequels still hold any merit in terms of aesthetic and story? They do, especially when it comes to its style. Lords of Shadow, its midquel Mirror of Fate, and the sequel Lords of Shadow 2 are not unappealing games to look at. When examining the concept art of characters, enemies, and environments, one could argue that the Lords of Shadow series has some of the most visually striking Castlevania art in the series. The monster designs in particular take on a much grander, ambitious, and menacing presence that take inspiration from various mythological and biblical sources, the best example being Leviathan from Lords of Shadow 2.

By the 2010s, AAA video games in general were going through a sort of golden age with titles such as Assassin’s Creed 2, Batman: Arkham Asylum, and Red Dead Redemption among many others. Not only were the stories and gameplay mechanics improving by ten folds, so too were the graphical capacities that each game could uphold. Due to technological advancements, Castlevania had the chance to become more detailed and fleshed out than before. The locations of Lords of Shadow and its sequels, which ranged from gothic castles, to modern decrepit cities, to fantastical forests, grew lusher and more opulent while the monsters evolved past the traditional skeletons of the series into far more imposing nightmarish creatures.

The first game along with Mirror of Fate kept themselves fairly grounded in their respective environments. Nearly every character looks as though they firmly belong in the gothic fantasy world they inhabit. Gabriel Belmont and the rest of the Brotherhood of Light are dressed in robes reminiscent of medieval knights (with a few non-historical embellishments) while the vampiric characters of Carmilla and Laura dress in the same manner that typical vampires would. However, a new location known as Castlevania City was introduced in Lords of Shadow 2, modelled after a 21st century metropolitan cityscape. Characters with designs more suited to God of War or Soul Calibur intermingle with NPCs dressed in modern clothing, further highlighting the clash of aesthetics. While this is not the first time Castlevania has featured environments populated with humans, the constant shifting between a dark urban landscape with more science fiction elements than fantasy and the traditional gothic setting of Dracula’s castle can feel like whiplash.

The Lords of Shadow timeline was an ambitious attempt by Konami to try and give fans a Castlevania experience they had not seen before. New concepts that were previously unexplored or only alluded to in past games were now at the forefront. Yet the liberties that each game took with established Castlevania lore, both in terms of story and design, were perhaps too ambitious. The biggest example is the choice to have the Belmont protagonist turn into Dracula through a combined act of despair and selflessness, but Alucard went through a number of changes as well. Transforming him from the golden-haired aristocrat of the 90s and 2000s into an amalgamation of dark fantasy tropes.

Alucard c. 2014

After the success of Castlevania: Symphony of the Night, Alucard reappeared in a number of following titles, most of which depicted him in his typical black and gold wardrobe. There were exceptions, including Castlevania: Aria of Sorrow and its direct sequel Castlevania: Dawn of Sorrow where he adopts the alias of Genya Arikado, an agent for a futuristic Japanese organization dedicated to stopping any probable resurrections of Dracula. Because of this need to appear more human and hide his true heritage, Genya’s appearance is simple and possibly one of Ayami Kojima’s most minimalistic character designs; a black suit, shoulder length black hair, and the job is done. In Dawn of Sorrow, Alucard briefly appears as himself, drawn in a less detailed anime style that softens his once intensely stoic expression first seen in Symphony. The next exception is Castlevania: Judgment, a fighting game where characters from separate games and time periods are brought together to face off against one another. Konami brought on Takeshi Obata (who by then was famously known for his work on Death Note) as the lead character designer and in many regards had a similar aesthetic to Ayami Kojima, creating lavish gothic pieces that were heavily detailed and thematic.

Like Kojima, Obata was given free range to reconceptualize all of the characters appearing in Judgment with little to no remaining motifs from previous designs. This included Alucard, who dons a suit of silver armor and long white hair to match it. Judgment’s Alucard marked a turning point for the character in terms of appearance; a gradual change that was solidified by Lords of Shadow.

This is where things get complicated. While Castlevania could be considered a horror series solely based on its references, aesthetic, and monsters, nearly every iteration whether it comes down to the games or other forms of media tends to veer more towards the dark fantasy genre. Edward James and Farah Mendleson’s Cambridge Companion to Fantasy Literature describe the distinction between traditional horror and dark fantasy as a genre “whose protagonists believe themselves to inhabit the world of consensual mundane reality and learn otherwise, not by walking through a portal into some other world, or by being devoured or destroyed irrevocably, but by learning to live with new knowledge and sometimes with new flesh” (James; Mendleson, 218). While horror is a genre of despair, directly confronting audience members with the worst of humanity and the supernatural, “the protagonist of dark fantasy comes through that jeopardy to a kind of chastened wisdom” (James; Mendleson, 217).

