The legend of Nosferatu never ceases to amaze, though it’s rare that a vampire movie is exciting anymore. The genre has been handed over to tweens and housewives and rabid bastions of non-taste in favor of safe-bets and box office revenue. The raw sex appeal, style, and yes, horror, three key factors that make these tales so alluring, have systematically been stripped away in favor of puppy-love and cutsie PG rated innuendoes. The vampire, it seems, has finally died.
But fans of this horror subgenre know that the vampire never really dies, it just goes back into the coffin for a while. It lurks beneath the floorboards, brooding and waiting, dreaming up new ways in which to fascinate and terrify a new generation. And good thing, because the best stories of the erotically undead come out of this brooding period.
One of those films is the curious, awesome Kiss of the Damned. It stars the inappropriately hot Milo Ventimiglia as Paolo, a successful writer who has escaped the city to a cottage in a small, upstate town. He’s sought tranquility from the crazy New York streets to focus on writing his next big hit, a film that everyone back home seems to be eager for.
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