To paraphrase Roger Corman, exploitation films will draw an audience no matter what the content is. To be more accurate, exploitation films are protean in nature, adjusting to society around them like a gas expanding to fill a new container. Thus, they will draw an audience simply because they adapt with the times and the social climate. A prime example of this dynamic nature, blaxploitation films came in the wake of the civil rights movement of the Sixties, and once again the exploitation beast changed shape to appeal to the more socially integrated African-American populace. No longer satisfied with the noble, white-friendly black hero immortalized by actors like Sidney Poitier, they wanted tough new characters with a take-no-prisoners attitude that didn't play by the rules of euro centric American society. Hollywood, suddenly recognizing a lucrative new demographic, answered the call in spades. Shaft, Cleopatra Jones, Superfly, Coffy, Foxy Brown, and Black Caesar all fit the bill nicely, bringing independent black heroes and heroines (which also gave black women a slice of the pie) who no longer played second fiddle to their white counterparts. Usually street-smart vigilantes (even those technically on the "right side" of the law), they fought oppression and ignorance for the better life they yearned for, often against the wishes of overbearing whites or personifications of black stereotypes, sometimes even their own vices. If the anti-heroes weren’t fighting the menace of drugs on the streets, they were using drugs as a tool, setting up one last big deal to forever escape their criminal past. Once again, film was used as an escape, this time a sort of celluloid placebo in lieu of reparations for wrongs of the past.

Perhaps most interesting of the blaxploitation genre were the horror movies. There were plenty of them to be had, like Ganja & Hess, Sugar Hill, Abby, Dr. Black and Mr. Hyde, and the notoriously awful Blackenstein. Blackenstein ended up being one of the more interesting of the bunch, with the monster being a blue-skinned behemoth with a cylindrical afro who groaned "I AM a monster..." before shuffling at a grandmotherly pace after his intended victim...it really needs to be seen to be believed. Even more modern fare, like Snoop Dogg's supernatural effort Bones, are spiritual descendants of blaxploitation horror. One of the first, and easily the best of these films is Blacula, David Crain’s entry into cinema (his previous directing duties were for TV’s The Mod Squad) which holds up quite well. Not just a good example of blaxploitation (with all of the elements firmly set in place), it also offers up some pretty creepy moments, adding up to one hell of a movie.

Prince Mamuwalde (the silky smooth William Marshall) and his beautiful wife Luva pay a visit to Transylvania and one Count Dracula, whom Mamuwalde petitions to help end to barbarism of the slave trade. Despite his well-mannered request, Dracula laughingly denies the prince’s request, stating that he would rather be able to purchase a woman as lovely as Luva. Offended, Mamuwalde moves to leave, only to be stopped by Dracula’s thugs. In the ensuing scuffle, Mamuwalde is bitten by the Count and is locked in a coffin for his transgression, forced to suffer a living death of unrequited bloodlust, all while hearing his wife waste away on the other side of the coffin.

Flash forward about two hundred years, and a pair of rather effeminate interior decorators are discussing the terms to buy Dracula’s old castle and all the contents therein. The purchase completed, they bring the furnishings overseas to Los Angeles for sale. Delighted to find the locked coffin in their collection, they giddily plan out how they’re going to use it in their own home (Do these guys live with Screamin’ Jay Hawkins?), and pry the lock off. Accidentally cutting himself, one of the decorator’s blood awakens the famished Mamuwalde, who quickly dispatches the two men before taking to the streets of L.A. After chomping on a feisty cab driver, he meets Tina, whose remarkable resemblance to Luva drives Mamuwalde to follow her (well, stalk her, really) around town, hoping to reunite with the supposed reincarnation of his beloved bride. His actions don’t go unnoticed, as his victims rise from the dead to slake their own blood thirsts, and the number of vampires in L.A. multiply exponentially as a result. Tina’s brother-in-law Dr. Thomas just happens to be a medical examiner assigned to figure out the rash of murders and corpse disappearances, and he finally manages to finger Mamuwalde as the prime suspect. Of course, the prince just wants to be left alone with Tina, and won’t go peacefully. This leads to a thrilling finale in a chemical plant where once again, Blacula has his beloved taken from him and takes his final steps into the sun’s embrace rather than live without her.

I know, I gave away the ending. Being a vampire film, you knew he was going to die anyway. Formulaic plot aside, Blacula took both blaxploitation and horror and mixed them nicely. You have the allegory of the black man having everything stripped from him by the white majority, then fighting tooth and nail to get it back. Mamuwalde never wanted to be a vampire. However, he was not given the option, which is a VERY common theme in blaxploitation films. The heroes are rarely willing in their actions: their hands are forced by circumstance, and Mamuwalde’s driving force is preservation of both himself and Tina, despite their doomed love. Much like King Kong’s love for Ann being his ultimate downfall ("It was beauty that killed the beast."), Mamuwalde’s desperate need to keep Tina leads to his suicide, tying in yet another common theme in horror. The movie is a strange beast, delivering dry, almost British style horror over Gene Page’s phenomenal, yet oddly inappropriate funk soundtrack with genuine seriousness. It may seem campy (indeed, it often comes across as such), but at its core, the movie is trying to be a genuine horror film, and it often succeeds. The scene of the hook-handed mortician Sam (played by veteran character actor Elisha Cook Jr., whom you may recognize as Wilmer from The Maltese Falcon) carelessly talking on the phone while the vampiric corpse of the taxi driver slowly thaws outside of the morgue freezer is remarkably tense, and the resulting slow-motion shot of the revived vampiress charging at Sam, shrieking like a bat out of hell proves to be pretty unnerving. Best of all, William Marshall’s portrayal of Mamuwalde was great, mixing the smooth sensuality of a blaxploitation hero with the gentlemanly magnetism of a European vampire with impressive results. While not a Lugosi or Lee caliber performance, he proved to be one of the most likeable and memorable screen vampires I’ve seen. However, the few creepy scenes aren’t really indicative of the film as a whole. David Crain’s direction is very plain, with his TV roots on display at all times. Had the camera been pulled out of the all too bland eye level shot, it could have been much tenser, and more satisfying view.

Part of their awfully named "Soul Cinema" line, MGM presents Blacula exactly as you expect MGM to present their older library films. The anamorphic widescreen transfer is gorgeous, with bold, clean colors and rich blacks (especially during the hypnotic animated credits). The usual few speckles of print scratches and dirt pop up, but I could see no artifacting and very little grain. Audio is a solid mono mix, although the dialogue in the opening scenes in Dracula’s dining hall were almost incomprehensible with a hollow echo that soured the overall feel of the movie. However, once the title credits roll, everything opens right up, and the awesome score (is this available on CD?) and dialogue are as clear as can be. Of course, being MGM, we only get a trailer, albeit a hilarious one. Hearing the booming voice of the narrator uttering the words "He was Dracula’s SOUL BROTHER," made me laugh uncontrollably.

Creepy and funky, silly and tragic, Blacula is a satisfying slice of American culture. It reflects on its times with a somewhat twisted eye: having all of the marks of blaxploitation with less cynicism than its more "serious" brothers. It acts as a stepping stone for those interested in this truly American film genre. Indeed, blaxploitation is perhaps the ONLY film genre not to originate or dabbled in by other countries, as our celluloid addiction coupled with the grueling decades of desegregation gave birth to it. The Japanese may make better action movies, and the Italians may spank us at slashers (and Westerns, ironically), but blaxploitation is American through and through. The genre holds definite merit as a record of the awkward times following the civil rights movement, and this movie can act as a doorway for those who have an interest in the genre before digging into the more hardcore fare.