Curio Cabinet

A bloodsucker's bite-y origins.

It ain't easy being vampy. On May 26, 1897, Bram Stoker's horror novel Dracula was published, setting off over a century's worth of weirdly romantic and spooky depictions of bloodthirsty revenants. Yet thumbing through the pages of Dracula and Stoker's influences paint a villain who isn't so much a brooding and handsome Bela Lugosi, but a collection of folkloric and personal nightmares.
 

As a brief synopsis, the character of Count Dracula was a strong pivot away from the traditional vampire folklore of Eastern Europe. There, vampires had been traditionally described as ruddy, ugly, and bloated from bloodsucking. Stoker's Dracula, however, was a charming Hungarian nobleman living in Transylvania who was turned into a beguiling, shapeshifting, centuries-old vampire. The reason for the skew in vampire tradition is due to an acquaintance of Stoker.
 

Scholars tend to believe Henry Irving, a 19th-century actor and manager of London's Lyceum Theater, was a primary influence on the Transylvanian bloodsucker's aristocratic manner, tall but thin frame, and strong "aquiline" face. Stoker worked as a personal assistant to Irving. He was entranced by Irving's otherworldly acting transformations. Irving's penchant for cruel behavior and vicious outbursts when he did not get his way also contributed to Dracula's persona. In the same year that Dracula was published, Stoker tried to rally a play production of the horror story, in which Irving refused to play the lead, citing the script as "dreadful."
 

But Irving wasn't Stoker's only inspiration for Dracula. One of the iconic scenes from the book involves Dracula's voyage from Transylvania to Whitby, England, aboard the ship Demeter. During the trip, the entire crew mysteriously disappears, and a large, beastly dog emerges from the ship when it runs ashore. All of which comes from a very real wreck. While staying in Whitby during 1890, Stoker learned of the 1885 wreck of the Dmitry, a schooner from Narva, Estonia. Vivid tales were told of the ship's only cargo, a suspicious load of silver sand, and the evil barghest (a monstrous dog from English folklore) who emerged from the accident at Tate Hill Sands.

 

Of course, Stoker also took inspiration from Eastern European culture. Though he never stepped foot in Transylvania, he studied Romani vampire folklore. One source, Emily Gerard's The Land Beyond the Forest, was particularly influential; so much so that the London Library in 2018 found Stoker's hand-written notes and dog-eared pages in an original 1890 copy. Gerard was a novelist and reviewer of foreign literature for The Times, a British daily newspaper. Her marriage in 1869 to a Polish officer led her to travel across Eastern Europe, and subsequently compose the essay "Transylvanian Superstition," which introduced Stoker to the legend of Nosferatu, the East European blood-sucking folkloric monster. The undead villain was allegedly conquered after he was beheaded, his mouth stuffed with garlic, and his heart burned and sprinkled as ashes on his grave—an ending that mirrors and no doubt influenced the way Dracula's protagonists, Jonathan Harker and Quincey Morris, dispose of Dracula.
 

Though Dracula is ultimately defeated, the immense cultural popularity of Stoker's vampire lore can't be overstated. Dublin, Ireland, even hosts a Bram Stoker Festival each year near the Irish author's birthday in early November. It's the perfect time to don a Dracula-like cape—or other items from the many fictitious vampires he has influenced. They include everyone from Anne Rice's Lestat, to Taika Waititi and Jemaine Clement's Colin the Energy Vampire, to Charlaine Harris' Eric Northman: quite an immortal legacy!
 

Below: a portrait of Henry Irving, the original inspiration for Dracula, and cover art for Dracula.

 

Image credit & copyright: Universal Films, Penguin Books USA

Due to COVID-19, times have been tough—and not even Shakespeare is being spared. Earlier this month, Shakespeare's Globe theater posted a notice that it won't survive the year without $7 million in donations. The venue, a replica of the original Globe Theatre which burned down in 1613, finds itself in a unique position. Built in 1997, it is a nonprofit that operates without regular financial support from Parliament. During regular times, the theater manages just fine on its own by offering tours, workshops, catering, weddings, and, of course, ticket sales to plays. With a capacity of 1,500, the Globe typically garners $30 million in annual profits. Not so much since the pandemic exploded. The venue is a bacterial breeding ground during its regular season. Just like the original Globe, it features a "pit" in which audiences are clustered so close to mic-less actors and actresses, they can be sprayed with spit. And because the Globe isn't funded by the Arts Council England, it is ineligible for a $200 million emergency bailout. Fortunately, Parliament is looking into ways to possibly save the site. Who knows—maybe the crisis will spark renewed interest in the Globe and the Bard of Avon. As Shakespeare once wrote, "Let me embrace thee, sour adversity, for wise men say it is the wisest course."
 

Image credit & copyright: Kirsty Wigglesworth/AP
 

Thanks to a recent article in The Guardian, directors are clamoring for the film rights of a real-life case of the Lord of the Flies. But before you go expecting doom and disillusionment, I'll have you know that the real-life version of William Golding's classic 1954 novel was far more wholesome. As a brief refresher, the Lord of the Flies is a tale about a group of English boys stranded on an uninhabited island. They attempt to organize civilly but succumb to brutal savagery. The book is certainly a bummer, but nevertheless a classic. It's also an exemplar of the 20th-century cynicism which followed both World Wars, and into the Cold War. For decades now, most readers have accepted Golding's grim message—that the will to power trumps civilization—as a fundamental truth. But it seems we shouldn't. In 1966, roughly a decade after Golding's novel was published, six boys between the ages of 13 and 16 naively set sail from the Polynesian Island of Tonga to flee their strict Catholic school. They, too, ended up shipwrecked on a remote island. Only, they upheld their pact to remain cooperative. The boys built a communal food garden, a gymnasium, a badminton court, chicken pens, a constant fire, a coconut-shell guitar, and rainwater vessels. They used time-out to de-escalate arguments, and successfully treated one who broke his leg. After 15 months of constructing their intricate tribal society, the boys were discovered and rescued. They were described as being in fine health, and even the one boy's leg had perfectly healed. And these weren't survivalists: they were just kids. Granted these boys were older than those in the book, who were between the ages of 6 and 12. So maybe this new tale needs to be taken with a grain of salt. Regardless, the story of the Tongo six testifies to humanity's innate ingenuity, creativity, and need for companionship. Unfortunately, that lack of conflict tends to make for a boring novel!
 

Image credit & copyright: Ronald Grant