Vampires & the Stigma of Mental Illness in ‘The Transfiguration’ and ‘Martin’

Vampires, perhaps more than any other classic horror-cinema archetype, have undergone significant changes from the source material, stories and themes morphing to maintain relevance in a rapidly shifting pop culture climate. Originally an amalgamation of several cultures’ xenophobic fears of the “Other,” vampires—or more specifically, Dracula—flourished in turn-of-the-century America, as waves of immigrants flowed through the newly opened Ellis Island in staggering numbers. Mistrust of foreigners would continue to fuel America’s vampire lore for decades, while Europe attempted to heal from some of the most savage warfare ever known.

By the 1970s, people started to see vampirism in another light. Perhaps, as in Dead of Night (1974), people were seeing firsthand the effect war was having on their returning sons. Perhaps an increased interest in self-reflection made vampirism more of a personal struggle than an external antagonist. This can be seen in Valerie and Her Week of Wonders (1970), Let’s Scare Jessica to Death (1971), and Martin (1978). Remember this last one—I’ll get back to it, shortly. 

In the '80s, the AIDS epidemic caused us to look inward for the next cultural boogeyman. Rather than a rival nation or political event, the emergence of such a deadly bloodborne pathogen and seeing the effects it had on the human body was a sobering reminder that danger lurked in our own neighborhoods. And whereas filmmakers of the '70s began the process of experimenting with the vampire formula, those of the '80s completed the transition, presenting vampires as leather-clad gangs, luring American teens to certain damnation in films like The Lost Boys (1987) and Near Dark (1987). 

Perhaps as a direct result of this “cool” vampire counterculture, the 1990s gave us a chance to view vampires more sympathetically—Innocent Blood (1992), Cronos (1993), and Interview with the Vampire (1994) all offered redemption arcs for the damned. Even Francis Ford Coppola’s Dracula (1992) gave us a heretofore unseen backstory to the titular character. 

As the new millennium dawned, and box offices began to be dominated by fantasy-adventure franchises like Harry Potter, Lord of the Rings, and Pirates of the Caribbean, vampire films—and to a lesser extent, horror as a whole—began to take on a faster-paced action-oriented tone. But while films like Van Helsing (2004), 30 Days of Night (2007), and the Blade and Underworld franchises gave way in 2008 to the commercially explosive Twilight saga—to the universal and ceaseless derision of “horror fans” (Seriously, can we stop making sparkle jokes? It’s been over a decade)—a low budget film in Sweden sat in its own dark corner biding its time. Let the Right One In, directed by Tomas Alfredson, was a breath of much needed fresh air to the genre. Slowly paced and romantically sinister, it brought soul back into the undead. This essay is not about that film. Rather, it serves a supporting role to a much more recent film, Michael O’Shea’s The Transfiguration (2016), starring Eric Ruffin and Chloë Levine.

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The Transfiguration can perhaps be most accurately described as a modern lovechild between Let the Right One In, and the hidden '70s gem, George A. Romero’s Martin. It effectively combines and repackages the themes of these earlier films in a way that builds on the rich history of vampire films in the U.S. and maintains a sense of relevancy, without sacrificing its unique point of view. My goal is to compare the themes of The Transfiguration to those of the films it draws upon, using the cultural zeitgeist that they, themselves, were part of. To achieve this, I’ll need to weave between plots fairly regularly, so please note that significant spoilers are ahead.

The Transfiguration opens similarly to Romero’s Martin. In each, we are introduced to the main character in an act of vampirism. In the former, Milo is feeding on his already-dead victim in the bathroom stall of a train station, an event that is mistaken as a sexual act by a disapproving bystander; and in the latter, Martin is scouting and killing an unsuspecting stranger in a disturbing sexual attack on a commuter train. In both cases, we are to connect their characters with an overt sexuality. In both cases, the villain has symbolically arrived in their respective cities. 

