I have seen a lot of Draculas.
Bram Stoker's classic tale of the undead Count is one of the most adapted novels in the history of the visual medium, with cinematic and televisual renderings numbering well over 270 and counting - making Dracula the second most portrayed fictional character after Sherlock Holmes. And possibly Jesus.
And so it's always fun and interesting to track down a rogue iteration that has thus far eluded me. My trusty copy of Stephen Jones' The Illustrated Vampire Movie Guide has proven invaluable in seeking out strange new flicks from new civilisations (another example is the 1971 Hrabe Dracula from the pre-velvet revolution Czechoslovakia which is waiting on a flashdrive to be watched; I only put that one off because I have little to no Czech in my lexicon and it lacks subtitles), and I have long wanted to see this 1973 Canadian TV production which has intrigued me since I first read about it more than a decade ago.
The Purple Playhouse was an hour-long (though, being North American TV, that's inclusive of commercial breaks - something that those of us raised with a love of the BBC [hurr hurr] find it hard to wrap our heads around) eight episode drama strand that ran on the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation from February to May 1973 as a mid-season replacement. Adapting works such as Sweeney Todd, the Demon Barber of Fleet Street and The Corsican Brothers, the series embraced the over the top grand guignol melodramatics deliberately implied in its name; 'purple playhouse' being the dramatised equivalent of purple prose, with all of the florid outrageousness conveyed by that concept.
Dracula was of course a stage dramatisation shortly after being penned as a novel in 1897, Bram Stoker holding a stage reading of the book at his workplace the Lyceum theatre to a distinctly unimpressed Sir Henry Irving - the venue's star actor and Stoker's physical model for the Count - who reportedly left the building intoning "Dreadful!"; the actual stage play version by Hamilton Deane would debut in Derby in 1924 and on Broadway (with Americanised [or rather 'Americanized'] amendations by John Balderston) in 1927 before becoming the basis for Tod Browning's stagey 1931 movie.
This theatrical pedigree therefore behooves (is that the name of a Friendship Is Magic character? Let me know, Bronies [no kink-shaming here]) a multi camera setup videotaped television production to lean into the artifice and be a televised play, which suits the Purple Playhouse modus operandi. So let's raise the curtain and watch through the limelight-lit proscenium arch of the television (or computer monitor in this case, as Youtube seems to be the only place to see it).
Adapted by writer and actor Rod Coneybeare (whose voice acting roles include both the 1960s Thor and 1990s X-Men animated series, True Believers!) and the debut directorial credit for Jack Nixon-Browne, who would go on to helm episodes of child-traumatising Canuck canine export The Littlest Hobo, the action of the novel is telescoped down to a brisk hour (that's a North American TV hour, so inclusive of commercial breaks - in reality it's really about three quarters of that hour; IMDb of course lists it as 30 minutes, showing themselves to be as reliable as ever).
Beginning with an opening caption declaring it to be 'Sunday at Nine' - presumably Purple Playhouse's regular slot - we then get a brief introductory interluditude* from Robertson Davies, Canadian 'man of letters' and author of the acclaimed Deptford Trilogy (not to be confused with Robin Jarvis' Deptford Mice trilogy, which is better, probably) among many other works. Mr Davies goes on to claim that the universal appeal of Dracula is not "melodramatic" (presumably he hadn't pre-screened the piece he was introducing!) but that he represents the Devil "sucking out our blood or some other form of vitality". I knew someone at college like that. No, you can't have her number. Just watch Jess Franco's Female Vampire (a.k.a. The Bare Breasted Countess) if you're too naive or sheltered to know what I'm winking (not a typo!) about, or see my review of it here). After Davies' rambling intro, in which he even manages to get the publication date of the novel wrong saying it came out in 1894 rather than 1897, we begin with the promise that "what you are about to see is faithful to the original Dracula).
After a brief title sequence consisting of the Purple Playhouse Presents logo and then a red-scrawled 'DRACULA' superimposed over a shot of a castle turret with one illuminated window, we dissolve into the videotape world of the interior, where solicitor's clerk Jonathan Harker (Dan MacDonald, the Reverend Matthew Dawson himself from Canadian Dark Shadows knockoff Strange Paradise - which I only got round to seeing last year, and so smiled at the sight of this journeyman actor like spotting a friend) is being framed in an artsy shot through the glass of a brandy balloon clutched in the taloned hand of an extraordinarily pallid and white-haired - no moustache though, marks off for that - Count Dracula (Norman Welsh, in whose career's coffin this was to be the final nail; even though he apparently lived til 2008 there are no further credits. Perhaps he crept the boards in his age?). They succinctly cover the Count's purchase of the Carfax estate and his impending preparations to move to England before Harker is startled by the howling of a wolf outside and breaks his glass, cutting his finger. This leads to a rather amusing reaction from Welsh's Dracula as he licks his lips like a pervert outside the school gates.