Dark fantasy is ultimately a genre of acceptance (i.e. characters accepting a horrible change or embracing the world they have been forcibly thrown into), but it also represents a rejection of traditional tropes implemented by the works of Tolkien or the Brothers Grimm, thus defining itself by that very same act of rejection. An example of this is the theme of failure, which is common in many dark fantasy stories. There are far more unhappy or bittersweet endings than happy ones while the construction of the classic hero’s journey hinges more on all the possible ways in which the protagonist could fail in their quest.

Going off from this definition, the Lords of Shadow timeline fits squarely into the dark fantasy genre, especially concerning its two leading men. We already know that Gabriel Belmont sacrifices his humanity in order to become Dracula, but what happens to his son borders on a Greek tragedy. Before the “deaths” of Gabriel and Maria, they had a son named Trevor who was immediately taken into the care of the Brotherhood of Light and kept away from his father in order to protect him. Years later when Trevor is an adult with a family of his own, he vows to defeat Dracula for bringing shame and dishonor upon the Belmont bloodline. Yet when their eventual confrontation happens, Dracula easily beats Trevor who, on the verge of death, reveals the truth about his connection to the lord of vampires. In a desperate act of regret, Dracula forces Trevor to drink his blood and places him into a coffin labeled “Alucard” where he will seemingly rest for eternity.

Time passes and Trevor Belmont—now transformed into the vampire Alucard—awakens, just as he did at the beginning of Dracula’s Curse and Symphony of the Night. During his disappearance, his wife Sypha Belnades was killed by Dracula’s creatures, orphaning their son Simon Belmont. The two eventually meet and work together to stop Dracula, but Alucard cannot bring himself to tell Simon the truth.

Despite a well-deserved happy ending in Lords of Shadow 2 (he and his father reconcile before going off to presumably live a peaceful life), the character of Trevor/Alucard is built upon the same themes of failure and learning to accept terrible change found within dark fantasy. His design is especially reminiscent of one of the darkest and most tortured protagonists in the genre, Michael Moorcock’s Elric from his Elric of Melniboné series. First appearing in the June 1961 issue of Science Fantasy, he stands out amongst most sword and sorcery heroes, different from the hypermasculinity of Conan the Barbarian for his embittered personality, philosophical motifs, and memorable design. Elric is constantly described as looking deathly pale with skin “the color of a bleached skull; and the long hair which flows below his shoulders is milk-white” (Moorcock, 3) and a body that needs a steady stream of potions in order to function properly or else he will gradually grow weaker, nearer towards the edge of death—more a corpse than a human being.

Lords of Shadow Alucard is very much like a walking corpse as well. His long hair is the same milk-white tone as Elrics’, his skin is deprived of any real color, and his open chest outfit reveals a body that is both robust yet emaciated. Moorcock’s Elric was the prototype for many other white haired, pale faced, otherworldly antiheroes in fantasy that came afterwards and the darkly ethereal aesthetic that reflected his constant state of self-loathing and tragedy was the most ideal fit for this new version of Alucard. Both fail as traditional fantasy heroes, both abhor their physical states, yet both learn to embrace it at the same time.

A Brief History of Modern Animation

Before we move onto the final iteration of Dracula’s son, let us first acquaint ourselves with an artistic medium that has not been fully discussed yet. This essay has gone into detail concerning the aesthetics of video games, fashion, filmmaking, and music, but where does animation fit in? Since 1891’s Pauvre Pierrot, the only surviving short film predating the silent era with 500 individually painted frames, animation has evolved into one of the most expressive, diverse, and groundbreaking art forms of the modern age. There were earlier methods that fit into the animation mold before Pauvre Pierrot including but not limited to shadow play, magic lantern shows, and the phenakistoscope, one of the first devices to use rapid succession in order to make still images look as though they were moving. Throughout the 20th century, with the help of mainstream studios like Warner Bros. and of course Walt Disney, the medium quickly began to encompass a variety of techniques and styles beyond a series of drawings on paper. Some of the more recognizable and unique styles are as followed:

