Per sable, a rose argent

... in which the author complains about AMC's 'The Vampire Lestat'. I am likely going to make it more coherent post, however...

In "Interview with the Vampire", Daniel has a beautiful relationship with language. He runs discourse analysis on his interviewees in real time. He consistently resists being labeled with simplistic and reductive vocabulary. I am not your fucking boy. I am an old man, with all the triggers that come with it. Suddenly... he starts speaking as if he is of an age and intellect level with the people who might take his online class. A sociopathic bottom twink. In my yaoi manther phase. This is not consistent characterization; it's a desperate attempt to get cheap laughs from the audience. Old enough to make dismissive comments about autism, but apparently also young enough to be terminally online. Lelio with a hat, begging for coin. A cue for the laugh tracks.

Similarly, AMC's Claudia has a deep awareness of power, a trait which modern audiences could describe as being 'political'. It is not an academic skill, because her survival was not an academic skill, either. It came from the experience of her short life; a poignant note on how racism affected even one so young. In her defining moments, she is shown to keep her core identity and agency under intense strain. Her resistance to Lestat's control is written through a lens which never ignores race. When she uses the language of the oppressor, she does it subversively. The music of the master race is not made for these mongrel ears. Then, the writers have her say in anger, to Louis, a man she kept relating to through their shared experience of Blackness in Louisiana, get that into your nappy little head? Absolutely not. Who is that?

I called the show a fever dream. We begin in finis res, which is completely fine. We are not, however, shown the full account of how we got here; only hints, here and there, from Lestat's commentary. The one thing that should have been established explicitly is not. The things that could have been more subtle, however...

I also said it was told to an idiot. The writing consistently assumes that the viewers need explanations, to the point of utter, utter exhaustion. Yes, black licorice can be read as phallic imagery. Yes, Louis is Black and he has a penis. We get it, AMC. I promise. There is absolutely no need to state it on three separate occasions. The only way to make it less subtle would have involved Titus Andromedon busting through the wall with a rendition of PEEEEENOOOOOO NOOOOIR like a particularly fabulous Greek chorus.

Similarly, "Interview(...)" did a marvelous job with letting the viewer make moral judgments on their own. Like Anne Rice at her best, it trusted us. It allowed us to look at the fallout and determine by ourselves what was the cause of it. We hear the account of the relationship with Marius from Armand; clearly groomed, clearly affected, clearly saved in a way which perpetuated his trauma. The writing does not have Louis name it. The viewer is given the courtesy of an opportunity to do it for themselves.

In "The Vampire Lestat"? The title character's relationship with Gabriella is initially set up as a deeply complex dynamic born of powerlessness and isolation. It is not healthy. It is not easy to watch. It is definitely abusive. But it makes a deep psychological sense... until it becomes flattened into a hurt/comfort scene. Which, don't get me wrong, would probably have been lovely to read... on Ao3. Suddenly, Gabriella was no longer in an incestuous relationship with her son because neither of them felt seen, and both were the closest their narrow world had to a witness; she became an unstable sex addict with no sense of public decorum. She is a monster. End of character analysis.

Rolin Jones’ "Interview with the Vampire" makes for a sophisticated retelling, if visually gratuitous in a way which contradicts the original’s elegance. The juxtaposition of culture and monstrosity, immortal glamour and its price was clearly intentional. Indeed, careful design seems to be the guiding principle of the work - regardless of that particular aspect of it lacking in subtlety.

The second season turns to a risky, yet well-executed meta-analysis of itself. It still veers, on occasion, into the tempting pastures of over-explanation. That flaw is inherited from source material - as any writer visibly fond of belles lettres for their own sake, Rice could be overly indulgent in that regard.

In other aspects, AMC’s "Interview (...)" reinterprets rather than repeats, sharpens rather than distorts.

The relationship between Louis and Armand is complex in ways which transcend parts of the original while remaining in conversation with it. What drew my attention the most was a principle of representation, an approach which was frustratingly rare in 2024, and remains thus two years later.

Both men desire the very thing which dominates and exploits them. There is a fearful symmetry to that truth, and a deeply poignant logic to the titles which evoke the power exchange aspect of the dynamic between them.

Arun was the name by which Armand, once a young man enslaved and abused, first knew to refer to himself. Maître is the very semantic category signifying Louis' oppressor, a term associated with the subjugation of his people - the Creole community of Louisiana. It is a reminder of the means of his family's ascent, and the exploitation behind their continued prosperity.

Both men eroticize their history with oppression. ‘Arun’ and ‘Maître’ constitute parallel signifiers of trauma. They evoke scars formed early enough to make the flesh grow, distort, and shape itself around them; an adaptation so successful it can make the body appear complicit in having been wounded.

As often happens in tales of existential dread, irony follows insight. Though decidedly evocative of sexual dynamics, those appellations seem also the most stable aspect of an otherwise exploitative relationship.

A remarkable amount of room is given to the coexistence of consensual power asymmetries and disagreement.

“I would not do it”, says Armand. Daniel Molloy, a journalist conducting the interview, taunts Louis in his trademark style: ”Maître in the bedroom. Maître only when it’s hot or convenient!”.

The answer, of course, is “yes” - with a qualification. Maître only when regressing into Arun does not violate a deeply meaningful and long-held boundary. However mocked, this principle is exactly why the writing works.

Without agency, power exchange becomes devoid of dramatic weight. Without the ability to refuse, choice loses a great deal of its meaning. If erotic vocabulary is to remain usable, it can only be thus because it has become contingent rather than compulsory.

Neither Armand’s eventual abandonment of the principle for his own reasons, nor the pettiness and cruelty of those reasons, invalidates the importance of his refusal.

There is a rare elegance in the way the series' narrative principle extends into the writing itself. Maître only when it makes psychological sense. Maître only when it is an aspect rather than the whole. Maître only when both parties retain their personalities and humanity. Maître only when the title is not used to shock, establish villainy, or illustrate dysfunction.

What emerges is still a story of betrayal, heartbreak, and deceit. The dynamic neither condemns nor redeems it. Rather, it exists within the relationship independently of abuse, an aspect clearly visible, yet morally neutral.

Some OCs take weeks to meditate upon an design. Some others, however... just pop into your head, fully formed, with a smug smile, accompanied by the scent of bergamot and oud, saying: "I would call him 'Arun' all night long." [Images: Pinterest, Shelley Cooper, Etsy, Amazon]