Fangs and Frostbite: Unraveling Polanski’s Vampire Vaudeville

In the shadowed halls of a Transylvanian castle, horror pirouettes with punchlines, proving that even the undead can trip over their capes.

Roman Polanski’s 1967 gem gleams as a peculiar beacon in horror cinema, where gothic dread dissolves into slapstick glee. This film, a lavish romp through vampire lore, skewers sacred monsters while embracing their allure, blending terror with farce in a way few have matched. Far from mere parody, it reimagines the bloodsuckers as bumbling aristocrats, inviting audiences to chuckle at the abyss.

  • Polanski masterfully fuses Hammer-style gothic visuals with Abbott and Costello antics, creating a hybrid that influenced countless horror comedies.
  • Iconic scenes, like the midnight bathhouse ballet, showcase innovative choreography and effects that elevate comedy to operatic heights.
  • Behind the opulent production lies a tale of cultural clashes, personal ambitions, and a score that haunts with its playful menace.

Snowbound Shadows: The Genesis of a Monstrous Masquerade

Production on Dance of the Vampires unfolded amid the bitter chill of Italian Dolomites in 1966, a deliberate choice by Polanski to capture the pristine isolation of Eastern European folklore. Financing came from MGM, who bankrolled the £375,000 budget with visions of a lavish horror hit in the vein of their lavish Technicolor spectacles. Yet Polanski, fresh from Repulsion, envisioned something more audacious: a tribute laced with irreverence. Sets constructed in Cinecittà studios replicated crumbling Transylvanian fortresses with meticulous detail, from cobwebbed crypts to fur-draped chambers, evoking the Hammer Films aesthetic while injecting modernist wit.

The script, co-written by Polanski and Gerard Brach, drew from Bram Stoker’s Dracula but pivoted toward continental vampire myths, incorporating Jewish golem legends and Slavic strigoi tales for authenticity. Casting proved pivotal; Polanski himself donned the role of Alfred, the hapless assistant, allowing self-deprecating humour to underscore his outsider status in Hollywood. Ferdy Mayne’s Count von Krolock emerged as a suave anti-Dracula, his world-weary elegance contrasting Christopher Lee’s bombast, rooted in Polanski’s admiration for Max Schreck’s Nosferatu.

Challenges abounded: snow machines malfunctioned, delaying shoots, while Polanski’s perfectionism clashed with MGM executives wary of the film’s length. Initial cuts ballooned to three hours, forcing brutal edits that excised subplots like an extended Jewish tailor sequence, hinting at Polanski’s wartime experiences. Released as The Fearless Vampire Killers in the US, it bombed commercially, grossing under $5 million against expectations, yet cult status beckoned through midnight screenings and home video revivals.

Cultural context amplified its bite. Post-Psycho horror leaned psychological, but Polanski reclaimed the supernatural with operetta flair, nodding to Ernst Lubitsch’s The Merry Widow and Ealing comedies. This fusion positioned the film as a bridge between Old World gothic and New Wave experimentation, influencing Tim Burton’s whimsical macabre decades later.

The Plot’s Macabre Minuet

The narrative unfurls with Professor Abronsius (Jack MacGowran), a vampire-obsessed academic, and his timid aide Alfred traversing snowy Carpathia in pursuit of the undead. Their sleigh crashes near a foreboding castle, home to the elegant yet lethal Count von Krolock. Inside, they encounter Sarah Shagal (Sharon Tate), the innkeeper’s voluptuous daughter, whose crucifix-snapping bath summons the Count’s predatory gaze. What follows is a whirlwind of chases, stake-missings, and masquerade balls where vampires tango amid oblivious mortals.

Abronsius’s bumbling experiments—garlic garlands wilting prematurely, holy water fizzling like cheap wine—underscore the professors’ folly against ancient evil. Alfred’s infatuation with Sarah propels romantic farce, culminating in her transformation and a frantic rescue. The castle’s denizens, from hunchbacked henchman Koukol to the Count’s flamboyant son Herbert, embody grotesque archetypes reimagined as dysfunctional family. Herbert’s homosexual advances on Alfred inject bold camp, subverting 1960s taboos with Polanski’s characteristic provocation.

Climactic sequences escalate absurdity: a vampire ball where guests waltz stiffly, sunlight piercing stained glass to comedic effect, and Abronsius wielding a cross upside-down. The denouement twists cruelly; the heroes flee, but a hitchhiking vampire family boards their train, implying eternal pursuit. This cyclical horror tempers laughs with lingering unease, mirroring life’s inescapable absurdities.

Key cast inflections elevate the tale: MacGowran’s Irish lilt lends Abronsius frantic authenticity, drawn from his Beckett collaborations, while Tate’s luminous innocence masks vampiric sensuality, her performance blooming under Polanski’s tutelage.

Comedy’s Crimson Claw: Humour as Horror Subversive

Polanski dissects vampire tropes through physical comedy gold. Stake attempts devolve into slapstick—wood splintering harmlessly, coffins creaking open to reveal dust bunnies. The film’s rhythm mimics a waltz: tension builds in prowling shadows, then bursts into pratfalls, preventing desensitisation. Sound design amplifies this; creaking doors yield to pratfall crashes, Krzysztof Komeda’s score weaving gypsy fiddles with dissonant strings for ironic counterpoint.

Sexual farce thrives in inn scenes, where Sarah’s exposed neck provokes jealous brawls between her father Shagal (Alfie Bass) and suitors, echoing Jewish shtetl humour Polanski cherished from his Krakow youth. Gender dynamics sparkle: Sarah evolves from damsel to seductress, her bite reclaiming agency in a patriarchal crypt. Alfred’s impotence amid undead virility satirises masculine fragility, a theme Polanski revisited in later works.