Digital 2-D animation

Digital 3-D animation

Stop-motion

Puppetry

Claymation

Rotoscoping

Motion capture

Cut-out animation

Paint-on-glass

The most common forms used in film and television are traditional hand drawn and digital 3-D, sometimes merged together in the same product. There has been much debate over which animation technique has more artistic merit and is more “authentic” to the medium, but the reality is that there is no singular true form of animation. Each style brings its own advantages, challenges, and all depends on how it is being used to tell a specific story or evoke a feeling within the audience. For example, the 2017 semi-biographical movie Loving Vincent is animated in a nontraditional style with oil paints in order to create the illusion of a Vincent Van Gogh painting that has come to life. As Loving Vincent is about the influential painter himself and his tragic life, this animation technique works to the film’s advantage. If the story had used a more traditional form like 2-D or 3-D, it might not have had the same impact. Another example like the film A Scanner Darkly starring Keanu Reeves uses a somewhat controversial technique known as rotoscoping, which entails tracing over live action scenes in order to give it a realistic yet still animated feel. A Scanner Darkly is a futuristic crime thriller meant to evoke a sense of surrealism and discomfort, making the uncanniness of rotoscoping the perfect fit for its artificial atmosphere.

Throughout its history, animation has gone through a number of phases corresponding to political, artistic, and historical events such as propaganda shorts from Walt Disney during World War II and the rise of adult-oriented animators who rode the wave of countercultural movements during the late 1960s and early 70s. Animation meant for older audiences was especially coming into its own as most audiences had become more comfortable associating the medium with the family friendly formula perfected by the Disney company. The only other western mainstream animation studio that could stand toe to toe with Disney while also dabbling in mature subject matter at the time was Warner Bros. and its juggernaut Looney Tunes, which even then was mostly relegated to smoking, slapstick violence, and mild suggestive material. Meanwhile, the works of Ralph Bakshi, arguably the father of elevated adult animated features, dealt with everything from dark humor, sexuality, profanity, and complex themes most of which delved into pure shock value and were highly offensive in order to make a statement. There were later exceptions to this approach including Bakshi’s own adaptation of Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings, Wizards, and Fire and Ice, a high profile collaboration with Frank Frazetta, in which both films utilized rotoscope animation to create unique, fantasy-based experiences for mature viewers.

With the right amount of funds and creativity, other countries began developing their own animated features with distinct styles that reflected the culture, social norms, and history in which they originated from. The 1960s are referred to as “the rise of Japanese animation”, or as it came to be known worldwide as anime, thanks to iconic characters of the decade like Astro Boy, Kimba the White Lion, and Speed Racer. The longest running anime with over 7,700 episodes to date is Sazae-san, based on the popular 1940s comic strip of the same name. Western audiences commonly associate modern anime with over the top scenarios, animation, and facial movements while having little to no basis in reality when it comes to either story or character design.

While the Walt Disney company was steadily losing its monopoly on the animation industry with financial and critical disappointments (making room for other animators like Don Bluth) until it's renaissance during the 1990s, the 1980s turned into a golden age for ambitious, groundbreaking anime projects. Not only were films like Akira, Grave of the Fireflies, Barefoot Gen, and Nausicaä of the Valley of the Wind among many others, appealing to a wide variety of audiences, they were also bold enough to tackle mature, complex subject matter with a certain degree of nuance that complimented each film’s unique but often times bizarre or surreal styles. Akira watches like a violent cyberpunk splatterfest with extreme body horror and juvenile delinquency, yet its borderline exploitative methods serve a larger purpose. Akira takes place in a bleak, dystopian Japan where Tokyo has been rebuilt after its destruction in 1988, setting up an allegorical story that directly confronts government experimentation and the fallout of nuclear warfare.

Artists of all mediums have always influenced one another and the impact that anime has had on western animation continues to this day whether through passing tongue-in-cheek references, taking inspiration from common anime tropes while also depicting them through a western lens, or shows that feature a heavily emulated anime style like Avatar: The Last Airbender and its successor The Legend of Korra. Then there are shows that completely blur the lines between western animation and anime, with the ultimate distinction usually coming down to where it was originally developed (i.e. North America or Japan).

