If you embark on reimagining a beloved Stephen King classic, you must ensure it's a triumph. The original "Carrie" by Brian De Palma stands unchallenged, despite countless attempts to surpass it. "It: Chapter One" soared, yet "It: Chapter Two" plummeted, canceling each other's achievements with a thud. The TV miniseries redux of "The Shining" might not evoke memories as dire as once thought, but let's not oversell it. The 2019 iteration of "Pet Sematary" as a benchmark of quality is a grim reminder that even that was merely a lateral step.
However, Gary Dauberman's revitalization of "Salem's Lot" elevates the game. It may very well be the sole Stephen King remake that nails the essence. Tobe Hooper's iconic 1979 miniseries adaptation still haunts, weaving a sinister spell far more insidious than Dauberman's, but its strength lay in its epic three-hour runtime. Hooper lured us into the drowsy hamlet of Salem's Lot, lingering for ages before the vampires' ultimate reign, infusing his version with a profound sense of tragedy and melancholy. Dauberman wisely avoids this pitfall, condensing his tale into a taut, just-under-two-hour thrill ride that rushes headlong into chaos.
For those new to this haunting tale, "Salem's Lot" unfolds in the fictional town of Jerusalem's Lot, Maine, a small, struggling community stuck in 1976. Ben Mears (Lewis Pullman of "Top Gun: Maverick"), a seemingly unremarkable author haunted by his roots, returns to uncover his past. Along his journey, he crosses paths with Susan (Makenzie Leigh of "The Assistant"), a real estate office worker yearning to escape her overbearing mother's shadow. Their connection blossoms, and love simmers in the air, but so does an ominous undercurrent—vampires are lurking.
With limited screen real estate, writer-director Gary Dauberman employs ingenuity, swiftly introducing a cavalcade of characters and weaving exposition into the narrative's opening act. Some supporting players fall by the wayside, sometimes literally, but the town's essence and its inhabitants come alive. The cast shines, the script is taut, and we're emotionally invested. Thus, when camaraderie turns to carnage and neighbors feast on each other's blood, the impact is devastating.
Salem's Lot also welcomes another newcomer: Richard Straker (Pilou Asbæk of "Game of Thrones"), who purchases the notorious haunted house and opens a sinister shop. He's a cartoonishly terrifying figure, straight out of a William Castle flick, broadly sketched yet marvelously menacing. Straker harbors a vampire in his basement—Barlow (Alexander Ward of "Westworld"), an old-school, pale, lanky Nosferatu-like monstrosity who gradually infects the entire town, transforming its inhabitants into vampiric horrors.
The Scooby-Doo-inspired party teems with fleeting, lighthearted exchanges, yet the witty repartees primarily belong to Woodard's jaded skeptic, as they traverse the town, strategically splitting apart at intervals to evade their unseen predators. As the vampiric plague ravages Salem's Lot, it materializes as a haunting vision: a child with eerie, glowing eyes, a lifeless mother draped in mortuary's shroud, and an abundance of tacky special effects that seem misplaced, more suited for a SYFY Original fare. (Albeit, Max Originals have swiftly garnered a comparable reputation.)
The most disheartening aspect lies within Barlow himself, the master vampire. He's awkwardly concealed throughout the film's duration, emerging abruptly or extending his clawed appendage for fleeting moments of jump-scares, devoid of the shocking impact akin to James Wan's diabolical creations. His design, an attempt at echoing Tobe Hooper's iconic '70s miniseries adaptation, has been sanitized and homogenized, resembling a bland corporate emblem rather than the menacing, bat-winged silhouette of old.
This soul-barren slickness permeates Dauberman's stylized transitions, as scenes meld seamlessly, hurtling towards the next grotesque encounter without pause. Rather than fueling the adrenaline, this relentless pacing skimps on character development, the nuanced mistrust that underpins the narrative, and the coherence of the mythology—all elements that breathe life into films of this genre. Often, the horror sequences stumble over the questions they provoke. Initially, vampires require an invitation to enter homes; subsequently, they saunter in uninvited. The compelling power of a vampire's gaze falters unpredictably, as do the pulsing, glowing crosses meant to ward them off.
Salem's Lot is not a catastrophic failure (far worse horrors have flourished at the box office), but it's a pale, anemic rendition of the story, drained of its inherent vitality. The human intricacies that elevate King's novel beyond a mere campfire tale are either condensed into clichés or altogether neglected. The rustic drama, the fear of outsiders, and the era-defining nuances are all distilled into nothingness. From its streaming-centric opening credits, with trickles of blood cascading over expository texts and a Maine map, evoking echoes of Game of Thrones, Shogun, and Rings of Power, Salem's Lot feels overly polished, streamlined, and utterly devoid of its fangs.
