‘Near Dark’ and the Bonds of Outsiders

Vampire movies have been a constantly evolving genre since their inception, and will likely always continue to be one. Barely ten years apart, F.W. Murnau’s Nosferatu and Tod Browning’s Dracula are entirely different versions of the same story. Vampires in fiction take root in both cultural fears and subconscious desires. They are endlessly fascinating because they are, in essence, beautiful contradictions: the allure of immortality mixed with inescapable dread of disease. Through most of the 1930s and ‘40s the vampire, best represented in Stoker’s Count, at least partially represented the fear of the foreign, a creature of class but also one of customs that could not be abided and that threatened an established way of life.

More and more, through soap operas like Dark Shadows, films like the respective Curtis and Badham adaptations of Dracula, and even comic books like Vampirella, the creatures of the night began to shift into becoming the protagonist. This was perfectly embodied in that era of the mid-seventies when Anne Rice published Interview With the Vampire, a book that sold itself on the promise of telling the other side of the story and changed the public perception of vampires fundamentally. Post-Interview, vampires were not only allowed but expected to be protagonists. To be sexy and alluring. Stories of vampirism became heightened and stylized because they were, in every sense, a fantasy.

That was certainly the case in the 1980s when the cultural phenomenon of Rice’s Vampire Chronicles was at its peak. While not necessarily capitalizing on that success, Joel Schumacher was clearly inspired by the success of Rice’s glam-rock Lestat when he directed The Lost Boys in 1987. A perfect melting pot of pre-teen adventure and burgeoning sexuality, Lost Boys has perhaps gone on to become to the definitive vampire film of the 1980s, with only two or three films even giving it a run for its money. One is Tom Holland’s Fright Night. The other, of course, is Near Dark.

Both Lost Boys and Near Dark were released in the same year and tell, in essence, the same story. They are both about a directionless loner with a single parent and a younger sibling that they feel close to, but not close enough to keep them from the allure of a new family, a place where they can become a part of sense of something entirely new and feel a sense of belonging that they just don’t have in everyday life. Like Lost Boys’ Michael, Caleb is indoctrinated into a vampire clan because of his interest in a girl, and while he finds the new group’s antics fun at first, he turns his back once he discovers not only the fact that they drink blood in order to survive, but the absolute glee they take in the shedding of it.

All of these aspects are present in both films, which is almost astonishing considering the fact that the two are completely, totally different on both a tonal and stylistic level. Near Dark takes the core concept of a young man being indoctrinated into a vampire clan and strips it of any trace of fantasization. On every level, Near Dark treats vampirism as realistically as possible. Because vampires are generally so rooted in stylistic touches, this was a choice at the time that really hadn’t been seen at this level since George Romero’s Martin. And even then, that film was exploring the idea of someone firmly planted in the real world who believed that they were a vampire, and not examining the actual supernatural concept through a realistic lens. That’s the choice Kathryn Bigelow and co-writer Eric Red made in Near Dark and it is absolutely the smartest decision they could have made to ensure that this film would stand out from what was already a sea of similar features at the time.

Near Dark succeeds in its approach to realistic vampires by stripping them of the popular iconography. If they have fangs, we never see them. They don’t change in appearance in any way, shape or form. No bats or wolves, and no demonic “true face” either, a motif that was aggressively popular in vampire fare of the time. They look like humans, plain and simple, and are largely treated as such. The most brilliant choice, however, lies in the decision not to use the word itself. The term “vampire” is never uttered once throughout the entire running time. It’s almost a no-brainer. In taking a grounded approach to the concept, stripping it of the name makes every kind of sense. The word vampire invokes fantasy.

Without the word, the teeth, or the ghoulish creature FX, the vampires we meet in Near Dark are simply people with an abnormal affliction. Stripped of the glamour, they’re ostracized, nomadic, forced to always keep moving, always on the run. They have nothing except for the family unit they have made for themselves and when they feel that it is threatened, they prove to be willing to protect it at any cost. Caleb represents a threat to that way of life from the moment he’s introduced to them, to the point that their first instinct is to kill him, before learning that he has begun to turn.