Alucard c. 2017

The overall aesthetic and image of Netflix’s Castlevania is built upon a number of different influences, the majority of which come from Japanese animation. Executive producer and long time Castlevania fan Adi Shankar has gone on record saying that the show is partially “an homage to those OVAs that I would watch on TV (...) and I was like, “This is beautiful, and it’s an art form”. He has also directly compared the show to those golden age-era ultra violent anime features of the 80s and 90s, including titles such as Akira, Ghost in the Shell, and Ninja Scroll. Director Samuel Deats, another avid Castlevania fan, has mentioned the long-running manga series Berserk along with its 1997 anime adaptation as one of the animation team’s primary inspirations numerous times, explaining in further detail in a 2017 interview with io9: “I pulled out my ‘I love the Berserk manga, Blade the Immortal’ and all that. That dark fantasy style of storytelling, character design, how gorey it gets… I put together a bunch of drawings and sketches, and a few color images that channeled all of that”.

Watching Castlevania, the aesthetic references to Berserk are obvious. Both series merge together medieval fantasy elements with gruesome horror but they are also similar in their particular animation styles. One director from Korean studio MOI Animation who partnered with Powerhouse Animation collaborated on the feature length film Berserk: The Golden Age—The Egg of the King along with its two sequels. But the biggest inspiration for the design of Castlevania, especially when it comes to its characters, is Ayami Kojima herself.

From the pre-production phase, the team at Powerhouse knew they wanted Kojima’s art to be the main basis of how the finished product would look and feel. According to Samuel Deats, “In the back of everyone’s heads, we knew that we wanted to heavily reference the style Ayami Kojima used in the Castlevania games. We wanted to bring the same shade-before-image sort of thing”. However, due to the sheer amount of details and embroidered style of Kojima’s aesthetic, many of her original designs had to be simplified into 2-D animated forms (just as they had to be reduced into pixelated form for Symphony of the Night).

Alucard’s animated design is the best example of this simplification process, but it took some trial and error in order to arrive at the finished product. When Castlevania was originally planned as a movie, his design veered closer to the otherworldliness and corpse-like aesthetic of Lords of Shadow Alucard—something that looked as far from a human being let alone a dhampir as possible. Following the years of stifled development until Netflix picked up the project, Powerhouse opted to fall back on Kojima’s artwork for sheer iconography and recognizability.

On the one hand, animated Alucard’s facial expressions are identical to his game counterpart with the exception of a few liberties taken; same determined scowl, same intensely golden eyes, and same lush eyelashes (there’s even a note from his character sheet specifically stating that they must cast shadows for close-ups). Most of all, the same feminine androgyny of Kojima’s work. But there are just as many omitted details from Alucard’s updated model as there are those that were carried over from the original design. When compared to Symphony of the Night, his wardrobe seems to be severely lacking in excessive ornaments, instead opting for a sleek black coat with simple gold embellishments, knee high boots with a slight heel, and a white shirt with an open v-neckline. Despite these supposedly easy changes and evocation of Kojima’s art style, Alucard is still one of the more difficult characters to animate as stated by Deats: “I mean, Alucard has to be just right. You can’t miss an eyelash on him without it looking weird”.

For the most part, it shows in the final product. There are moments when the animation goes off model (as is the case with most 2-D animated shows for time and budgetary reasons), but rarely is Alucard drawn from an unflattering angle. The other reason for his change in design is the fact that Castlevania takes place three centuries before the events of Symphony of the Night. Because of the story constraints and console limitations, players were not given an in-depth look at Alucard’s character beyond his quest to defeat Dracula and the guilt he felt afterwards. It would make sense that his demeanor differs from the stoic nature of how he reacts to certain situations three hundred years later. As a result, Alucard is given a toned-down design to reflect what he might have been like as a younger, brasher, and more immature version of himself.

This immaturity and juvenile nature of his visual image comes through in his portrayal. While the show is in its third season, we will primarily focus on season two as when compared to the others, it revolves around Alucard’s personal journey towards an important aspect of his long established character the most; namely, the reason for his rebellion against Dracula and his eventual act of patricide. Because Alucard only appears as a silhouette in episode one then makes his full introduction during the last fifteen minutes of the final episode, season one gives the audience a very limited idea of his character. What we do get from Alucard is the same impression that Symphony of the Night left fans with: someone who is determined, intensely fixated on his goal, and is willing to use any means to accomplish it—even if it involves striking a tentative truce between a vampire hunter and a scholar of magic. Season two expands upon this, showing an Alucard who is soft-spoken, careful in his mannerisms, more feminine than masculine, yet always rises to the occasion whenever he needs to match Trevor Belmont’s own crassness. For all of his grace, Alucard’s high emotions coupled with an unchecked immaturity (especially in the presence of Trevor) show how ill-equipped he is when dealing with human interactions.

