There's only one way to start a fire if you're a vampire, and that's to splash some brandy from an antique hipflask and then ignite it by breaking a lantern over it. Only this method has enough panache to fulfil the requirements of the genre. Queen of the Damned, the latest vampire flick to hit the big screen, has been dismissed almost universally as diabolically bad. And yet, as an example of its genre, it has discharged its duties well enough. There are gypsies and violins and angel statues in graveyards, there are dark alleys and frock coats and an exotic eclecticism in interior design. It looks great, it sounds great, and all the boys are very pretty. Why, then, is it such a silly silly movie?

Perhaps at the limits of all genre--movies or books--there is a point where aesthetic dominates substance; where trappings and conventions seem to exist only to mark the genre (perhaps, God forbid, for marketing purposes), and not to provide anything in the way of meaningful experience. Certainly, the vampire genre has suffered greatly from this over-emphasis on its aesthetic. The vampire story is a pond that has been so often fished in, that the number of viable fish is in poor supply and even poorer quality. And yet, each new writer or director follows well-worn grooves as if discovering them for the first time. Give a vampire wonderful clothes and a beautiful face and, hey presto, you have an irresistible gentleman monster. Make a vampire bite a young pale neck, well that could almost be sexy. In particular, the stagey overacting of the vampires in Queen of the Damned shows that the quality of acting in this genre has not much improved since the 30s and 40s, when Bela Lugosi swished his cape and the immortal phrase "I vant to suck your blahd" passed into common idiom. Now, the element of sexual danger is overplayed ferociously, enough twitching lips, sensuous circling and meaningful gazes to make a reader of bad erotica blush.

The problem seems to be that genre, especially those narratives of the unreal which might be gathered under the broad heading of "speculative fiction," slip too easily into self-parody. A moment's inattention, and an enchanted wolf becomes a talking dog, a powerful sorcerer becomes a pompous man with a stick. Or, in the case of Queen of the Damned, and an evil thousand-year-old goddess becomes a skimpily-costumed popstar throwing a hissy fit. A checklist of generic requirements is not enough to work the magic spell of disbelief suspended; readers and viewers need more to sink their teeth into, if you'll excuse the pun.

But is it even possible for genre, so easily reducible to its conventions, to be extraordinary? Of course. The same way any kind of book or movie can be extraordinary: by recognising that the aesthetic trappings of a story, as well-rendered as they may be, are not the story. Whether its vampires, fantasy, science fiction, or the ubiquitous haunted house tale, good writers and directors know that characterisation matters, realistic motivation matters, sophistication matters, substance matters. The first film made from Anne Rice's vampire books, 1994's Interview with the Vampire, was far superior to Queen of the Damned simply because as much attention was paid to these details as to the gorgeous look of the film. Or, to cite a more recent example, last year's ghost story The Others managed to be both chillingly clever and beautifully spooky to watch.

A largely unspoken resentment simmers between producers of genre and producers of what might be called "serious art." Often, in defiance, genre writers and directors invoke the "to hell with subtlety" clause, and ride a tidal wave of conventionality all the way to shore, still guaranteed of a market because markets always exist for genres if those genres are recognisable enough. But it's negligent and lazy for genre writers or directors to reproduce the very deficiencies critics blast them for, simply because they've already been written off. A responsibility is owed to the audience, the lovers of genre who care as little about guild awards as they care about media corporations' bottom lines; what they care about is a good story told well. One only has to compare first film in the Star Wars prequel series to the first film in The Lord of the Rings series to see a crucial distance exemplified. The former was ridiculous, the latter sublime. If genre is to survive and thrive, its producers must bridge this distance between careless, cynical reproduction of categories; and vigorous, thoughtful storytelling.

(© Kim Wilkins 2002)