Vampires of the Velvet Lounge

A group of vampires confronts the challenges of adapting to contemporary society while grappling with their own mortality, all while engaged in a conflict with a dangerous enemy.

Hungarian Countess Elizabeth Báthory (1560-1614) was a macabre, eccentric noblewoman believed to have been the inspiration for Bram Stoker’s novel, Dracula (1897), an allegedly vampiric being said to have been the most prolific serial killer in history. But did she really die in 1614 as believed, or did she secretly live on in perpetuity, continuing to practice her notorious blood-sucking ways throughout the centuries? That’s the question raised in writer-director Adam Sherman’s latest feature outing, an all-out, no-holds-barred campy horror romp that epitomizes the over-the-top nature of grindhouse gore offerings. Set in present-day Savannah, Georgia, the film follows the nefarious vampiric practices of the immortal Elizabeth (Mena Suvari) and her coven of disciples, working out of a back alley absinthe bar where their unsuspecting victims are lured through internet dating websites. There the blood-sucking undead wreak havoc on their gullible, hormone-driven targets – both male and female – some of whom travel across the country for trysts with the seductive temptresses. These exploits are told through a highly stylish, uber-sexy, eminently hedonistic narrative accentuated by a vibrant, lavish production design, colorful special effects, a bouncy dance music soundtrack, witty banter, and lots and lots of spattering blood – buckets of it, in fact, wildly shooting through the air in all directions like uncontrolled projectiles on a mission (um, sensitive and squeamish viewers should probably take note). All of these excesses, however, are obviously intended for maximum shock (or is it schlock?) effect, milking the humor value of these relentlessly grotesque images for all they’re worth, especially when it comes to generating hearty groans and hefty laughs. The ante gets further upped here when the story introduces a brooding, cynical vampire hunter (Dichen Lachman) intent on clandestinely tracking down her prey, as well as a trio of clueless middle-aged party boys (Tyrese Gibson, Stephen Dorff, Lochlyn Munro) out for a good time who end up getting more than they bargained for. For all of these innate strengths, however, the script could use some much-needed reining in and significant tightening up in spots as the screenplay regrettably falls victim to meandering, too many unrelated and underdeveloped story threads, and, as the story wears on, oversaturation of some of its purposely gory sight gags. These shortcomings, however, are more than made up for the superb bad girl performances of Suvari and her coterie of tawdry accomplices. The film also sends a less-than-flattering message about the potentially inherent pitfalls associated with internet dating platforms (and what they could lead to), a caution delivered through an offhand but insightful observation made by one of Elizabeth’s cohorts and the use of computer screen montages at the beginning and end of the picture, serving as symbolic cinematic bookends of sorts. In all, though, it’s a shame that the foundation underlying this release’s story doesn’t quite live up to the other fine accent elements present in the film. Had it managed to spin a yarn as effectively as it made it look, this certainly would have made for one helluva deliciously delightful guilty pleasure.

Vampires of the Velvet Lounge (2026) opens with a series of intertitles recounting the oft-told story of Countess Elizabeth Báthory, noting that she “allegedly died in 1614” and that “her legacy morphed into that of a vampire-like figure, cementing her status as history’s most prolific serial killer with the highest known death count.” Too many, it would appear, to put in exact numbers. The word “allegedly” has been misplaced. It should not be applied to the date she died or the fact itself of her death but to the crimes Báthory was accused of. Later on, the film’s dialogue will repeat the “highest death count of any serial killer in history” claim, adding that Báthory drained “hundreds of young maidens of their blood.” In reality, the countess and her servants were accused of killing anywhere from 600 to 1600 victims but were convicted for 80 counts of murder — and even that must be taken cum grano salis. It’s also worth noting that while the opening captions mention that “rumors began to swirl” following the death of Báthory’s husband, particularly regarding “her obsession with preserving youth, which led her to bathe in the blood of young women,” these rumors first appeared over a century after her the countess’ own death. Although this prologue acknowledges that Báthory was a wealthy landowner, the film neglects to wonder whether she may have been the victim of a patriarchal, politico-religious conspiracy. Instead, the screenplay strips its subject of both its basic historical and legendary elements and settles into an asinine plot wherein Countess Báthory (Mena Suvari) uses online dating apps to lure unsuspecting victims to her bar in Savannah, where her minions get them drunk on absinthe before killing them and drinking their blood. That’s right — writer-director Adam Sherman didn’t think hematophagy was a weird enough drinking habit, so he threw a little green fairy in for good measure. Ironically, the real Countess Báthory didn’t drink absinthe any more than she imbibed blood. How and why the countess made it all the way from Hungary to Georgia is never explained; however, this film’s biggest mystery revolves around its cast. In addition to Suvari, the movie stars Stephen Dorff, Lochlyn Munro, Tyrese Gibson, and Tom Berenger. I would have expected to find any combination of up to three of these actors, but all five? At some point they should have realized that, if no longer individually, they are collectively better than this. If these individuals pooled their dwindling resources, pulled whatever frayed strings they have left, called in long-forgotten favors, dug deep, and pondered long and hard on what their younger selves would think of them now, they could self-produce a nice little indie comedy-drama — which Gibson could single-handedly finance with some of that Fast & Furious cash. Instead, they all chose to slum it together in an amateurish-looking slasher with an ultra-low budget and an even lower brain cell count.