One other piece of evidence that adds to this chink in Alucard’s carefully crafted metaphorical armor is the goal of stopping his father. Throughout small interactions and moments of dialogue, the truce struck between him, Trevor, and Sypha eventually develops into more of a friendship, yet Alucard continues to suffer from extreme tunnel vision, going as far as to chastise his two companionships whenever they get too distracted or unfocused from their mission. This character flaw is also touched upon in Castlevania: Grimoire of Souls when characters remark upon Alucard’s (otherwise referred in the game as Arikado) overly serious nature. A flaw that does more to unintentionally push others away rather than any attempt to bring them closer to him.

When Alucard finally achieves his goal of killing Dracula, it leaves him feeling hollow. He doesn’t quite know how to fully process this ultimate decision, maintaining a delicate sense of composure on the outside while in the presence of others. It’s only when Alucard is left alone does he allow the emotions of everything that has just happened to overwhelm him in a moment of genuine vulnerability that was only alluded to in previous scenes.

Conclusion

Despite the show being renewed for a fourth season, the future of the Castlevania franchise in general remains uncertain. There’s been no talk of any other past games being set for rerelease, Grimoire of Souls continues to make sporadic updates to its gacha system rather than its story mode, and Konami has since chosen to take a step back from developing video games in favour of manufacturing pachislot machines. Symphony of the Night and Bloodstained: Ritual of the Night creator Koji Igarashi has mentioned in past interviews that should Konami somehow make a return to Castlevania, he would be willing to direct a new instalment. But at the present time, rumors have remained rumors and there are no signs of a new official Castlevania game in the near future whether developed by Konami or an outside company.

No matter what direction Castlevania takes in the years to come, it seems as though Alucard will always follow it, just as Dracula and the Belmonts will as well. This is his franchise as much as it is theirs thanks to continued fan popularity. He’s taken many forms in the past thirty years and become the visual representation of certain trends, yet one thing about him never changes: he is still Dracula’s son, the opposite of his father. He can be cruel, powerful, cold, and everything else a Byronic hero should be yet he can also reject his masculine inheritance in both character and aesthetic.

Above all else, the human side of Alucard is greater than the monstrous side.

References

Bannister, Matthew. White Boys, White Noise: Masculinities and 1980s Indie Guitar Rock. Burlington: Taylor & Francis, 2017.

Castlevania Wiki | Fandom. https://castlevania.fandom.com/wiki/Castlevania_Wiki

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angelofberlin2000 · 8 years ago

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This article is written by an obviously great fan of Keanu on occasion of the first JOHN WICK! Angelica Jade Bastien wrote another amazing article about Keanu Why Keanu Reeves Is Such an Unusual (and Great) Action Star on February 17, 2017. Her articles about Keanu are such a delight to read!

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by The Editors

February 9, 2016 |

The February issue of online magazine Bright Wall/Dark Room is called "The Unloved," and is focused on making a case for a handful of unloved and overlooked movies. In addition to this excerpted essay from Angelica Jade Bastién about Keanu Reeves, this month's issue also has pieces on "Elizabethtown," "The Hobbit" trilogy, "Afternoon Delight," "Bellflower," "The Sweetest Thing," "Detention," and "The Man Who Knew Too Little." The illustration above is by Brianna Ashby.

You can read previous excerpts from the magazine here. To subscribe to Bright Wall/Dark Room, or purchase a copy of their current issue, go here.

I. Transfixing Stillness

Keanu Reeves missed his calling as a silent film actor.

Critics and viewers alike refer to him as stiff, shallow, fake, always playing himself. These opinions have been repeated enough that they’re treated like fact. But this critique misses something. Keanu’s power lies not in transformation or the ability to wrap his mouth around clever word play. No, Keanu is at his most powerful when film is at its most elemental. Like Gloria Swanson, Greta Garbo, and the greatest of silent actors, Keanu has immense screen presence and a keen understanding of communicating story through physicality, albeit with a very modern inflection. A simple glance or curled lip can unfurl lengthy character history or upend expectations.

