Just Don’t Let Him In
Renfield is good fun. If you’re a Dracula fan looking for a rendition with a new twist; if you’re sort of in love with Nicholas Hoult and wouldn’t mind watching him eat bugs and talk in his cute British accent for an hour and thirty minutes; or if you just want to see Nick Cage as Count Dracula, a treat we could have only dreamt of prior to this year, you may as well watch the film. Directed by Chris McKay, the film isn’t ever going to rank in the halls of Chariots of Fire or Step Brothers, but it has its moments of charm. It also has something to say about recovery and the process of making the hard decision to leave old habits and commit to ourselves in a new way.
The movie opens with a scene not unlike many movie depictions of an AA meeting: a church basement filled with sad people sitting on metal folding chairs sharing their sad stories. The titular character, played by Nicholas Hoult, clarifies the purpose of the meeting when he breaks the fourth wall to introduce himself to us, “Hello. My name is Robert Montague Renfield, and just like all these decent folks, I am in a destructive relationship.” In this support group for codependents, the members commiserate over the monsters who still wield so much power and take up so much space in their lives. In this opening scene, Renfield just listens. He believes that his situation is quite different from those of the others in attendance, and he justifies his attendance as a means to serve two purposes: provide sustenance for his master in the form of human flesh while freeing these “decent folks” from the monsters on whom they depend.
Codependency and addiction are often related, especially in situations in which one member of a couple suffers from addiction. But even taken as separate concepts, the codependent and the addict suffer nearly all the same symptoms, though they manifest in varying forms. The codependent exhibits symptoms of addiction to another person, while the addict thinks and behaves as though in a codependent relationship with a substance. They’re not the same of course, but a more insightful and empathetic understanding of each form of suffering might be achieved from noting this connection.
Renfield’s entrapment in a codependent relationship with the destructive, manipulative, and bloodthirsty Dracula mirrors the experience of one in addiction to alcohol. In the first scene, when asked if he’d like to share, Renfield declines, saying that he doesn’t think the others would understand. He feels that his situation is entirely unique and therefore beyond the others’ ability to grasp. This feeling is a common one, and one that hinders our ability to connect with others in recovery. Yes, Renfield’s story is unique in its own horrific way, but he fails to see the parts of his experience that are shared by his peers. He’s comparing rather than identifying. Our stories are all unique, but they also share fundamental experiences, feelings, moments of despair and courage, and pathways to something better. We don’t share our stories to compete over who had the worst hand dealt or whose drunkalogue is most impressive. We’d get nowhere with that attitude. We share to cultivate the human connection rooted in our capacity to see that we are the same despite our differences.
Renfield’s failure to form that connection with the others in his group keeps him on the outskirts of the connection they’re building and experiencing. He’s taking steps in the right direction by showing up, but he’s got a ways to go on his own journey. We get a bit of his backstory with Dracula: an ambitious young real estate lawyer entranced by the count’s special attentions. After some time, when Renfield has responded favorably to the seductive charm of working with Dracula, he becomes the vampire’s familiar. A familiar is defined here as “a servant of Dracula. Gifted with a tiny portion of Dracula’s power.” Familiars don’t traditionally share in the power, but they usually get something out of the deal. Renfield’s tasks, which center around bloodshed for the sake of his master’s restricted diet, reflect his altered moral compass. He may not totally enjoy what he does, but he engages in murder casually, viewing it as catering to his master’s needs rather than chaotic killing. He justifies it as necessary for the wellbeing of the one with whom he has this dysfunctional codependent relationship. In addiction, similarly, our morals fall apart as we develop the character deficits that cause the spiritual turmoil in us. We justify behaviors such as lying, cheating, stealing, ignoring, using people, judging, and countless others so our addiction can survive and thrive. Renfield’s murder sprees are a bit more drastic, but the premise is the same. We hurt others in our efforts to prolong the codependent addiction we view as essential to our own survival.
Renfield’s power is also an interesting point of comparison. His actions on behalf of his master are accomplished because he has been granted a small portion of Dracula’s power. With this power he can do things an ordinary human couldn’t. This transformation of ability mirrors the liquid courage that alcohol grants us when we’re in its grasp. We may not be able to sever a head with a mere punch as Renfield does, but we become a super version of ourselves in another way. We experience increased confidence and take risks we otherwise would be hesitant to; though we’re still doing these things as ourselves, we’re acting with a mindset that has been altered by a substance foreign to our bodies. While experiencing the dose of power we receive from alcohol, we’re more dependent on maintaining that feeling, since removing the substance would mean loss of the power.
When Renfield explains a bit of his story to Rebecca, he describes Dracula’s greatest power: “he looks into your eyes and finds what you think you need to make your life whole.” Not what you need, but what you think you need. Even with Dracula, Renfield doesn’t feel that his life is whole yet, but he thinks he is on the track to achieving that need until he gets a small taste of the real thing: human connection, gratitude, and purpose. This experience and his growing friendship with Rebecca set him on the track to recovery. Renfield goes through a gradual process in recognizing his problem and changing his life. He knows he has a problem, but he doesn’t seem motivated to do much about it until he experiences fulfillment of another kind than he has with Dracula. While out on a mission to secure more lives for his master, he ends up using his powers to save a bunch of innocent people and kill would-be murderers instead, taking down the hit men sent after Officer Rebecca Quincy, played by Awkwafina. When Rebecca thanks him and calls him a hero, Renfield feels an appreciation and connection he has been lacking and desperately seeking from Dracula. He realizes he needs a change.