Compared to Mel Brooks’s Young Frankenstein, Dance retains sincere affection for its sources, avoiding outright mockery. This tonal balance—horror credible enough to chill, comedy sharp enough to sting—cements its uniqueness, as noted in Andrew Hussey’s analysis of Polanski’s genre hybrids.

Spectres in Celluloid: Special Effects and Visual Symphony

Effects pioneer practical wizardry over matte paintings. Ferdy Mayne’s von Krolock glides via wires, his cape billowing ethereally, while matte shots superimpose bat silhouettes against moonlit peaks. The bathhouse sequence deploys dry ice fog and hidden mirrors for illusory multiplicity, Sarah’s nude form reflected infinitely as vampires converge—a nod to Murnau’s expressionism updated for colour.

Gilbert Taylor’s cinematography bathes sets in deep crimson and sapphire blues, Technicolor saturating velvet drapes and blood rivulets. Slow-motion decapitations blend gore with grace, Shagal’s severed head rolling comically post-staking. These techniques, honed from Polanski’s Cul-de-sac, influenced Blade Runner‘s neon-noir vampires indirectly through shared craftspeople.

Makeup maestro John Richardson crafted prosthetic fangs and pallid complexions with latex subtlety, avoiding cartoonish excess. The grand ball employs hundreds of extras in powdered wigs, choreographed by Polanski’s opera-trained eye, transforming horror into Busby Berkeley revue.

Influence ripples: Peter Jackson cited its bat illusions for Braindead, while What We Do in the Shadows apes the family dynamics.

Legacy’s Undying Thirst

Though MGM recut it savagely, Polanski’s director’s cut endures on Blu-ray, vindicated by retrospectives at Venice Film Festival. Remakes flopped, underscoring originality. Culturally, it prefigures Scream‘s self-awareness, embedding postmodern irony in monster movies.

Themes of assimilation resonate: Polanski, a Holocaust survivor, infuses outsider pathos into Alfred’s quest, vampires as eternal Jews barred from daylight society. Class satire bites too—aristocratic undead feast on peasant stock, mirroring feudal Europe.

Its score, Komeda’s last for Polanski, inspired Goblin’s prog-rock horrors, perpetuating auditory haunt.

Director in the Spotlight

Roman Polanski, born Raymond Liebling in Paris on 18 August 1933 to Polish-Jewish parents, endured unimaginable trauma. Deported to Krakow during Nazi occupation, he survived by posing as Catholic, scavenging amid the Holocaust’s shadow—experiences etching his films with paranoia and loss. Post-war, he studied at Łódź Film School, debuting with shorts like Two Men and a Wardrobe (1958), blending surrealism and absurdity.

International acclaim followed Knife in the Water (1962), a tense yacht thriller earning Oscar nods. Emigrating to England, Repulsion (1965) unleashed psychological horror via Catherine Deneuve’s breakdown. Dance of the Vampires (1967) marked his Hollywood pivot, strained by scandal. Rosemary’s Baby (1968) triumphed, grossing $33 million, blending paranoia with Satanism.

Personal tragedy struck: wife Sharon Tate murdered by Manson Family in 1969. Fleeing US justice after 1977 statutory rape charge, he helmed Tess (1979), a lavish Hardy adaptation earning César wins. Pirates (1986) flopped, but The Pianist (2002) won three Oscars, his Holocaust memoir transposed to Warsaw ghetto survivor Władysław Szpilman.

Later works include The Ghost Writer (2010), a political thriller lauded for Roman Griffith’s screenplay, and Based on a True Story (2017), probing authorship. Influences span Hitchcock, Buñuel, and Welles; his oeuvre spans 20+ features, marked by outsider gazes and moral ambiguity. Controversies overshadow, yet cinematic prowess endures, with ongoing Venice Lifetime Achievement whispers.

Key filmography: Knife in the Water (1962)—marital tensions erupt afloat; Repulsion (1965)—hallucinatory madness; Dance of the Vampires (1967)—vampiric farce; Rosemary’s Baby (1968)—satanic pregnancy; Chinatown (1974)—neo-noir corruption; Tess (1979)—fated romance; The Pianist (2002)—survival epic; The Ghost Writer (2010)—conspiratorial intrigue; Venus in Fur (2013)—theatrical power play.

Actor in the Spotlight

Sharon Tate, born 24 January 1943 in Dallas, Texas, embodied Hollywood’s golden fragility. Daughter of army colonel Paul Tate, her peripatetic childhood honed poise, leading to modelling at 16. Discovered by Martin Ransohoff, she debuted in Hemingway’s Adventures of a Young Man (1962), her lithe beauty shining amid cameos.

Training at Actors Studio refined her range; The Americanization of Emily (1964) paired her with James Garner, showcasing wry charm. Eye of the Devil (1967) plunged her into occult witchcraft as David Niven’s sacrificial wife, foreshadowing Polanski fates. Dance of the Vampires (1967) cast her as Sarah, her nude bath and doe-eyed allure blending innocence with erotic peril, Polanski’s then-girlfriend infusing genuine chemistry.

Marriage to Roman Polanski in 1968 heralded stardom; The Wrecking Crew (1968) actioned her with Dean Martin. Tragedy eclipsed promise: eight months pregnant, murdered by Manson cult on 9 August 1969 at 26, alongside friends. Posthumous 13 Chairs (1970) released amid grief.

Legacy endures via tributes in Once Upon a Time in Hollywood (2019), her warmth reimagined. No major awards in life, yet icon status prevails, symbolising 1960s lost dreams. Filmography: Eye of the Devil (1967)—witchy dread; Dance of the Vampires (1967)—vampiric ingenue; The Wrecking Crew (1968)—spy romp; Valley of the Dolls (1967)—starlet descent; Don’t Make Waves (1967)—beach comedy.

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Bibliography

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