But this isn’t the commonly held image of Keanu as an actor. He’s been steadily working since the mid-1980s, his earliest defining role one-half of the titular loveable but dim-witted duo in "Bill and Ted’s Excellent Adventure" (1989). Through a variety of high profile blockbusters, low-key dramas, and interested misfires in period pieces, Keanu is still stuck in the amber of our first impression; we don’t treat him with the seriousness he deserves. At best, Keanu is regarded as a guilty pleasure. At worst, he’s seen as a truly bad actor of little worth. No matter where you fall, you likely believe he isn’t worthy of critical study or even much respect for his craft. But this image—of odd blankness, affability but dim wit, worth only found in action films—ignores how purely cinematic his acting style is. For Keanu, acting isn’t a mode of transformation but a state of being. He transmutes story into flesh.

In the biography Furious Love, Sam Kashner and Nancy Schoenberger recount Richard Burton’s bafflement, acting alongside Elizabeth Taylor in the splendidly overwrought "Cleopatra" (1963), over her seeming lack of technique: “ ‘She’s just not doing anything,’ he complained to [Joseph L.] Mankiewicz.” But the director pulled him aside and showed him footage “that took his breath away.” Burton, Kashner and Schoenberger explain, “was struck by Elizabeth’s absolute stillness,” and learned from her “how to tone down the theatrical performances for the camera’s cool eye.”

I’ve often wondered if Keanu’s costars ever think the same thing, since he has a similar transfixing stillness. Bret Easton Ellis once noted that Keanu has a “stillness, an awkwardness even, that is unusually empathetic. He is always hypnotic to watch.” When you watch him opposite actors with more pronounced tics—like Robert Downey Jr. in "A Scanner Darkly"—Reeves almost seems like he’s doing nothing. But still, your eyes gravitate toward him.

Because of Keanu’s style, the gap between his good and bad performances is a chasm. There is no middle ground for him (which perhaps explains some people’s distaste for his work). Keanu’s failed performances are those that push him toward a theatricality against his natural instincts. They also tend to be the kind of roles actors use to challenge or prove themselves—difficult accents, lush period pieces, reliance on verbal dexterity. The most damning performance in his career is that of Jonathan Harker, the fiancé to the legendary vampire’s object of obsession in Francis Ford Coppola’s fever dream take on Bram Stoker’s "Dracula." If you ever come across a list of the top acting miscasts, Keanu’s performance in the film is likely on it. The critical reaction to his role is so poor it has its own subsection on the film’s Wikipedia page. It’s hard to figure out which review is the most damning. Total Film writes dismissively that “[y]ou can visibly see Keanu attempting to not end every one of his lines with ‘dude.’” Entertainment Weekly said he appeared “out of his depth.” AskMen was especially vicious, writing, “It’s one thing to cast Keanu Reeves as an esteemed British lawyer, but it’s quite another to ask him to act alongside Gary Oldman and Anthony Hopkins[...] [They] ran circles around the poor Canuck, exposing his lack of range, shoddy accent, and abysmal instincts for all to see.”

Yes, in "Dracula" Keanu is overburdened by the period costumes, lost in the details of each frame as if he were another illusion, appearing as though he’s wandered onto the wrong set. This isn’t because he’s out of his depth. It’s because he’s fighting against his natural instincts as an actor. The harsh criticism of Keanu’s performance in Dracula seeks to dismiss his career as a whole. But Keanu wouldn’t have such a long-running, successful career without fulfilling a cultural need or tapping into something primal that draws our attention.

II. The Crossroads of Virile and Vulnerable

One critical consistency between Keanu’s virulent pans and more beloved roles (think of the tender-hearted hustler in 1991’s "My Own Private Idaho") is the common refrain that Keanu always “just plays himself.” The harsh ring of “just” implies a lack of craft and worth as an actor. The statement also assumes we truly know the personalities of stars. We can rattle off details of Keanu’s tragedies during the 1990s (stillborn child, death of his girlfriend eighteen months later), find plenty of platitudes about his kindness, and get a narrow view of his personality through interviews. The act of thinking we know a star as high-profile as Keanu isn’t novel, especially in the age of never ending press cycles and paparazzi. What’s more fascinating, though, is what the “playing himself” criticism says about Keanu as an actor.

Critics and audiences alike have a warped view of the history of acting, as if “true” cinematic acting began with the deification of Marlon Brando, followed by the 1970s glory days of Al Pacino and Robert De Niro. Each of these actors pronouncedly transform themselves from role to role. They take on various accents with panache, layer on idiosyncrasies, whittle their bodies down or bulk themselves up. A character is a costume to put on and never take off until the last camera rolls. It isn’t a coincidence that Jake Gyllenhaal and Matthew McConaughey’s recent renaissances and newfound respect both involved dramatic weight loss. Keanu is one of the few high-profile modern actors to not go for willful physical transformation or uglify himself for gravitas. If you’re not “transforming” as an actor, there is a belief that you’re doing something wrong. This line of thinking harkens back to the idea that we must suffer for our art. But Keanu is more powerful than actors who rely on physical transformation as shorthand for depth, because he taps into something much more primal and elusive: the truth.