We cut to Harker tossing in his bed restlessly, as well he might as the spectral Brides (played by the exotically-named Marie Romain Aloma and Marcella Saint-Amant. I have no idea which is which, but the one in the green dress beguiles me: I for one would certainly be happy to remain in the castle and be drained dry by her. The slightly taller, more regal looking one is very nice too, and sports a kickass and stylish diadem. I believe the kids call it 'the drip'. The drip of blood, amirite?) - only two of them here rather than three; we are on a budget after all - whisper of having him all to themselves once the Count is gone, with "kisses for us both". I sense a very bloody double blowjob coming in his future. Jess Franco has warped my tiny fragile mind.
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As Drac crawls down the face of the castle wall Nicholas Hammond-style - or maybe that should be Adam West-style? (Not the first occurrence of this scene from the novel in visual form; at least Hammer's 1970 Scars of Dracula had essayed it previously) - leaving Harker alone with the Brides, we suddenly cut to black in what I assume to be the original TV broadcast's commercial break, before returning with a time jump: Jonathan is now back on English soil, in the care of Dr Jack Seward (Steven Sutherland, who despite being Canadian appears to be no relation to Donald) and Professor Van Helsing, played by Nehemiah Persoff (Israeli-born all-purpose 'European' / 'ethnic' actor - presumably the go-to guy when Oscar Homolka was unavailable [were they ever seen in the same room at the same time? Closest thing off the top of my head would be them both guesting in separate episodes of the '70s David McCallum The Invisible Man] - who guest starred in pretty much everything; most recently sightings of him in our house have been in episodes of Honey West and Alfred Hitchcock Presents). Apparently both Seward's fiancee Lucy (Charlotte Hunt, in her sole imdb credit) and Harker's wife Mina (Blair Brown, the only person in this other than Persoff [and MacDonald, I guess] to have a significant career; I'll always remember her as Emily in Ken Russell's amazeballs psychedelic Altered States, especially the final A-ha's 'Take On Me'-inspiring scene) are being predated upon by a creature of the night, and Van Helsing suspects that the culprit is a vampirism-infected Jonathan.
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When these suspicions are allayed by Harker (who refers to the brides of Dracula as "the furies" from whom he managed to escape - evoking the Erinyes of Greek myth) snatches the cross proffered by the Prof and weeps for forgiveness for conveying the Count to Carfax; "Carfax?!? That adjoins this property!" splutters a splenetic Seward through his moustache. Realising that Mina has been left alone and unprotected, they race up to her room only to find her bed empty, for the runaway bride is out for a mesmerised moonlit stroll in the graveyard outside Lucy's tomb - which is strangely emblazoned with the family name of Murray rather than Westenra, so presumably Lucy and Mina are sisters in this version like the 1977 BBC Count Dracula...? Maybe? We're definitely missing some information and a lot of footage here, I feel certain of that. As Harker, Seward and Van Helsing arrive on the scene Mina is approached by two lovely Alsatians portraying wolves who dissolve via the magic of a cross-fade (or is it a 'roll back and mix'?) into the vampirised Lucy and Dracula himself. Wielding a large silver cross each, the dynamic trio force the bloodsuckers to retreat: Dracula to vanish and Lucy to retreat into the vault. Ordering Harker to take the somnambulistic Mina home, Van Helsing leads Dr Seward inside in order to enact a tame and bloodless (this is TV, I suppose) version of the familiar staking of Lucy scene as Seward reads out the prayer for the dead while Van Helsing pounds a length into the supine blonde. The dirty old bugger.
After another cut to black for commercials, we have another and more sudden time jump: Mina is now in the Count's thrall and sporting a cruciform burn mark upon her forehead and Van Helsing is hypnotising her in order to try to trace Dracula to his resting place. There's definitely footage missing here - the time jump after the first break actually worked and was covered in the dialogue of the ensuing scene, whereas here it's just too sudden and garbled even for someone like myself who knows the story and a myriad adaptations inside out. There must be about 15 to 20 minutes missing, which does make a thorough review difficult and can't help but mar the ending of what had thus far been a far from perfect but certainly interesting and enjoyable version of the well-worn tale. So instead of covering the last act in detail, I shall simply include a link to the version I watched on Youtube and enjoin fans of the Count to give this rarity a go (I'm sure ardent Drac acolytes can spare the 35 minutes) with the proviso that it does seem incomplete. It would be nice if a complete and restored print (ideally without the studio timecode) were to surface someday, but I shan't be holding my breath. Some things don't return from the dead.
(*No, that's not a typo for 'interlude', it's from Blackadder. 'Tis a common word, round our way)
