The Catalyst
January 4, 2020.
You know the feeling — you don’t know what you want to watch. Forty-five minutes of negotiations. A shortlist narrowed to three. A reluctant consensus.
Then you open Netflix.
And there it is.
Whatever we had planned to watch that night disappeared. The moment I saw Claes Bang as Dracula, the decision was made.
I had never heard of him before. That didn’t matter. One look and I knew: this was the role.
It turns out I have very specific opinions about Count Dracula — who he is, how he moves, how he speaks, what he wears, what he doesn’t tolerate. I don’t argue about much, but Dracula is not one of those things.
Bang’s performance locked something into place. Not because it replaced the past — Bela Lugosi’s charm is untouchable, Christopher Lee’s menace undeniable — but because it felt intentional. Controlled. Dangerous.
Claes in BBC's Dracula (2020), episodes one, two, and three from left to right
The 2020 series deserves credit for that balance. Dolly Wells and John Heffernan delivered performances that grounded the chaos. Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss walked the line between reverence and reinvention with confidence. The first two episodes are nearly surgical in their execution. The third — divisive, modern, irreverent — takes a risk.
I admired that.
Because it did what adaptation should do: it honored the source without being trapped by it.
And that’s when the question began.
If I were going to write Dracula, how would I do it?
What would I preserve? What would I refuse?
How far could I push the mythology without breaking it?
The ideas came fast. Notes became outlines. Outlines became structure.
At first, I couldn’t decide where to set it — medieval or modern. Both timelines demanded attention.
Eventually, I realized there was only one way forward: begin at the beginning. Let the past earn the future. Let the origin speak before the aftermath.
So I started with questions.
What happened between Dracula and the Church?
Why the crucifix — and not other sacred symbols? If Dracula represents evil in its purest form, shouldn’t any emblem of divinity provoke the same reaction?
The specificity suggests history. Conflict. A fracture point.
So I wrote it.
Who was Dracula’s mystery lover referenced in Stoker’s novel?
Then there was the line in Stoker’s novel that refuses to be ignored.
“You yourself never loved. You never love!”
And Dracula’s quiet reply:
“Yes, I too can love… you yourselves can tell it from the past.”
That’s not a throwaway line. That’s a door.
Adaptations have flirted with it — usually through Mina, usually through a triangle that feels convenient rather than satisfying.
There is a story in that whisper. A real one. So I wrote the love story I believed belonged there.
© Copyright 2026 Rian C. Stone. All rights reserved.