The first time we see Keanu as FBI Agent Johnny Utah in the beloved surfer-crime drama "Point Break" (1991), he sits on the hood of a car seemingly unperturbed by the rain pouring down on him. It takes a moment to recognize the shotgun that sits in his lap. His hair slick. His tight black shirt and jeans clinging to his impressive body. The camera holds close to his lips as he unfurls a piece of gum and puts it into his mouth, and then we see a sequence of him blasting through a gun course at Quantico. This introduction gives rise to the kind of action star Keanu grows into, much different than his 1980s predecessors who tended to be powered by an unerring confidence and machismo. Their emotional landscapes weren’t as developed as their biceps. The opening of "Point Break" illustrates how Keanu’s relationship with the camera informs his onscreen masculinity. He carries himself with a supple vulnerability, at times even a passivity, that seems at odds with the expectations for an action star.

I’ve found myself attracted to Keanu’s presence because of the way he marries typically masculine and feminine qualities. He’s both intense and vulnerable, kind and tough, honest and mysterious. Keanu, of course, isn’t the first star to exist at the crossroads of virile and vulnerable. Actors like James Dean, Montgomery Clift, and Paul Newman embody a similar alchemy that have drawn women (and men) to them. But these actors often seem to fight against the lustful gaze of the camera, while Keanu supplants himself to it. Where they seem cynical, disinterested, or too wounded as a romantic lead, Keanu is utterly open.

In "Point Break," he’s a hotshot with a gun and a badge. But he’s also an object of lust for the camera (and audience), with a disarmingly open smile. Furthermore, without the help of a woman—the short-haired pixie vixen surfer Tyler (Lori Petty)—he wouldn’t be able to integrate himself into the gang of robbers/surfers led by Bodhi (Patrick Swayze). This artful dynamic—a woman of greater skill guiding a passive man into a world beyond his imagination—develops even further in "The Matrix" (1999). Some of this, of course, exists on a plot level. But Keanu tends to let his scene partners take the lead, becoming almost a tabula rasa on which they (and we) can project our ideas of what it means to be a hero, a man, a modern action star.

III. Modern Loneliness

"Constantine" (2005) has a lot working against it. As an adaptation of the Hellblazer comics from Vertigo, it isn’t memorable. But as a continuation of Keanu’s thematic exploration of loneliness as an actor, it is. "Constantine" casts off most of the comics’ canon for the screen. Gone is the London setting, the character’s British background. The cynicism, chain smoking, and dark humor remain, even though Keanu (who is of Chinese, Hawaiian, and English descent) looks nothing like the blonde-haired comic character. Searching for emotional truth in a fantasy comic adaptation involving a working class magician who can see angels and demons and toys with the black arts seems like a fool’s errand. But sometimes you find grace in unlikely places. Amongst CGI demons, Tilda Swinton’s androgynous take on the archangel Gabriel, and lots of hellfire, Keanu somehow provides a trenchant take on the burden of loneliness in the big city.

(When looking closer at Keanu’s career, loneliness comes into focus as a thematic preoccupation. He’s often disconnected from the world around him, forging relationships only with intense effort or by accident. While he’s a great romantic lead—more so in films where romance isn’t the main plotline—I think he’s even better suited to moments when he’s wading through the cold, dark waters of spiritual isolation.)

The loneliness that comes with the modern metropolis—like Los Angeles, where Constantine resides—has a different tenor than loneliness anywhere else. It’s magnified to such a great degree in part because of the bizarre effects of population density. Everyone handles loneliness differently. Many, like Constantine, take to trying on addictions and seeing which fit. And addiction aside, most people dealing with loneliness—including myself—acquire weird habits to fill the darkness. A small moment about thirty minutes into "Constantine" (just before he meets Rachel Weisz’ earnest, Catholic cop who has yet to realize she’s being swept up in a battle between heaven and hell) illustrates the idiosyncrasies that come with loneliness.

