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This movie, for all it's "guilty pleasures" (although the pleasure derived from the beating of women and constant posturing of James Wood's completely one-dimensional character are of, one would think, dubious value), provides nothing more to the average viewer than a completely offensive and overall joyless experience that can only be described as "traumatic." While many contend that the big, bad master vampire was cool as the proverbial grits, I found him A.) pretentiously melodramatic and B.) thouroughly uninteresting, and while this is so, there is no character, in this or any other movie, to compare with the sheer irritation brought on by Jack Crow's (James Woods) terrible one-liners. If, in all good cinematic conscience, one could even call them that. I found them rather to be a combination of wretched, half-told fraternity jokes and bits of dialogue lifted from such explitive-filled films as Pulp Fiction (which I enjoyed through and through). The population of inbred circus gnomes with whom I was staying during my Intercontinental Journey of Enlightenment seemed to have a pretty good time with this experiment in fecal sculpture, but they seem to be an invisible minority.
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