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The Other Spanish Dracula: Enrique Rambal

Enrique Rambal as Dracula
Enrique Rambal as Dracula

Of the 200+ films and dozens of plays adapting Dracula, one relatively lost to history is Spanish actor Enrique Rambal’s 1942 stage production. A little over a decade after Universal’s successful and influential Spanish-language Drácula starring Carlos Villarías, Rambal, a well-known innovator in the area of stage production, tackled the novel for stage. Using many elements that can be traced back to the Deane / Balderston stageplay of 1924 (upon which the Universal movies are based),  Rambal’s version is particularly notable for its use of numerous screen paintings that filled the stage, as well as dramatic stage effects (not to mention the addition of an opening in Translvania at Dracula’s castle which was absent from the Deane / Balderston script but was essential to the novel). Playing the role of Dracula was Rambal himself, in rather unusually grotesque makeup that was more Nosferatu crossed with a kabuki mask than Bela Lugosi in his tie and tails.

Enrique Rambal, by Manuel Tovar, in La Novela Teatral (March 30, 1919)

Performing in Franco’s Spain must not have been easy for an artist, yet Rambal seemed to have little trouble with the government. Other than having to cut back on the cleavage shown in his actresses’ costumes, Spain’s censors had no problem with his production. He traveled freely outside of Madrid, and performed all over Spain, for his was a popular theatre — not one with pretensions of high art or subverting culture. Indeed, he is not written about much at all among literary historians. A 2012 article by Ferrer Gimeno (downloadable as a Spanish PDF) published in the now defunct Stycomithia magazine (from the University of Valencia) is the best, and perhaps only source for detailed information about the play. It is the document upon which I take most of my summary and images.

Poster for Enrique Rambal's Dracula
Poster for Enrique Rambal’s Dracula

The play’s translated title is comically specific: Dracula, a Free Adaptation of the Fantastic Novel of the Same Title, by Bram Stocker, Made in a Prologue and Two Parts, Divided into Twenty-Five Tables.  Rambal apparently had quite elaborate paintings made for each of the sections (or tables), with sensational titles on each (among them “Night of horror!”, “The Shadow That Kills”, “They come out of the graves!” and “Pleasure of eternity”!). These backdrops could act like curtains to open, rise, and separate, allowing characters to move in front of and behind them to heighten the drama.

There were 33 characters, with Rambal’s own son playing Jonatán Harker. His daughter, Enriqueta Rambal Sacía, was Lucía Westenra. Indeed, many of Rambal’s productions used his son and daughter, along with a troupe that regularly performed Rambal’s work.

Sound effects and stage tricks played a large part in establishing atmosphere. There were screaming animals, crashing coffin lids, and creepy off-stage voices. Both a pressurized water tube dotted with tiny holes, and a combustion engine that belched smoke, provided mist and swirls of smoke.

Rambal’s combustion engine used to make smoke for his production of Dracula

To add to the suspense, actors came and went through hatches and trap doors called “English traps” (interestingly enough referred to in the English theater as the “vampire door” or “grave trap”). Gas lamps served as “magic lanterns,” projecting light that made scenes all the more theatrical.

Unfortunately, all we have are a few photos of Rambal in his makeup, a picture of the combustion engine, and descriptions of the play from Gimeno’s article.

Still, Rambal’s production should be remembered, if only for its novelty. It is strangely absent from many a record of adaptions of Dracula, and even the vast expanse of the internet bears little trace of it. A decade after Universal’s seminal film, and a decade before Hammer Studios would reinvent the character, Rambal brought to Spain a unique interpretation the deserves its place in the history of adaptations of Bram Stoker’s novel. Perhaps one lone blog entry can help make that happen.

 

 

What Music They Make: Kronos Quartet and 1931’s DRACULA

The 1999 release of Philip Glass’ score to Universal’s DRACULA (1931) was met with mixed reviews. Purists found the pregnant pauses in Bela Lugosi’s distinct Eastern-European delivery to be part of the charm of a film released only four years after the first talkie appeared. Scores were only just coming into their own . Director Tod Browning had 35 silent films to his credit (not including shorts), and would go one to make less than a dozen talkies. Indeed, one could argue that Browning intended a DRACULA that embraced silence and used it to cinematic advantage.

Except for two brief Tchaikovsky and Wagner excerpts, DRACULA without dialogue has little more than a few sound effects. Dramatic pauses abound, making all the more memorable the moment a wolf howls in the distance and the titular count opines how one should listen to the “children of the night…what music they make.”

Whether or not that was the extent of the music Browning intended is immaterial. In this day and age, it is not unusual for there to be “director’s cuts” and “extended versions” of films old and new. What is rare, however, is the superimposition of one art form over another as in the case of Glass’ score for Browning’s DRACULA. Writing a review in the New York Times at the time of DRACULA’s release with the added score, Allan Kozinnoct wrote

“The idea of commissioning a new score for an old film is interesting from an interaction-of-the-arts point of view, and it might have been even more interesting if Mr. Glass had provided a score that worked, which he didn’t.”

Kozinnoct goes on to say that the “score does not allow for the concept of eloquent silence.” But is this silence necessary in Universal’s DRACULA? Does silence add to the suspense of a motion picture or, to the contrary, take the audience out of the sutured experience by having them dwell then on the absence of sound.

Horror films — especially those consumed by a modern audience — rely upon three potent conventions: lighting, sound, and camera work. Yes, the script must be solid. Certainly, the acting must be believable. But sudden jolts and uncomfortable (look away) moments are often the result of a well-placed camera, a well-lit set and/or a well-timed piece of music.

Except, if legendary horror director John Carpenter is to be believed, the soundtrack should be implied and not so plainly expressed. In a December 1995 issue of Mix: Professional Recording & Sound and Music Production, he is quoted as saying: “you shouldn’t be aware of what I’m doing. Yeah, when it’s scary or action-filled, you’ll hear it, and it’s fine. But you shouldn’t be sitting there listening to music, or aware of it.”

Dracula on Blu-ray disc
Dracula on Blu-ray disc

And that — despite its beauty of dynamic instrumentation, gloomy interludes and dramatic flourish — is why Glass’ score for DRACULA simply doesn’t feel right as one is acutely aware of listening to it. This criticism is not of the music itself. It is haunting and visceral, timed perfectly to suit the film, arguably augmenting the experience. But it is not the film. It is an addition. An experiment in art forms colliding and becoming something else. It is essential viewing for all of those fascinated with the history of Dracula on screen. But it is not Todd Browning’s 1931 masterpiece, where every languid line delivered by Lugosi must breathe with “eloquent silence.”

A blu-ray of 1931’s DRACULA with the music of Philip Glass performed by Kronos Quartet is available on amazon.com.