Jesús Franco’s too-faithful adaptation never quite manages to rise from the dead.

Jesús Franco’s 1970 Count Dracula – for a long time unavailable in the UK – comes with the promise of being “the most faithful adaptation of Bram Stoker’s novel yet.” And, well, it kind of is… if your favourite part of Dracula is the endless conversations about Transylvanian real estate. In fact, it may as well be “Exhibit A” whenever the conversation turns to lamenting the lack of fidelity when adapting written works to the screen. Look, I get it – we all love a good novel-to-screen adaptation that respects the source material, but someone forgot to inject this seminal tale of the undead with, you know, a little life.

Let’s start with the positives. If you’ve ever complained about all the liberties other films take with Stoker’s text, then this might just be the movie for you. It ticks off all the major plot points like a dutiful student who’s spent more time underlining quotes than actually enjoying the book. Christopher Lee is back as the Count, and for once he gets to recite Dracula’s dialogue straight from the novel. Lee is, predictably, excellent, even if he’s fighting the film’s glacial pacing, direction which requires him to dial down his usual sinister charm for a more restrained take on the Count. It is, at least, the first adaptation to show Count Dracula growing progressively younger as he feeds as the film goes on as well as having the Prince of Darkness sport a fine, luxurious moustache (both nods to Stoker’s texts that no adaptations to this point had bothered with). Of course, Lee’s done this monster mash before (and would go on to do so again) – most famously in Hammer’s Dracula films – but his familiar gravitas seems to be lacking here and you can’t help but feel he’s shackled by the film’s slow, pedantic tone. Even a master vampire can’t resurrect this snooze fest, despite the sumptuous period wardrobe and the handsome cinematography.

Speaking of familiar faces, Herbert Lom as Van Helsing is… well, a familiar face. He’s a far cry from Peter Cushing’s intense, action-hero version. Lom is more academic, his performance dry and dusty, like a history teacher you struggle to stay awake for. It doesn’t help that the film gives him no room to develop any meaningful antagonism with Dracula. There’s a checklist of confrontations, but no real sense of menace between them.

Then we have Klaus Kinski as Renfield. Kinski, who would later go on to play Dracula in Werner Herzog’s Nosferatu the Vampyre, gives us a mostly subdued take on the madman. Known for his eccentric, often manic performances, Kinski’s Renfield is oddly muted here, more quiet discomfort than wild-eyed insanity. This could’ve been a highlight in a more dynamic film, but instead, it just feels like another missed opportunity.

Franco, renowned for his exploitation films, does show some restraint here, but that’s part of the problem. Where is the flair, the chaos, the signature weirdness that could’ve jolted this adaptation to life? Compared to the gothic excess of Hammer’s Dracula series, or the sheer iconic terror of Bela Lugosi in the 1931 Universal classic, Franco’s film feels like it’s afraid to get its hands dirty. The film’s adherence to the novel is commendable, but in stripping away the dramatic license of other adaptations, it also strips away much of the excitement.

In the end, Count Dracula is like a Victorian tea party: everyone’s well-behaved, the conversation’s polite, but you’re left wondering when something interesting is going to happen. Faithful to the book? Sure. But a thrilling horror movie? Not even close.