And it isn't because I don't love both films -- I do. The MGM DS films are stitched into the fabric of my personal history with the series: HoDS was one of my first encounters with Dark Shadows. When I was eight or so, already a connoisseur of Universal and Hammer monster movies, my mother set the VCR to tape it when it ran during some ungodly hour, and, on a dreary November evening socked in with Montana snow, we sat down to watch it. It reminded me of Dracula, Prince of Darkness and Taste the Blood of Dracula, especially the scene with Carolyn the vampire and Todd in the barn. The costumes, the blood, the tint of 1970s horror movie color: all reminded me of those 1970s vampire movies that had addicted me so.
I knew a bit about Dark Shadows, but only a bit. I knew, for instance, that it had been off the air for fifteen years, aired occasionally on PBS, and featured a reluctant vampire named Barnabas Collins. I knew that Barnabas always got away; he had to; it was his show, for Chrissakes.
And the Barnabas of HoDS was both romantic and ruthless, debonair and murderous, destroying Carolyn for seemingly no reason (though, as an eight year old, I understood somehow that that's just what vampires did; they didn't really require a psychological reason for their various monstrous behaviors); one moment he was romancing Maggie at the Collinsport Inn, and the next beating Willie viciously with his cane. But he seemed to feel really bad about everything he did and therefore, I thought, Hollywood morality prevailing, he'll get away.
It's his show, for Chrissakes.
The action of the film picked up; I munched the pizza Mom prepared for dinner slowly, spellbound by the story unfolding. Barnabas gave Maggie the music box; Julia prepared an injection; I munched; Barnabas burst into Julia's room, "Something is happening inside me"; I munched, I munched; "Your face!" Julia screamed; withered hands appeared; Barnabas screamed, transformed into a bald, cadaverous freak; I clutched my pizza crust closely as he reached for Julia, grasped her with those terrible monster hands; forced her to the ground; I stared, gaping; Maggie entered, screamed; Elizabeth stared blankly; Barnabas bared his fangs and sank them into Maggie's supple throat; Elizabeth appeared in the doorway, pressed her hands to her face, screamed; "I will come for you, Josette," the old Barnabas thing muttered; my face was inches from the screen, my pizza forgotten; "I will come for you --"
BLIP.
Whirrrrrrrr.
My eyes widened in horror.
The tape ran out.
The tape ran out.
And there was still fifteen minutes left of the movie.
And I had no idea what happened next.
For another three years. At that time, NBC debuted its own take on the Dark Shadows mythos by revealing the 1991 "revival," as it has been deemed. I ate it up greedily. TBS, owned, as was TNT, by Ted Turner, took advantage of the resurrection and scheduled both House and Night of Dark Shadows to run from eight to twelve on a Sunday morning. While everyone else in my house slept, I was up bright eyed and bushy tailed, as my father said, to record both films. Finally, I told myself, finally I would see Barnabas escape his tormentors. And, as an added bonus, I would enjoy the lycanthropic adventures of Quentin Collins. (Everyone knew Quentin was a werewolf.)
The familiar strains of the Dark Shadows theme began, and I watched, captivated again, as Barnabas rampaged throughout the film. Finally I would know how the film ended. Carolyn was vamped; Willie was beaten; Julia throttled; "I'll come for you, Josette," the cadaverous freak muttered, "I'll come for you soon." And then more! Glorious, glorious more! Stokes and Roger became vampires -- shocking! Maggie Evans dressed up like Josette -- spooky! Willie impaled with an arrow -- heresy! Jeff Clark wrestled with Barnabas and then ...
... and then ...
The sight of that wooden arrow exploding out of Barnabas' chest is, perhaps, one of the most shocking images I retain from my childhood. I watched, gaping, as Barnabas collapsed, dead (or seemingly dead), as Jeff and Maggie, shuddering, turn to exit the ruined chapel.
Credits roll.
Oh, I was horrified. I couldn't believe that they ... they ...
THEY KILLED BARNABAS! YOU BASTARDS!
And with no time at all for explanations, Night of Dark Shadows began.
I settled in as snow began to fall in the real world outside, as my parents bustled around, preparing lunch, and my little brother, uninterested, capered around me. I waited for Quentin to transform into a werewolf and then rampage around the estate in a lyncathropic hissy fit. The ghost of Angelique appeared, which confused me, because I knew that Angelique was the witch who turned Barnabas into a vampire. And Angelique loved him, Barnabas, not Quentin. The gaping plot holes further confounded me, and I was so bored by the end that I didn't care why Tracy was screaming, or that the Jenkins had, apparently, been done in by a cold front that developed mysteriously in their car. Who was Tracy? Who were the Jenkins? Why should I care?
As time has passed, my fondness for and appreciation of NoDS has only grown, just as my love for HoDS has sustained. I never tire of either movie; I feel like I might watch HoDS at least two-three times a year, and as for NoDS -- the atmosphere, the chilly cinematography, the score, the presence of Angelique, inexplicably absent from HoDS -- I find new elements to appreciate with each viewing. I was, as I know many other fans were, crushed by the lack of the missing footage in the DVD/Blu Ray release last fall. Yet I continue to hold out, to remain hopeful that, someday, that footage will become available and NoDS will finally make visual sense.
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