Even though they begrudgingly accept Caleb into their ranks, the fact that they do it at all is incredible. In a way, the very fact that Caleb is allowed to live and the plot allowed to even happen is a demonstration of the genuine affection and trust between this group of outsiders. They trust each other, they depend on each other, and in this unique family structure they each serve a different role. Jesse and Diamondback are the parents, naturally, with Mae and Severen often coming across as bickering siblings. Homer is the youngest, the child of the group and it is a role he despises because he’s the only one self-aware enough to truly understand how artificial it is. He is an old man trapped in a child’s body and in some ways best represents the film’s treatment of vampirism as a disease.

There is an unwavering, unquestioned acceptance that because of what they are, they can never be comfortable anywhere. Part of that is simply common sense. They kill people, after all. It’s a necessity to protect their way of life. What is fascinating about these characters, though, is that they each define their ostracism in completely different ways. For Mae, despite her age, her story runs parallel to Caleb’s. Hers is a wayward adolescent loneliness. She might love this family unit in the same way Caleb loves his own, but she doesn’t necessarily feel like she belongs there.

For Jesse, he conversely seems defined by his age, his contempt stemming from a resentment toward a world constantly evolving, one that has all but left him behind. Jesse might get the funniest line in the film, but it’s also incredibly telling for his character. When mentioning the fact that he was a veteran, Jesse notes that he “fought for the South,” and then adds in perfect Lance Henriksen deadpan, “We lost.” It’s great and hilarious but it also concretely reveals that Jesse is someone who feels as though he’s been left in the dust, who hails from an America that embraced — or was even defined by — what we’d like to think of as a drastically different set of ideals. Metaphorical though he may be, Jesse stands in for beliefs that many arch-conservative Americans had after the Civil War (and continue to have to this day) of being swept under the rug.

Diamondback appears to be most comfortable with her role in the family, which is only natural as she is essentially the matriarch of the clan. But that is what defines her particular loneliness as well, as she is the only one with this unspoken responsibility. Everyone can fight, bicker and often hate each other as much as they want, but she is the one who has to keep them all together and keep this ship running. Which also means that — even though Severen and Jesse are the most vocally opposed to him — she’s the one who really has to see Caleb as the biggest threat to this makeshift family and its overall dynamic.

Severen’s own sense of isolation from the group stems from a much more blunt and obvious place. Among the family, he is hardly taken seriously and whatever he has to say is largely ignored, but it’s not because of any inherent bias. Severen’s is an entirely self-made exile. He’s the family member that people are forced to accept that they are stuck with, the relative who shows up at gatherings to cause an embarrassing scene, that many wish would just leave but are stuck with forever. Severen, at times, appears to be extremely conscious of this fact. He sees the contempt in their faces, hears the lack of respect in their voices, and it only causes him to act out that much more.

For Homer, though, the family is in every sense a freak show. He is, as stated, the most aware of the inauthentic nature of his role in the family. Homer is intimately aware that, comfortable as this is, it’s a constructed home for exiles, it is entirely artificial and thus seeks a way out of it, like Mae. The tragedy of his situation is that, unlike Mae, a willing partner for this journey simply doesn’t exist. He cannot turn Caleb’s sister and expect her to be just like him. His mind has matured several times over and she is still just a child. There is no one else like him. Because of that, he is forced to play the role of the dutiful son and parade himself in front of others, putting himself on display like a performer in a carnival act.

Moving from place to place in their RV, the nomadic vampire clan do in their own twisted way almost feel like a traveling circus. They’re not on the move by choice, but when they make a stop there’s an undeniable sense of showmanship. This is incredibly clear during the standout bar sequence, one of the great horror film sequences of its decade. With Severen acting almost like a carnival barker, this scene feels like a genuine performance. This is more than hunger. In fact, it’s a deeper urge than simply wanting to commit murder. They want to kill people, but they also want everyone in the bar to see them do it. They’re putting on a show. It’s a brilliantly choreographed and unnerving sequence, but even though it’s jarring it makes a perfect kind of sense. When relating back to the notion of early freak shows, those were often cases of people either embracing or being put on display to show off the very disfigurements and talents that made them ostracized from mainstream society in the first place.

In Near Dark, vampirism is a disease that makes it impossible to carry out any kind of normal life. This family structure allows people to come together in a collective group, people all sharing the same affliction, taking ownership of it and pride in it, allowing it to define who they are. But while the notion of found family is in some ways a treatment for the alienation that stems from the disease, it is in no way a cure. Every sense of community, however small, only opens one up for new, more specific kinds of isolation. The closer they become, the more isolated these characters become, making some of them struggle to break free from that family unit, while others will cling to that sense of structure, however imperfect, to their dying breath.