El Conde

There is a shot early in El Conde that feels like a fever dream birthed in a cinema history textbook: a caped figure, stiff-backed and regal, soaring silently over the neon-drenched skyscrapers of modern-day Santiago. It’s not a superhero. It’s Augusto Pinochet. And he’s a vampire. If that sounds like a "high-concept" pitch barked across a boardroom table at Netflix, you’re right—but in the hands of director Pablo Larraín, it’s less of a gimmick and more of a gorgeous, grayscale middle finger to historical amnesia.

I watched this on a Tuesday night while nursing a lukewarm peppermint tea, and just as the film’s version of Pinochet was blending a fresh human heart into a crimson smoothie, my neighbor’s car alarm went off. The jarring, repetitive honking felt strangely appropriate. El Conde is a film that refuses to let you be comfortable, constantly reminding you that the monsters of the past aren't buried; they’re just waiting for their next meal.

The Butcher in a Cape

The premise is wonderfully absurd: Pinochet (played with a weary, craggy brilliance by Jaime Vadell) didn't actually die in 2006. Instead, he’s a 250-year-old vampire who got his start as a royalist soldier during the French Revolution. Having faked his death to escape tax fraud charges (a biting bit of realism), he has retired to a derelict mansion in the Chilean cold, surrounded by his long-suffering wife Lucia (Gloria Münchmeyer) and his monstrously entitled children.

The "kids" are perhaps the funniest and most horrific part of the ensemble. They don't care that their father is a mass murderer or an undead creature of the night; they just want to know where the hidden bank accounts are. Larraín uses the vampire mythos to suggest that the real horror of dictatorship isn't just the blood on the floor, but the bureaucratic greed that follows. Seeing Catalina Guerra and the rest of the "offspring" bicker over inheritance while their father mopes about wanting to die is a masterclass in pitch-black comedy.

A Monochrome Masterpiece

We have to talk about how this movie looks. Edward Lachman, the legendary cinematographer who gave us the lush colors of Carol, pivots here to a high-contrast, silvery black-and-white that makes every frame look like a haunted photograph. It’s staggering. In an era where so many streaming movies look like they were filmed through a layer of gray sludge, El Conde is deliberately, aggressively beautiful, like a funeral directed by Ansel Adams.

The flying sequences are particularly breathtaking. Apparently, Larraín eschewed heavy CGI for these scenes, opting for old-school wirework that gives the Count’s flight a physical, dangling vulnerability. When Paula Luchsinger, playing a young nun sent to exorcise/audit the Count, takes to the skies, it’s one of the most transcendent moments of cinema I’ve seen this decade. It’s a "Streaming Era" miracle—a $10 million Chilean political satire that looks more expensive and artistic than most $200 million franchise tentpoles.

The Iron Lady and the Exorcist

The film takes a wild, surreal turn in its final act with the introduction of Margaret Thatcher (played with uncanny sturdiness by Stella Gonet). Without spoiling the "how" and "why," her presence transforms the movie from a local political satire into a global indictment of right-wing legacies. It’s a bold move that might alienate viewers looking for a straightforward horror flick, but for those of us who enjoy a bit of historical "fan fiction" with our gore, it’s a delight.

Paula Luchsinger is the secret weapon here. As Carmencita, the nun with a hidden agenda, she provides the perfect foil to Jaime Vadell’s grumpy, lethargic tyrant. Her performance is sharp, calculating, and provides the film's most visceral thrills. The chemistry between the two—a mix of religious fervor and predatory curiosity—keeps the middle act from sagging, even when the pacing slows to a somnambulist’s crawl.

Is it "too much"? Probably. It’s a film that leans heavily into its own metaphors, and if you aren't familiar with Chilean history or the intricacies of Pinochet’s legal scandals, some of the jokes might feel like they're being told in a different room. But even if you strip away the politics, you’re left with a gorgeous, weird, and surprisingly funny vampire yarn that understands the genre’s best secret: the scariest thing about a monster isn't that it exists, but that it never truly goes away.

El Conde is a defiant piece of contemporary filmmaking that proves the streaming landscape can still be a home for singular, uncompromising visions. It’s a biting reminder that history doesn't just repeat itself—it feeds on us. If you’ve got two hours and a taste for something darkly sophisticated, this is a vintage worth uncorking. Just maybe skip the heart-smoothie while you watch.