Constantine sits alone under the harsh fluorescent lights of his apartment, doing what he does best—slow self-destruction at the hands of smoking and alcohol. A spider as sickly as the peeling paint on his walls tumbles across the table. He puts the spider under an empty glass, watching it for a few moments with dull curiosity as it makes sense of its tiny, glass prison. He blows some cigarette smoke into the glass, but keeps the spider trapped. “Welcome to my life,” he remarks. It’s a series of small gestures only the lonely think of, then actually go through with. Enacted by other movie stars, this moment could come across as maudlin or empty. But the great beauty of Keanu’s skill makes the short scene at once painfully earnest, chillingly lonely, and aching with self-pity.

"Constantine" taps into a lot of what makes Keanu sincerely watchable and an actor of surprising depth. An emotional truthfulness? Check. Strong physicality? Just watch the way he plays with a pack of cigarettes or curls his body when he has a coughing fit. Interesting handling of modern masculinity? It’s all there, even if the film isn’t always aware of it. And nine years later, Keanu would finally find a vehicle that perfectly amplifies his strengths.

IV. Keanu Reeves, Action Star (A Certain Baggage)

"John Wick" (2014) stars Keanu as the titular former assassin, so feared he gained the nickname Baba Yaga (The Boogeyman). From the moment we see Keanu as John Wick, he carries himself like he’s wounded. These psychological wounds eventually give way to physical ones. His peaceful retirement is first interrupted by the death of his wife, then his old life creeping back in. Before her death, his wife arranged for him to receive an adorable puppy named Daisy, meant to help him grieve, and Wick gradually warms up to the dog. Unfortunately, he crosses paths with Iosef (Alfie Allen), the obnoxious son of a powerful mob boss/former associate. Maybe if Iosef knew of Wick’s reputation, he wouldn’t have brutally beaten Wick, killed Daisy, and stolen his 1969 Mustang. This crime leads Wick on a quest for revenge through a deadly world full of the ghosts of his past profession. "John Wick" synthesizes Keanu’s greatness—his central, thematic loneliness; his command of physicality and stillness; and his peculiarly vulnerable masculinity.

On the surface, "John Wick" is a simple, classic story of revenge with some of the most impressive world-building I’ve seen in years. Beyond that, though, it metatextually capitalizes on the story arc of Keanu Reeves, Action Star, regaining his title in the genre. He sells every punch given or received, every thrown knife, every ounce of blood spilled. There is weight to the action in the film. You see the toll it takes on his body and, at times, a minute shift of his expression acknowledging how age affects performance. When he’s already wounded and gets into a fight for his life with Ms. Perkins (Adrianne Palicki), we feel it.

Wick is cut from the same cloth as Alain Delon’s assassin in "Le Samourai" (1969), whose cool stoicism and impressively-styled badassery yields a heavy influence. But while Delon and his kin seem sharp and cold, like cut glass, Wick is powered by something altogether different—longing, loss, connection. In Keanu’s hands, Wick isn’t void of emotion—or struggling with its first pangs—but brimming with it.

The film frames Wick as mythic. His face moves from mournful to vengeful at a clip. His eyes lock with a man just as he stabs him in the gut until he dies, while lights the color of cotton candy blue and magenta shift the architecture of his face to something fearsome. Keanu tells Wick’s story through his body—the way he wears a suit and his wedding ring, the cool determination in his eyes, the flash of warmth in a brief scene with Addy (Bridget Regan), the slackness in his face when he sees Daisy dead. This is a man who has nothing to lose, who carries the weight of his history with each step—and “his” history here is both Wick’s and Keanu’s. Stars like Keanu bring a certain baggage with them—the roles we’ve loved, the bitter taste of when they’ve failed us, half-remembered gossip. This context informs "John Wick."

There are actors we admire, and then there are the stars we love. The best of them get under our skin, becoming a part of our lives, following us through tragedies and triumphs. Keanu is one of those stars for me because of the sheer joy watching him brings. But there’s also the joy for the medium that radiates off him. Actors like Keanu—who find beauty in stillness—are why film was created in the first place. It’s a medium that can show us the truth of the human condition in a way no other form can. Keanu often taps into the truth of the shifting boundaries of modern masculinity, of how our bodies tell as much of a story as what we say. "John Wick" is as much a slick revenge flick as a fairytale. Keanu Reeves is back, the film seems to be whispering to us.

But was he ever gone in the first place?

#keanu reeves #the grace of keanu reeves #angelica jade bastien #balder and dash #roger ebert

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