Martin steps off his train in Braddock, Pennsylvania, where he’s come to live with his superstitious cousin, Tata Cuda. Braddock is a suburb of Pittsburgh, and on its way toward becoming a ghost town, having been hit particularly hard by the 1970s recession and the steel crisis. Martin’s arrival in Braddock represents the failure of industry in protecting its workers from economic ruin. Milo, on the other hand, lives with his brother, Lewis, in a housing project in Far Rockaway in Queens, New York. Rather than stemming from an identifiable economic event, the problems in Queens are systemic. Milo isn’t afforded any of the protections that a majority of the population enjoys. His block is run by the local gang, and Milo does all he can just to avoid their notice. The police, when he refuses to give them information, set up the rumor that Milo is a snitch, putting him in far more danger than anyone else in the movie. Both Milo and Martin are prisoners of circumstance. Trapped in a living situation without the means or guidance to escape a future with few prospects, each must navigate his own struggles with mental illness without outside support.

And to be clear—they are both mentally ill. Though the vampirism in each is intentionally left ambiguous, it’s just as intentionally clear that neither are undead. Martin, for his part, pleads with Cuda to stop believing in the supposed family curse that has shamed them for centuries. Garlic and crosses have no effect on him, he can’t fly, and he walks freely in sunlight. “There is no magic,” he insists. “I’m sick.” He does have an urge to consume blood, but he acknowledges his severe intimacy issues and is clear in his desire for help. In fact, he articulates this, as well, in his repeated calls to a local radio jockey, describing in detail his attacks, their sexual component, and his desire for a relationship that doesn’t involve “the blood part.”

Milo, on the other hand, desperately clings to his supposed vampirism as a security blanket. His room is covered with pictures of vampires from films, and he has a sizable collection of vampire films on VHS, as well as a notebook containing the “rules” of various vampires in film and literature. He has a calendar which he uses to record his kills, and most tellingly, he routinely vomits up the blood he had just recently consumed. The ritual Milo subjects himself to is disrupted only by the unexpected arrival of Sophie, who does something no one else is willing to do with Milo—she talks to him.

Eli, Let the Right One In

Unlike in Martin or The Transfiguration, Let the Right One In features a bona fide magical vampire. Eli doesn’t age, can be destroyed by sunlight, has immense strength, can fly, and climb walls. If she enters a house without being invited in, she begins bleeding from her pores. In this sense, Milo aspires most to be like Eli. He yearns for the power and control that she exhibits. But in truth, Milo is more akin to Eli’s neighbor, Oskar—a perfectly ordinary, vulnerable, human boy. Tortured daily by a group of bullies, Oskar spends his evenings in the playground near his apartment, fantasizing about what he would do if he could work up the courage to stand up for himself. When Oskar and Eli meet, they are cautious—neither is accustomed to having friends—but, despite the admonitions of Håkan, Eli’s guardian (and servant), they are drawn to one another.

So, too, goes Sophie’s relationship with Milo. Sophie isn’t as reserved or skittish around Milo as either Oskar or Eli are with each other, but Milo is a difficult nut to crack. Using Milo’s interest in vampires, she slowly succeeds in getting him to open up. She learns that his favorite movies are—ready for it?—Let the Right One In and Martin. He explains that the depiction of vampires in these films are “the most realistic”, which, above all, is most important to him. Milo’s desperate need to be a vampire forces him to subscribe to a set of rules that all vampires must live by, so he naturally gravitates toward any set of rules that are physically possible for him to follow. While Let the Right One In doesn’t fit this criteria, it does give Milo two characters whom he can admire. Oskar has the desire, if not the courage, to kill, and Eli has the need to kill, but not the urge. They, like Milo, are social pariahs who find comfort only in each other. What Milo fails to anticipate, however, is that by finding his own “Eli” in Sophie, and as Sophie doesn’t share his vampiric fantasy, his carefully plotted plans begin to unravel, which we’ll come back to shortly.

While Sophie may not be interested in killing people for sustenance, she and Milo can connect on another level—that of abuse. Sophie lives with her abusive grandfather. Her parents are both dead. And though Milo doesn’t suffer abuse from his brother, he is constantly harassed by his brother’s old gang, and he has clearly internalized the trauma of finding his mother following her suicide. Martin, by contrast, suffers a much deeper level of emotional abuse. His family has so committed itself to its “family curse” of vampirism, that the only reason his cousin takes him in is his fear of familial shame. He vows to uphold his duty, first by saving Martin’s soul, and then by destroying him. Tata Cuda hardly treats Martin as human—he only ever calls him “Nosferatu” to his face, he strings bells and garlic on all doorways in an effort to control Martin’s movement (despite knowing full well they don’t have any effect), and he shoves crucifixes in his face every chance he gets. This isn’t unexpected, or even abnormal behavior for patriarchs in the family—Martin has endured such dehumanization ever since he began exhibiting signs of violence.

