VAMPIRES OF THE VELVET LOUNGE – Review by Justina Walford

Let’s start with the history lesson, because this film certainly does. Countess Elizabeth Báthory was the 16th-century noblewoman who allegedly bathed in the blood of young women to preserve her youth. She’s one of the most enduring figures in vampire mythology. She’s been reimagined in novels, films, and opera for centuries. Vampires of the Velvet Lounge plants her coven deep in the American South, running an absinthe bar and hunting lonely singles through dating apps.

The opening twenty minutes read like a checklist. A scroll of lore. Beautiful women. Then a scene that shows you the same lore. Beautiful women. A hapless man lured to his doom. You know, beautiful women in different costumes. If you have seen even one vampire B-movie, you have been here before. The film is not interested in hiding that. The question is whether you’re in the mood for familiar ground done with a 2020’s flair.

Here’s what Velvet Lounge gets right: the cast. Mena Suvari and Stephen Dorff are doing exactly what this kind of film requires. They are fully committed, gleefully campy, and calibrated to the millimeter. And you can tell they had a blast. Dichen Lachman carries the film as the lead, bringing a genuine noir weight to what could have been a decorative role. She’s got the perfect Sin City lighting and smoky voice. I wish she got handed more than the lines and ammo.

The screenplay, sadly, was working against her. The dialogue is stale in an era where we are allowed to create villainesses with so much more finesse. The cast earns their keep by elevating lines that shouldn’t work. And the exposition problem is real: if someone is watching a film about Elizabeth Báthory, they are a Báthory nerd. Fortunately, the last half hour picks up the pace and we get some real gore and fun. I’d love to see 15 minutes shaved in the early part of the film and paced like the last act throughout.

The soundtrack is the film’s best decision. Bowie and Bauhaus blend well with the ravey blues and greens of light. It throws us back to when films like this thrived. What Vampires of the Velvet Lounge made me feel, finally, is nostalgic. This film reminded me of being a teenager watching late-night horror on cable: the sexy danger of it, the atmosphere that substituted for logic, the women with their guns and guts, strong but weirdly still created in the male gaze. That version of horror was never great cinema. But I loved it. I grew up wanting more of it. This film replicates that feeling with reasonable fidelity.

It is not a great film. But if you know what you’re signing up for, bring snacks and a cell phone to scroll, and have at least a passing fondness for the era when vampire films were allowed to be ridiculous and slutty and a little dumb.