When he finally admits his problem to the others in his support group, he only partially reveals the horror. Fearing they still won’t understand, but recognizing that their experiences are similar to his, Renfield asks for help; admission of his problem and seeking assistance are his first steps in recovery. With the support of his group, he secures his own apartment and revamps his wardrobe. He moves into his own space, complete with motivational posters and walls and clothing the colors of an Easter garden party. He changes his surroundings, but he doesn’t change himself and still withholds the full story of his problem. He’s not ready for those steps yet.
Only when the full extent of his horror is unavoidable and he experiences tragic loss can he reach those steps. When Dracula arrives at the meeting himself and murders his friends in front of him, Renfield hits a hard low. The deaths of his friends at the hands of Dracula and Rebecca’s belief that he has murdered them when she bursts into the church basement in the bloody wake of Dracula’s rampage might be called his abyss.
I can’t say I’ve ever been a particular fan of Nick Cage, but I think he was born to play an undead monster. Unlike Renfield, a dynamic character who develops through his experiences and encounters with other people, Dracula remains consistent in his evildoing agenda, his manipulative dealings with Renfield, and his primary purpose: to drink blood and grow to full power. The world domination plan may seem innovative, but it’s really just another means of fulfilling each of these behaviors. His unchanging nature reflects the hopelessness of the hope we harbor in our addictions and codependent relationships. We stay because we hope against all reason that things will get better, that we will regain the sense of euphoria that lives as an illusion in our minds of the potential outcome of staying and waiting out the bad. The truth is, there will be no change if we’re waiting on alcohol or another person to change. We have to change, and the first step in changing is to break the fetters holding us back. When we blame alcohol or another person for our discontent, insecurity and anxiety, we also place the onus of changing onto them. We believe that we will be happier when our partner becomes happier; we believe that we will be happier if we’re able to control our drinking a little better. If we equate alcohol to Dracula, it puts a little perspective on thoughts like “I’ll only drink on the weekends” or “I’ll stop after two.” If Renfield committed to only murdering on Tuesdays or setting a limit on the bloodshed, we’d still call him crazy for staying. How are we any different?
For much of the film, Renfield’s view of Dracula mirrors the dialogues he hears in the support group for codependents. These people share stories about the “monsters” they are addicted to, who have ruined their lives and continue to take up space in their minds. Renfield has his own monster, but after the murder scene in the church basement and realizing his own role in that outcome, he begins to recognize that he also plays a big role in the problem. He tells Rebecca, “I’m not a victim,” saying that he made the decision to follow Dracula even if he signed up for something beyond his ability to comprehend at the time. He admits that he has blamed Dracula for all the pain in his life and in the lives of his family, but he finally looks at his part in it. When Renfield acknowledges himself as the monster, he is finally taking this step in separating himself from the person he has clung to and become addicted to. Like Renfield, we want to play the victim, so we blame the other: the alcohol, the boyfriend, etc.
We avoid looking at our own agency, but we can only recover when we turn the mirror to ourselves. Looking in this mirror of reflection and acknowledging that we are the ones who have to change is a crucial and unavoidable step in recovery. We can take away the alcohol or leave the person we’re codependent on, but until we truly look at ourselves and begin the work of taking responsibility and learning to know and love the person in that mirror, we will forever be looking at the back of a mirror turned to the object of our addiction. We may see a monster at first, but the term monster isn’t etymologically horrible. The Latin verb monstrare means to point out - hence, demonstrate. The concept of a monster came about as a being humans would point to as something other than themselves. Monsters are what we point at, what we blame; and by being that object of our speculation and blame, they occupy a realm distant from our own. When we take the time to stop pointing and really look at the monster, we develop a deeper knowledge of what we’re seeing. The more we understand, the less foreign the monster is and the less it qualifies as something other than human. We deconstruct the monstrosity of the monster when we take the time to cultivate a real connection; so when we are able to accept the monster parts of ourselves, we can choose to practice a mindful presence with that self and begin the process of recovering the conscious selves we lost sight of while fixating on what we thought were monsters.
Renfield finally defeats Dracula with the help of Rebecca Quincy. Not by using his dose of vampire-given power, but by outsmarting the count and using the skills and resources available to him. Though his powers have served him for a time, he no longer needs them since he has discovered the strength and fulfillment that come with true human connection. The final showdown with Dracula reveals his selflessness - he places the survival of Rebecca above his own life - and his ability to use his broken past for good - he uses Dracula’s blood, which has always been a saving elixir for his own physical suffering, to bring his friends and Rebecca’s sister back from the dead. Renfield faces himself in the mirror and is able to discern the good in the image he sees. He learns to make something of himself by connecting with others, by learning to stop blaming Dracula for his pain, and by learning from his experiences how to help others through their own darkness. The scenery of his recovery path may contrast drastically with ours, but the trajectory is the same. The ending is fitting too; Renfield admits that Dracula may come back, even if it takes years for him to regain his power. Similarly, addiction doesn’t just vanish when we do the work of recovery. We live best when we stay mindful of its place in our lives as a shadow that no longer causes us to see monsters and refuse to look in the mirror, but nevertheless a shadow with the power to return if we let it in. After all, like Dracula, it needs an invitation.
