Undead (in the sense of lifeless but still in motion) is the perfect word to describe this lame-brained would-be comedy, memorable only for the out-of-control, over-the-top emoting by Nicholas Cage as an upscale New York City literary agent who imagines himself becoming a creature of the night after some rough sex with Jennifer Beals. Seventy-five minutes later, after throwing several tantrums, brutally raping his secretary, and killing another girl in a misfired attempt to drink her blood, it's finally suggested that his vampire fixation is just a paranoid, misogynist fantasy, and Beals was only another heartless bitch with a taste for S&M. Writer Joseph Minion has an obvious chip on his shoulder, and director Robert Bierman never manages to locate the right tone, allowing his star to indulge himself in a performance of almost compelling badness. What Cage does here can hardly be called acting: he's merely killing time (and with good reason), stumbling headlong through each scene like a narcoleptic bull in a cheap china shop.
Review of Vampire's Kiss
