‘To count’
Politics and memory loom large in the filmmaker’s body of work. Pablo Larraín, the Chilean director, has spent more than a decade and a half leaning into fiction as a means to unearth the darkest corners of his nation’s recent past. His approach often blends historical distortion with a pursuit of truth, a technique that has led him into territory more commonly found in genre cinema. Although his films are not traditionally classified as horror, titles like Tony Manero (2008) and Post mortem (2010) carry the atmosphere, violence, and hallucinatory resonance that genre fans recognize. With a signature method—truth emerging from illusion—Larraín leans further into genre territory by proposing a vampire-centric project, a bold shift that invites audiences to rethink how power, memory, and myth intersect on the screen.
In The Count, Augusto Pinochet becomes a vampire, but not a mere symbolic figure. He is portrayed as a centuries-old predator who takes flight, a literal vampire enmeshed in a political satire that aims to cut deep and expose the insecurities and abuses of a brutal regime. While the satire earns its sharp points, it does not land flawlessly in every moment. Some exchanges land with crisp, witty energy, while other sequences feel forced or dissonant, veering toward crude and uneven tonal shifts. Yet the film consistently provokes thought and conversation about the violence embedded in history and the ways it can be reframed through fantasy and allegory.
At its core, The Count is a visually seductive experience. The black-and-white cinematography, crafted with a meticulous eye, strips away distraction and invites viewers to focus on composition, contrast, and texture. Edward Lachman’s lens work delivers scenes of extraordinary beauty—each frame a painting, each movement of light and shadow carefully calibrated to heighten mood and meaning. The film’s striking visuals serve a dual purpose: they heighten the sense of otherworldliness associated with vampiric myth while anchoring the narrative in a stark, historical reality. The result is a cinematic fusion where artful composition and political critique coexist, creating moments that linger long after the screen fades to black. The opening sequence, a flight that feels both exhilarating and uncanny, is a testament to the director’s ability to fuse spectacle with a pointed critique of power. The film’s beauty is not decorative; it reinforces the tension between myth and memory that defines the project as a whole. Each shot invites viewers to read not just what is seen, but what is suggested—the uneasy coexistence of myth, memory, and accountability in a nation still processing its past.