Eli, on the other hand, isn’t subject to any such cruelty. In fact, Eli is the aggressor in her situation. She consistently berates Håkan for his failings, and treats him as little more than a slave. Though he insists that he loves her, she never reciprocates. Her relationship with Oskar, as the film progresses, takes on a sinister tone in its own right. Eli, a centuries-old vampire, cannot befriend a 12-year-old boy. Though they look similar enough, she is incapable of the kind of friendship Oskar needs. Instead, with hindsight, Eli appears to be grooming Oskar to be Håkan’s replacement, even upon meeting him. Fed up with Håkan’s failures, Eli begins imprinting herself onto Oskar, until he too, confesses his love for her—which, again, she acknowledges, but does not reciprocate. It is Eli who emboldens Oskar to defend himself, Eli who encourages his violent urges, and Eli who saves him once and for all from his tormentors, cementing his devotion to her. Conveniently, this happens just after Håkan’s sacrificial death. Vampire mythology—though it has always had a psychological component—has in recent years doubled down in its focus on emotional manipulation. It’s an alluring sense of control for someone like Milo, who has very little command over his own circumstances.

Oskar & Eli, Let the Right One In

Milo & Sophie, The Transfiguration

Contrarily, Sophie’s blossoming love for Milo is genuine. Seeing through his standoffishness, Sophie keeps returning to Milo even as he does everything in his power to distance himself from her. She sees in him a good person in a bad situation. Though he presents himself as a remorseless product of nature, the cracks in Milo’s armor reveal themselves slowly throughout the film. He chooses not to attack a young boy who says hi. Despite killing at least once a month, he still turns away during the bite sequences when he watches his vampire movies. Around Sophie, Milo’s commitment to vampirism breaks down, shown when he realizes he missed his next scheduled “meal.” When she finds his journal detailing the precautions he takes when stalking a kill, she freaks out and disappears. This serves as the impetus Milo needs to renounce his life plan. He commits to not killing any longer, gives Sophie a bag filled with all the money he’s taken from his victims, and sets his new plan into motion. 

Milo’s refusal to seek professional help is a sad inversion of Martin’s situation. In that film, as willing as Martin is to receive help, he tells his cousin that he’s been to hospitals, he’s seen the doctors—they don’t know what to do with him. Perhaps his family’s reinforcement of the supernatural nature of his illness prevented therapy from working. Maybe he was never as committed as he said he was. But in Milo’s instance, doctors may not have even crossed his mind as a solution. Statistically, the African-American community is far less likely to pursue psychotherapy as a treatment. Whether it’s the stigma attached to psychiatric care, a distrust of the system itself, or fears of undue financial obligations, communities like Milo’s are dramatically underserved. With few other options, Milo sends Sophie away with a final revelation about his own being: “If you can only exist to hurt people, and you know better, then maybe it’s better not to exist at all.”

The Transfiguration stitches together a new vision of what it means to be a vampire in modern cinema. The modern vampire isn’t suave and confident—they are meek and reluctant. They are the human products of a failed system. They ought not be destroyed, but treated. In Let the Right One In, Eli has a seductive ability to manipulate others to her will, but a resigned reliance on human “partners” to ensure her survival. In Martin, we see the effects of an absent support structure, at both the community level and as a family unit. Lastly, in The Transfiguration, how individuals can fall unnoticed through the cracks of systemic neglect. 

The vampire has quickly evolved: first from foreign boogeyman to a collective fear of a new pathogen, then to misunderstood characters to sympathize with, and most recently to a symbol of a society’s refusal to acknowledge a gaping hole in the emotional needs of its people. Horror has always been especially successful at showing us things about ourselves that we refuse to accept otherwise. I can only hope that we can continue to use genre in as impactful a way as in The Transfiguration. 

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Article written by Ande Thomas

Ande loves the intersection of sci-fi and horror, where our understanding of the natural world clashes with our fear of the new and unknown. He writes about monsters and foreign horror and can also be found over on Letterboxd.

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